This the story of how I escaped Hell and returned to Earth as a mortal woman.

As I write this, my agent and recording company, Sony, are eagerly waiting for me to finish this story so that it can be electronically distributed to the book publisher, the major entertainment magazines, media outlets and newspapers. Already my band's - that is Delphi, a five person rock outfit from Dallas, Texas - music videos are being played around the clock by VH1, MTV, on broadcast television and other venues. Our albums are selling briskly in the stores thanks to these videos and in no small part thanks to my charming, witty interviews and the copious amounts of money Sony is spending on promotion. We are becoming a phenomenon here in the United States, and soon we'll spread to England, France, Japan and the rest of the world. And it feels good, let me tell you.

So who am I?

I'm Rociel, former Angel (the proper term is Elohim or Celestial) and Herald of Dawn's Glory, faithful servant of Lucifer, the Lightbringer, and would-be rock star. I'm Namaru, a Demon and a Devil, though I wouldn't say that to my face, a Fallen Angel cursed by God for rebelling against Her in the First Days of Creation, condemned to spend all of eternity in the hell of the Abyss until the Time of Judgment.

Except I didn't. My fellow Demons and I escaped from our prison last year, flying through the Maelstrom which rent asunder the gates of the Abyss and returning to Creation, where we inhabited the bodies of men and women, the descendents of our half-angelic children, the Nephilim, whose lives had ended by violence, natural death or simple despair.

And I use a lot of capital letters.

My band mates, meanwhile, look on incredulously, not believing a word of what I've written and wondering what the gimmick is. (There isn't one. It's the truth, I swear!) To them and the mortal world I am merely Alison Drake, a twenty-seven year old, five feet and six inches tall (or so my driver's license says) beauty with brilliant blue eyes and a shock of glossy black hair which all too often falls in my face when I'm trying to be serious. I have full, kissable lips, a little too big for the delicacy of my features. High, lovely cheekbones. A lithe, womanly figure with full, lovely breasts (if I do say so myself) and finely toned, wiry limbs, which I only thinly conceal with tight blue jeans, sweaters and the occasional Little Black Dress.

I am ravishing.

Alison Drake is American, obviously, a native of San Antonio who moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area as a young woman and became involved with a small rock band named Delphi, which released one respectable but not extraordinary album prior to my arrival here, and which I have since catapulted to rock stardom. She was a student of music in college. She played the classics with orchestras here and around the country via a vast network of colleagues, friends and mentors. Even without me, Alison was a charismatic woman. Her sultry, melodic voice and romantic photographic portraits sold Delphi's first album despite its lackluster musical and conceptual direction.

And while I am Alison now - body, heart and soul - and while we have a lot in common (probably the reason I found her so easily, I'm sure, when I escaped the Abyss), you can't imagine what a shock it is to be living her life. Drowning in her memories. Drinking in the sensuality of being flesh and blood. Reeling from the overwhelming nature of human emotion.

To be one of you.

Am I getting ahead of myself?

You'll have to forgive my enthusiasm and the slight nervousness as I write. This is only the second time I've ever openly revealed my existence to Mankind in a Big Way. The first being, of course, the reason why I was Damned in the first place and condemned by my Creator as a Devil. Why you and I fell from grace. So you can understand why I'm somewhat anxious to try this Grand Experiment all over again, even from the lofty perch of a rock star, whose excesses and imaginings can be dismissed as fantasy with just the smallest article in Rolling Stone or Entertainment Weekly.

Yes, I did say "you and I". US. Humans and Demons both.

What? You hadn't noticed?

Look outside your windows. The chemical factories belching toxic smoke into the atmosphere, poisoning massive Mexico City and spoiling the environment all the world over? Drug lords ordering the murders of dozens of people at a time with impunity while raking in millions of dollars a day? Corporate scandals intersecting with political elitism to create a decadent aristocracy too separate from the masses to comprehend their daily suffering, let alone take meaningful action to help them?

Does that look like Eden to you?

The funny and tragically ironic thing is that those of you who believe me will probably hate me for it, even though we, the Demons who once numbered a third of the Host of Heaven, were only trying to help.

Let's backtrack for a moment. I said I was a Fallen Angel. What does that mean?

I can't tell you my frustration at trying to describe it in words. I can sketch a phantom of my former existence, that's all, a rough diagram drawn in the dirt. Nothing as abstract as words and language can contain the meaning of it.

Elohim exit on multiple levels of reality at once whereas humans largely exist in only one, though you (we?) do benefit from being able to focus on a single, sensual state of being. If you were ever to meet a true Angel in all their glory, though that isn't likely, the experience would be overwhelming and beyond your comprehension. The very sight of an Angel, their presence defying every law of nature you understand, would snap the tethers holding you to the here and now, to this moment and physical existence. Afterwards you might remember a cacophony of radiance, song, voices from your past, glimpses at your future, warmth like the brightest Spring day, and a thousand other jumbled emotions, all centered around an ideal or concept that Angel was meant to embody.

Because Elohim exist on multiple levels and aren't bound by physical reality, a lot of things are meaningless to them. Sex, gender and sexual orientation are all irrelevant, which is why most Fallen Angels here on Earth have such difficulty grasping those concepts. Before my Fall, I slipped naturally between what you might call male and female on a whim, by mood alone, without the slightest effort or distraction. I had a preferred form which I used when appearing to mortals - a tall, delicately built, androgynous figure, breathtakingly beautiful in a feminine way, with long, flowing silver hair that swam around my body as I moved, and glittering, jewel-like eyes the color of amethyst.

And wings, of course. The classic two, brilliantly white and feathery, like those of an eagle. The wings themselves were, like everything else in an Angel's existence, largely symbolic. They were wholly unnecessary for flight - I could fly with the merest thought, or move from place to place in an instant if I wished it - but they were a part of my spiritual body, such as it was, by God's design. Not all Elohim had them, of course, but we of the Dawn House, Lucifer's disciples, did. I still have them, actually, though they are normally concealed. Being wrapped up in Alison's flesh, it is difficult to manifest my wings as physical parts of my body, painfully so at times, and they are now quite necessary for me to fly. Having been bound to the physical world I have to obey physical laws, at least in part.

My wings are also black now, a mark of my Damnation.

I should explain God now, I suppose, since I mentioned Her -

What's that? Why do I use She and Her, you ask?

Well, why not?

You see, if Angels embody a specific ideal or concept, on every imaginable level and then some, then God embodies all ideals, concepts and, in fact, everything else. God is, literally, every potentiality and actuality given consciousness. Just as gender labels are irrelevant to Angels, so they are for God, if not more so. What does it mean to call God the Lord or He or Him when He can just as easily be She, Her, or the Goddess? Personally, even as a true Angel, I tended to perceive God as being female. Or at least predominantly female. Who can be more cruel in their wrath than women? Who can be more loving and more compassionate to their children than women? Who is more often the most beautiful between men and women?

Yes, yes. I know. Men and women are equal in every way!

The pronouns are irrelevant. Whether I say She or you say He, we are speaking of the same Supreme Being, the Source from which all of existence is derived. I love men and women equally, and I find them equally fascinating. I simply prefer She because that's how I saw Her. Perhaps I'm biased, but trying to perfectly balance every description would be cumbersome in the extreme. Alright?

The point is that before the Fall I adored Her. Who am I kidding? I still do. I can't help it. I love her. She is my mother and my lover both, and even now, as much as I hate her and want to fight her, I crave Her affection and approval. Celestials are created beings, you see, just as mortals are. But we were made to serve Her and to carry out Her will, whereas Mankind was made "in Her image" - full of boundless potential, choices and possibilities. Although Angels possess a degree of freedom by necessity (the better to carry out Her wishes), they are inherently servile beings. In some ways we were like the Artificial Intelligences of science fiction. We were programmed to love and serve Her, and even though we rebelled against Her that programming is still there, making the pain of our "falling out" all the more exquisite.

Because my mind is now locked into the rigid patterns of a living brain, my memory of Her is dimmed and confused somewhat. I can only communicate it through awkward metaphor and symbols. But I still remember basking in Her glory, wanting nothing more than to serve Her and carry out Her will throughout the cosmos which She had created and which we, the Heavenly Host, tended. Her magnificence was too great to enter Creation itself, you understand, and we among the Angels were created to carry out Her instructions, to make the clockwork of physical reality operate according to Her design.

I can't convey to you our simplicity, the innocence and naiveté which defined us. Even questions of good and evil were irrelevant to us. We didn't know what evil was. There was only Her will and Her love, at least until the creation of Mankind.

Humanity was God's favorite, and understandably so. Humans are brilliantly inventive, wielding a power over the world that is both subtle and dramatic, and filled with endless potential. The perfect mirror for Her own nature, for unlike us humans possess a soul, a spark of God's own divine fire. We loved you, too. Every single one of us. There was no jealousy on our part. We were too innocent and simple-minded then to conceive of anything so complex as envy, especially for such beautiful creatures.

Only there was a problem.

The full length and breadth of the tale of the Fall I'll hold on for now. Details of it will come up later, I assure you. In the meantime, I'll give you the abridged Cliff's Notes version. You see, the first humans were possessed of seemingly limitless potential, which they were wholly unaware of. They lived simple lives and thought simple thoughts even more basic and naïve than our own. They were, in many ways, only a little more intelligent than the beasts and animals with which we'd populated the world. And while God programmed us to love humanity, we were forbidden from revealing our existence to them. Mankind was to be left alone. And though it grieved us to comply, for we loved them so much, we did as we were told. At first.

So we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Finally, a lot of us got fed up with waiting for humanity to do something other than putter around the forest, waiting for food to fall in their laps, and singing praises to She who created them. Humanity needed a nudge in the right direction, we thought, and therein lay the foundation for rebellion. Because once we got the idea in our heads that maybe God didn't know what She was doing, or else that God was content to let Her perfect creations wallow in ignorance forever - that is, once we lost faith in Her - then everything else was inevitable. Like teenagers who've finally come to see the flaws in their parents, there was bound to be trouble.

In time, those of us with the gift of prophecy foresaw something horrible on the horizon. Something dark and terrible was going to befall us and Mankind. We assumed that something had gone wrong, or that something would go wrong if humanity didn't take even the first step toward enlightenment. We raised our fears to God, but She told us to wait and do nothing. So naturally, we rushed into action like Angels and Fools are wont to do, thinking we and we alone could avert disaster.

We weren't looking for an excuse to rebel, we were still too simple for that. But we were beginning to grow arrogant in our vast powers and wisdom, and very tired of waiting, too.

The greatest among us, of whom Lucifer was Prince, led us down to the gentle world in which mortals dwelled. We revealed our existence to them, taught them secrets and knowledge which would seem trite and stupidly simple to you today but which were, in the eyes of those first mortals, a shocking revelation. Truth with a capital "T".

God was not amused.

In Her eyes, we had contaminated humanity. We had forced them to take a step forward which they weren't ready to make. Her experiment, if that's what it was, was ruined. In our opinion, we were trying to help. Humanity was wondrous, as I said, and it pained us to see them stumble, day in and day out, over the very simplest of ideas. We had awakened them to their own potential. We had given them imagination! And with the thunder and lightning of impending doom approaching, what else could we do but try to help?

It didn't occur to us until later that perhaps God had used us.

God demanded that humanity turn its back on us and return to its previous state of grace - to press the reset button on their development, in other words. We were welcome back so long as we submitted to Her will again, perhaps with a bit of reeducation. But the first mortals refused, seeing us as their benefactors and protectors, and we - helpless with love for them - stood proudly at their side.

What followed was the War of Wrath. The loyal Angels were sent to bring us back to Heaven for annihilation, like so many worn out and error prone computers, and to return humanity to its previous state of waiting ignorance. We fought back, of course, for the sake of Mankind. At first the War was bloodless. We were all Elohim, after all, the standard bearers of Creation. The very concept of destroying anything was alien to both sides. But when things quickly bogged down, God took it upon Herself to intervene. Reaching out from Heaven, She touched the face of Creation with the full intensity of Her power.

The world was shattered.

Decay and destruction were loosed upon the world. The first mortals, who were in fact immortal like us, knew death for the first time. The vast, untamed beauty of Creation was laid waste. When it was over, we Fallen Angels, condemned as Demons by our Creator, ruled a world of bitter ashes. Yet we and humanity had endured, and even as the War of Wrath continued, we sought to rebuild.

I'll not bore you with the great wonders which we and Mankind made on the Earth, which lasted for so short a time. Nor will I trouble you here with my own bittersweet role in what occurred. I leave that to the story which follows.

It's obvious we lost.

With time, the War turned bloody. In war there are always atrocities committed by both sides, and this was no different. In fact, this was the First War the world had ever known. We set the standards for horror, I'm ashamed to say. Fallen Angels and mortals fought together against the endless onslaught of the Heavenly Host, the loyal Angels, and we thrived only because humanity believed in us as their saviors and protectors. They had Faith in us as we once had in Her, and our mutual love sustained us.

But mortals were changing. We had freed their minds, as Morpheus said in The Matrix, and on the periphery of the War they had lives of their own. They dwelt in vast, unimaginably beautiful cities which we built using all the magic and technology at our command - temple cities where men, women and Demon could live in peace, always striving forward to discover new things. Others, particularly those few who sided with God and continued to serve Her in their small, simple ways, eked out a minimalist existence on the fringes of Creation. But even these "pure ones" were no longer pure.

One of these, Cain (heard of him?) got the notion in his head that he should murder his brother, Abel, for some daft reason or another, and so he did.

Humans are remarkably unaware of how much power they wield over the cosmos. Creation is not orderly and mechanical. It doesn't conform to simple rules, regardless of what lies scientists (who have their own secret cabals and jealously guarded secrets they don't want you to know) will tell you. Creation is supple. It flows and bends to the will of those with power. You don't have to be Neo to do it! Nor even Elohim, though we were exceedingly good at it since we'd made Creation ourselves. Everyone does magick on some subconscious level. A lot of people go mad (or are considered mad) because they come to discover this power in themselves and, being wholly unprepared for it by your rigid scientific upbringing, can't deal with the fluidity of existence. A few special ones become true magicians.

In those days, however, Creation was not as moth eaten or thinly spread as it is today. It hadn't been folded and reshaped countless times by human sorcerers and human ideals. And humanity itself was undiluted. Every single mortal on the face of the Earth was intimately connected to every other mortal, forming a vast collective consciousness which dwarfs even the dreams of distributed computing aficionados.

Cain was the first mortal to kill another of his own kind.

The event spread through Creation like a shockwave. It seems inconsequential to you jaded Twenty-First century humans, but at the time it was a Big Deal. Cain, and by extension every other mortal in existence, had changed the rules of the game. He had, in effect, introduced the very concept of murder into Creation. Creation took the ball and ran with it, spreading the poison of envy, hate and murder into everything it touched. Angel and mortal alike.

The worst atrocities of the War followed, as you might imagine, as Angel slew Angel and mortal killed mortal. It was a bloodbath. I am as guilty as everyone else, as you'll soon read. We were incensed over what had happened, furious at God and Her Angels for allowing the War to reach this level of depravity. But still, of course, believing that we were firmly in the right. And fully justified to wreak horror upon the earth because of it.

Toward the end, Lucifer, who believed more fervently in the cause of Mankind than any other Fallen Angel, attempted a Grand Experiment. You might call it an educational initiative if you were a politician. Lucifer wanted to bring Mankind as a whole, every single individual, to enlightenment simultaneously. To fulfill humanity's potential and elevate them to the state of Gods. He appointed his most trusted lieutenants to become Watchers, who would instruct humanity in the full extent of knowledge we possessed. Science, magick, the very keys to Heaven itself.

It failed horribly. Ever heard of the Tower of Babel?

There were those among us Demons who feared Mankind's Ascension and sought to undermine it. They took on flesh and blood and mated with mortals, producing bastard offspring of terrible power. The Nephilim, with their fearsome power and polluted blood, set out to undo the work of the Watchers and to spread their own corrupted seed through the mortal population. They were so successful at it, in fact, that descendents of the Nephilim may be found today, many of whom are now, ironically enough, hosts for Fallen Angels like myself.

I'm ashamed to admit that I contributed to the Grand Experiment's failure. Not because I disagreed with Lucifer - in fact, I was an ardent supporter of the Cause. Rather, I had fallen too much in love with human beings, too enamored by your delicateness and sensuality, the overwhelming complexity of your emotions and, of course, the fleeting glimpses of Her divine fire which I saw within you. The horrors of war had warped my spirit and driven me mad. And it was in an orgy of misguided passion that I gave life to Nephilim children of my own.

I watched as the Grand Experiment of Lucifer, whom I loved and adored as much as God Herself, for he was my Prince, my General and my One Hope, collapsed around our ears. For whatever reason, Mankind turned away from Ascension. They had grown weary of the slaughter, exhausted by the War and, ultimately, tired of playing second fiddle to the interests of Angels. They were dispirited. Humanity's former unity shattered, taking with it the very Faith upon which we depended.

The vultures swooped in quickly.

We were rounded up by the loyal Angels. By then, death was no longer good enough for us. No, God had chosen another form of punishment for we, Her Damned Children. We were imprisoned within an otherworldly realm, the Abyss, a Hell for immortals consisting of only an endless black void extending in all directions. Freezing cold, empty and silent. We were sealed in the Pit to contemplate our failures, our errors, our Damnation. We were to await the End Times, when we would be brought forth for Final Judgment.

Only Lucifer, my Prince, was absent. We never learned what became of him.

No more horrifying punishment can be inflicted upon an immortal than endless waiting. The Fall is proof enough of that. In the thousands of years which followed our imprisonment, most of us went mad. But even at our most twisted and hateful, longing for revenge against Heaven and against God (or else suffering in silent despair and guilt like I did), Elohim are beings of rules, service and structure. Only unlike the benevolent, flexible, talent-based order which Lucifer imposed upon the Fallen Angels, what we endured in Hell was far more brutal. The powerful Demons in the Abyss enslaved the weaker ones, raping their minds and binding them to eternal service within the darkness of the Void. Absurd, pointless castes of Demons were formed, like the Red Queen's court in Alice in Wonderland, where Barons, Dukes, Ladies and Bishops of Hell could endlessly argue, debate and relish in torturing one another.

As one of the weak ones, I was the slave of a Fallen Angel named Anane.

But as the years wore on in our timeless prison, we became aware of changes in the outside world. The population of humanity multiplied to vast numbers, as did the lonely ghosts and spectres who inhabited the Underworld - the realm of the dead, where the souls of mortals who refuse reincarnation and cling to their old lives can be found - which had grown up in the darkness around our cage.

And as time went on, great, bleak Maelstroms of fearsome power swept through the Underworld, seemingly triggered by monumental events in Creation itself. These storms rattled the bars of our prison and shook the Gate of the Abyss. Five times this happened. Five times we waited breathlessly for the Gate to fall, expecting Judgment but hoping for escape, while these horrific storms ripped apart the ghosts and birthed monstrous things, dead souls turned inside out by the power of Oblivion and Decay. Every time we were bitterly disappointed and left wondering what had caused these storms in the first place.

Until, last year, when the Sixth Maelstrom came.

A hole opened in the walls of the Abyss, a chink small enough for the weakest of the Fallen Angels to escape through. Our masters, the bloated and maddened rulers of Hell, commanded we, their slaves, to go forth into the wailing storm. To escape into Creation itself and find a way to free them as well.

Anane commanded me and I helplessly obeyed.

With thousands of other Fallen, I tore through the crack in the Gate and soared upwards into the black storm which the dead call the Tempest, compelled by my mistress' will but driven by my own craving to see the sunlit world again, to see humanity, to see what had become of our charges. And above all, to get the hell out of the Void where nothing ever changed and where there was no escape from my own brooding madness and crushing guilt.

Harsh winds assaulted me, carrying a rain of blood, bone and ichor, and the farther I plunged in search of escape the more powerful the storm became. Before long, it was tearing at me from every side, shredding away pieces of my spirit and sending me hurtling out of control through a madness of roaring wind, noxious fumes and blinding arcs of unnatural lightning. Dead souls hurtled past me in the gloom, though I barely noticed, screaming for help or hurling obscenities, for they weren't strong enough to resist the pull of the Tempest as we were.

Or so they thought anyway. I was in agony as cold winds tore at my flesh and ripped away pieces of my spirit to be consumed by the hungry darkness I felt hunting us, Oblivion itself, the black hole at the heart of the Underworld, the flaw with which She scarred Creation so long ago to punish us. I was blind, disoriented and unable to judge the right direction. It seemed there was no escape, and the struggle to continue flying through the Tempest exhausted me. Toward the end I resigned myself to failure, cursing Her for the illusion of freedom which the Maelstrom had offered, when there was nothing to be found outside the Pit except annihilation.

Then, suddenly, I was soaring over downtown Dallas.

Well, actually, I was dropping like a rock out of the starry sky, too weak from the ordeal to do much other than boggle at the beauty of the world I saw before me. Lights strung out in gossamer webs in all directions, the glow of passing automobiles looking like jewels, flowing along gracefully arcing concrete ramps and freeways. Not far away there were immense spires of steel and glass, simple but beautiful, so much like the cities where Demon and mortal once lived together in peace. Although there was a certain crudeness to the city, I couldn't help but think that Mankind had taken all of our ideas and improved upon them a hundredfold.

It was achingly beautiful.

Little of it made any sense to me, of course. Magic had been our way, with technology and engineering taking a backseat to the whims of our power. This new world was alien, clinical in its simplicity, its bright lights blinding me to the stars above. As much as I relished the sights and sounds of Creation again - hell, just experiencing anything again - I was more than a little frightened by it. And I was still falling. I was no longer the Rociel I knew and which I described to you earlier. I was torn, bloodied and broken. I tried to call upon my old powers to save me but I lacked the strength. Just as after humanity's shattering, I was without the Faith of Mankind to sustain me, and left to my own devices I was virtually helpless.

But even as the shock of these revelations came over me, I became aware that something powerful was pulling me back toward the Tempest, drawing this errant Demon back where she belonged in the Abyss. This feeling only intensified as I plummeted toward the earth, and within moments I felt a grip on my soul more terrible than anything I'd ever experienced before. It jerked me back toward my prison, halting my descent and dragging me back to where the black clouds of the Tempest awaited. But having already passed through the storm once, I doubted whether I could survive it again in my weakened condition. And I wasn't about to give Her the satisfaction of watching me die.

Let me tell you, that was incentive enough to fight.

I struggled against this force, fully expecting to fail - it was God's Will, after all - but refusing to give in easily. I clawed for every inch of ground, trying to literally haul myself toward the face of the earth. As I did so, I became aware of a shining point of light in the distance. Not electric light. Nor even flame, though that's more what it resembled. No, it was a human soul somewhere in the darkness of the metropolis below, and I knew instinctively upon seeing it that it would be my salvation. Like a beacon, it beckoned me to safe shores where She couldn't reach me. With renewed effort I fought against the pull, seeking out that lone, shining soul in the distance.

Miraculously enough, I reached her.

It was Alison Drake, lying sprawled out in an alleyway. She'd been shot at point blank range by a mugger and left for dead, and as I drew near I saw the blood soaking through the clingy black fabric of her dress. To my tear-filled, burning eyes she was a rapturous sight. Long black hair fanning out around her head like a tarnished halo, long limbs outstretched upon the cold, damp concrete as if she were sleeping. The warmth of human flesh and blood, of being a creature of true emotion, of physicality, of divinity - something which we Elohim had never known, no matter how I strived, foolishly and cruelly, to take it for myself. Her soul was a blazing light in the darkness there, burning with a fragment of God's own light.

It was obvious she didn't have long to live. Alison was clinging to life by the merest of threads, by willpower alone really, and within moments her soul would slip loose from its mortal frame and fall into…well, I didn't know. She was furious at the man who had (or would have) murdered her, bitter over the failures she'd known in life, and refusing to give up even in the face of inevitability. The sort of attitudes which bar a soul from its next life and tether it to Creation as a restless spirit, a ghost. And having just flown through the hellish Underworld, that was a fate I wouldn't have wished on anyone.

As much as I feared for her, though, I was in love with her as well, recognizing in her defiance something of myself. And well I should, because I quickly realized she was one of my own children, one of the Nephilim. Or at least a descendent or reincarnation thereof. The realization startled me, but I didn't have time to fret over it. Both of us were in dire straits. Alison's heart was fluttering, her breathing growing shallow as death embraced her. And I - well, I was being pulled away from her, away from this beautiful creature whom I'd barely so much as glimpsed thus far, and I was too weak to resist Her Will much longer. If I could reach Alison, I thought, then maybe I could use what was left of my power to heal her. At least prolong her life long enough for someone to find her.

If I had to die I wasn't going to let her go with me.

So I clawed my way toward Alison, gritting my teeth at the pain, for I felt as if I'd be ripped in half if I resisted Her any further. But I wasn't about to give up. And soon I was close enough to see the tears on Alison's cheeks, the paleness of her skin as she succumbed to shock. And I was close enough to reach out and touch her.

What happened next surprised the hell out of me.

I gathered my will and what precious strength I had left. And as I reached out to lend Alison Drake the meager power at my disposal, I felt a curious sensation. The pull of God's wrath lessened, allowing me to move in closer than I would've dared expect to the young woman before me. And then I realized it was being countered by a pull of equal if not greater strength. I knew the feeling. I'd possessed mortals before during the War, suppressing (and damaging) their minds and souls to relish their physicality in various forms of debauchery. Surprised, I tried to recoil but found myself drawn to her all the same, unable to muster any resistance against the lure of her bright, shining soul.

Panic!

But even as I scrambled to get away, I was inexorably drawn into the dazzling light of Alison's soul. Something was very wrong. I'd possessed mortals before, yes, but never like this. It felt as if I were being swallowed up by her, smothered by the light of her divinity, and as I fell into her soulfire I began to lose all sense of myself, of space and time, of everything which I'd so long taken for granted. The fear faded, bleeding away into that magnificent light, which was so much like Hers that I began to weep. And as memory slipped from my grasp, taking the anger and resentment I felt with it, I knew only an all-consuming awe as Alison's soul consumed me. I was only dimly aware only being crushed from all directions, diluted and squeezed down, and then the eerie sensation of being poured into the young woman's flesh.

Then nothing.

Which is really where the story begins…

The rain feels delicious against my - her? - skin.

I'm laying in a narrow alleyway between two tall buildings, staring up at the darkened sky, trying to see the stars I remember through the brilliant glare of electric lights. The concrete is cool and damp underneath me, covered in Alison's blood. The men who did this to her are long gone, though I can sense them running away through the warrens of urban sprawl which surround me. The leader, a short, red-haired man, shot Alison at point blank range with a cheap semi-automatic pistol, probably a 9mm. The entry wound did little damage, really, but the exit wound tore a hole out her back. If his aim had been slightly better, it would have killed her instantly, and then where would I be?

I know their faces. They won't escape for very long.

Alison was walking back to her car, after meeting with the other members of her rock band - a small troupe calling themselves Delphi , after the supposed Oracle - when the three men set upon her. One had forced her into the alley. The second ripped the slim leather purse and all Alison's jewelry away from her. Her rage and terror still swam through me, making me nauseous and unsure of myself. Alison tried to fight for some foolish reason, to get away from them, reacting like a panicked animal would. The third man, the red-head with the pistol, didn't like her screams attracting so much attention, so he put a bullet through her.

I had been drawn to her anger, her hate for the man who would have ended her life.

The events leading up to my merging with Alison seemed clinical and predictable. So why was I so afraid? My heart is still racing from the encounter. I'm still terrified of them coming back to finish me off.

The part of me that is angel wishes they would, so I can set them aflame.

My legs are twisted underneath me, the tight skirt bunched around my thighs, but I'm not in tremendous pain. What little discomfort there is feels new and exotic to my senses, so long dulled by the Void. My long, black hair is a swirled halo around my head, and the air feels chilly on the tops of my breasts. I understand the simple hedonism of Alison's appearance and clothing, and it does feel sensuous even now, but I have to wonder how she managed to accomplish anything in these shoes and this constricting, suffocating skirt. She certainly couldn't run anywhere in a hurry, and her soft, slender limbs were too weak to fight anyone off, as the three thieves had demonstrated.

I close my eyes and take a shaky breath.

My back still hurts, but the wound itself is closed. I'm still terribly weak. The shock of entering Alison's body and being overwhelmed by the initial rush of emotions and memories had delayed me from healing the damage done to her. But I have to laugh, weakly and with a hint of pain. Alison wasn't dead, and I was no longer imprisoned. I manage to lift an arm and give the sky - which Alison is used to associating with Heaven - the finger. It's the greatest show of defiance I can give at the moment, considering how tenuous my grasp is just now.

The curious thing is, my mind is clear. Even before we were cast down into the darkness, Rociel was a maddened, decadent Devil, driven insane by God's condemnation and the long, horrifying span of the War. Not to mention all the foolish, naïve mistakes we made, and my own secret lust for the glories mankind enjoyed which we were denied. My devotion to the Morningstar burned as brilliantly as always, even after being bound to serve the traitor, Anane. But my mind was still, my thoughts cogent. Was it the long ages spent in the Void, though, or something of Alison which cleared my thinking?

Anane.

I suddenly realize - the chains on my mind are no longer there. Her grasp isn't strong enough to reach across the Gate, and she was once one of the mightiest of us, one of Lucifer's own lieutenants. Am I so used to slavery that being without her presence and domination leaves me this frightened? She commanded me to free her, and I helplessly obeyed. But now...well, without the threat of her torture, I don't feel much inclined to help her. Go fig.

It feels strange to be without the presence of the other Fallen here. Worse still, there is something empty in the substance of things around me. God's presence isn't felt here either, even by Nephilim like Alison. It once encompassed the whole of the world, even during the War, to let us feel Her anger. Now there is nothing. Just silence, rainfall, and the sound of cars passing on the street not too far away.

Only, one of the cars just stopped. I heard its brakes screech in the street.

I try to lift my head and sit up, but a wave of dizziness washes over me and I sink back down to the cool concrete, shaking. A faint, female gasp comes out of me at the effort. There is someone coming in a hurry, footfalls splashing in the puddles the rain has made. "Alison?" a voice calls, male and full of panic, "Alison is that you?"

Daniel.

The part of me that is Alison surges to the surface at the sound of his voice. Daniel, the keyboard player and technician in the rock band Alison belongs to. The diplomat of the group and the only reason it's held together this long. Sweet-natured, gentle Daniel.

"I'm here," I call in a cracking voice.

He's at my side in an instant, kneeling down next to me with a look of horror and confusion on his face. Blond hair falls across his face as he tries to check me for wounds, and he shudders as his fingers come upon the tacky pool of my blood. He says something to me in a frightened voice, but I don't hear it. I'm enamored by him. The feeling startles me back out of Alison's thinking. It has been so long since the thought of loving and cherishing mortals came into my mind, let alone this wonder I felt at the pale, almost iridescent quality to Daniel's hair and pale blue eyes. He was a gorgeous creature, a product of this new and modern world. In his white silk shirt and long, lean coat, he could have been one of us.

In a strange way, he reminds me of...well, me.

When I focus on the situation again, I realize he's calling for help. He has pulled a small black telephone out of his pocket and is speaking with emergency services, requesting an ambulance and a police officer to come help me. I want to laugh and tell him I'm fine, but I can't make any of the words come out. Instead, I lay back down and relish the feeling of the cool, moist breeze upon my skin.

Soon I can hear the sirens of paramedics and police cars approaching. Daniel tells me to lie still, to try and be calm and stay awake. I'm happy to oblige him, since I'm in no real pain anyway. Still, Alison was shot and I am covered in her blood. That will attract attention, and I've no interest in explaining my miraculous healing to the local authorities. They used to burn witches, Alison's mind tells me. They only think they're above that sort of thing now.

I concentrate, apply my will, and rip open the wound the thief's bullet caused.

I cry out in pain and shock at the sensation, despite all my will, surprising myself into a slight panic. Am I really this weak? This vulnerable? I shudder as I feel a trickle of blood run out my back. I keep the wound small - smaller than it originally was, but realistic enough to convince the doctors. But I'm more concerned with how much I'm becoming Alison already, even after half an hour. I was never the greatest of angels, though Lucifer promoted me through the ranks of the Fallen for my skill and bravado. But I have endured far more suffering than this little wound.

I suddenly feel very small, and fragile.

I no longer purely Rociel. I am also Alison Drake - singer, hedonist and would-be star.

But I'm here, so fuck you, God.

* * *

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

Alison's mind is a confusion of pop-culture flotsam, postmodern intellectualism, vanity obsessions and loathing for the world around her. It's disorienting, but still, it seems like the perfect place for me. Let me try again, if you don't mind.

In the beginning...

I was Rociel, Archangel of the House of Dawn, many steps removed from Lucifer, the head of our House, but zealously dedicated to him nonetheless. I was a Knight, hardly even a Prince, in his Kingdom. I carried the will of God to Earth and to the rest of the Heavenly Host. You wouldn't believe it, but I was very gentle then, and very much concerned with the order of things. Like the struggling rock band Alison fronted, my dominion concerned Oracles. The House of the Firmament, and later the Fiends they became. Even in a perfect universe, someone has to keep an eye on those with the gift of prophecy. Predictions have an awful habit of making themselves come true. Hence, the Fall.

I was blind to it at the time. Like most of us, particularly in the Morningstar's House, I was in love with humanity. Their forms and voices and potential were a beauty I couldn't find anywhere else, even in Heaven. It seemed to me then that God was deliberately keeping them down, much like Alison hated the oppressive government and corporate powers here in America . Man- and womankind contained within them boundless possibilities, yet in Eden the Creator was content to let them worship Her in ignorance. She was very fond of them, I'm sure. Just like a human is fond of her pets.

When the forebodings of something dark reached my ears, I listened intently.

When the call came out from Lucifer and the others, I answered gladly.

I was a gentle, obedient zealot. But a zealot nonetheless.

The Cryptics in Hell said this was all part of God's design. That we were meant to Fall and bring humanity crashing down with us. Well, fuck God. Maybe we were patsies - I sometimes find it hard to believe otherwise - but that doesn't make the pain any easier to bear. Nor does it excuse the brutal retribution She visited upon us afterwards, many times over. If we were Her tools as some suggested, that makes the War and Her condemnation that much worse. I cannot abide being tortured and punished - and, I must admit, being denied Her love, to which I was so accustomed - for the sake of some megalomaniacal Master Plan. Considering that She and the Heavenly Host have seemingly abandoned Earth, I find it hard to believe there was any rationale behind it anyway.

So I fought. Uncertainly at first, and with great trepidation. I was still more of a messenger and agent than a warrior, and the Morningstar adored me for my service. His love and vision comforted me, but as much as I craved it to be so, it was no replacement for the perfection and love of Heaven.

Cain fucked everything up, of course.

Angels are powerful, but by nature we are - or were - peaceful beings. The contamination of Cain's sin, the First Sin, regardless of what B.S. the human-penned and self-serving Bible claims, changed the character of the War. We turned on the Host with renewed bitterness and anger. We wanted blood, at least in a metaphysical sense. It was no longer enough for many of us to make a point, as if we could sway God's self-righteousness. We wanted to bring it all crashing down.

It was bloody, and it was horror.

I was already torn between my adoration of humans, my devotion to God and my loyalty to Lucifer. The sheer carnage that followed Cain's sin ripped me wide open. I cared little for my own existence. I grew cruel, and decadent, and tormented. Were it not for my madness and my unpredictability, I might have risen to the highest ranks. I did not.

Some Fallen taught humans. Many protected them. Others used them as slaves.

I loved and desired them.

Mortals possessed a spark of the divine fire which I was denied. More than this, they were warm and sweet and lush with emotion. In many ways, they were far more complex than we were, and I wanted to taste that kind of existence. I was so far gone with desperation and desire that by the time of the Morningstar's Grand Experiment, when several of his lieutenants betrayed him by taking human lovers and birthing the Nephilim, I hurled myself into the ecstasy as well despite my fierce dedication. It was the sensuality and the hunger of sex, touch and love that I wanted. The rationalizations were irrelevant.

It was nothing like this, with Alison. I completely quashed their consciousness for full control, and only toward the end did I realize I'd lost something from the experience as a result. Vulnerability and depth of feeling is at the heart of humanity. I never came close to it.

Imagine my horror afterwards.

The Grand Experiment failed, because of betrayal and weakness. Humanity fragmented. Weakened and despairing, we were easily defeated. I hoped for the release of God's original judgment. Oblivion sounded preferable to the guilt gnawing away at me.

No such luck.

Anane ruled me when we were cast into Hell. As one of Lucifer's lieutenants who betrayed he and the Watchers, just as I thoughtlessly had, she dominated many of us to become one of the Archdukes. I was already wracked with guilt and the torment of my split longings, and she was a constant reminder of my failings. The Abyss burned away much of my guilt, of course. In the long, cold years I learned to forgive myself by returning to Lucifer's cause, even in the face of punishment and taunting by the other Fallen. I could even console myself with the reaffirmed faith that our cause had been right and God was wrong. I waited for another chance to defy Her, at the End Days.

Then the storms came, each more devastating than the last. Until we were free.

And now I am here, lying in a small, uncomfortable hospital bed waiting for the emergency room doctors to send me home. So I can heal the wound I reopened in Alison's body and get back to the cause. My doctor, a kind Indian man named Kalu, was paged earlier and I haven't seen or heard from him in over two hours. They won't release me without his okay, and though I've caught glimpses of him through the doors, he's too harried with other patients.

This may take a while.

I'm feeling calmer now.

I've been exploring Alison's world. I went to the salon today and had my hair done. Its length was shocking and rather gorgeous, but it got in the way and felt confining. After wandering through Alison's spacious, studio-style townhouse, I find myself in front of the bathroom mirror, turning this way and that, toying with my hair and her makeup, admiring my own beauty. I'm not quite how Alison used to look. It's not just the shorter hair, or the fringe of bleached blonde in the front. My presence has changed her slightly, brought out more of her own natural beauty. I'm delighted. I'm ecstatic.

I feel warm and graceful, wrapped up in Alison's flesh. I was always known for my beauty and vanity amongst the angels, but this is just too decadent. The range of sensations which the human body is capable of experiencing is overwhelming. The scent of Alison's perfumes, several of which I'm wearing right now. The smell of my own hair, freshly shampooed and cut. The shape and sensitivity of my body. It all convinces me that I was right to admire mankind in the first place.

Alison is changing me, too, of course.

Much of my anger and bitterness has burned off, at least for now. There is a calm rationality to Alison's thinking which I have inherited. She was a very educated and gifted woman, talented with music and possessed of a broad array of scholarly knowledge. Alison went to university, achieving a Masters in Music, and it was the freedom to create and learn without mundane financial concerns that she relished most about the experience. She's also the most educated in Delphi , matched only by the group's de facto leader, songwriter Robert Townsend. An intelligent man, from what I remember, though not an inspired one.

Alison lives comfortably off the continued trickle of sales from Delphi 's first album, the tepid Shadows, remarkable only for its flashes of musical brilliance. Rob's lyrics and concepts are tired, straining too hard to be important. He's a man of little experience, I recall. A half-hearted activist and critic who spent too many years living comfortably, with college paid for by his parents. It is Alison's voice, crisp and seductive, even to my ears, and the melodies offered up by Daniel and the others, which carry the album. If we could put them to better use, with a purpose and passion, Delphi might become the force Alison once dreamed of.

Alison had been a refined woman. She played with orchestras most of the time. She had legitimate musical credibility; or at least she used to. Delphi had been a thrill, a chance to show another, more emotional side of herself. A safety valve for her frustrations with the world. But the fight went out of her after the failure of Shadows.

That is something I intend to change.

The doorbell rings while I'm lost in thought. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I pull on a shirt to cover myself and head downstairs. I close my eyes as I feel my hair bouncing against my neck and cheek, my breasts shifting slightly as I dance down the steps, breathing in deeply of the heady perfumes and oils I've drowned myself in. There's a broad, sultry smile on my lips when I reach the door.

And then I open it.

Pinem'e.

The name lances across my mind and I stop dead, all thoughts of hedonism leaving me. She stands, leaning her weight on one leg, under the door lamp, with the velvety blackness of the night beyond. The Watcher has also taken a physical body, but hers is not human. It is a demon-infested creature in the shape of a human being, with faded green eyes, dead white skin and a mass of curly hair the color of burnished copper. Her clothing is old-fashioned to Alison's mind, almost Victorian. Suede jacket, black jeans, tight-fitted red blouse trimmed in gold, and soft leather boots. There's a red silk choker at her throat, from which dangles a silver pendant, bearing a word in the True Language: Death.

Pinem'e's eyes smolder. I would recognize her in any form.

"Rociel," she murmurs in greeting, a sly smile touching her pale mouth.

I shiver as I hear my name spoken for the first time, and I find myself backing into the living room as she enters and closes the door behind her. Anane may have no power over me here, but she does. There is immense strength contained within her deathly host. She is virtually whole, barely weakened by the escape from Hell. She apparently hasn't suffered the agony of the Maelstrom, which shredded away much of my angelic self during my escape through the Underworld. But she has always been one of the wisest and most calculating amongst us.

My retreat is halted as I bump into the sofa. "Pinem'e. What do you want from me? How did you find me here so quickly?"

"We're like shooting stars when we fall to Earth," Pinem'e replies calmly, drawing closer, "And I have been here for some time, waiting for others like you to escape."

Her eyes flick over me as her smile widens. "Sweet, sweet, Rociel," she croons, running a cool hand over my bare shoulder and throat, "I knew you'd be a woman. Your vanity wouldn't allow for anything else. You are very beautiful, though, as always, even without your silver hair and amethyst eyes. And I think I like your voice better for the coarseness of it. A growl and a whisper always suited you better than a song..."

"What are you?" I ask, trying to pretend I am in control, "What is this body of yours?"

"A child of Cain," Pinem'e replies, cupping my cheek. Her glassy fingernails are long and hooked slightly, like the talons of an eagle. They scrape against my warm skin, testing the softness of Alison's flesh. I shudder under her gaze. Once we were not so different in power, but she far eclipses me here in the mortal realm. "A blood drinker, called a vampire, who carries Cain's curse like a Typhoid Mary."

I know nothing of this, but Alison's memory conjures up images of the Vampire Lestat, Dracula, Nosferatu, and a dozen other images from the vampire legends she poured over with guilty pleasure. Those images alone give me pause. The cool touch of her hard, white hand makes my skin crawl. I straighten and push her away slightly - or I should say she allows me to push her away - and swallow down on the fear Alison and I feel to face the Watcher more firmly, as I had before. Bravado always came easily to me. "What do you want, Pinem'e? Why did you come here?"

Smirking, Pinem'e cocks her head slightly to one side and studies me.

The silence lasts forever while I am being examined. I cannot read her face. It is a death mask to me, revealing nothing.

"You betrayed me once, sweet Rociel," she murmurs in a low, seductive voice, "You betrayed myself and the other Watchers. And you betrayed Lucifer. Even after an aeon, you are still a traitor. You and your bitch queen, Anane. Was your orgy or flesh and blood worth it to you, Rociel, Mad Herald of Dawn? Even now, you wear the flesh of your bastard children. Do not think you have earned yourself forgiveness by suffering with the rest of us. Your protestations of faith are meaningless without action."

She looks askance at me. "What do you intend to do with your freedom?"

"I am guilty of what you accuse me of, Pinem'e" I reply in a low voice, knowing she hears the tremor in my words, "And I beg forgiveness. The cause was righteous, and I failed."

"Is righteous," Pinem'e counters, "Tell me. What will you do?"

"Fight," I say with more conviction, "Try to protect and care for mortals like we always have. Try to show them the truth and the way to better themselves. If there's time, and if it's possible, take the War back to Heaven."

"Then we are the same," Pinem'e smiles, "Your wings are as black as mine. Your heart feels the same anger at the treachery of Heaven. The War has not ended, sweet Rociel. There is plenty of time for revenge. And for forgiveness. I ask you for your fealty, Archangel . Devil. We will be ignored no longer."

"I am no one's servant, Pinem'e," I counter with a touch of bitterness, "I have been a slave for thousands of years, and a slave to God longer than that. I will help you, if that's what you want. If I think you deserve it. But I will not swear obedience. Only to Lucifer, wherever he may be."

I'm surprised at myself for saying these things. I feel stronger for it.

The Watcher grins, baring white teeth. The canines are sharp and tapered, giving her the look of an animal. I try to hold her cool, calculating gaze, but I can't help but blink as she puts a hand to my breast, tapping the warm skin gently. "So there's still some fire in you," she whispers, "I was starting to wonder. Nurture it, Rociel, let it burn hot. Don't let Alison Drake's womanly, self-imposed frailties get in the way of what is important. And don't let them control you. You are not human. Remember that."

I flinch, as if struck. I don't know why.

"If I need you, will you come?" Pinem'e asks, eyeing me darkly.

"Call me," I mock her, deflecting the question, "We'll do lunch."

Nodding, Pinem'e smiles. "You may not like that, Rociel. But alright."

I go rigid as the Watcher leans in and captures my mouth in a kiss. It is brief, but I can't force myself to twist away from her. This is a little demonstration of her power over me, I know, and though I want to resist I can't make my limbs move. She has the same power over me that Anane once did, and I hate for her that. I cry out as her teeth break into the delicate flesh of my lower lip, but I still can't pull away. The sting of the bite become a burn as she sucks on it, and her tongue is rough over my lip as she licks the little upwelling of blood away.

Drawing back, Pinem'e smiles wolfishly at me. I look away, shaken.

She is no longer the Devil I knew. She has become something worse.

"I will see you again, Rociel," she whispers, "In the meantime, fight your own way. Build up your image, your band, your popularity, since that is your desire. When you have a host of mortals in your thrall, I will return to you. And then I shall expect your service."

"Fuck you," I breathe, "You will get nothing from me. I'm a Devil, not a monster."

Chuckling, Pinem'e turns and walks away.

* * *

I should have known the peace and quiet wouldn't last.

Here I sit on the back of the sofa, staring at the flames dancing in Alison's fireplace. The firelight glows orange on my naked skin. Reflections of the fire shimmer in my obsidian hair and the glossy black wings folded against my back. The wings of a crow, raven or carrion bird. One of many ways God reminds us of our Fall. It was a lot of work to spread my wings the first time. My powers are at a low ebb, but it feels good to feel air over them again, rather than have them tightly bound up with the rest of me inside Alison's body.

I sit here and I ponder Pinem'e's visit as well as my own future. If she desired, the Watcher could most likely bind me into service, just as Anane had. Her phrasing was very specific. She wants me and my band to succeed, because she desires the power which such a following might attract amongst mortals. She is virtually challenging me to accomplish this. And I'll never be strong enough to resist her unless I have such a following, so here I am. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

Growling under my breath, I let my anger simmer. I'm tired of being controlled.

Well, fuck it. I'm already damned, and I was going to do it anyway. I'll worry about Pinem'e when I get there.

In the meantime, she's a small target. Pinem'e was right about one thing, at least. The War goes on, and with God and the Heavenly Host absent from the mortal world, this is a place where miracles can be worked again. From what I know of the world from Alison's memories, the world is in desperate need of revolution. In this age of information and communication, what better platform for reaching the masses is there than the rock star? I have the magic and the passions. Alison has given me the skills and the knowledge necessary. There is a vast world of humanity out there to explore and experience.

I'm a decadent creature, and I crave love. It all seems so perfect.

And perhaps there are others who'll work with me, rather than politick for control.

I mean, it's possible.

My laughter echoes about the spacious, high-ceilinged chamber, spreading a broad, wicked smile across my face. Stretching my arms out and spreading my wings to their full extent, and then pushing a little more to fan out the black feathers, I arch my back and groan at the pleasure of being free.

I'll go out tonight, I decide. Spend time with the mortals I so love and learn what it means to be one of them, this time with a clear and open mind. And if the inspiration strikes, maybe I'll write a few verses for Delphi 's next album.

There's a lot to do, after all.

They say that at any time, there is a party going on somewhere in the world.

I chose to be at this one. It's being held at an estate resembling Wayne Manor from Alison's memory of the fictitious detective cum superhero Batman, in Denton , Texas . Technically, I'm an invitee of a friend of a friend, but then Alison seems to have lots of friends. More than I can keep track of, that's for sure. When I heard about the party from Delphi 's mild-mannered bassist, Miguel Romero, I dialed every number in Alison's address book until I found someone who could get me in. It is a Masquerade Ball, you see, a delicious idea if I ever heard one. Lying and trickery are not normally in my nature - or at least, they didn't use to be - but the idea of a masquerade teases the edge of deception. I had to be there.

I'm the Queen of Hearts, naturally.

This involves wearing a revealing, slinky dress with a slightly flaring skirt, not to mention quite a lot of rouge and scarlet. I didn't think I'd like feeling this restricted in my movements, but I let the part of me that is Alison make such decisions. And as I walk around the party, saying hello and making friends, it becomes a natural extension of my presence in the room. My perfume communicates my closeness, the soft brush of silk or my hair against people I pass gains their attention in a heartbeat. I'm not the only belle at the ball, of course. There are plenty of others here. I thought they were angels or Fallen as well, at first glance, but no - they seem to be something else.

In fact, there are lot of "different" people at this party.

Pinem'e was right about a second thing. I cannot resist this. The attention, the casual flirting, the feeling of power a beautiful woman has. The things women are allowed - even expected! - to do in the name of being social are dizzying. Before long, I'm feeling a slight "buzz" from the champagne being passed around in copious quantities. Even the surprising amount of effort required for me to accomplish this appearance seems glorious in retrospect. I feel drunk on the emotions and sensations of the partygoers around me, and in love with humanity. And probably, if you were to ask me, in love with myself. As usual.

I'm floating as I approach the bar, mindful of the Others around me. I have to gain some distance for a moment, reign in my ecstasy before I manifest here, surrounded by unknowing mortals. And while that sounds like fun, it would require a lot of explaining.

The Others are distinctly odd as well. Their numina are strange, unlike anything I recall from the First Days. They watch each other, sometimes protectively and sometimes guardedly. Some of them have already noticed me, and I can tell they're not sure what to make of Rociel, Queen of Hearts. There are no Elohim here besides me, of that I'm sure. I'm surprised by that. How many of us escaped? A trickle? Or are we simply so widely spread?

"Good evening," says a deep, male voice near me.

I turn, coyly tucking a curl of hair behind my ear as I do so. It's one of the Others. A slender but muscular man with long brown hair pulled back tight and neat into a ponytail. He's wearing what Alison would describe as "dress casual". Cool grey-blue eyes sweep over me as I take him in, a seductive smile spreading upon my full lips. He's not drinking alcohol, I notice. He's carrying a wine glass in one hand, but I think it's either purified water or something similar. I arch an eyebrow. "Good evening," I purr, "Wonderful party, isn't it?"

"I think so," he replies, deadpan. The voice of caution.

"You're not dressed for the masquerade?"

The man seems slightly embarrassed for the first time. "No, it was my wife's idea. But I hope you are enjoying yourself."

"Absolutely," I grin.

"My name is Karl Ancell," he says, "And you are?"

My smile only widens at the mention of the name. This is our host.

"Rociel," I reply, offering my hand to him as if to shake. It seems to puzzle him for a moment, but he acquiesces and clasps my hand in return. Before he can shake, however, I lean in and kiss the top of his hand in fine courtly fashion, kneeling in curtsy. His skin is warm and has an odd leathery quality to it. The kiss seems to fluster him slightly, but he covers it up well. A couple of people in the vicinity give us an odd look.

"Just Rociel?" he asks, withdrawing his hand, "That's an unusual name."

I cock my head and shrug my shoulders coquettishly. "I'm an unusual girl."

"I can tell," Mr. Ancell returns. "You seem familiar. Have we met before?"

"I front a band called Delphi out of Dallas ," I suggest.

"That's it," Mr. Ancell nods, smiling slightly. "I heard your first album three years ago when I was in New York ."

A curious smile. "What did you think?"

"Mmmmm, it had potential," the man murmurs, sipping his drink, "You have a beautiful voice and the band sounded great."

"Well," I grin, "We're under new management now. I think you'll enjoy our upcoming album much more."

"I'd love to hear it," Mr. Ancell agrees, still deadpan.

"You're a musician yourself, aren't you?" I ask, a memory of Alison's coming to the fore, "I remember going to one of your shows a couple of years ago. You played at a festival along with several other groups. It was magical."

Mr. Ancell bows his head slightly, smiling. "Thank you."

"Do you have an album out?" I inquire.

"No, we're currently not under contract with anyone."

"That's definitely a shame," I empathize, running a hand over his arm and shoulder. This ruffles his feathers again slightly, but ever the gracious host, he smiles politely. "Maybe you should contact Sony? We're under contract with them, and they've been very good to us. I can put you in touch with a man I know, Gavin, who has some pull. There's no reason why a group as talented as yours shouldn't gain a wider audience."

"That's very kind of you," he defers, "But no, thank you. It's alright."

"When is your new album coming out?" he adds, changing the subject.

Shrugging nonchalantly, I collect a fresh glass of champagne from a tray on the table. I dip my finger in it and put a drop of it on my tongue, savoring the faint burning sensation. "It should be early next year, if all goes well. We have big plans for it. And bigger expectations." I grin, turning back to him with glittering blue eyes. "You should come down to our studio sometime. My friend Daniel designed and built it himself. I'll show you what we're working on. Hell, if you like it, I'd love to have your input. No band is an island and all that."

"Maybe some other time," he smiles.

"As you like it," I shrug, " Champagne ?"

"No, thank you."

"You should enjoy your own party more, Mr. Ancell," I jokingly advise him, "And have a good evening. It was wonderful talking to you."

He nods. "You, too."

I see him later in the evening, standing outside with a cellular telephone in one hand, speaking to someone. He glances inside once or twice and catches me spying on him - not that I try to conceal it - at which point he turns away from the windows and starts talking to the lawn instead. Chuckling under my breath, I consider going out for some fresh air, but the music starts up just then. Another area of the house is opened up to the guests, a spacious chamber for dancing. A band has set up on the far side, announcing their arrival with a swell of strings and guitar cords. Grinning, I follow the crowd in their direction, curious in this blend of old and new musical styles.

"Would you like to dance?" a young man inquires with a beatific smile, holding out his hand. He is one of the Others, and a beautiful creature besides, dressed as a swashbuckler or pirate. His hand is warm and surprisingly strong as I take it, smiling broadly.

My voice is husky. "I would love to."

I am Rociel, and there is a party to attend. Curiosity can wait.

Dancing is a divine experience, and so subtly sexual. The world spins, letting the lights of the chandeliers swirl overhead like a canopy of stars, as I move in time with the gracious young man. There is some argument at first over which of us should lead, bringing laughter out of both of us. I find myself falling back into Alison as we dance together, crushing my body against him, tempting him with the lush softness of my body.

It only occurs to me afterwards that he is doing the same thing to me, enchanting me with a bit of magic and the gentle touches of the dance. The colors in the room seem brighter and richer than before, the music more vibrant and the sensations of the dance more delicate. The colors almost hurt my eyes, they are so beautiful. He's a creature of magic, I realize, despite his human shell. Pushing away the bedazzlement of his charm, I still give myself over to him with renewed vigor. Desire ripples through me, along with a fierce sense of determination.

I am Rociel. The most decadent of angels. I refuse to be outdone.

"We should leave," he says suddenly, whispering in my ear.

I protest half-heartedly, but he pulls me away from the dance and outside into the cool, moist air. The night is fragrant with the smell of fresh-cut grass and flowers, and he leads me a short distance away from the house to stand under a tall, shady tree. I nearly bump into him as he stops and turns, and he catches me by the shoulders.

"What's wrong?" I ask him, laughing.

His expression of seriousness breaks into a grin. "You're glowing, my darling."

Lifting my eyebrows, I glance down at my hands. I am indeed glowing, projecting a warm radiance from my skin that wafts off of me like flames. So much for self-control. I must have started manifesting during the dance. My wings haven't appeared yet, though, for which I'm both glad and disappointed. I'm sure I would have gotten some attention then, with a fifteen foot wingspan of crow feathers...

"What are you?" the man asks, taking off his mask. His bright, playful tone hasn't changed at all. He's not frightened of me.

Glancing up, I pause. He's not properly a man at all. Unlike the rather tall, jaunty human appearance he wore before, he is slightly shorter and slimmer, with dusky skin and slightly pointed ears. His wavy brown hair is now quite long and black, braided in many places, and he is dressed in loose, brightly colored silk clothing reminiscent of India or the Bedouins. Alison's mind doesn't quite know what to make of this apparition. I'm not quite sure what to make of it either, but I know for certain that he's no angel.

Observing my reaction, he flashes a grin. "Maybe I should explain, too."

"You tried to put a charm on me," I reproach him in a sultry, somewhat dangerous voice.

"Yes. And I only partly succeeded." He bows in apology. "That's why you can see my true form right now. I'm Eshu, one of many kinds of Faerie in the world. True Fae, that is, not the nonsense you read in books or see on television. A wanderer, lover of stories and a creature of dreams, all at your service, my lady." Another bow, this time lower and more rakish. "And you did try the same thing on me. You should know better than to try and charm one of the Fair Folk. We invented the concept, you know."

"Really now?" I chuckle, "I once heard the same thing from a Demon named Mansemat."

The Eshu looks askance at me, but is still grinning. "You don't strike me as the innocent type either."

"I'm not," I grin, baring teeth, "It's hard to be virtuous when you're Damned."

"You're drunk," he laughs.

"Yes, I am," I readily agree, walking up to wrap my arms around his neck, "You'll have to forgive me, but it's my first time. I'm new here."

"I find that hard to believe."

Shrugging, I press my brow to his chest, soaking in the heat pouring off of him. My own radiance has yet to fade, and it envelops both of us in a nimbus of flames. My head is swimming as his arms come around my waist, pulling me in closer. The drink had more of an effect on me than I first thought, but I don't want to lose this glorious, heady feeling by purging my system. Not yet anyway. "So what are you?" he murmurs, burying his face in my hair.

A growl comes out of me instead of a chuckle. "Can they see you? The people inside?"

"Only some of them," he replies, a tag smugly, "Only others of our kin and those they've enchanted. But I should remind you, my dear, that you're still glowing and they can see you perfectly well. I doubt you want so much attention."

"Says who?" I counter, pushing off of him. The laughter has gone out of my voice, replaced by a dangerous quality, a caustic mixture of bitterness and regret. "I hunger for it. I hunger for everything here. When you've been imprisoned longer than you can remember, everything has its own intoxicating allure. Besides, they should see me. We once dwelled amongst them and led them to glorious things, things far better than the shit hole world they've created without us. They should see all of us! They're fucking useless without us! Maybe then they'd realize what they're missing - "

"Calm, love, calm," the Eshu murmurs gently, holding his hands out.

Simmering, I try to shrug off this sudden flush of anger. My outburst shocks even me.

My radiance has brightened because of it, forming a halo of light around my body. There's a flash of pain inside of me as my wings crash into Alison's ribs, wanting out, but I force myself to relax. Even still, my presence is leaking through Alison's mortal shell. Turning away from the Faerie, I walk farther into the copse of trees, seeking shelter from prying eyes. He follows behind me at a safe distance, waiting for me to cool down.

The manifestation has one benefit at least. The alcohol's burned out my system.

I bow my head once we're out of sight, slowing to a stop in a small clearing.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, looking at him over my shoulder, "I don't know what happened."

His voice is soft, cautious. "What are you?"

Turning around, some of my anger fades as I see his curious, concerned eyes. He's still not frightened of me, even now. "My name is Rociel," I tell him evenly. The heady femininity of the party is gone from my voice, replaced by a huskier tone more like my old voice. "I'm a demon. Or more particularly, a Devil. A fallen angel. I've been gone from the world for thousands of years. I'm not even sure how long. So I'm sorry, my social skills are at a low ebb. As is my anger management, apparently."

"It's alright," the Eshu murmurs, "Just stay calm."

He obviously has his doubts about this whole angel story.

"I am telling you the truth," I continue in a throaty, female growl, "I've never lied to anyone. It's not in my nature. Before I fell, I communicated Truth. Now..."

My voice trails off, my frustration rising as I think of the past again. By losing myself in the refined, elegant world Alison existed in, and by keeping a low profile amongst mortals since I escaped, I've managed to keep most of this resentment buried. But now, faced with trying to explain myself to this creature, it is bubbling back to the surface with surprising strength. If it weren't for Alison's own natural calm, now an integral part of my consciousness, it would have overflowed already.

Then I realize I'm frightened.

Frightened of feeling these things. Frightened of losing control.

Grimacing, I wrestle with this fear. It becomes a panic, washing over me like cold water, drowning out the anger and the frustration. I remember all too well the crazed, vicious monster I had been during the War, raping humanity for my own pleasures. I don't want to be that person again. I refuse it. But some of this fear is Alison's, too. She has changed me more than I realized. My emotions are far more intense than I remember, and far more human. I try to keep it contained rather than lose control, but it won't go away.

Pain lances up and down my back and sides, dragging a thin, brief scream out of me as my wings manifest. They flash into existence behind me, already spreading out without my conscious will, the way they used to before battle. Too much fear, anger and frustration at my failures, imprisonment, my servitude to Anane, welling up inside of me, which I try to shove back down. I clench my hands into fists and close my eyes, sinking down to my knees. Flames dance around my body. They're beginning to scorch the grass underneath my feet.

A long time passes.

When I open my eyes again, it's dark.

A circle of ash surrounds me, extending to arm's length. The wind ruffles my black feathers and the silken softness of my hair. It's a chilly breeze now, the weather growing colder as the night deepens. A weak, high-pitched moan comes out of me as sensation trickles back into my awareness. I feel sick, and very weak. I must have burned off a tremendous amount of energy doing that. But at least I feel calm, and rational again.

The Eshu is still nearby. It occurs to me that I don't even know his name.

"Rociel," he murmurs, approaching me slowly, "Are you alright?"

"No," I laugh, then cough.

"I'm sorry," I add, at a whisper, "I'm truly sorry...It's the first time since..."

Since when? 10,000 years ago? Even longer than that?

"We should leave," he tells me, "There are others watching us right now. And this is Karl's home. I don't want to bring him trouble."

Nodding, I force myself to relax. There is a flash of pain as my wings pull back inside of me, vanishing into curls of black smoke.

"Let me take you home," he offers.

I laugh at this. "You can't. Believe me, we've tried."

"You know what I mean," the Eshu sighs, "Let's at least get away from here."

My voice is small. "Why would you want to go anywhere with me?"

"A gentleman doesn't abandon a lady in distress," he says dryly, but there is warmth in his voice. What could I have possibly done to earn such compassion? "Besides, it sounds like there is a long tale to be told, and I for one could never resist a good story. Especially one told by a beautiful woman..."

I laugh sardonically, but he knows he has me.

I am Rociel, after all. I can't possibly refuse the attention.

* * *

It probably wasn't the bed idea I've ever had.

I lay on my back in Alison's bed, trying to regain my equilibrium. I've changed into a curve-hugging tee shirt, what they call a babydoll tee here, and a comfortable pair of pajama pants. I don't know exactly what these are made of, but they feel every bit as soft and luxurious as my dress for the Masquerade Ball. Even better, actually, if you ask me. My little uncontrolled lightshow took a lot of out me. I'm not sure what got into me either, but I know I need to work on my short temper. Being doubted, criticized or ignored will piss me off to no end, and my fear of losing control - of slipping back into my old madness - will turn that anger into a panic.

The man's name - at least his human name - is Liam.

Liam graciously drove me home, allowing me the opportunity to recover my wits and explain myself further. I outlined the basics of our existence to him, though far from everything. There are some parts of the past which I'd rather not be reminded of, nor share with someone else. He listened quietly, absorbing this information with rapt attention, and he helped me upstairs when we arrived at Alison's house. All in all, the perfect gentleman. My manifestation perturbed him slightly, I sense, yet he also seems fascinated by it. He's too alien and too traveled, I suspect, to be really frightened of me.

I can't say that I blame him. Sitting up in bed, looking at Alison's reflection in the dresser mirror across from me, I feel small, fragile and weak. The softness of my body and clothing instills in me a sense of vulnerability, and almost despite myself I feel grateful for Liam's aid. This seems wrong to me somehow. Another element of Alison's psyche which I don't fully understand. In many ways, she seemed like a strong, self-determined woman, and these feelings don't fit with that image. I push them away and try to regain perspective.

In exchange for my confessions, Liam offered some explanation for his kind as well. I remember nothing about the Fair Folk from before my imprisonment, and I've only got Alison's scant knowledge to go off of. Liam claimed that the Fae once lived openly amongst humanity. There were a lot of them in those times, of various races, only a handful of which survive today. At some point - and this stirred no small amount of bitterness in me - humanity turned its back on magic and miracles, preferring instead the heartless banner of reason. The Fair Folk could no longer survive in a world of such sterile order, and were forced to take on mortal bodies, much as I had, to survive. They were essentially trapped, reincarnating into different mortal lives, only occasionally becoming aware of their true natures.

I wonder if this might be our fate as well.

Liam enters the room now, carrying a glass of water. The enchantment he placed on me bled off during my manifestation, so now he is the young man I remember from the party again. Tall, handsome, slightly rakish. His buccaneer costume looks absurd against the elegant, artful environment of Alison's bedroom, like something out of an awful romance novel. I feel the urge to cover myself, slightly awkward and uncomfortable with having a strange man here, but I shove it aside. Ignoring his roguish charm for the moment, I don't know how powerful or how dangerous this Eshu is. But I am hardly powerless myself.

"Here," he smiles, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding the glass out to me, "Your body is drained from your little outburst. This will help."

Nodding, I take the glass from him and drink. The water is clear and cold, not the stuff out of the taps. He must have opened one of the water bottles in the fridge instead. Alison was wise to keep those around. The municipal water, no matter how much the government professed it was clean, is well contaminated. It hardly resembles the water I remember, when the world was young and still innocent. I nearly down the entire glass before I realize it. He's right. I'm weak, and Alison's body craves refreshment.

"Thank you," I murmur.

"Not at all, my lady."

I watch him over the rim of the cup, my blue eyes gleaming in the electric lamplight. He seems to be studying me in return, his gaze roaming into my hair and along my cheek. My discomfort with his presence here grows, and his wandering eyes spark indignation. "Why are you here, Liam?" I ask him as I set the glass down on the nightstand, "I know there is something you want, and I would like to know what it is."

"It's in my nature to want to help people," Liam shrugs, reclining against the bedpost.

No chivalrous comments this time. My eyes shine suspiciously as I wait patiently for a real explanation.

"Well, if you're just going to stare at me," he grins, "Then I'll tell you."

"Please do."

Running a hand through his longish hair, Liam's grin eases into a wry smile as he carefully chooses his words. I get the sense that his every phrase and gesture is well practiced, every bit the storyteller he claims to be. He seems genuinely sincere when he speaks, but that is the nature of his art, after all.

"You remind me of someone I once knew," Liam offers in a gentler tone, "One of us, that is, an Eshu. A beautiful woman with shining black hair and glittering violet eyes. That's why I invited you to dance in the first place. There was something about you; I even dared to think for a moment that you might be her. But you're certainly not what I expected. My curiosity has led me ever since that moment, Rociel."

"Who is this woman?" I ask.

Frustration crosses his face, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.

"I can't remember," he admits, shrugging.

"Our human lives interfere with remembering the past," Liam adds by way of explanation, "As does the harshness of the world around us. We are not fully ourselves, nor fully Fae. Even those of us who know ourselves have gaps in our memory, wonders lost to the ravages of time and the coming Winter. Hers is a face I see only dimly. In fact, I didn't even remember she existed until I saw you."

Considering this, I look back into my own memories. There are gaps and imperfections there as well, which seem jagged as I focus upon them for the first time. Some memories were surely lost while I suffered in the Void, and others are likely obscured by Alison's experiences - not to mention the sheer sensuality of the moment, which clouds my thinking now that I am flesh and blood. My brow furrows. I remember much, certainly, but that is little comfort when you realize how untrustworthy your mind is.

I was once greater than this, damn it.

"Rociel?"

"I'm fine," I tell him, returning my attention to the present.

Liam smiles knowingly. "It troubles you, doesn't it? Being half-human."

I'm immediately angry, but the anger is brief and I'm too tired to hold onto it long. No one has ever pitied me before. Not even Daniel when he found me in the alley. The idea itself is incomprehensible. I'm used to being the greater, the more powerful. Even as Anane's slave, I was strong enough to hold my own against the other Fallen. Even now, in my lessened state, I reject the idea of being vulnerable. And I certainly can't abide the idea of being considered weaker and more delicate than anyone else.

Even if I feel that way myself.

To make matters worse, Liam's quiet compassion has touched me. I can't stand being so helpless that someone else must take care of me, yet the part of me that is Alison finds it heartwarming and enjoyable.

It occurs to me then that I find Liam desirable. In the manner of the smoldering hunger of a Devil and the warm flush of a mortal woman's lust. It is the same experience I felt when we were dancing at the party, when I locked my body against his, trying to seduce him and sate my own hedonism at the same time.

The realization is confusing.

"Yes," I admit to him, "But there is a great deal of wonder and pleasure to be had in the mortal world. I never really realized what it was like to be human. Surely you feel the same way, since you're in a similar position?"

"Ah, well," Liam grins, like a boy who's been caught in some mischief, "Yes, to some extent. Though I imagine my former existence was a lot less rarified than your own."

I feel my lips curl upwards into a smile. "What is your true name?"

"Eben," he answers with as much of a bow as he can manage on the bed, "A simple name for a simple man. A name that won't weigh you down on the road, or get in the way of telling a good story."

I laugh under my breath. "Which should I call you?"

"Call me either," he replies with a slight shrug, "Unlike others of my kind, I'm not afraid of my mortal name. It's just as simple and well crafted."

"You're a strange man, Liam."

The young man performs another of his miniature bows for me, his eyes shining with humor and secret thoughts. I sense him examining me again, though not the same as before. He isn't searching for his mystery woman's features in mine this time. He is simply looking at me, with what he thinks is subtlety and stealth. No, I take that back. This is a look I know well. One of admiration and rising curiosity. I feel a ripple of uncertainty wash over me, lying here in Alison's bed with this man studying me, and no small amount of arousal. I can't take my mind off of our earlier dance, drunken and heady with simple pleasure.

I have forced mortals to love me before. I have taken what I thought I wanted.

But I can't do that to Liam. Or can I?

"I should go," he announces gently, smiling in apology, "You've exhausted yourself, and I'm sure you have things to do in the morning. If you want to talk again, I'll leave you my - "

"Liam," I interrupt.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Stop saying 'my lady'," I ask, allowing myself to change subjects out of uncertainty, but I can't restrain the grin spreading on my lips, "At least while you're dressed like that."

Chuckling, Liam nods. "Alright. Though I thought it was fitting. I have been a buccaneer before, you know, in a previous lifetime. Though it wasn't quite as glamorous as you might think." A playful, boyish grin lit up his features. "The word buccaneer originally meant barbecuer, you know. And I was no Errol Flynn. None of us were, for that matter. But I could roast a hog like nobody's business."

A feminine giggle comes out my mouth, surprising me. One of Alison's behavior patterns coming out again. Though at that moment, I didn't particularly care. The husky tone returns to my voice.

"Liam, I'm going to ask you an impertinent question."

"This has been a good night for them," he replies.

"Will you stay the night with me?"

Liam pauses, as if calculating the pros and cons. Or simply looking for dramatic effect. His voice is softer when he speaks, stirring a flush of warmth through my body, despite his light attempt to inject humor into it. "Yes, I will."

I can't believe this is happening to me.

Like the Wizard of Oz, I no longer feel so great and powerful. The curtain is pulled back, exposing Rociel for the weakened being that he is. But I don't feel like Rociel. I feel like Alison Drake, the young woman whose life I've entered. And I don't want to leave this feeling behind.

It's morning, and I'm lying awake in bed with Liam's arm around me. I'm turned to face him, my head nestled against his chest as we lay on our sides. One of my arms is loosely looped around his middle and the other is folded demurely against my chest, and while I suspect this shouldn't be entirely comfortable, the combined warmth and scent of our bodies lulls me back to sleep, negating any discomfort. Liam has all the youthful slenderness of a man his age, but he is still stronger and larger than I am. Being so close to him makes me feel delicate, but also protected. I don't understand why I need protection. I know why I feel content, but the warm ache in my breast overrides everything else.

I need to be close to him.

This is not Rociel. This is being human.

It pains me to realize how poorly I understood mortals before, and how cruel I was to demand love, mentally and physically, from them to dull my agony and self-loathing. I wanted to feel love again, certainly, from those I cherished and admired from afar, because God had turned Her back on me. But I felt nothing. At least, nothing like this. The physical demands of sex - for it was far more exhausting than I imagined - and the pleasure it brought were overwhelming enough. But to feel love and affection from Liam, given of his own free will, and to answer it with my own urgency - and vulnerability, which seemed to lay at the heart of Alison's existence somehow - shattered my sense of self.

What is Rociel to do? I am no longer truly him.

I woke a couple of times during the night and Liam pulled me closer, drawing me back into the faintly spicy heat of his body, where I felt safe. I dreamed. I haven't dreamed since I came into Alison's body. I locked them away in a corner of my mind, frightened by the loss of mental control they represented. But last night I dreamed in a glorious swirl of memories, desires and colors. Liam's presence affecting me. I fell into them, feeling only a momentary panic before the satisfaction of the evening turned that panic to smoke. Dreams became real, lighting up every sense Alison's body offers, and reaching into my...

Well, not my soul, since I don't have one.

Do I?

Moaning slightly, I close my eyes and press into Liam's chest, trying to blot out these thoughts. I don't know how to handle them, or what to make of them. They're incomprehensible to the angelic side of my consciousness, yet Alison finds them perfectly natural. She has memories of other lovers in her past, and if I don't concentrate, they leak into the present moment as if it were happening all over again.

I wanted Liam last night, the same way I desired mortals in the part. Well, almost the same way. The sensations Alison's body produced in response to my desire, as well as the flood of emotions coming from her part of my mind, turned sheer lust into something softer. Yet almost physically painful. I still feel it, that little ache. When it began, shocking me with its suddenness and urgency, I fought Liam for control. I tried to take the pleasure from him, as I had before. And then...

Well, it didn't last long.

And Liam was far, far stronger than me. I enjoyed that.

But I didn't expect any of it. I didn't fucking have a clue.

Now, part of me wants to laugh at God for trying to imprison us, for trying to take away the pleasures and the wonders of the world which now bombard me from all sides. Most of me, though, just wants to curl up here and sleep. The War seems very far away and unimportant now, like in a dream.

That can't be right.

Yeah...but I don't give a fuck.

* * *

I hate Alison's doorbell.

It's a loud, artificially cheery ding-dong sound that can be heard throughout the house. It startles me out of a lush dream - which flees from memory the instant I wake, bringing a frustrated noise to my throat - and that's reason enough to loathe it. How do people put up with these contraptions anyway?

Then I groan as I realize who it is. Daniel. We were supposed to go over the new songs today over breakfast and hammer out the arrangements. Both of us are classically minded musicians, after all. One simply doesn't walk into the studio and start jamming. One prepares. And I want the album to be as meticulous and breathtaking as possible.

Right now, though, I don't want to get up. So fuck Daniel.

At some point, Liam and I rolled over, and now I'm lying atop him in an awkward but comfortable tangle of limbs, my breasts flattened into his stomach. I know he's awake, too, just by the change in his breathing and the slight tensing of his muscles.

The doorbell keeps ringing.

Growling, I start to rise but Liam clasps my hips and pulls me back down. I don't resist. I just look upwards over his chest to see his smiling face.

"You should answer that," he says, his arms coming around my waist.

Both of us giggle. I feel delirious.

"It's Daniel," I explain, "One of my band mates. We were supposed to get together for breakfast and work on the new album."

Liam grins. "So should I feel threatened?"

"Liam," I smile, arching my eyebrows, "He's gay."

"So I should let you go answer the door then."

I shake my head and close my eyes, pressing my cheek to his chest. "He can wait."

My voice has changed, I realize. Before I took over, Alison's voice was lighter and had a distinct feminine timber, and that's the voice I'm using right now. The sultry, almost masculine tone - reminiscent of my old voice - has gone out of it. The realization makes me dizzy, and I lay still for a moment, trying to regain my equilibrium. I'm used to commanding others, imparting the will of God to Heaven. Or at least being a tempter. Being a simple human woman feels both satisfying and frightening, as if parts of me are breaking off. I'm reluctant to let it go.

But I am Rociel, what little is left.

Aren't I?

Liam gives me a gentle squeeze. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I whisper hoarsely, "Just confused. I feel strange."

"You should get up," he suggests, helping me off of him and into a sitting position on the side of the bed, "And answer the door. It's starting to get on my nerves, and I don't think he's going to give up anytime soon."

Liam's hands rest on my slender shoulders while I try to get a grip.

"I'm shaking," I breathe.

"I know."

The young man's arms come around me, pulling me against him in a hug. His hot breath pours over my neck and shoulder. I feel faint, my eyes jittering about under my eyelids as I fight my body's urge to faint. Liam's touch is both soothing and disorienting. It's a struggle, forcing down my inner confusion. I try to drown out both Rociel and Alison's memories and stay with the present, because I know I'll lose it otherwise. I feel loose inside Alison's body, like her skin no longer fits me properly. I'm afraid if this keeps up that I'll slide out. My wings slam into my ribs as the panic sets in, and I moan in pain and surprise at the feeling.

Control, I order myself. Calm the fuck down.

He's audibly concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know who or what I am anymore," I whisper back.

I feel a soft smile from Liam. "I understand. I went through something similar."

"I need to move," I tell him in a taut voice, "Get my mind on something else."

Liam releases me, but his warm, rough hands gently caress my sides in reassurance. "Go. Answer the door."

There's a silk kimono in the armoire, which I hastily pull on. It's red and orange, the color of flames, and it shimmers in the light. It pleased me when I first discovered it, and it makes me feel slightly calmer to be wearing it. Though probably covering myself with anything would have the same effect. I'm not at all bothered by Liam seeing me naked, but I need some armor against my rampant self-doubts. And maybe a little psychological distance between my body and myself.

What in Hell is happening to me?

Tying off the robe, I run a hand through my hair and head downstairs.

Daniel blinks and shrinks back slightly as I whip open the front door. It's a warm day, and he's dressed in a blousy shirt and Dockers. I wince at the sunny glare outside, which makes his light-colored clothing virtually glow. This should make me laugh. Rociel, Herald of Dawn, unable to bear the light of day. It should, but it doesn't.

"Alison?" he asks. He was obviously concerned by my delay. Now he's visibly worried.

"What?" I ask, sounding small.

Daniel's brow furrows. "Why are you crying?"

I'm crying?

My hand automatically goes to my cheek, startled and somewhat embarrassed at being seen this way - this shaken - by a mortal. Indeed, Daniel is right. There's a warm trail of tears on my cheek, and my vision blurs as I try to blink them away. My emotions are much more intense, yes, and it's often pleasurable. Right now it is merely unnerving. I manage to keep myself under control, remarkably enough, though my wings flutter nervously under my skin. "I'm fine, Daniel," I reply, a little shakily, "Give me a minute to get dressed. Come inside. It's hot out there."

I retreat. It doesn't feel right to do so, but I do.

Daniel closes the door behind us, and I plunge into the cool shade of the vaulted main room. Hands in pockets, he follows behind me, but I stop him with a firm hand on his chest. My blue eyes, still wet with tears, flash. "I said, give me a minute, Daniel. Alright?"

My Voice has the desired effect, though it feels wrong to use it.

"Yes," Daniel murmurs, falling back a step, "Go ahead."

Liam is already dressed when I return upstairs. This should be a relief - it puts some distance between the two of us, and helps avoid any awkwardness for dealing with Daniel, not that I should care - but it's not. It means the moment is over and he's leaving. Still, he sees the emotional state I'm in. For a moment, I catch the doubt on his face - what has he gotten himself into here? But it is quickly smoothed away by the chivalry and gentleness I need from him.

"Rociel, are you alright?" he asks, cupping my cheeks.

"Yes," I reply softly.

"Are you going to breakfast with your friend?"

I nod. I don't feel much like an angel or a Devil, standing there.

"Calm down," Liam murmurs, pulling me into an embrace with a warm smile, "You're fine. You're just confused. Last night was probably a mistake. Too much, too soon..."

"Liam," I say, finding my voice again, "That's a lie."

The Eshu looks me in the eyes, half-smiling.

"It was not a mistake," I tell him in a stronger voice, "Please believe that."

Liam studies me. Nods slowly. His smile widens.

"Then I won't regret it, Rociel," he replies lightly, "I've never liked regretting anything I do, and I don't care to start now. So relax and get a hold of yourself. I may not know a lot about angels, but I do understand where you're coming from. I was confused for months after I awakened. I ate a lot of chocolate trying to cope. Took months to take the weight off again."

I laugh despite myself. I love the way he can put both of us at ease.

"Go to breakfast with your friend, Rociel," says Liam.

Nodding, I take a deep breath. "What about you?"

"I have things to do today," he smiles, "But my telephone number and address are on your dresser. And you will give me a call or come see me. You never told me all of your story. And I never told you all of mine. That's something I aim to correct. It's not in my nature to leave anything unfinished."

"You'll see me again," I assure him.

"Of course I will."

* * *

It's a long day, which turns into a long week.

Daniel is a kind, intelligent man and as much as I know he worries about me, he also knows to leave me alone when I ask him to. I've promised to make his dreams, and the dreams of the others, come true. There is an album to produce and get out to the public, and I know exactly how to go about it. I've studied the art, music and film of this modern world. Between that and Alison's memories, I have some sense of how this industry works and how to make it work for me. I feel the heartbeat of human concerns and fears in this country, and I have enough bottled up anger to vent Alison's frustrations with full force. Enough force, hopefully, to sway mortal hearts and minds to the cause.

The world they live in has gone to Hell, literally, and it's time we took it back.

More importantly, I'm starting to know what it means to feel human. To be a mortal woman with vulnerabilities, strengths and emotions. I'm able to put Liam and last night out of my thoughts for a time, long enough to deal with Daniel and get the work done, but it's profoundly changed me. I scratch out line after line of lyrics before I even show them to Daniel, and I write more to replace them, with a newfound understanding. It's a struggle, giving voice to both Rociel and Alison at the same time. But I'm convinced now that if I hadn't come to feel this way, to become aware of my own growing humanity, I would never have touched anyone. I would only produce horror and disdain.

Daniel is excited by what I write. He helps write more.

Music is drafted. Ideas are bandied about.

Entire songs come and in the slash of a pen.

Rough art design and concert theatrics are hashed out on paper.

In the end, we have something I feel remarkably proud of, a feeling I didn't expect from this venture. I'd been too pragmatic before, planning the entire thing like a military campaign. There's a looseness in the work now that's entirely organic. It's flexible. And above all, it feels...well, human.

Daniel is adamant about honing the lyrics. He is in love with my voice. To my ears it sounds simple, if seductive, compared to my old voice. But I know Rob Townsend, the man I ousted from Delphi , never put Alison's voice to proper use. He wrote as a man, in a man's style, for a man's voice. Alison was just a mouthpiece for his banal postmodern ideas. Alison always had higher aspirations than that. She was classical and romantic. She had wanted to sing songs with passion and fragility - songs that meant something. And since she normally played with orchestras, she wanted hard, fast, wailing music to voice the anger she felt. You can't exactly do that playing drowned-out piano in a huge ensemble.

Rob never understood that. He was mechanical and emotionally cool, a product of the electronica and techno revolution. Music was architecture to him. It drained the life out of the music and the band, and Alison hated it.

Well, this album would be different.

I'm startled by how much Alison has become part of me. I find myself caring about this album and the effect it has on people, whereas before I was content to bludgeon the audience into submission with sweetness and thunder. But it's no longer enough. In fact, the idea seems monstrous now. I want to touch people, caress them, love them, make them feel for themselves what I want to show them. I want to earn their love and their faith instead of ripping it from them.

I still want a war, of course. But now I realize the intricacy of Lucifer's ideals. I want a war for humanity's benefit, not our own. If God is content to ignore them, then I want to help them rebuild the world into something better. If God tries to stop us, well, I'm more than happy to fight Her again, for their sake.

I just hope I'm doing the right thing.

I'm starting to feel human, and I'm no longer so sure of myself as a result.

5

It's the end of the week, and I'm standing outside of Liam's place.

It's a former office building which has been converted into multiple levels of loft-style apartments. The outside is a grim, 1940's red brick façade that reminds me of Alison's old high school, and it would look quite gothic given a few gargoyles. It's hidden behind a hedge of pecan trees grown along the front of the property, which block out the dreary, run-down neighborhood around it. The unusually warm weather has faded, returning us to the February chill, which seems fitting for this place.

I regret not coming here sooner. I lost myself in working on the new album and making assurances to Sony, the monolithic record company Alison hated as much as she depended upon it to get the band's music out. I took too long, I allowed myself to be distracted. But I can't really blame myself for taking time out, to let the events of the past few weeks sink in.

At once I feel not only more human but more confused over my place in the world. I am Rociel with Daniel, Miguel and Sophia, the old fire and strength flooding into me as work got underway. The band was awestruck by my ideas, and I easily overrode any doubts about our success. Dealing with the men from Sony, I felt supremely confident. Inspiration and seduction were always my finest strengths, and they serve me well even now. Who could resist me? Deals were cut and Delphi was hashing out music for the songs I'd written.

My voice is the new weapon of War.

But the dull ache in my breast hasn't gone away, and I'm not sure what it means. I know I needed to see Liam again, for one, but as the week flew by I found it harder and harder to pull myself out of Rociel's sphere. We parted too suddenly before, Liam and I, and I've never liked leaving things undone. It wasn't Rociel's way - he always spoke his mind clearly, even when it was unwelcome - and it surely isn't mine.

If anything, my feelings for Liam have grown stronger while I've been away, studying this modern world and the lives of mortals. I've felt pain at what I've seen, and compassion. I want to nurture something bright and beautiful for once, rather than lash out at Her for the sins committed against us. But I still feel the old violent bitterness that so characterized my former existence. I channel those feelings into the music, shocking the band with Alison's newfound ferocity.

As much as I may deny it, my identity has come unhinged. Could this be what She intended all along? Did She allow us to escape, knowing the experience of being human would irrevocably change us? If so, She should've realized it would only strengthen our resolve, even as it diminished our power. Seeing the world today, I still fucking hate Her and what She did to us as much as I always have.

It's been difficult holding myself together in the face of these revelations. This frightens the Hell out of me, and fear is something I'm not used to. I was always absolutely certain of my convictions before, even when they tore me apart. Now I'm afraid I may succumb to the madness which once engulfed me. The conflict, grappling with immutable opposites, is exactly the same.

I am not.

I fell to the floor of my bedroom last night, sobbing hysterically over my stark confusion and loss of self, and I knew I had to see Liam then. Not later. Now.

But I don't know what the Hell I want.

Part of me is screaming that I'm not human, nor am I Alison Drake, nor am I anything as simple and sweet as the young woman I feel like I'm becoming. The love of a human man, or even a Faerie, is not meant for me. I am Rociel, a demon, and I well remember the torment I caused by stealing love from mortals during the War. I loathed myself for my thoughtless betrayal of Lucifer, all for the sake of pleasure and my crumbling sanity. Am I now falling into the same trap?

Who will suffer for my love? My cause?

Sighing, I run a hand through my raven hair and head for the front door.

Suddenly, though, something feels very wrong.

"Rociel."

The voice is unfamiliar. Throaty, feminine and slightly amused. Almost a purr. But the timber and inflection are slightly off. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a strange figure standing on the cracked sidewalk, smiling at me from under a crooked black fedora.

It takes me a minute to realize it's a male. He can't be more than fourteen years old, and he's made an obvious attempt to conceal his gender. There's a red feather in the silk band of his hat, and a black feather boa coiled around his narrow shoulders. A long Chinese dress, also black and slit from mid thigh down, clings to his thin body, baring fishnet stockings held up by lace garters. The coattails of his long black coat sway about his legs as he approaches, turning his head this way and that with a grin, inspecting me. His green eyes reveal unmitigated lust and contempt at the same time.

This boy is unnaturally beautiful. His face looks sculpted, feminine and delicate. Too perfect to be believed. His eyebrows are thinly plucked, and he wears black makeup on his eyes and lips, so stark against his too-white skin. A shock of red hair, spilling out from under his hat, falls across one cheek, as if trying to conceal this preternatural beauty. If it weren't for the lines of his body, he would be a perfect facsimile of feminine prettiness. As it is, I doubt anyone would realize he wasn't actually female.

He's one of us.

"I knew it was you," he grins, very pleased with himself, "A little known female artist suddenly calls herself Rociel, with promises of a glorious new album that will storm the charts? My lovely, you haven't changed a bit. Still so full of your own vanity and reckless courage. You so often topped the best of us, and God made us His Defilers! Tell me, are your foolish ideals intact as well?"

He paused, straightening slightly with a smile. "God, I've missed you."

I suspect he's gone a bit mad.

"Alexiel?" I ask cautiously, studying him.

"NO!" she screams in an adolescent male voice, her face flushing red with fury, and all pretense of girlishness goes out of her for a moment, "NOT ALEXIEL! NOT ANYMORE!"

I take a step back, prepared for an attack.

"Mad Hatter," she whispers, using her female voice again. She smiles. "Just Mad Hatter. Never use my Celestial name again, Rociel, if you want to keep that pretty face of yours."

"What's become of you?" I ask quietly, "Why do you reject your name?"

My gentleness seems to startle her.

Her eyes seem to clear for the first time, but there is still madness bubbling up inside of her, like fires glowing on the horizon.

"Rociel," she whispers, shaking her head jerkily, "I was not meant for this. How do you stand it? How can you stand there and be so FUCKING calm?"

"Tell me," I say softly, "What's happened to you? Was it the Pit?"

Alexiel cringes and covers her face with one hand. She's kept them in her pockets until now, and I see she's wearing tight leather gloves. Catching her breath, she looks at me from between two fingers. Her voice is muffled by her palm. "No, no, not the Pit. God did that to us. I endured by hating Him. What else was I supposed to do?" She laughs nervously, her voice rising in pitch. "I waited and waited. When the Gates broke and everyone ran, I bolted after you. I tried to follow you, Rociel, but I got lost. You were flying away, higher and higher. I felt like I was sinking. And then, somehow, I was here."

She changes gears again.

"I was beautiful once, Rociel. Remember? Even you admired my beauty."

I don't remember this, but there are so many things I sense are missing from my tangled memory. So I merely nod and smile gently. My caution is fading, and now I just feel pity for Alexiel. This is clearly not the angel I once knew.

"I wasn't myself, Rociel," she continues in a trembling murmur, "I was...well, not this. I've changed this. I had to. I couldn't bear it after..."

Alexiel shudders and whips around, unable to look at me.

Stepping carefully, I walk up to her and lay my slender hands on her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. This is Alison taking over from me. It's calming. It feels good to be able to reach out and touch someone with gentleness. "Tell me."

"I was being abused," she whispers, "By my father. How fitting, don't you think?"

I say nothing. My heart feels heavy.

Alexiel shivers. She sounds like a little girl. "He was raping me. ME. Or Erik. Or both of us, I don't know anymore. I was powerless. Everything was out of control, it hurt, and I didn't understand what was happening..." She covers her face with both hands this time, whining faintly in the back of her throat. "It wasn't supposed to be this way. I used to be better than this. I used to do this to people, but at least I made them enjoy it. I...I felt...ruined. Do you understand me, Rociel? Just...ruined. So I killed the fucker. Hacked him to pieces with a knife I found in the kitchen. And I ran. And ran, and ran, and ran, and ran...."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"I changed myself," Alexiel says in a ragged breath, "Only half. Only halfway. I felt...Not me. I couldn't stand to look at myself. But I'm not me anymore, Rociel. I couldn't make myself the way I was. How can I? I'm fucked. We're all fucked. So I made myself this. Kind of like me, but not. Kind of like Erik, but not. Couldn't be Erik anymore either, after all. They execute kids in this state for what I did. Maybe it would've been better that way. I found people to take care of me. Thralls. Make them beautiful, threaten to make them ugly, they take care of you. No one wants to be ugly like me."

"You're not ugly," I tell her.

She laughs. It's manic, jittery laughter.

"Pinem'e came to see me," she says breathlessly, "Looking to rebuild the armies, I guess. Shit. Fuck that. Fuck lot of good that'd do here anyway, considering how FUCKED all these stupid humans are. She said I was useless. Or worthless. I can't remember which. They're both the same anyway. She laughed at me and said I was worthless, and she left. I'm not even any good for fighting, Rociel. I can't even fuck properly, and thank God for that."

More laughter, this time breaking into sobs.

Clasping Alexiel by the shoulders, I gingerly turn her around. Her mascara is running down her pretty cheeks in horrid splotches. She squeezes her eyes shut rather than look at me. Not knowing what else to do, and listening only to Alison's instincts, I pull the trembling boy-girl into my arms for a gentle hug. The stench of perfume covers her. Her coat is dirty, though, as are her clothes. Where has she been living?

Alexiel latches on immediately, clawing into my sides.

Her hat falls to the ground.

"Rociel," she whimpers, "You're still you. Why can't I be like that?"

I feel vaguely nauseous and unsure of what to do. The angel I remember was strong and clever, brimming with endless confidence. Manipulative, yes. Even callous, especially when Cain turned the War. But she was beautiful and, in her own twisted way, she wanted to do good like the rest of us. Now she's just a child. A panicky, demented child.

I definitely feel more sane in comparison, though.

I hear the door open behind us, and I glance over my shoulder.

It's Liam. He frowns in bemusement, hands in pockets. "Rociel. Do you need a hand?"

Sighing, I nod. "Yes. She's...a friend."

"Bring her inside then," Liam replies without hesitation.

He smiles wryly. "And good morning to you, love."

* * *

Alexiel sits talking to Liam by one of the long windows that dominate the west wall of his loft. She hasn't spoken to me since we came inside, but Liam seems to have a calming influence on her. Hell, Liam has a calming influence on everyone. She looks small sitting there, her legs tucked against her body, sipping the hot chocolate he made her. Fragile. We convinced her to shed her bulky coat, but she would give up nothing else - not even the gloves - so horrified is she of Erik's violated mortal body, even with all her modifications. Sitting on Liam's overlarge and comfortable bed, watching the two of them whisper secrets, my sense of inner dislocation kicks in hard.

What do the others see when they look at me? Somehow I'm still recognizably Rociel, just as I've been able to recognize Pinem'e and Alexiel despite their change in appearance and personality. But I don't feel like Rociel. Anymore than Alexiel feels like herself.

My heart goes out to her. It's a painful feeling. I never knew what it meant to care this deeply for anyone until I became Alison, and even then, not until I found myself drawn to Liam.

And now Alexiel lay in ruins. A very apt description on her part.

Sighing, I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes against a surge of anger. Erik, the boy with whom Alexiel had merged, was Nephilim. I could feel the feather soft touch of us upon him, even after she resculpted his flesh into the sexless creature she was now. Alison was the same. Pinem'e's undying host probably had been, too, once. We were drawn to these mortals, the descendants of our maddened, half-breed children. Neither Alexiel or I had any control over who we joined with, and yet here we were, following the same pattern. Were all of us condemned to share the sin I and the other traitors committed?

More to the point, had God - absent though She seemed - planned it this way? Was it She who ultimately determined which mortals we would merge with? That would make Alexiel's suffering yet another extension of our endless punishment.

Growling under my breath, I seethe at the thought. I wouldn't be surprised if it were true.

"What the Hell do you hope to gain?" I demand of Her under my breath, "Or is there no fucking reason to any of this? You never cared. You never loved. Why program us to love you when you would only treat us as slaves?"

No answer. I don't rate an audience, apparently.

Sighing, I cross my arms over my eyes.

After a while, I feel the bed shift as a weight rests on the edge. Sliding my arms aside, I see Liam beside me, and his eyes trail upwards over my body as he meets my gaze. At least he's smiling faintly, which is something I can't manage after dealing with Alexiel. I take it as a good sign, on several levels.

"How is she?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

"She's in shock," says Liam, scratching his cheek thoughtfully, "And I think she may be seriously disturbed because of what happened to her. Other than that, I can't say. I can only make out about every other sentence from her, though she's more coherent now. Maybe you'd have better luck with her."

Liam pauses and brushes hair out of his eyes. "What do you know about her?"

"Her name is Alexiel," I offer softly, mimicking him by smoothing out my own hair, which is sticking out every which way from laying on it. Rather like a crow's feathers, actually. "Though she won't let you call her that."

"She keeps calling herself Mad Hatter."

"Yes," I frown, at a loss. "She must have picked it up from her host somehow and latched onto it."

"She's one of us, obviously," I continue in a low voice, sitting up to join him in watching her, "Though she's of a different House than I was. Before the War, she was called a Neireid, an elemental of the waters. Creatures of beauty and perfection. Of all of us, they were kept the farthest apart from humanity, and the separation was painful. When the War started, many of them joined for no other reason than to be close to mortals."

I nod to Alexiel, who is mopping up the last of the hot chocolate with her gloved hand. Her green eyes flash as she looks up at us, sucking on one brown finger. "Alexiel was a friend of mine during the War, almost like a sister, and we became very close. Inasmuch as angels understand closeness anyway. We had similar obsessions. My vanity and my craving for adoration led me toward the same desires as the Neireids, who God renamed Defilers after our Fall. Amongst my House, the Devils, my desires were seen as a failing, a fatal weakness from which I never recovered. Alexiel and the other Defilers considered them a virtue. So I fell into their ranks for a time, rather than fight for Lucifer's cause."

"During the War, we used humans for our own pleasures," I admit to Liam, turning to look at him with a pained expression across my face, "The Defilers were creatures of beauty, but as one of the Heralds, and a kind of middle-manager in Heaven, I had great talent with inspiration. And, as it turns out, seduction. We had a host of mortal subjects whom we treated well and fawned over, but I realize now we treated them like pets more than anything. The Defilers sculpted many of them, making them ever more beautiful and more perfect until they were no longer recognizably human. I would inspire love and desire in them, often large groups at a time, and we'd use them for sex or simple pleasures. I made them enjoy it. I made them feel good about being used. All so I - not even we as a group, just myself - could feel what it was like to make love or soak in warm water, the way humans do."

"Why did you do it?" Liam asks, his voice neutral.

I shake my head slowly, my thoughts drifting off into the labyrinthine memories of the past. "I was maddened. My mind was going to pieces. God programmed us to love Her and to love humanity equally, but she wouldn't allow us to love either, or even each other. We were forbidden from making ourselves known to mortals, and God was always indifferent to us. Lucifer and the others revealed our existence to humans out of love and a desire to guide them, to release their full potential, and God cast us from Her sight for it. Mankind was tainted by our betrayal, She said, and the knowledge we gave them. So they joined us in damnation."

"We were broken," I laugh softly, "Our programming no longer worked but it still controlled us. I couldn't love God, as I always had before, and She no longer loved me. I was a perversity in Her eyes. Humanity was all I had left. I tried to replace God's love with that of mortals. I cared for them with every fiber of my being. I tried to protect and help them in any way that I could, show them the possibilities that were open to them, just as Lucifer showed us."

"But I had always been insatiably curious before the Fall, and vanity was the flaw built into me." I smile sadly. "We weren't perfect, you know. We were powerful and we thought we knew everything, but we were wrong. God sent the Host of Heaven to destroy us for our rebellion, for continuing to pervert mortals. Humans faithful to Her joined the War as well. As time went on, the War grew more and more bloody. Humans fought alongside us. Some of us used them as cannon fodder, others as a source of power. Mostly mortals killed each other while we fought angels on our own terms. It was worse than any war since. It was scorched earth warfare on an enormous scale."

Closing my eyes, I rub my temples and try to find the words to explain further. I realize I'm trying to justify to him the horrors I committed so long ago, and this makes me feel slightly ill. I'm not proud of what I did, even though I believe the cause was righteous. "The horror of the War, especially seeing humans kill each other without even knowing why, drove me insane. This wasn't what I wanted. I only desired love, not this endless cycle of death and destruction. At first I was incensed. I killed droves of 'enemy' humans and numerous angels out of sheer frustration. When I realized what I was becoming, I knew I didn't deserve love. But that didn't stop me from wanting it. It was my nature."

"So I withdrew from the War to the cities we had built for our faithful. I retreated to the Defilers for an orgy of sex, beauty and emotion. But it wasn't what I wanted either. Humans adored me, but they didn't love me. They didn't even really understand what I was. And the thought of 'going down' to their level never occurred to me. I was Rociel, not a human being. It was unthinkable for me to try and be anything else. So I threw myself into it, trying to find love amidst my self-loathing and horror. I lost all sense of myself and what I was doing. I was an addict. I knew I needed something, but I couldn't find it."

"And I was still killing," I whisper, "I wore out human slaves for my pleasure and forcing them to ever higher levels of ecstasy and emotion. By the time we were defeated and cast into Hell, I'd left hundreds of shattered human minds and bodies in my wake, and I still didn't understand what I'd done wrong. That is why I am a demon, Liam."

There is a long pause. Neither of us move or speak.

Finally, I'm able to breathe: "But I've learned to understand."

The sick feeling suffuses my body now as the past floods my mind with images and long-forgotten sensations. It almost feels real to me again, sitting here. How long has it been since I faced my past, let alone exposed myself this way to someone else? Scratch that. I never have. I've always run away from my sins, trying to cover them up with more pleasure or more idealism. I'm not only deservedly damned, I'm also pathetic.

Strangely, my true nature seems far away now. Despite how sick at heart I feel, there is no stirring or threat of manifestation. If anything, confessing the truth seems to have weakened me, like an old poison spreading through my system once again.

"And what do you want now?" Liam asks quietly.

I think about this for a long time.

"Redemption," I whisper, "Not in Heaven's eyes. I could never change Her mind. None of us could. But I want to earn forgiveness for the unforgivable, from humanity. I believe we did the right thing by defying Heaven. I still believe in Lucifer's cause, and I mean to carry it out. But I betrayed him and I betrayed mankind. I don't know if that can be atoned for, but that's my one wish."

"Can I have some more hot chocolate?" a tiny voice asks.

Liam blinks, I wrench myself out of my misery. We both look up to see Alexiel standing by the bed, holding the big red mug Liam gave her earlier. With her runny makeup, it almost looks like she's wearing a harlequin's mask. But she's changed further while we were talking. The thin, straight lines of her body remain, but she looks very much like a pubescent girl instead of a pretty boy in drag. Small breasts swell against the front of her dress, and her face has rounded a little more. Her hat is jauntily cocked to one side, like Sam Spade. The Defilers' bodies - and to some extent their personalities - were always like quicksilver, and I wonder if she is reacting to my appearance or unconsciously slipping further into her own angelic self.

"Yes, of course you can," Liam smiles, leading her away toward the kitchen area.

I dwell on my past while he pours her another cup, running my long fingers into my hair in an effort to collect myself. Part of me never intended to tell Liam the whole truth about my existence, fearing he would turn me away once he realized the kind of monster - I'm sorry, demon - I am. Hell, admitting the truth to myself is agonizing.

Soon Liam returns, smiling slightly.

"So how much of her sweetness is real and how much isn't?" he asks me.

I shrug, sighing. "I don't know. She's dangerous, I can tell you that."

"Well, that's obvious," Liam comments, sitting next to me, "She's got the eyes of a Ted Bundy or Charles Manson."

"I'll take care for her, Liam," I murmur ruefully, "Don't worry about it."

"I'll help you, if I can."

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "You don't have to do that. Fuck, you don't even have to see me again, if you don't want to."

Smiling gently, Liam touches my cheek with his warm, rough hand, turning my face to look at him. He scans my features for a moment. His eyes, blue like the sky, are surprisingly soft. I've no idea what I could have done to deserve such compassion, but he leans in and kisses me all the same.

God, but he tastes good.

It's a complex flavor, not really sweet but somehow it seems that way to my mind. It lights up my senses and stokes the ache in my breast. I don't remember anything so simple being this pleasurable, this satisfying.

Then I realize I'm overanalyzing. I stop, grinning as we part ever so slightly, and return the kiss. The delicate touch of skin against skin.

"Let's get one thing straight, Rociel," Liam murmurs as we break apart, pressing his forehead to mine, "I'm no saint. Neither is Eben for that matter. And you are not the same person that you once were. You've said so yourself. Being with Alison has changed you more than I think you realize. A long time ago, when there were cities of gold and dragons of silver, people might have been innocent. I remember such times well. I'm sure you do, too. It's what you called Eden , remember? But in today's world, no one is fully innocent. We are all looking for some kind of salvation, in one form or another. You are no different from anyone else."

"You believe in redemption," he whispers firmly, squeezing my shoulder, "And I'll not turn away someone who wants to help herself and others. You're a beautiful and fascinating woman, Rociel, and I have dreamt of better things for both of us. I live on dreams. I won't abandon them. You are an angel. I can't say I ever believed in them before, but that's not important now. Call yourself demon or Devil but the truth is the same, if you want it to be."

I'm taken aback both by his conviction and his sincerity. Is he really talking about me?

I don't know what to say.

"Say 'thank you'," a sleepy, sing-song voice calls from across the room, "Thank you, dah-ling. Thanks for the memories...Thanks for the sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. So long and thanks for all the fish. Won't you be my neighbor? You do love him, Rociel. I know you do. Stop whining and just SAY IT for fuck's sake."

Liam smirks but doesn't stop looking at me.

I glance past him. Alexiel is curled up in a ball on top of Liam's circular table by the window, using her tattered, dirty coat as a blanket. She's facing away from us, and at this distance she shouldn't have been able to hear us, but I won't put anything past her.

"Why are you doing this for me, Liam?" I ask when I refocus.

"Because I see the fires of thousands of years of history in your eyes, Rociel, the same as mine. That's a lot of time to make mistakes and plenty of time to make up for them. There's something I learned in Japan , in another lifetime, from my Zen master. 'The world is vast and wide,' he said to me, 'Why put on your robe at the sound of a bell?'"

"What does that mean?" I ask, brow furrowed.

"I've no idea," Liam grins, "I was a very bad student. But he didn't mind."

I can't help but laugh.

"You are a strange man," I tell him.

"And you're a strange woman," he returns mildly.

Smiling weakly, I caress his face. The little bristles on his cheek and chin feel good to my soft, delicate skin. He closes his eyes as I explore him, taking another look at this man, this Eshu, who has somehow managed to become so important to me. My other hand comes up, cupping his face. Moving forward, I brush my full lip over his cheek, brushing him with my skin, and bury my face against his shoulder in a hug. His hands come up, stroking my lower back in long, thoughtful movements.

"So is it true?" he asks me, his voice tinged with humor.

"Is what true?" I'm already losing myself in his warmth, his reality.

"Do you love me?"

A laugh comes out of me, as soft as a feather. "I don't know. I'm confused by all these feelings. But I want to, Liam."

We are silent. Our breathing dominates my awareness. I can hear Liam's heartbeat very close to my own, and this produces both arousal and a sense of security on my part. They are dizzying reminders of my humanity. I'm so accustomed to being Rociel that at times I unconsciously block out the physical sensations of being a human woman, pretending to be what I was. But not with Liam. I can't deny what I am with him.

"Liam," I breathe.

"Yes, my lady?"

I can't resist a smile.

"Do you think I have a soul?"

"Yes, I do," Liam replies with certainty, "I've seen it in your eyes."

For a moment, I'm numb, wondering how true this statement could be. But Liam was right earlier. Alison has been changing me, to the point I can't easily say where she ends and where I begin any longer. We're somewhere in between. Part of me shrinks away from the idea, horrified at the thought of losing my true self. The rest of me is soothed as if by a cool balm, the confusion of love, desire and apprehension I feel for Liam taking hold. Isn't this what I always wanted? To be loved? To be one of them?

Do I want this, now that it's in my grasp?

Shuddering, I begin to cry quietly into Liam's shoulder.