Under different circumstances, Coffin Maker would have been a fixation of mine. His dirtied white suit, twin revolvers, and cowboy hat were something straight out of a game Tristan and I had played once. Blood Mine, an RPG, brought attention to a period of human history that most angels were ignorant about. In a time where humanity was on its own, a modern era emerged that surprised demons and even angels. 

The Overlands had long believed that in the absence of angels, humans would descend into a dark age. It had been the truth countless times before. When it was discovered that humanity began to thrive, the midlands became a subject of curiosity for youths like myself. While older angels avoided interaction with men and women from earth, I, on the other hand, represented the younger generation’s struggle to resist. Even if I was the first to find myself cast out for indulging in my curiosity, I knew there were others who would commit similar crimes. Whether they would be foolish enough to be found was a question that I hadn’t any hope of answering. 

In any case, if Blood Mine was an accurate representation of the period Coffin Maker wore, I had a hundred questions to ask. Regrettably, I had to push aside my invasive thoughts to work with him and Hamilton. The age-defying cowboy had tracked Lilly to a house on the outer rim of the city. In the heart of night, we stood gazing upon the fortresses of a home before us.

“She’s in there,” the cowboy said. 

“You’re sure?” I questioned, while I watched in confusion as he loaded his revolvers.

“She’s sleeping in a bed upstairs. The room is pink, with toys all around. She’s comfortable.”

Before I could say a word to Hamilton, Coffin Maker tossed him a rusted blade. The two approached the gated house with weapons drawn.

“What are you doing?!” I spoke quickly. 

“Do you know whose house this is?” Hamilton answered my question with another, but when I couldn’t say the name, he added, “Tolito won’t let us walk in and make demands.”

“Can’t we talk things out?” I suggested, but Coffin Maker remarked, “The bookbinder is right. Only way we’re getting anything out of that house is if we take it.”

His pistols were magic weapons like his blade, but as he held them at the ready, I couldn’t say what kind of enchantment they possessed.

There was nothing I could say to talk them down, so I swallowed my agitation. Still, I reminded them, “I don’t have a weapon.”

The cowboy only grinned at me before using his guns to shoot the gate.

His bullets were hexed to swirl like miniature tornadoes. If the bullets themselves weren't enough, the wind that followed them would cut through anything standing too close to his target. Two bullets were all it took to blow the gate open and sent the heavy doors flying.

Immediately, guards with automatic weapons came from the three-story house. 

“That’s fine. You’re an angel, after all. We need you for something else,” the cowboy said before taking me by the shoulder and pushing me forward.

Bullets sprinted at us, and I took the hell of it so Coffin Maker could proceed up the property, picking off body after body with childish demeanor. His tornado shots disrupted any coordination that the men of the house had. The continuous rounds uprooted trees and left craters on the long driveway we traversed.

Hamilton followed behind us, using the landscaping as cover to strike down anyone the pistols might have missed. His movements were skidish, obviously full of fear, and yet he pushed beyond his trembling hands enough to fight with vigor. The bipolar nature of it was astonishing. In one breath, he stabbed men’s throats, but in the next, he was troubled not to vomit. 

However, no matter how impressive the scene was, I couldn’t appreciate it, not while I was forced to act as a shield.

When the two invaders finally made it into the house, I was left behind. They left me just outside the front door, bleeding out on the porch steps.

There were too many holes in my flesh. Had I been human, I would have already been dead. 

I was torn between annoyance and gratitude when they chose to leave me so casually. They left me there to proceed with their search as if I were an instrument that had played its last tune. And though I had already begun to heal, the process was nothing short of agony. Heart, lungs, spine, eye. The sound of gunfire and furniture being flung through walls drowned out the echoes of my health straining to recover. 

I passed out in the middle of the raid. 

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Trisal?”

“Arron.”

My eyes parted slowly, and to my surprise, there was daylight breaching through the morning clouds. A familiar silhouette stood over me, blocking any light that would have fallen upon my body directly. I must have been unconscious for hours.

“They used me… as a shield,” I mumbled incoherently. 

My vocal cords were severely damaged, resulting in an unfavorable flavor of voice.

“It doesn’t look like they hit you with magic weapons. You’ll heal,” Trisal said, but rather than peeling my blood-soaked body off the front porch, he stood over me with hands in his pockets.

“Help me,” I begged.

“You wanted to help Hamilton. Do you know where he is now?”

“Trisal?”

“This is what happens when you make friends with Tarlac’s students. They pull you into their shit.”

“Are you going to leave me here?”

“Your bones aren’t broken. Probably lost a lot of blood, but I don’t see why you can’t stand on your own.”

“Trisal,” I begged again, but he only laughed.

After gloating for some time longer, Trisal healed my wounds. By then my injuries were minor but my muscles were tender, so he had to lift me. 

“How did you know where I'd be?” 

“I marked your clothes. When one of those marks broke, I knew you were in danger. I guess you could have burned your clothes for some reason, but be happy that I got board without you,” He explained.

I thought we would return home. Thought we would leave quickly, but my demon escorted me into the house instead.

“This is nice. You don't see this many antiques built into a home just anywhere. It’s too bad most of this shit won’t be worth anything anymore,” he remarked, despite the glass on the floor and bullet holes in the walls. 

The entire house was adorned with entrails, leading us from one floor to another in every room. Remnants of beauty were hidden behind chaos, but I could see there was wealth in every accented wall, mirrored halls, and stone works.

“We should go,” I suggested as Trisal forced my feet to climb step after step.

The deeper we proceeded, the worse my balance became. I couldn’t determine if it was because of my weakness or the revolting view of dead bodies that we made an effort to avoid stepping on. 

“Not yet. Unless you want to leave your friends here?” He warned as we entered a bedroom.

Was it the only space in the house that hadn’t been touched by death? Coffin Maker was standing with a bleeding shoulder to a pink wall. At his feet, Hamilton lay unconscious and fading. However, the librarian’s condition couldn’t hold my attention when I noticed his sister standing at a window. Her face remained unseen as she didn’t turn towards me, yet I had a strong feeling about who she was. 

Trisal left me to hold myself against the bedroom doorframe while he went to heal Hamilton. The air in the room was somber when the girl spoke, telling the four of us, “You shouldn’t have come.” And I believed her.