The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(17)

“I flew in.” He laughed in delight, kicking his feet and unraveling his swaddling clothes. “You saw me.”

Maweth laughed with him, until he realized the comment hadn’t been a joke. Lucky really was a dim one.

The angel bounced up onto his dimpled feet. Gathering his wrappings, he tried to tie them more securely around his torso.

“I mean,” Maweth enunciated slowly, “why are you here at the Institute?”

Lucky looked up. “The Institute? What Institute?”

Oh, brother. Conversing with this angel was like swimming upstream. Through rapids. With weights tied to both legs.

“The building we’re in,” he explained. “It belongs to the Prague Institute for the Study of Man. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in Prague? Is that very far from Paris?”

“It’s not exactly in the neighborhood.”

“I got lost,” Lucky said. “Crashed into a goose or something and got all turned around.” He swiveled his head, peering over one shoulder at his wings. “I think I’ve lost a few feathers.”

And a few brain cells. “You shouldn’t have come in here, you know. The Institute’s no place for an angel.”

“But the front gate was so pretty. And it was open. I just flew in.”

“You just...flew...in,” Maweth repeated, shaking his head. Into the lair of the nastiest, most powerful Nephil on the planet. “Hell on wheels. You need a keeper, you know that?”

“Why, that’s just what Raphael always says. Do you know Raphael?”

Maweth blinked. “You mean the archangel?”

“Yes. That’s him.”

Maweth knew of Raphael. Every metaphysical creature knew about the Steward of Heaven. But... “Know him? No.” He hesitated. “I’m not exactly on speaking terms with angels.”

“That can’t be true.” Lucky waved a pudgy hand in front of Maweth’s face. “Yoo-hoo! I’m an angel, and you’re talking to me.”

“So you are.” Maweth said, bemused. “And so I am.”

Lucky looked around. “Are you alone in here?”

“Not any longer.”

The angel fell flat on his back, laughing. “You’re so funny,” he said, popping back up again. “What’s your name?”

“Maweth.”

“Maweth? That’s a funny name. Except...” Lucky’s forehead wrinkled. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t that mean d—”

“Death.” It just figured the first spark of intelligence Lucky exhibited would go there. “Yes. Yes, it does. That’s exactly what it means.”

“But—you’re not dead. You’re alive.”

“Not really,” Maweth said. “I exist. That’s not exactly the same thing as being alive. I’m a demon, you see.”

The angel’s eyes went round, like two shiny blue marbles. “A demon? I know about demons. They consort with evil people and get them to commit even worse sins. They’re big, mean, and—” He brought his hands up to his forehead and wiggled his index fingers. “—they have horns. But—” The little angel lowered his hands and blinked. “You don’t have horns.”

“Yeah,” Maweth said. “I guess I’m different that way.”

“But—you just can’t be a demon. You’re nice!”

Maweth rolled his eyes. That old stereotype again. “What law says demons can’t be nice?”

“Um...celestial law?”

“A bunch of xenophobic bullshit, celestial law is.” Suddenly incensed, Maweth jumped to his feet. “I’m telling you, demons are as nice as the next guy. Or at least,” he amended, “we can be, when we want to.”

Lucky looked up at him a little uncertainly. “If you say so. But you do wear an awful lot of black.”

“It’s just a color.”

“Not a very friendly color.” His brow furrowed. “And your face looks kinda like a skull.”

“Not my fault,” Maweth said with a scowl. “I am what I am. Not everyone can be pretty like you.”

Lucky’s wings perked up. “You think I’m pretty?”

Give me strength. “Of course I think you’re pretty. Because you are pretty. By any objective standard ever conceived.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” His cheeks puffed out. “So, then. If you’re Death, does that mean you kill people?”

Oh for the love of— Maweth threw up his hands. “Why,” he complained loudly, “does everyone always assume that?”

“Um...because it’s logical? By any objective standard ever conceived?”

Maweth doubted the dimwitted cherub would recognize a logical construct if it flew up to his face and punched him in the nose. Lucky did, however, have an impish sense of humor. Maweth liked him all the better for that.

“No,” he said. “It’s not logical, because it’s not true. I don’t go around killing people. That’s a vicious human lie.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. The truth is just the opposite. The human race created me.”

Lucky’s eyes widened again. “They did? Why?”