Fire Prophet (Son of Angels) by Jerel Law Page B

times. They adjusted their perfect hair. No one spoke. Their usual bickering and blaming was gone. They only waited.
    A door swung open at the end of the room, and everyone turned at once.
    A few sighs of relief could be heard. An African American man dressed in dingy coveralls pushed a trash can on wheels into the room. His back was bent, and he stared at the floor as he walked in, acting as if he were unaware of the presence of the others.
    “I believe you’re in the wrong room,” one man said with a coldstare, ready to usher this unfortunate man on. Or maybe torment him while they bided their time.
    But the janitor simply chuckled. And then they knew.
    A collective gasp, and then a woman hit the floor on her knees.
    “Master,” she said, bowing low.
    The others quickly followed her lead, not daring to let their eyes meet the face of the janitor.
    “I . . . I didn’t . . . ,” the one who had tried to expel him a few seconds ago trembled.
    A hand landed on his shoulder. “Get up,” the janitor said. “All of you, get up.”
    The janitor plopped down in a tall leather chair at the end of the table and threw his feet up on the dark wood. He smoothed out his coveralls, which had a name tag that said “Dante.” He folded his hands behind his short-cropped, wiry hair and then motioned to the empty chairs without a word. The rest quickly found a place to sit.
    He ran his hands over his head again, and his hair suddenly became stringy and long, covering half of his face. His eyes turned slowly from dark brown to the color of blood.
    “You all look so beautiful today,” he said, his eyes falling slowly on each of them. They had to do everything in their power not to shield themselves from his awful gaze. “But I’d rather see you as you really are.”
    He waved his arm across the room. Instantly they each began to transform. Crusty, gnarled faces emerged, replacing their chiseled features. Crumpled wings sprouted out of their backs.
    “There. That’s more like it,” Abaddon said with a smile. “Your true, ugly, hopeless selves.”
    He leveled his gaze at them again, turning slowly to look at each one, each of the Fallen who had failed him.
    In a strangely calm voice, he spoke. “I gave you a simple task to complete. All I asked was that you destroy the nephilim and their families. How hard could it be?” He chuckled again, allowing the tension to hang in the air. “And you are supposed to be my leaders . . .”
    They were wilting under his terrible stare. His quiet fury was worse than any tongue-lashing he could have given them. He wasn’t simply angry—he was anger. And it was invisibly pouring out from him, now in its full measure.
    Suddenly, as he looked at the fallen angel closest to him, she screamed out in agony and disintegrated into a pile of dust. Slowly, methodically, he turned toward each of them, and each felt the invisible blade slice through them. Soon, they were only piles of black dust on the plush leather chairs.
    He rose and watched the tall buildings from the window for a while, his hands behind his back. His eyes veered upward toward the clouds. He glared at something unseen, but said nothing, turning his attention back to the question at hand.
    “How will I get rid of the nephilim and their children?”
    Yesterday it had been a question of strategy. Of their potential importance to the other side, of how they could be used to stand against Abaddon and his forces. And he had decided he couldn’t allow them to live any longer.
    Today, though, there was more. Abaddon had been thwarted. Again. His rage did not dissipate in his punishment of the Fallen. It only grew.
    “I know a way, Master . . .”
    He didn’t turn toward the voice, already knowing who was there.
    A young man had entered the room. He wore a black jacket, silk shirt, and jeans with a few holes carefully placed by a pricey designer. His silver-tipped black boots echoed throughout the room as he walked across the wooden