the Angel of Death

There are moments... Moments that in a split second your life changes forever, and before you know it... you're somewhere else.

-Dereke Shepherd

Suriel was leaning over the iron railings of the balcony, observing the world beneath her. People rushed and hustled in preparation for the festival of the oncoming spring. In France, the blooming of lavender fields was to be celebrated. The event attracted tourists from around the world; all wanting to experience the scent of freshly blooming lavender.

Locals were preparing carts with arrays of food and drink for others to quench their hunger and thirst. Florists, amongst all, would make the most profit, of course- selling little bouquets of lavender mixed with other flowers of your choosing. Of this, Suriel would know. She usually chose white roses with her bouquets.

She came to the festival every year. The blooming was always so beautiful; so enchanting. This year, however, was another story. She listened carefully, honing in on the voices of the bustling humans, searching for his tone; his laugh, maybe. Her eyes searched for him; her nose hoping to find his scent: orange peel and Eastern-spice- his deadly cocktail for snaring women.

Her wings beneath her skin vibrated with adrenalin; muscles clenching with excitement of a promising kill. To kill was her gift, her craft; her job.

To have killing as a calling was difficult. As the Benevolent Angel of Death, she was charged side-by-side with Azrael, the true Death Angel. His categories were more gruesome than hers, of course. Hers was easy: a simple, clean stab of her weapon into the heart, the brain, any place that would appear to be the cause of a natural death. Heart attacks, aneurisms, strokes, death by age- all of which was her doing. But none went past Azrael. He knew of every killing done by her hand. As did she know of his.

This particular case he wanted. But this was to be a natural cause. More like karma seeking revenge for all the wrong doings.

In the last few months, killings have been exceptionally high in Provence. Women were disappearing, naked bodies were being found in deserted areas after their bodies have been dragged through water- obvious serial killings. But humans didn't think like that all the time. Most thought suicide of a prostitute; others just thought of them as unlucky girls falling into the ravine and having their throats torn and their bodies lacerated by the unforgiving rapids. Humans...

The killer, however, was like a shadow; an artist of putting on masks to hide his devious deeds. And a real artist. He specialized in painting the most breathtaking pieces: landscapes, animals... His favorite division, out of all the beauty that he could portray in paint, was portraits. Nude portraits of women. All shapes, all sizes. It didn't matter if they were blonde or red heads, had crooked teeth or maybe a broken nose. He loved them all. But he had his kryptonite. Each one of those unfortunate girls shared one fine detail: beautiful and mysterious eyes.

His tactics were simple enough to figure out: seduce, paint, sleep with his muses and then kill them. His final act was using the blood that came from shallow gashes in their throats to sign the final piece. Gruesome, yet beautiful, art. The perfect counteractions.

The laugh echoed through the cobbled streets. A sweet, piercing voice bubbling out of an evenly matched vessel for his contorted and split soul. Nickolas Franco Ravendale- a rare talent amongst ordinaries. Da Vinci would have been proud.

He rounded a corner on her left. His beauty was always a sight to behold for Suriel. Brownish-black hair that fell in perfect wavy spikes; enigmatic eyes that could pierce through diamond if he tried hard enough; a body that rippled with hidden muscle every time he would move.