As soon as we were more than ten feet from Glenn and Lane, Stacy squeezed my shoulder roughly and caught my eye.
"You're not allowed to die out there."
"I'm not going to." I laughed. "My old brothers know what I look like."
"They're going to send you out there in a nice uniform, and that's all you birds need to kill. They'll recognize you, maybe, but only once you're a corpse."
"Look, I speak my own language right? I'll tell them not to attack and they won't. Rest of my squad dies, but I live."
"And so they send you out again. And again. There's no going up from here- there's a good reason the common name for this unit is the 'death corps.'"
"Yes, but not me." I laughed again.
"Stop fucking laughing. You still owe me. And I'm not letting you go until your debt is repaid." He tapped his foot angrily. "Look, I may be able to pull some things around to get you emancipated of your crimes, but you're going to owe me another debt."
"And then another. And then another." I said mockingly. "This never ceases with you? There is no way to pay you off."
"You want to pay me off? Do your fucking job." He said. "And stop laughing so much. You acted cute in the courtroom, but you didn't act wise. You're going to die, Nichael."
"Not until someone kills me." I said. "And please, it's Michael now."
I hadn't thought about it before I said it, and the thought was at once both terrifying and just: I had left Heaven, and with it, my old name. I wasn't a good angel anymore. I was Michael Castellano. And as much as it hurt to even think of that name, it was who I was.
Or who I was going to be. I didn't know a thing about Michael Castellano except the fact that he was evidently a rebel, legally a demon, and enjoyed having sex.
"You've named yourself after your god?" Stacy laughed at that, but it was a brief respite from his irritation.
"I am my own god now."
"Shit, if that isn't a line from a B-grade drama, I don't know what is. You're going to die, you know, and the bastard that does it isn't going to bother learning your name."
"All my life, I've been alive. So, that's one trend that isn't about to change."
"Until you get a sword to your gut." Stacy was honestly pissed now, and I was beginning to feel less cool about it. Maybe this was his way of showing concern?
"Look, uh, I'll get out of it. Okay. I mean, this justice system is terrible to begin with, so I'm sure I can get Glenn to reconsider."
"She knows you're an angel. Everyone does. And rightfully, she'd like you dead. Officially, I'd like you dead too. You don't have allies in this city. There's not one person in your cult who wouldn't turn if the authorities asked them to- and believe me, that day is coming."
"My followers are loyal."
"Your followers are a fad. I gave them to you, and soon, we're going to have to redeem them for the long-term prize. But I will need you alive for that day."
"How does your military work?"
"Excuse me?"
"How do you send your squadrons? How often? How much respite are they given between being sent out?"
"The numbers vary, but these days it's usually at least ten. And well, if there's any survivors, they get to choose how long of a break they want. Up to a week. But you're a prisoner, not a soldier- you will be sent out as soon as possible." He looked at me coldly. "Please, stop arguing. Let me handle this."
"Just trust me. Send me out there. I'll know what to do when I get there- I always do."
"I can't risk it." He said. And it may have just been me filling in the gaps, but I almost want to say he said it sadly.
"Once I get my hands on a blade, I will be fine, and you won't have to worry anymore." I said. "I will be at the church until they come to pick me up."
I wasn't sure about my decision, or indeed, if I even had made a choice to begin with. I was just counting on combat. I always could trust blood to bring me to my senses.
The church was scattered, and I realized that now- perhaps now I saw it more like Stacy saw it, a fad of people still too shy to move on to something new. But they'd grow bold in time- especially as I began to drift away from the angel who had made them loyal and into some demon that no one cared for.
I decided I wouldn't tell anyone about my trial. Except Lil, of course, who I found myself dragging to the rooftop with a sense of certain nostalgia. We sat against the entryway's brick wall.
I hate people who don't speak their mind. So I kept it blunt. "My name is Michael Castellano."
Lil sort of said 'huh', but it was really more to herself- she was waiting for an explanation. Her lipstick-caked lips were parted, unsure, and her eyes were watching her hands.
"I'm not an angel." She was still waiting. "I guess I still am. But I don't consider it. All us angels- we're just- cult fiends, I guess. Humans who got caught up between a teenager with a god complex and another with a drug collection. So I don't want to be Nichael anymore. Just Michael."
"Like the Michael."
"Yes, but not really. It was my old name." I grimaced, but she hopefully couldn't see that in the dark of the night. "Do you remember that tall girl who used to follow me around? She was sister. Tegan Castellano. I killed her because Michael asked me to, and now it's been too long for me to mourn."
"You know, I didn't start to mourn my mother until last year. I was too busy hating her, I guess, and then too embarrassed to have a late start. But I came around to it. I make my prayers. I burn her candles. She would have liked it, I think, how long I waited. She was always rushing into things herself."
"I'm not an angel." I said, trying to draw her back to the subject.
Lil turned to face me, but her face was obscured by shadow. "Whatever, Michael. I could have told you that the moment you came through the door."
"So you're not upset with me?"
"I'm disappointed."
"That's... better than upset. I've kind of been worried about you, you know. Not like, overly. Just... you seemed so caught up in me. But you founded this cult. You should have known right from the start that I- and you did, didn't you? You always knew."
"I have a weakness for things I can't control." She said. "And I'm painfully self-aware of it. I look at the gods of the Norse pantheon, and I think, 'why not?' Why can't every spirit be real? Why shouldn't I want the world to be as magic as possible? But then I wake some mornings... and I hate myself. Because I bought all these goddamn candles and spent all these fucking hours praying instead of trying to meaning- actual meaning- in my life."
"Wouldn't your meaning be devotion then?"
"That's not a life, Michael. That's a pastime. That's a way to spend a sleepless night. It can't make you happy."
I had come up here to talk to Lil, and I guess she was now the one doing the talking. "That's why I'm leaving Michael."
"You don't have to defend yourself to me." Lil said, putting a hand on my arm. "I'm embarrassed to even be alive. I ran away from home when I was sixteen to escape this sort of communal life. And yet? Here I am now. Leading because I used to be led, but getting stringed along all the same."
"This kind of... everything is still worth something to the people who believe in it. Which is why, uh, I guess I'd like to ask you if you hold up the fort for me. Keep the community together. I'm going to fight in the war for a while. And it's time you took your following back."
"They wouldn't want me anymore. You're more charismatic. And an actual angel- or at least, you bear a semblance to one."
"Who wouldn't want you? I know you're smart. I know you're driven. And I know, wow, you are gorgeous. You gathered them first. You build them up. It won't be hard to make them yours."
"Again."
"Yes. Keyword: again."
"I need a drink." She sighed, standing up. I followed her to the doorway down.
"You know what you need?" I said laughing, watching her long hair twirl as she turned to face me. "A haircut."
"You said the angelic women in Heaven never cut their hair."
"You're not an angel, Lil. And neither am I."
She drew a knife from the holster on her thigh. I never really understood her reason for always carrying it with her, but now she handed it to me solemnly.
"Just turn around." I said, and then I grabbed a bunch of her hair and just cut it off. Not really a clean slice, but many small cuts until her hair was shoulder length. And then I kept going at it until her hair was frizzy and messy- but most of all, short.
She shook her head about, and then began running her fingers through to remove the stray hairs. Then she laughed. "My head feels so much lighter. Not metaphorically though. A haircut isn't going to solve that."
"Whatever. Go get your drink. And maybe shower. I'll be up here until the police come in the morning."