“I’m sorry.” I could feel the pain radiating from her—another of my freaky demi-angel powers.
“He could’ve at least waited until after school so I didn’t cry like a fool in front of everyone,” she said through clenched teeth, tears still running down her face.
He’s an idiot.
“Guys can be insensitive, but I don’t think anyone thinks you’re a fool. We’ve all been there.”
“Thanks, Milayna. I have to go. I have to run to the stairs on the other side of the hall. I’m gonna be late for class. See ya.” She jogged away with a wave.
The pain in my stomach and head eased. The vision was over. I’d kept Sela from falling on the stairs. That would have been just what she needed… getting dumped in class and leaving crying, feeling like a fool, only to fall up the stairs and break her nose.
A typical Monday in high school.
***
That night after school, I saw them. I hadn’t seen Azazel’s demons since my eighteenth birthday. On November first, all Saint’s Day, thirty-seven seconds after one in the morning, they disappeared. February twenty-eighth, they were back. But I wasn’t scared. I was stronger. Untouchable. I knew it. Azazel knew it, too. So he sent someone else.
Someone to kill me.
2
The Return
There was a hierarchy in the demon world. Azazel was one of the demons at the top of that hierarchy. Hell’s angel—pure, unadulterated evil. His sole purpose was to turn angels and demi-angels from good to evil, make them switch sides. If he couldn’t get them to switch, his next objective was to kill them. As a demi-angel, he was my ultimate nemesis.
When I turned eighteen, I fully matured as a demi-angel. And since my father was a high-ranking official in the Iri council before he decided to become mortal, I was a high-ranking demi-angel. That made me stronger. I was untouchable by Azazel. He could try to manipulate me into changing sides, but he couldn’t force me and he couldn’t kill me.
But there were more like him. I was sure of it. No one knew how many high-ranking demons there were in Hell other than Azazel. I was sure there were more. And that scared the hell outta me—or into me, I wasn’t sure which.
The second level consisted of demons. They were ugly, strong, and almost as evil as Azazel. They lived in the depths of Hell. They were not something you wanted to meet alone in a dark alley. Well, anywhere, really.
As if the demons in Hell weren’t enough to deal with, there were demons on earth. Demi-demons made up the third level. They were like demi-angels, but instead of having an angel for a parent, they had a demon, children of fallen angels. Their human parents were usually atheists, or they dabbled in the occult. Either way, their children were as strong as demi-angels and probably the most dangerous form of demons for us to deal with. There was nothing to differentiate them from other humans. Demi-angels didn’t know who the enemy was until the demi-demon decided to reveal themselves, which was a dangerous position to be in.
The fourth level was Evils. They started out as demi-angels, but switched sides, becoming one of Azazel’s followers. Every demi-angel he turned, he absorbed some of their power, leaving the Evils with less strength. They were troublemakers, but they rarely had enough power to do any damage unless they teamed up with a demi-demon, which they did a lot.
Hobgoblins were the lowest of all the demons. They were the harbingers of news from the underworld. Hell. A place I’d been fighting to stay out of since before my eighteenth birthday. Hobgoblins were almost cute with their short, roly-poly bodies and childish behavior, but if you got on their bad side, their little faces turned demonic and all cuteness vanished. It was this type of demon I was looking at in my backyard.
“What are you doing here?” I glared at the hobgoblins running around my yard on their stumpy little legs, their round bellies jiggling. Their girly, high-pitched squeals pierced my ears.
These two particular goblins seemed to be assigned to me. My very own demon buddies. The same pair always visited. One was friendly. He looked and acted like a toddler. With a tuft of black hair standing on end on top of its oval head and chubby checks framing its puffy lips, it was almost cute… until I remembered it was a spawn from the very bowels of Hell.
The second was moody and temperamental. I, not so affectionately, called him Scarface. He had a deep scar running from his left ear to the side of his mouth. As young and friendly as goblin number one acted, Scarface was his polar opposite. He acted like a cantankerous old fart.
“We’re here to play!” Friendly said. It was his standard answer whenever they made an appearance.
“I’m not in the mood to play. Why are you here?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“We’re here to play,” Friendly said again, swinging on my childhood swing set. His stumpy legs pumping back and forth to make the swing move, he cackled in delight as he swayed back and forth.
“We’re here to warn you,” Scarface grumbled.
“About what?”