Azalea

Azalea made her way to the chemistry lab quickly. Naturally, it was empty, and that suited her just fine. The ordinary students were fleeing with the resounding alarms, whatever they thought had happened, and in the end that would just leave hunters and hunted in place.

Part of Azalea was expecting that Lailah would show herself. Another part was hoping that would be the case. Her preparations didn't depend on it being Lailah, but Azalea had a score to settle with her erstwhile mentor. She prepared the lab feverishly for the inevitable encounter with the hunters, but there came a moment when she looked at what she had wrought and, simply, could do no more

The screams had died down. The hunt was on in earnest.

Azalea opened the window, then paced back towards the center of the room.

“Lailah!” she shouted, “Here I am! So face me!”

It was a foolish, impulsive choice. Of the Fallen, Azalea was the longest an angel, and while she accepted, even encouraged Sammy to lead them, she took it on herself to be the cooler and wiser head. But mad times called for mad measures.

Though Penny surely knew, Azalea hadn't told the others that there had been bodies next to the entrance. Whether they were dead, injured, or merely stunned, Azalea didn't know, and when it came to facing those who hunted her, she didn't care either.

“It's me you're after!” Azalea screamed, “Show yourself!”

When she was Azazel, Azalea had been a Virtue, the lowest of the Weaver's ranks, unremarkable in every way. Still, Lailah had taken interest in her. Lailah of Charity – there was not a Seraph who was not notable, who was not glorious, but Azalea had thought that Lailah shone exceptionally bright among them. Every aspect of her was sculpted in perfect motherly softness and kindness, not a single word she spoke or curve of her raiments out of place.

But then Azalea had served her. She had knelt before Lailah of Charity, and accepted her instruction in all things in Heaven and Earth. Over time, she understood why there were so few who considered themselves Lailah's pupils. She never raised her voice, and that was the worst thing, because neither did she abide failure in any capacity. She made demands of Azalea to have grace, decorum, and skill – the latter of which took bitter work. For many years, Azalea had still thought that sort of thing kindness.

“Your wayward student awaits!” Azalea called. “Have you no more instruction to give?”

But the truth was that Lailah was not an angel who was the perfect mother figure. She was an angel who excised perfection. Lailah of Charity was a perfect lie, and behind that mask was Lailah the Unforgiving, who fostered the weak only to prove her strength, who provided blessings only to receive them. Lailah, who professed to love the imperfections of others only because they were not hers. She was the simplest and yet most twisted Angel in the Weaver's Heaven, Azalea thought now. Her sole motive, her absolute guiding star, was “to be beloved”.

And Azalea, or rather Azazel, had loved her, and took her instruction, and made herself at least a perfect pawn for long enough that others said: “There goes Azazel, Lailah's apprentice. How well she has been raised. How perfect her demeanor.” And thus it was spoken even after Azalea, as all apprentices must, left her teacher's side. To the end, she had been Lailah's.

“Lailah!”

Sure enough, Lailah appeared, bow drawn, framed immaculately in the doorway. Azalea paced around the room, drawing Lailah in. Sure enough, she couldn't leave well enough alone. After all, in the halo-shrouded eyes of the Heavenly angels, Azazel had still belonged to Lailah of Charity, and there was no way that Lailah the Unforgiving could allow such a blemish on her record to exist, no world in which she entertained the possibility that Azazel's heresy would reflect badly upon her.

She probably didn't think of it in such words. She probably didn't think of it at all. Azalea had realized, after she began to see the truth behind the world, that Lailah was a system that acted nearly autonomously. She could not be perfect if she was not innocent, so her mind censored any unkind thought that had crossed it as surely as the halos censored the Weaver's secrets, capable of infinite forgotten cruelty.

“My child,” Lailah said, lowering her bow a moment to raise one hand to her breast in the practiced way she did, “do wish to confess your misdeeds? To repent? Then I will listen, and my arrow shall absolve you.”

Azalea stared at her with hard eyes. Having now been longer among ordinary humans, she could imagine just what expression Lailah was wearing under her halo, the naive softness. She was the sort of creature who could declare her intent to kill without the least hint of malice.

“Do you think that's the only way this could go?” Azalea asked.

“My dear child,” Lailah said, “your sins will be washed away, that much is sure. But I do hope you accept your punishment before the end.”

“Though you may not hear this,” Azalea said, “let me confess what I have learned.”

With slow, careful footwork, Azalea continued to play cat and mouse through the lab. She'd nearly maneuvered Lailah to the center of the room, but she still had to be careful finding her own place. Lailah favored bows, as kept her from any mess or distress in a struggle, and could even from her relaxed stance nock an arrow and fire with deadly accuracy in the blink of an eye. She was still a Seraph, and no less deadly than she was innocent or twisted.

“I have seen the back side of Heaven,” Azalea said, “the mechanisms behind the stage the Weaver sets for us.”

“Azazel, dear,” Lailah said, “speaking in tongues will get you nowhere.”

Azalea was against the wall, moving clockwise towards the windows. The window she had opened was the third down, the way she was approaching.

“I've learned what we really are,” Azalea said, “more than you will ever know. I understand the weight of the soul that is me.”

“I am patient, dear,” Lailah said, “but I do have my limits.”

“But more than that, than anything that I've been able to see solely with my eyes open, I want you to know I've seen through you.”

“Me?” Lailah asked, “whatever do you mean, dear Azazel?”

Whatever Lailah heard, it was at least constructed like what Azalea had said. Azalea reached the first window.

“You're a sham, Lailah,” Azalea said.

“You poor thing,” Lailah replied, “to have your heart and your mind twisted so.”

“Lailah loves humanity. Lailah heals every hurt. Lailah blesses everyone in need. But how many children will die today because Lailah didn't care?”

Azalea reached the second pane, just barely, when Lailah fired. It was even faster than Azalea had expected; her old mentor had clearly held back when simply demonstrating for the benefit of others. The arrow struck Azalea in the thigh before she even realized that Lailah had moved.

“I can see that open window, Azazel,” Lailah said, “you mustn't fly out of it.”

Azalea gritted her teeth.

“Lailah is generous and merciful. Everyone says it.”

Azalea grasped the arrow of silver glass and pulled it free. She winced in agony, and golden blood stained her skirt and ran down her leg as she sank to one knee.

“Are these barbs your mercy?” she asked, holding up the bloody arrowhead and its wicked serrations. “Is this blood your generosity?”

“It is not charity to spare a sinner her due, Azazel,” Lailah said.

Azalea knew she was in Lailah's sights. If she gave the angel any warning, the next arrow would pierce her heart – Lailah would never make a move as unsightly as to aim for the head – and that would be the end of it.

Thus, she kept her motions where Lailah could see them, trusting that Lailah would not understand their import. She raised her hands slowly, then set both on the ground. As she moved, she palmed a nine-volt battery in her right hand, which could just reach the spot she needed to reach for that option to work.

“My name is Azalea,” she said, “remember it.”

Azalea – a human name for a human soul. And that soul's little miracle was fabrication – with the raw materials, and knowledge of how something was made, Azalea could make it. Paper, plastic, and ink into so many useful things. Lies and counterfeits, but true enough when the need was great. But that wasn't the limit of her power. With an entire chemistry lab at her fingertips and a study of natural sciences so obsessively complete as to never embarrass Lailah by speaking in ignorance, Azalea could create quite a bit. Frag grenades would have been easier, but shaped charges, Azalea hoped, would let her walk away to tell the tale.

She touched the battery to the wire at just the place she'd prepared. The world shuddered, blasts ripping through the room. Even in the one cone not in their fury, Azalea felt her bones shake, and her blood threaten to run backwards in her veins from the rumbling force.

She didn't hesitate, nor take a second more than she needed to, but with the blast wave threw herself out the window behind her. Shards of glass cut into her arms as she shielded her face, and she took the fall hoping her toughness as an angel would be enough. It was into bushes, but a floor down, and while she was spared the worst she felt her shoulder crack as an outstretched hand hit dirt, while branches tore her clothes and gouged her.

She flopped out, bleeding from countless wounds, and looked up at the windows. Smoke poured from them, and while Azalea's ears rang, deaf to the world after the blast, she could see there was no pillar of light as there had been for Ramiel.

If Azalea managed to drag herself from campus without being hunted down, she didn't doubt she'd face Lailah again.