Nergal was nothing but gracious in her handling of Azrael's request. According to Barbael (carrier of the demon general's reply), she had forwarded the appeal for a meeting with one of her solders to Cain – the Ghost under which Arawn actively served – and Cain had promised to send his subordinate as soon as duty permitted. When translated into immortal time; the actual meeting wouldn't take place until two days later.

Unwilling to allow even a shred of risk to his injured lieutenant, Azrael sent a polite but firm condition to Cain that Arawn arrive at a predetermined location a safe distance from the Eyrie. Ezekiel was on the mend, but the progress was slow and painstaking for both Pandora's healers and the patient. There was a chance that exposure to more negative energy could poison the lieutenant even further.

There was a potential threat to the rest of the fortress' residents as well. Arawn's status as Seriu, commonly referred to as a Soldier demon, was not regarded without caution. Soldiers were ranked among Hell's more forbidding weapons, for while they were not as powerful as the Ghosts in terms of raw strength, they had the brutality and the arsenal befitting the most honed and tireless of berserkers. Arawn in particular was no different, despite his deceptively amiable attitude and penchant for haunting high-end taverns and singing ballads.

Azrael's concerns didn't extend to his own safety, nor that of his people, but he did know that under the lingering taste of chaos left behind the attack on his lieutenants, the potential for an explosion from either side (most likely his) was high. Because Hell had already taken several offensive stabs, any purposeful response from Heavenly agents would be equivalent to a signed concession of open war from both sides.

In the long run, the wisest option would be to isolate the meeting in a neutral place with only his calmest, oldest, and most collected officers to aide him. This was why the chosen support party had been whittled down to three members; Cassiel, Barbael and Moro.

A quartet of powerful, magically-inclined angels was something to make any solo demon nervous, which was an advantage they were counting on to encourage truthfulness and cooperation. If their quarry was in combative spirits, they would be more than a match for him.

Chosen for its safe distance from both the Eyrie and from the nearest inhabited human settlements, the abandoned church was both a blessing and a discomfort. Generally angels preferred high, open places from which they could scope and maneuver at whatever desire or requirement. A cloistered, decrepit building shrouded by thick forest was not to their direct liking, for all it neither hindered nor endangered them. The enclosed space would make it easier to contain their subject should a need arise.

Moro, disliking the drafty, sun-filtered pews more than her fellows, had spent at least an hour prowling the grounds outside the little church's rocky seat upon the slope of a shallow hill. The early summer morning was clouded and dense with the promise of rain and dew clung to the white angel's skin and hair when she slipped back through the aged door that was more iron hinges and supports than wood.

"If he flees," she stated, addressing Cassiel who was stationed at the entrance, "we should hobble him before he has a chance to disappear." Her pale green eyes flickered to the two angels situated farther into the old church. "The forest is dense. Tracking won't be much of an option."

Azrael nodded, understanding the difficulty of trying to track a Soldier famed (among other things) for his ability to vanish into thin-air whilst pressed in upon by the thick Romanian pines. "I think it might be best if one of you concealed yourself in the rafters, just to be certain we have at least one angle guaranteed to be in our favor."

"Moro," Cassiel agreed promptly, turning his dark head to peer outside between the cracked slats of the door. "Her cloaking is better than ours." A sentiment to which Barbael agreed with a nod.

"Very well then," Azrael gestured upward and Moro leapt lightly up to settle, perfectly balanced, upon a beam which looked much too decayed to hold the weight of a grown woman. She closed her eyes and, with a quiet exhale, cloaked herself in a mixture of shadow and illusion to vanish into the background. From white hair to spirit energy, she was utterly invisible.

"Barbael, as I'll be focusing on my truth spells and whatever else I may need, I'll have you keep an eye on his movement. If he so much as twitches in a way that mirrors an attack, either distract him until I can change direction or do whatever you need to do to disarm him."

Barbael was fingering the hilt of the saber strapped to her thigh, her eyes consumed with a deadly focus as she pulled the energy in the air around her body, adding her own force to charge it with a fine current of electricity. In a higher altitude, it would already have become lightning. But here, it would wait for her call before it cleaved its prey into charred pieces.

"Cassiel," Azrael murmured, leaning against the pew on which he had rested the booted toe of one foot, "if he tries to run, block him, corral him back this way. We only need a moment."

The tall, brawny angel murmured, "yes," the rich mahogany tone to his skin flickering with shadows echoed from beyond the door. "Whatever else we need to plan, let's do it fast."

Azrael straightened, lowering his foot to the soil-dusted floor to adopt a wider and steadier stance as he faced the door.

For all intents and purposes, he seemed the most casual body in the room, but the outward façade was a mask concealing the stores of energy gathering in shimmering waves beneath his skin. He spared a moment for each subordinate; from Barbael, grim-faced and crackling with electricity, to Cassiel, watching the door with shoulders set, and finally to Moro, untraceable to the eyes and senses but for the tiniest trace of her magic unveiled just long enough to send him a glimpse of her readiness.

"He comes," Cassiel warned, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. It would be the only show of his fury toward the Soldier who had injured his comrade until ordered otherwise.

"We're ready," Azrael's voice was feather-light, softer than the finest down, a cue to his fellow angels that he had already begun weaving spells for encouraging truth and submission.

Slowly Cassiel distanced himself from the door so as not to chance spooking the approaching demon. Moving with a liquid smoothness, he put several yards between himself and the iron-striped wood by the time it swung open and bathed the newcomer in weak, filtered early morning sunlight.

Crossing the threshold, Arawn appeared no more threatening than a teenage boy in straight-legged white slacks and a thin, close-woven shirt of a stormy gray, his sleeves rolled up to make his weaponless state all the clearer. His shoes were the priciest thing about his attire, expensive leather boots stitched, not glued, and tucked beneath his pants.

His paper-white wrists were striped with what seemed to be black tattooed rings which increased in thickness as they progressed upward along the column of each forearm. Scars, the angels knew, not tattoos. The Starkiller had many such adornments. When he knelt upon the threshold of the old church and bowed, he exposed the inky lines of another prominent mark of scarring that arced about his collar, over his shoulders and along his upper back.

The overall affect gleaned from the appearance was, Azrael suspected, intentional. Arawn wanted to emphasize weakness as symbolized by old injuries, vulnerability, and implication of a willingness to comply. Whether it was deception or truth, he couldn't be certain.

"Greetings, My Lord Shinigami," Arawn lifted his eyes to offer an airy smile. "My Lord Cain informed me you had expressed a wish to meet with me."

There was something strange about the way he had worded his greeting. Azrael focused his magical sight more tightly to the demon's face, trying to read beyond the presented countenance of polite curiosity. It was difficult; there didn't seem to be anything beneath the outward expression.

"I had made such a request," he admitted smoothly, gesturing for the Soldier to rise and approach.

To their credit as guards, neither Barbael nor Cassiel made any indication that having a potentially dangerous and unpredictable demon near their general was a cause for concern. Cassiel merely took advantage of the opportunity to glide back to his place in front of the open doorway to block any attempted escape. Moro remained silent and untraceable in the rafters, keeping her watchful eyes on the floor below.

Arawn's approach was steady, but he was careful not to make any sudden movements to provoke predetermined retaliation. Whether or not he suspected the reason for his summons, Arawn was not fool enough to pretend the presence of guards wasn't reason enough for caution. He stopped within a respectful distance from the seraph, between two pews which had decidedly seen better days. "To what to I owe the honor?"

Barbael shifted behind her general, a tiny adjustment of her hand to her weapon, belying her surprise and uncertainty. Azrael understood. There was nothing about Arawn's attitude that matched the crime he was supposed to have committed. For one thing, he was behaving entirely too mildly, no defensiveness, no worry, no defiance. And for another, there was nothing in his aura to betray guilt.

Fingers tightening their grip upon the smooth chunk of un-cut opal held between them, Azrael took a steadying breath before slipping it back into his pocket. "I admit the reasons for my summoning you here are on the complicated end of things," he said quietly, and motioned the demon to a seat upon the pew across from him. "The first of which is that I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to the aid of my ward."

Inclining his head, Arawn flashed another minute smile. "A purely selfish action, I assure you," he claimed, taking the offered seat at a slightly jaunty angle. "Besides, had I not, something nasty may have happened and I'd be standing here for a very different reason. A charge of negligence, perhaps."

Azrael said nothing in reply to this, his lips merely tightened into a firm line as he contemplated the best way to tread around the issue he had to bring up. Pushing another thread of magic into the weave of spells around the subject, he sank into his own bedraggled pew and steepled his fingers together before his chest. "The other matter is a shade more serious."

The ring of blue circling Arawn's pupils flared, the direction of his gaze flashing first to Cassiel and then to Barbael before returning to Azrael's face. It wasn't an expression that offered admission for it was too neutral, too empty of the taint of recognition beyond the vague. He realized they viewed his presence as a threat, but not precisely why.

Or he was an exceedingly good actor.

"One of my officers was assaulted three days ago," Azrael murmured, carefully watching the demon for signs of comprehension. "The Abyssus torture technique, the unraveling of which produced your signature."

Any traces of question that lingered in Arawn's expression had vanished. The demon had gone deathly still, his breath frozen in his chest as he watched the hand Azrael extended to reproduce the image of ragged black butterflies upon an upturned palm.

"Ah," he said quietly, "that is serious."

If the gravity of the situation had escaped him before, it did no longer. Arawn took a moment to study each of the auras he could feel, gauging the complexities of wariness and righteousness, suspicion and caution in each of them. He was no mage, merely a soldier with a gift for interrogation techniques, but even while he couldn't see them he could sense the bits of energy on the air.

Spells – strong ones – for truth, sight, and protection.

"How did this occur?" He asked, and the angels spared hardly a breath for confusion. He could have meant to foil them via an attempt to mislead or confound, which he was certain they knew. But they also knew that answering his questions could lead them to more answers of their own, which was why none of them so much as blinked.

Azrael's eyes were fixed to his target, weaving magic closely around the demon until he was enclosed in a fine net of truth spells interlocked and threaded with subtle compulsion. Compulsion was a form of mind-control that relied on persuasion and beguilement. All living beings were capable of using it, but only a few could shape it so reliably and efficiently as he could.

He had skill enough to pull the threads fine enough to go undetected by even the most alert and capable mind, to coax or coerce depending on the need, but the truth spells took precedence. Arawn would talk to him, the demon wasn't ornery enough to refuse, but they needed to be sure that the words he spoke weren't rotten.  

No one alive could read thoughts, not even Lucifer, whose magical capacity was far greater than Azrael's own. Minds were complex, riddled with countless tiny crevices for storing and hiding, lined with traps for the careless and expansive enough to threaten any trespasser with madness…had such a trespass been possible in the first place. But there were ways to both estimate and influence the contents.

Compulsion tricked the mind into following patterns that, when used correctly, could bring the user information. But the wide variety of truth spells were also tools to peek into the mind by using the rest of the body's physical and neurological responses against it. No matter how accomplished a liar a person was, their body displayed reactions to it; be it in the form of an elevated pulse, a muscle tick, active sweat glands, an increase in swallowing, or even something as slight and difficult to trace as an increase in the creative, inventive portion of the nervous system.

With thousands of tiny threads fastened to nearly every part of Arawn that could possibly display a reaction to lies, deception or anxiety, he opened the breadth of his focus and poured his energy into watching for any semblance of a nervous tick.

He left the explanation to Barbael, who took his open silence as her cue to repeat the report she had sent to her general the night of the assault.

"Our sentries caught a Mazikim behind our lines and brought it in for questioning, whereupon it shot a curse at several present officers before phasing from the premises." As she turned her head to glance at her seated general, her dark ponytail slid over her shoulder, glossy against her leather armor. "Ezekiel Darine alone was struck, but we're guessing that wasn't the ultimate intent."

Silence consumed them, eating away at patience and worry alike as Arawn sat, still and wordless, contemplating. Finally he raised his head and shook it once. "No, that's not possible. Even if it had been a Vhish, Sin Harvest leeches energy even as the actual casting is over. It would require at least two individuals to simply vanish out of a warded area like the Eyrie…or else the caster was Seriu or stronger. And only a limited number of demons possess the skill and knowledge to administer it."

Ashen brow furrowed, he added wryly, "and a desire to wound for no apparent reason. Perhaps to nudge your tempers toward vengeance and spark a real flux of conflict?"

Another moment of silence overtook the aged church, broken only by the sound of several birds quarreling in the trees outside.  

Suddenly Azrael moved for the first time since describing Ezekiel's attack, sitting up and unlacing his fingers with a small sound of grim satisfaction. The thin wires of spell and persuasion unwound from the incorporeal cocoon that had formed around the demon's body, falling – their purpose met – to the ground.

Serpentine and liquid, the threadlike ribbons of magic slid back through earth and air to return to their caster's veins. They shed echoes of Arawn's steady pulse rate and cool skin in their wake before slipping through his blood and flesh, coiling deep into the wellspring of his strength where they became dormant pieces of magic in whole with the rest of his violet fire.

As the magic ebbed, he could sense the rest of the room more clearly, enough to notice that each of his three officers notably relaxed.

"You needn't tell me any more," he said softly, "I can read the truth on your tongue. Though you are making it easy for me."

The smile at Arawn's mouth was perfectly polite and still managed to hold a slightly lopsided quality. Yet its appearance was brief; in another moment it had vanished into a monotone blankness. "I could provide a list—"

"No, I wouldn't want to jeopardize your position by enabling justifiable charge of treason." Azrael's own smile was wry. "I am in your debt after all."

"And as I said, it was purely self-serving." Arawn gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps not the best way to gain the attention I sought, but nevertheless…"

"Balael?"

Arawn laughed at the underscore of pity in the angel's voice. His laughter suited his voice, with a musical gaiety that leant itself easily to the Welsh-Irish note he had leant to the humans who had long regarded him as a god. "Much to my own chagrin," he admitted, "not that I'm really actively pursuing her…I'm still recovering from the bayonet she took to me the last time I tried."

The seraph's smile curved with a wicked amusement. "How brutal."

"How Balael," Arawn amended with a heavy, tragic sigh. "But I haven't yet given up all hope."

Shaking his ashen head, the demon rose from his seat and held out an arm to the seraph across the aisle. Azrael stood and took the offered arm, gripping steadily. "I wish you luck," he said honestly, "she could use a little warmth in her life."

"Indeed," Arawn agreed. "About that list—give me a day or two to assemble the details and I'll have it in the hand of your lieutenants," he nodded to Barbael and Cassiel each in turn, "if that's acceptable?"

"Once again, you have my gratitude," Azrael mused, but Arawn waved the thanks away.

"As you well know, not all of us are mongerers for war and blood." He smiled thinly, and there was a weariness there that Azrael knew was echoed in his own face every time he thought about the years to come. "I bid you well."

"And I you," the seraph replied as the demon turned and began to make his way down the aisle toward the church's old iron-barred doors.

But while he offered farewell, he felt himself falter under the weight of yet another snarl in what seemed one massive knot of ever more complex and complicated twists and turns. For every part of him that was glad that Arawn had not been guilty, there were at least two parts that longed for the simplicity there would have been if the Soldier had been.

At least then they would have gotten to the bottom of something.

*

Lilith awoke from her nap to pain streaking through her abdomen. It was more than a simple ache, more than a pulled muscle or a liver struck by a tiny foot; it throbbed, tearing at her insides as though trying to make her stomach rip open from deep inside.

Scared half-witless, she rose carefully and tearfully from the bed, trying to avoid the pain that coursed in her belly with every harsh movement and wishing that Azrael had completed his visitations early. Bent almost double, she staggered through the rooms of the suite to the main door and shoved it open, not caring whether she had an arranged escort or not. She had to get to Pandora. If something was wrong…

She stamped out the flicker of fear for her unborn baby. Negativity was not an option, and neither was miscarriage. One hand clutching the swell of her stomach and the other pressed to the nearest wall for support when the pain bled into and incapacitated her muscle structure, she made her way slowly to the medical ward and prayed Pandora was home.

Maybe it was better Azrael wasn't there. She didn't think she could bear the devastation he would show had he discovered she may have lost their child.

Her fist landed heavy upon the office door, the only knock she could manage despite its rudeness. When Pandora answered, looking both bewildered and annoyed, she nearly cried with relief at the sight of her disheveled ruby hair.

"What—oh…!"

She wasn't sure how the medic managed to get her on the exam table because as soon as she crossed the threshold into the room her eyes rolled back into her head and she lost all sense of where and what she was. When the blackness cleared, she was lying cushioned on the table with pillows, a needle in the tender bend of one elbow and the pain had dissipated into a normal pregnancy ache.

Pandora extracted the needle from the vein in her arm and passed a finger over the open puncture, sealing it effectively with a tiny pulse of magic. Whatever the drug was, it had made her entire arm tingly and warm, which – while odd – wasn't necessarily an unpleasant sensation.

"Did I black out?" Lilith was surprised to hear that her voice didn't slur. She had assumed the drug had been a painkiller and painkillers always stalled her speech and made her woozy.

"Yes, and you scared the pee out of me," the ruby-haired demon woman said briskly. "I was afraid I'd have to summon your angel and face the wrathful Mercy of God when I told him you'd both died. Thank the baby Jesus it was just the pain talking and not something serious."

Just now noticing that her shirt was bunched beneath her too-tight bra and Pandora's hand was resting against her bared belly, she lifted her head to watch the medic's strawberry red fire seep beneath her skin for another look into her body. The other woman's silvery-gray eyes glazed over, a clear indication that she was seeing something other than her office and the patient inside it.

A faint pressure at the base of her spine released, one Lilith hadn't even noticed had existed until it was gone, and left her feeling more relaxed physically than she'd felt in days.

"Well, everything seems fine," Pandora announced, blinking her eyes clear and rolling her patient's loose cotton blouse back down over her swollen stomach. "Does it still hurt?"

Lilith swallowed her sigh and the relief that came with it, shaking her head. The pain had gone, but she still wouldn't have skipped a checkup for all anything. Sitting up on the edge of the exam table, she braced her hands against the marble slab and peered up at the medic. "Why did I faint?" she asked, "the pain wasn't that bad. Well, it was bad…but not bad enough to knock me out."

Pandora took her chair and jotted some notes in what she had taken to dubbing Lilith's "chart." Due to the unusual nature of the pregnancy, taking down information to refer back to had seemed wise, and was always wise when facing the unknown according to Azrael.

"Pain-streaks happen, some worse than others," she said. "I would guesstimate that this was the fault of developing magic—which can be a little raw in an uncontrolled, developing body. As to the fainting, it could be that the clash of my magic to the baby's might have inspired a small surge to your nervous system."

Setting down the pad of notes, the medic added, "Since this hasn't happened before, I can only conclude that this store of magic just began to develop in the past few days since your last visit. Because you've been virtually surrounded by Azrael's magic, it makes sense that the baby's grown accustomed to its father's aura, but introduction to a new one caused an instinctive reaction. I would even say it might have been trying to protect you."

Pandora's smile was reassuring, imbibing everything that was calm, soothing and sure. "In any case, I doubt it could have caused you any harm. You're whole and well."

Relief far outweighed her excitement at the prospect of her child inheriting its father's magic. She sighed, letting go of some trace of inner fear that had only come with an explanation. After all, Pandora would be the first to admit she didn't have an answer as to why her patient had suddenly undergone a self-abortion. "Good," she smiled, "I was afraid I was having a complication or something."

Pandora caught the inflection in her patient's voice. She really had been afraid; stricken with fear, as though she had a reason to be. "Why do you say that?"

Shrugging, the girl answered briefly, "a friend of mine miscarried. She didn't mention pain but—" she shrugged one shoulder again. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Ah, understandable," Pandora nodded, "but I assure you, this baby is far too healthy to be a worry."

Lilith's smile softened as she touched a palm to the firm expanse of her stomach and whispered, "Good."

Pandora scoured the needle clean with her magic and turned to tuck it away, which reminded the patient that her arm was still a little tingly. "What was that you gave me?" she asked, curiously flexing the fingers of her left hand.

"A solution of ginger and Saint John's Wort," the medic answered, holding up a small half-empty glass vial of liquid that was yellow against Pandora's striped cream blouse. "A mild pain suppressor, and then—" she fished for another vial, this time of a deep, clotted green, "chamomile, poppy and rosemary as a relaxant for the baby."

"It's…interesting."

"Tingly?" Pandora's tone was knowing and mild.

"A little bit," Lilith admitted.

The medic smiled. "That's normal. I'll teach you all about it when you start working with me, everything from sedatives to poisons and all that's in between. And then some more," she winked one silver eye and Lilith grinned. "Now, do you think you can make it back? You should probably get some more rest if you can, and food. An infant magician is bound to suck up a crap-ton of energy."

While certainly not all that knowledgeable about magic and how it developed, Lilith had spent enough time near Azrael while he worked magic to feel Pandora's was a factual statement. "I believe it," she agreed with a humorously grim note.

With a minor struggle to maneuver the ungainly set of her weight from the table, she got to her feet and adjusted the waistband of her fleecy shorts. It was a constant struggle to be comfortable, regardless of how picky about flesh-flashing she had become since the pregnancy had started to show. She had been modest before, but hormones had been tossing her self-esteem about like a cat with a ball of yarn.

The shorts had been the closest thing she could pull on before settling for a nap after her warm bath, but not what she would have first chosen to run around Hell in.  

When she looked up, grudgingly satisfied that the soft elastic wasn't cutting into somewhere she didn't want it, she noticed that Pandora was regarding her with something akin to pity.

"What?" The brunette looked down at herself, eyeing the silly pink and black cloth patterned with childish hearts and grimacing. "They're comfortable…"

Pandora laughed. "Not that," she corrected, crossing the floor to wrap the other woman in a warm hug. The medic smelled of chamomile and peppermint tea, a soothing, homey kind of combination that brought a smile to Lilith's mouth. "This hasn't been easy on you—this pregnancy. I think you should know that you've been a trooper." Drawing back, she laid her silvery eyes on the girl's face and smiled back at her. "Especially for someone so afraid of childbirth."

Lilith shrugged, embarrassed by the praise more than the errant fondness in her immortal friend. "Just going with what life throws at me."

Pandora's snort of amusement came delicately. "Throws. Such an illustration of vigor." Her patient blushed. "Alrighty then. I'll order some food and have it sent to the suite. You go lie down."

"Because I haven't been doing any of that lately," Lilith grumbled, to which Pandora responded with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Just think: you're at month seven now. Only two more to go!"

As much as the idea of giving birth still creeped her out, Lilith had to admit the prospect of being almost done with the ordeal of pregnancy made something inside her light up with relief. To be able to bend over again; what a concept. It simply couldn't come soon enough!

*

The baby seemed to be in an antsy mood, for she hadn't made it down even one whole section of hallway before it began pummeling her organs with tiny hands and feet.

Lilith paused above a shallow stairwell to lean her shoulders against the wall, one hand flat to the swell of her stomach. The stone was cool and helped her realign the kinks in her achy back while she waited for its little tantrum to ease. There was still a slight pain, but it was nothing compared with what she had woken to, and since she knew traces of pain were normal, she saved her energy for patience instead of panic.

Two more months of this might be the end of her, but at least she would have something to show for it.

She edged her way down the steps and into the wide corridor which joined the living quarters with the public areas. It always seemed to be empty, which was why she hadn't thought to check for occupancy before half-waddling into the open and why she suffered a sharp moment of terror when she realized that there was someone else there. A dark humanoid shape stationed at a narrow window overlooking the wastes.

Upon catching the sight of his messy silver hair, she relaxed and greeted Beelzebub when he turned toward her.

"Howdy." The demon prince crossed the floor with a series of muted clicks attributed to the pointed heels of his boots, approaching to regard her with a pitying smile. A smile which she thought was only in part for her state of encumberment, since he granted her flannel shorts a lingering glance. "Another check-up?"

She sighed and corrected, "An unexpected one."

His golden eyes settled on her stomach. "You all right?"

"Fine," she assured him.

"That's good. I wouldn't like to see—that's good."

She knew what he was going to say even before he cut his sentiment in half: he wouldn't want to see Azrael's face if she wasn't all right. It wasn't something he needed to verbalize. She had witnessed enough of her guardian's capacity for rage on account of her safety to understand exactly what he meant. Azrael was lovely even in anger, but there was something in his temper that still managed to scare her. She didn't blame the demon one bit for being grateful to avoid it.

After a moment's pause, Beelzebub offered his arm. It was bare, as he wore nothing beneath the clingy sleeveless shirt, meshless, and encircled with several metal rings that clinked gently with every movement. "C'mon, I'll walk you back."

Even as she took the offered arm she mused politely, "you don't have to do that."

Secretly, though, she was grateful for the extra support. Her knees felt shivery and her experience told her that when her knees were that tired, collapse was a possibility and not one she wanted to experience while seven months pregnant. She would probably have fared just as well using the wall, but with a walking stability of an immortal escort she would be back in bed a lot faster.

"Pfft," Beelzebub waved her consideration away with a hand adorned with nails painted a rich indigo to match his designer jeans. "Yes I do."

"But if you have things to do—"

He chuckled. "Shut it. It's not like it'll take a week to get you home."

She knew better than to refuse. He wasn't exactly a friend – at least not with quite the warmth the description implied – but he was trustworthy and a proven enough ally that she felt no qualms about really letting her weight settle into his arm. She doubted he could feel it like a human would, anyway.

They had almost made it to the corner that led into the mostly unused ambassadors' dwelling quarters when she felt it.

At first she ignored the new pain, thinking it was just some new variation of regular pregnancy pains. It lacked the sharpness of the bad one from before but felt just as urgent, perhaps even more so; dull, penetrating and forceful. But it faded into what seemed like the normal ache of battered insides and she braved another two steps forward.

When it came back, it knocked the breath from her lungs.

Pressure, pain, and a low, convulsive throb echoing deep in her abdomen caused her hand to clutch at the slope between belly and thighs, her grip upon Beelzebub's arm tightening enough to whiten his skin more than she had thought possible.

"What's wrong?" His voice was tight with a severity she recognized as the tiniest hint of fear.

"Nothing," she said, determined to straighten her spine and not hunch like an old woman. "It's just fussing—"

Another convulsion struck her and this time she could feel something tear, not in a way that was bad or painful (not that she really understood it) but in a way that was functional, even necessary. She could feel wetness between her thighs and trickling down the inside of one leg.

"Oh shit," Beelzebub's tone held both relief and alarm. Without another word he'd tucked his arms beneath her knees and upper back, lifting her into a loose, flexible position that sent a shock of pressure through her abdomen. And then the walls were blurring with his speed as he carried her back to Pandora's.

She hung on to his shoulders, somehow recognizing the sense of urgency she felt in him, but the rest of her was quiescent, blinded by confusion and perplexity. This couldn't be happening…it was too soon.

Then there was another jolt of pain and she dug her nails into Beelzebub's back, her teeth gritted against a cry and the light from Pandora's office stinging her eyes with tears.

*

"If he doesn't want Purgatory…"

"But he does," Balberith asserted, "they all do."

Azrael's smile lacked in everything pleasant. "Not every soul strives for whatever mysteries might be offered from above. And who's to say they're wrong?" He could see the quiet flare of surprise in Balberith's watchful eyes, knowing without truly seeing that there was understanding and empathy there also.

An overbearing sense of mental exhaustion was the source of his verbal bitterness. As familiar as he was with splitting himself into fragments in order to get seemingly impossible amounts of work done, he still felt fatigued by the pressures that demanded his attention. Between encouraging and reassuring his soldiers, creating and refreshing strategies that might or might not be needed, researching fruitlessly for information regarding his ward and coming baby, and seeing to his visitations he wasn't sure how long he would be able to keep from bursting at the seams.

Seeing to the dead wasn't something he had to do every passing day, but after two days of lingering in the earth's realm as nothing more than vaporous shadows, souls tended to have negative affects on their surroundings. These affects were often the causes of what people called preternatural activity – that of ghosts.

He was weary of secrets and weary of the worries of warfare, poisoned by dark memories from other times and other wars made all the worse by the steady trickle of dying humans crossing his path. Exhaustion made him both wry and bitter.

The ways of the world was not painted in shades of black and white; it hadn't been created that way. Some angels would have had humans believe that the ways of Heaven were something every soul should ascribe to reach, but he had always held the opinion that the same road was not meant for everyone. He had his reasons for feeling this way, as his own path had taken him far from the common mold.

Balberith conceded with a shallow nod. "Point taken," he said, inspecting the tip of his pen before shaving away a tiny sliver of its tip to sharpen the writing point. "But Minos has written this one should get the chance."

The sigh came unbidden to Azrael's mouth, passing a hand over his face as he considered a compromise. Balberith took his job seriously and orders he got from Minos in regards to judgment were law as far as he was concerned, that was all well and good except for those rare cases when Azrael didn't agree with the decisions.

Finally he offered, "what if we gave him a trial period? We can pull him out after some time and reassess—"

The sound of running feet wasn't something that entered the records chambers often, and certainly never with the vehement pounding of a full-on sprint. Theirs were not the only heads that turned toward the sloping, decorative entryway, curious and bemused, as over half the scribes and their staff paused at their work and stared as a dark-clothed figure darted into their midst.  

The angel caught Beelzebub's eye as he slowed to a trot and leaned over Balberith's desk to shield the movement of his lips from the curious eyes of the scribes and murmured hoarsely, "Lilith—she's in labor."

Azrael's face went white. For a moment he merely stood, his weariness rolling into shock and slowly into an awful fear, then his bleached lilac eyes flickered to Balberith, polite requests and diplomacies quarreling with the worry on his tongue.

"Well go!" the scribe cried, incredulous behind a vibrant purple fringe of bangs.

The sound of Balberith's voice seemed to act like a trigger, snapping something that had been coiled so tightly inside the angel's brain that it reacted with the explosive power of a revolver. Azrael spared barely enough time to shoot Balberith a nod of gratitude before his body blurred with the momentum of pure immortal speed, Beelzebub quick on his heels, the halls of stone a dim tunnel of black and golden light that symbolized far too great a distance between him and where he needed to be.

"She's only seven months along—it's too early."   

"I know," Beelzebub's words came stiffly, hindered by the effort it took him to keep up with his friend. Being older and by creation more powerful than he was, Azrael's stress only increased his capacity, causing him to access more speed than he would normally have used. "But some things a body doesn't lie about. Water breaking, for example."

They raced up the spiraling double-flight of steps that was part of the quickest back-route to the medical wing, two dark shadows streaked with silver and pale gold.

Azrael didn't pause to inquire as to why Beelzebub hung back from Pandora's door to wait in the hall. He did, however, look back over his shoulder to give the other man a worn half-smile. "Thank you," he said softly.

"No worries," was the demon's reply, accompanied by a harsh shooing gesture made with anxious hands.

He turned to enter the office, bypassing the waiting room with quick, long strides to the door. A gentle rap with his knuckles announced him, but he didn't bother to wait for admittance before wrenching back the wooden barrier and stepping over the threshold he could feel had been recently warded against any unwanted power entering or escaping. The scent of blood met his nose, sending a bolt of panic to streak down his spine.

Upon entry he took note of the faintly dimmed quality of the light. The white ceiling glass had been made to soften in intensity to enhance relaxation and soothing, rose wax candles infused with vanilla had been lit to add both additional light and a calming energy to the sterile room. The lengthy shadows draped gently across the examination table, which had been reshaped to form a short, reclining couch.

Upon the couch lay Lilith.

White and drawn with pain, her face rested against one of several sizable cushions positioned at her back and neck to prop her into a half-seated position, her knees bent at a shallow angle, bare feet resting against the padded edge of what had been the table. The knot of her hair had come partly undone, striping her shoulders with dark streaks that made her cheeks look even more pale and wan.

He went to her, cold with fear when her eyes remained tightly closed, even when he came close enough to feel the incredible, searing heat that radiated from her flesh. His fingers brushed the slope of her cheekbone, eyes taking in the sight of a woman who suddenly seemed so very fragile.

The gauzy cotton gown Pandora had garbed her in clung to sweat-dampened skin and was stained crimson at the place where her thighs joined.

It didn't matter how far medical knowledge had advanced in the human world, nor the dramatic positive change in the numbers of women and infants who made it through childbirth unharmed. His mind much more readily recalled the earlier days of human conception, filled with women who had bled to death trying to bring a baby into the world. When he saw his beloved bloodied and pale, he couldn't help but remember.

"Pandora!" he cried, unable to swallow his alarm.

The medic was at his side in an instant, her hand both reassuring and restraining upon his arm, a vial of red fluid in the other. "She's all right," Pandora told him softly, "I have her resting for now. She may need as much energy as she can get later."

"But the blood—"

"Perfectly normal." Pandora manufactured a chair from the floor and wall of the office, stuffing it with yet more cushions and pushed him gently into it. "Having a baby is bloody business. And before you ask," she added as he opened his mouth to make another inquiry, "her being early isn't as strange as it seems."

She swirled the vial of Lilith's blood, watching the pattern of the streaking it left upon the treated glass. The tiny red needle-mark in the girl's forearm said from where it had come. "Our kind mature at a much faster rate than humans do, and after the magic-shock it gave her earlier today it seems that in this particular instance it's taking after you and finished developing early."

His eyes widened. "A shock?"

Pandora nodded. "It didn't hurt her. I think the baby was trying to protect her from all my spells, probably an overreaction from that development." Her smile was affectionate. "Taking after you yet again, it seems."

Reaching for the curve of Lilith's belly he laid his hand lightly there to check his safety walls, none of which had been breached, and felt the magic inside the momentarily pensive infant rest as nothing more than a dormant spark of flame. When he looked, he could see the imprints of an hours-old surge of protective shielding which had meant to keep Lilith safe from the walls of Pandora's magic.

He was both startled and proud to realize that he needn't have feared his child would cause its mother harm. The baby had somehow inherited its father's powerful sense of self-presence.

He could feel the smile in Pandora's voice as she told him warmly, "see? They're both just fine."

Something inside him loosened, as though the vicious knot of worry lodged in his chest had unwound just the tiniest fraction of an inch. But it didn't unravel entirely. His child had not murdered her, but while the baby remained inside her, there was risk; not merely for magical reasons, but for purely physical ones.

If Lilith's partially-immortal body couldn't cope with the strain of childbirth – which was possible – she could lose enough blood to send her into shock and eventual death. However, he sincerely doubted the chance of this happening. Pandora was second only to Raphael when it came to healing. When it came to midwifery, there was no one he trusted more.

His eyes found a resting place upon Lilith's face, soft and slack inside a light nap, her eyelashes black against the curve of her cheek. "She was frightened?" he asked softly.

"A little," Pandora admitted, "more because of the timing than any pain. She was worried about miscarriage."

He smiled grimly. "And her terror of childbirth, no doubt."

"Yes, well, that was the other reason for giving her the sedative."

Gently he let his palm slide from his lover's stomach to settle against the armrest added for both the comfort and inevitable death-grip of a woman in labor. His eyes rose from the line of Lilith's chalk-pale cheek to that of Pandora's rosewater complexion. "Tell me truly," he implored her, so quietly that the question was little more than a breath, "is there reason for concern?"

Pandora's shadow flickered in the candlelight, causing the waves of vanilla scent to waver as she set the vial into a rack filled with several others empty of any contents. The glass made a shallow clink against the ceramic holder, a sound that seemed oddly loud in the quiet room. She showed no outward signs of concern, but when she turned to look him in the eye her lips were thinned with resignation.

"There's always a chance something goes wrong." Leaning her hips back against the counter, she crossed her arms over her chest and continued, "but from what I can tell, there's no reason to worry. The baby's facing the right way, there's no problem with the umbilical cord, and everything seems in good order. But she is a little narrow in the hips."

Azrael's eyes flickered to Lilith and the place where light blanket and gown concealed her abdomen. "She is," he agreed. "But that isn't a hindrance for human women, with surgery. Should it be for her?"

Pandora shrugged. "Theoretically, no. But I don't know how much magical strength this baby has, or how it'll react to my taking a scalpel to its mother."

He had no choice but to concede her point. "True," he murmured, eyeing the swell of Lilith's stomach warily, "perhaps I'll be able to calm any outbursts."

"Let's hope so if it comes to that," Pandora agreed, then pushed herself away from the table to approach Lilith's side. Taking gentle hold of the girl's wrist, she took her pulse before putting on a quiet smile. "Time for the real contractions, now."

At that precise moment Lilith's eyes flickered – once, then twice before opening. Her eyelids slid back with the slow, halting edge of sleepy confusion. Her head tilted to look at him, but her welcoming smile was bit in two by a grimace of discomfort and dislike. "Ugh," she swiped absently at the hair draped across her face. "I feel like a beached whale."

Valiantly, Azrael smoothed his amusement with lips pressed firmly together. Pandora, while sympathetic in the tone of her mother-hen clucking, didn't work to hide hers. With a quiet peal of laughter she said, "Let's have you sit up, here…"

With their help to keep her balanced, Lilith forced her back and side to part with the cushions, allowing the medic to prop her correctly atop the couch. One hand resting against the crown of the girl's stomach, Pandora moved Lilith's feet to a pair of special stirrups meant to both support and fortify her legs.

While she was still covered, Lilith's cheeks flushed with the tiniest bit of embarrassment. But it wasn't just discomfort.

As Azrael watcher her, he traced the rapid pace of her breath. Her eyes widened with a fear she tried to conceal. The hands she braced upon slim, padded armrests were clenched tight around the metal frame, knuckles whitened with the strain of her grip.

He reached for her, gently peeling her fingers from the metal until he could slip his hand beneath her own. She started, looking at him with green eyes that were over-bright. Scared and shaky, she touched something inside his heart that despaired to see her so. His lips brushed her fingers, his eyes conveying a flurry of everything from sympathy to hope to pain and apology, and when she took a single deep, controlled breath in reply, he knew she had listened even without his having to speak.

The convulsion was tangible; he felt it ripple along the length of her arm from a point inside her stomach, a shudder of motion from muscles that had no other intended purpose. But Lilith showed no sign of having noticed.

Empty vial in hand Pandora approached to touch her other shoulder. "I'm going to remove most of the numbing serum now," she explained, gesturing to the reddened needle-mark in the bend of Lilith's arm. "You need to be able to feel the contractions. You'll feel pain too, but that's to be expected."

Lilith's pale face seemed to go even whiter. "Couldn't I have an epidural or…whatever they use for birth-meds?"

Pandora's sympathy didn't affect the firmness in her voice when she told her patient, "no, hon. A spinal tap could do more harm than good. Any other drugs could be just as bad—we don't know. It's better to guess on the safe side." She adjusted Lilith's arm so it lay across the armrest, setting the vial just beneath the injection mark. "Most women have a stronger pain tolerance than they think they do, anyway."

"Not me," Lilith whispered. She turned her face away from Pandora as a thin stream of clear fluid began to trickle into the vial.

"That's why I'm here," Azrael squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I can't deliver for you, but I can help front some of the pain and offer a hand to break as many times as you need to."

She almost managed a laugh before the next contraction began. Her body went completely rigid; her breath came in terse gasps through her teeth and her fingernails biting into the back of his wrist. He could feel the muscles in her back and shoulders clench as clearly as he could see her teeth leaving whitening imprints in her lower lip.

The convulsion ebbed and suddenly she began to shake her head, back and forth with the compulsive repetition of someone frightened beyond their wits. "I can't do this," she choked, her words hobbled by a dry sob. "I can't—"

"Yes you can." He touched her cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped, glistening against her skin. "Women have been having children for centuries, and you are no different. You're stronger than you think. Besides, you have the best midwife there ever was to help you."

Pandora dismissed his compliment with a little mocking snort and a tiny bow as she wiped the bend of Lilith's arm clean and turned to stow the vial of used serum away.

Lilith's green eyes came to rest on his face, betraying an awful conflict of hope and disbelief. Then she whimpered, her spine stiffening as another contraction seized her insides and held, eyes that had been open just seconds ago closed tightly with an agony he would never understand.

It was a pain bad enough to evaporate any sound from her throat. More than she deserved to take. He was startled by how much it unnerved him; he had witnessed women in delivery many times and had never found it so stressful. That was probably because none of those women had been giving birth to his child. A man's fate was to worry himself sick in a birthing chamber, he was no different. But that didn't mean he couldn't be of help.

He opened a small channel in his palm, connecting his sensory receptors to her via a few knots of magical wiring until he could feel the brunt of her pain gnawing at his own nerves instead.

He blocked that part of himself away before he could feel the rending scream in his abdomen, dulling the acknowledgement of pain and its implications away from his brain so he could focus on the woman gripping his hand for all she was worth.

"Ok," Pandora soothed, working on a clean apron and tucking a wrapped pair of gloves sewn of a soft oiled cloth into the pocket as she positioned herself at the foot of the couch. "It's ok, honey." She folded up the end of the blanket and placed one steady hand upon each of Lilith's knees. "Let your knees fall open just a bit more—that's it. You're doing just fine."

The girl's head fell back against her pillow, sweat-streaked, her brow furrowed with pain and distress. "How much longer?"

Calm as could be, Pandora replied, "soon, now. You're at eight centimeters now, two more and I'll have you push."

Lilith made a quiet sound of dislike and informed the angel beside her, "I could really resent you for this right about now."

"I can understand that," he answered softly, adjusting his grip to filter yet more of her pain through his system.

She laughed, shortly and tightly. "Too bad I don't."

He leant forward to press a kiss to her damp forehead. "I'm glad."

"Yeah, I…oh—" The contraction split her voice in half with a subdued squeak, her hand clutching at him, her jaw clenching underneath his empty palm.

"And…that's it!" Pandora undid the wrapping which kept her gloves sterile and slid the oiled garments over her hands. "Ready to push?"

Lilith shook her dark head, but when her lips parted she uttered a halting, "yes." She lifted her head from the pillow and met the medic's calm silver eyes.

"On three, then. One, two, three, push!"

Azrael felt the bones in his hand creak, the small joints contorting beneath the pressure of her grip as every muscle in her body strained with effort. He dug his magic more deeply into her hand, pulling the pain from her veins until it washed his blood hot with the sting of it. That single moment seemed as long as a lifetime, stretching toward a forever contained inside a fragment of several minutes.

Though she shuddered and cried and tears wet her cheeks and chin, Lilith followed Pandora's chanting counts, her heart pounding so quickly that he feared it might burst. When it felt like neither of them could last any longer, she gave a final, awful cry of determination and tearing anguish and slumped back into the pillows, chest heaving.

For a split second he was seized by a sharp fear that something had gone wrong, but the echoes of pain throbbing in his bones quickly began to wane. As Pandora fussed with something between Lilith's feet, he laid his cheek against the girl's dark hair and breathed with her. "My brave girl," he praised, "my brave, brave darling…"

Her eyes flickered open, a little hazy, but clear from the dark clutch of pain. "Is it over?" she mumbled, uncertain and clearly wearied.

"Yes," he smiled at her, conveying all his pride and happiness with just that single word. She smiled back at him, and despite how tired and ragged she might have been, it seemed to him that no star in existence was as beautifully radiant as she was.

They simply looked at each other, sharing without words a sense of fulfillment and connection that neither of them would have been able to describe. Even tied together at the hips they couldn't have been closer.

Their reverie was broken by Pandora holding out a small cotton-wrapped bundle for Lilith to take. "Congratulations," the medic told her, her voice soft with a gentle reverence. "A boy."

He watched the revelation dawn across Lilith's face as she lifted hesitant arms for the baby Pandora tucked against her chest, her eyes wide with wonder and warmth that spread from her like a halo. As she looked down at the little sleeping face, the fingers of one tiny hand loosely clutching the edge of the wrapping, she very nearly glowed.

Shifting so that he was propped against the back of the couch, he took in the sight of his newborn son in the arms of the woman who had borne him, and wondered what on earth he had done to deserve something so utterly wonderful.

"What will we name him?"

She glanced up at him, her face soft with her smiles and the inescapable contentedness of overcoming another obstacle. Looking back down at the tiny boy cradled against her chest she murmured, "I always liked Cillian…"

His fingertips brushed the fine dark hair, little more than down, that peeked from beneath the baby's blankets. "Hello, Cillian," he crooned, "did you know that your mother is the bravest woman there ever was?"

Lilith laughed and lifted her face to look at Pandora, who was smiling at the little family as she wiped down her apron. "What do you think?" she asked the medic.

But Pandora didn't answer right away. When she did, the sound of her voice was lifted with a melody that toned her words with silver. "As long foretold, upon that morn there was a blessed messiah born."

A subtle chill trickled down the length of Lilith's spine; a strange and altogether unreasonable response to have to several bars of a song she knew. "Wexford carol?" she identified, "but what does a Christmas carol have to do with anything?" Pandora said nothing, merely looked at Azrael in a way that was expectant and slightly sad. Lilith followed her gaze just in time to see the angel's smile slip, and then fade altogether as he stared down at the baby in her arms.

"Azrael?" Her voice trembled even to her own ears.

"Of course," he murmured, violet eyes brazing with sudden comprehension. "Yours is not the true Messiah. He will be born of impossible blood. Why didn't I see it before?"

"Maybe because you weren't looking for it," Pandora said with a shrug. "But a child born to an angel and a human is certainly no less than impossible—or was."

Lilith's cheeks lost the color they had slowly been regaining. "Are you saying that our baby is…" Azrael's eyes met her own and she knew without an answer that her assumption was correct. Her baby was the equivalent of what Christ had thought himself to be. "No way," she insisted, "no way can that be true."

"It's true," he told her, his face lined with the edges of deepest thought. And even as she took a half-panicked breath she acknowledged the calming lilt he stitched into the inflection.  

"But it can't—" Feeling hopeless, she cast her eyes on Pandora, who had settled into her chair to clean her gloves of blood.

Pandora gave her a quiet smile, one that was both pitying and understanding. "It's not a bad thing," she said, tucking her ruby hair behind an ear. "It's actually a very good thing. It's just that…strictly speaking; hell isn't the safest place for a Messiah to grow up. Nor is it all that safe for him to be around his real parents."

Lilith could feel Azrael's aura of happiness crumble as Pandora's words sunk in. She could feel his shoulders slump and his heart fall almost as surely as she felt her own mirror it, opening up to a gaping hole of unthinkable despair founded by a single truth.

They couldn't raise their own son.

~*~