Chapter 1

The angel in the three-piece suit hurtles from the clouds like a ballistic missile. Wings tucked tight against his back, he’s like a bird of prey swooping down for the kill. A couple more miles per hour and he’d break the sound barrier.

Suddenly, his wings flare a blinding light as he brakes, like a race car before a collision. His brutal deceleration ends in an abrupt hover, a hundred feet above the gathering crowd.

Then he pulls out his phone and starts texting.

His great wings beat lazily against the gloomy backdrop of the winter morning sky, their pristine whiteness a cruel contrast. They make the blanketing smog feel more noxious, and downtown L.A. seem shoddier and grimier.

Not that it’s much better without the comparison. This area in specific is pimpled with tacky shops, and peppered in still-demolished buildings. And it’s considered among the nicer parts of town. It’s downright posh compared to where I live in the Demon Zone.

I squint up at his suspended form from my strategic location between a traffic light and a bus-stop, and curse him under my breath.

C’mon, you winged bastard, I haven’t got all day.

He’s still texting. Must be about the deal he’s about to sign. It’s an information nugget I unearthed when I researched him. He’s buying the best office building on the street, with its dilapidated neighbors as an almost-free bonus.

Everyone knows he beat thirty-six, far-better bids because he has wings. He may be forbidden from coercion, but he’s clearly mastered the not-so-subtle art of opportunism. Nobody wants to be on the bad side of an angel. Not when he can leverage a literal army of celestial relatives.

By the time he’s done rebuilding and renovating those buildings, probably for a nominal cost, too, he stands to make a few hundred million dollars in profit. Tax-free. Designated Angels pay no taxes, and—ironically—he’s one of the Virtues. While the Non-Designated ones have no earthly jobs, so are exempt, too.

Yeah. It took the Army of Heaven to beat the IRS.

Next on his agenda is another takeover of a failing family-owned bus company. Any guesses why it failed?

As I already said, bastard.

Not that his aforementioned relatives are any better. Some are far worse. We mostly see the worst kind, the designation-free angels. Those have the biggest chip on their shoulders for being generic. They’re the ones who’ve always relished patrolling our skies, and swooping down to terrorize us since the Apocalypse.

Yeah. That happened. But it sort of didn’t stick.

It basically fizzled out, after it decimated swathes of the planet—with the help of a few nukes from our side. But humanity itself wasn’t even the target of this war. Just its collateral damage.

It lasted three-years and ended in three hours. Talk about anti-apocalyptic. Within an hour of the ceasefire, it was announced by some spokes-angel from the Dominions sphere, Angeldom’s media arm, on global live feed. At least to the areas that still had satellite transmission. That recording is now a mandatory part of kindergarten’s first-day curriculum.

Among his pontifications, said angel specified human casualties at ninety-eight million, eight-hundred and fifty-nine thousand.

That ridiculously exact number aside—and their more preposterous claim to have statistics at all an hour after hostilities ended—rumor has it that over one eighth of humanity perished, making the death toll over a billion. But that still left seven billions of us.

Long story short, the Apocalypse didn’t turn out to be about the End of Days.

Days are still ongoing just fine, thank you.

Okay, so not so fine. For me, they are dreary days of drudgery and degradation—but ongoing just the same.

But the world we humans knew did end, if not in the way we thought it would. It’s now a whole new world—Afterworld—because of one tiny difference.

We now have Hell—and Heaven—on Earth.

Instead of fighting over the planet until they destroyed it and all life with it, the enemy forces signed the Armistice Accords, ending their eternal war. That was twenty years ago. To the very day, actually.

Today marks the anniversary of when they made our home theirs.

As far back as I remember, since I was dragged out of that burning building when I was three—or four—I rarely looked up at the sky without seeing one of those celestial goons soaring high above. Reminding me of our place way, way beneath them.

Not that I need reminding. Not when I belong to the species currently at the bottom of the evolutionary ladder—and I’m at its lowest rung.

I’m basically the lowest a being can get in this Afterworld.

But I doubt even the most powerful humans need reminding of the gross imbalance of power. Not in a world swarming with the creatures who crawled out of the supernatural woodwork since that literally apocalyptic battle, and we were knocked from our pedestal as the dominant species almost overnight…

Breath clogs in my throat. The angel has finished texting—and is bomb-diving straight at me.

My mouth dries, and my heart stumbles like a three-legged horse. Even when I know he’s not coming after me.

Even when I’m the one who’s after him.

But seeing one of these heavenly bastards up close never fails to clang my red-alert bells.

Gulping down my involuntary response, I take inventory of his details as he approaches.

Cream handkerchief arranged in his slate-grey jacket’s pocket. Turquoise tie adorned in a golden clip. Matching cufflinks glinting in the gloomy December morning light. Graphite-leather briefcase, and matching polished shoes that now point downward as he prepares to land.

As his wings emanate heavenly fire, what I consider the angelic equivalent of brake lights, I see the total disregard in his intense blue eyes. As if the people filling the street below him are ants. Less than ants.

I get a brutal urge to be the ant that trips him. With his momentum, he’d shovel a few pounds of sidewalk with his perfect teeth.

Some say angels are immortal unless they’re killed. Others say they can be injured, but never killed, that they heal and regrow anything. The demon who told me that in his drunken melancholy, said even a heart or a head. Or a dick. He whispered that last anatomy part with a mixture of abject awe and burning envy. It was news to me. I didn’t know angels had dicks.

But even if this angel would regrow whatever he pulverizes, it would hurt. Just the prospect of seeing him with a mangled puss, and that glowing, golden blood eating through his designer suit is almost worth the consequences. Almost.

For there would be consequences. While angels don’t harm humans at their whim like the rest of the Supernaturals, they regularly throw their book, so to speak, at us. These cosmic blowhards take themselves, and acts of human “misconduct” too seriously. No sense of humor, check. Mercy? Forget it.

Still, it may actually conclude my mission faster…

Down, girl. Stick to the plan. Get what you need from this divine peacock and get out of here.

Still savoring the fantasy, I position myself as he lands with a grace that puts any bird of prey to shame. No doubt showing off.

Not that he needs to. All humans within a hundred-foot radius are rushing like paparazzi around a red-carpet. They crowd each other as they record the Designated Angel sighting. I bet a good percentage are live streaming to their social media feeds. Some will already be negotiating sales to gossip sites that overflow with Supernatural World trivia. These pay pretty well for anything that feeds human obsession with Supernaturals.

Since Designated Angels are mega celebrities now, they only interact with the highest echelons of humanity. They behave as if we, the unwashed masses, don’t exist. Like this haughty bastard who’s striding with his wings half-spread, forcing people to scramble out of his path. It’s an unspoken law that humans are not allowed to approach any angel, let alone touch them. Even by accident.

I’ve broken said law many times in the past year, yet my stomach still churns like a cement mixer. It’s why I make sure it’s empty when I go after his kind.

Adjusting my obscuring hood, I pretend to stumble in the angel’s path. Gaze not targeting me, he instinctively steadies me. As if he’s stopping a sack of potatoes from spilling and littering his path.

Wait for it.

One, two…

On the count of three, he jerks back as if I’ve stung him. And now he is looking at me. Or at the part of me I left exposed. My Mark.

Low on the left side of my neck, it looks as if my jugular has been slashed with a rusty knife. Which isn’t far from the truth. I barely survived the ritual that branded me like a sheep, that now proclaims me Owned. Demon Owned.

To most Regulars, what we call un-Marked humans, it looks like a weird birthmark or scar. But Supernaturals know what it is the moment they see it. It’s why I’m required to display it at all times.

I never do.

I’m damned to a life of slavery, but I’m really damned if I go around proclaiming I’m some filthy demon’s possession.

The demons claim it’s how the Mark protects us. That’s demonshit, like everything out of their mouths. We’re targeted, sometimes fatally, because of the Mark. Have a beef with a demon? Send them a message by taking out their “investment.”

But I discovered the Mark’s real power early on. Making us useless to anyone but our “Masters.”

If someone tries to “acquire” me, or if I run away, this infernal-magic brand would kill me.

The first time it almost did was during my first escape attempt.

I was five. Or six.

I was half-dead when my literally-damned owner found me, as the Mark acts like some GPS, too, or what I call, DOPS—Demon-Owned Positioning System. After he had me healed, he told me he’d always bring me back. Reasonably intact like that time, or missing pieces—or even a mutilated corpse. And he’d still put me to work.

The Laws of Indenture governing the Mark come with a necromancy clause included.

You’re my property, alive or dead,he said.

I only told him I’d run away again, because he smells like weredog shit. He put me in a two-week coma.

Pit Demons’ sense of the absurd also stinks, as much as they do. They don’t take human misconduct well, either.

But floggings and electrocutions didn’t stop me from running away, again and again. They actually incentivized my attempts to make the Mark finish me. At least then I’d be dead and wouldn’t mind serving him.

The last time I tried, the agony alone almost did me in. The full-body burns should have. They should have been beyond any healing spell. I still don’t know how I survived. I was seven. Or eight.

Then I met Sarah, and I quit this give me liberty or give me death schtick. I couldn’t escape, even in death, and leave her behind. Having her in my life became this prison’s most inescapable bars.

Want to clip any rebel’s wings? Give them someone to love.

Not that I gave up on the dream of freedom. I convinced myself I’d find another way. But for twelve hellish years, I didn’t.

Then one day last year, I accidentally did. And the rest is history.

Hopefully, I won’t be. It’s always a risk when I target any angel.

They’re the apex predator of the Afterworld, while the Mark plants me in the bottom of its food chain. Even if angels don’t prey on us in that way, they’re what every other creature fears.

“Begone, demon-droppings!” the angel bites off, antipathy filling his heavenly eyes.

Now that’s a new insult. And I thought I’d heard them all.

To round up our infernal luck, us Marked are reviled for it. As if we chose this.

Okay, so some do. But most of us are straight up trafficked. I’m one of those taken and sold as children.

But this feathered prick gave me a new insight into why angels loathe us. If demons disgust them, what they consider their crap does even more.

I keep finding new reasons to hate these elitist, flying pigs, don’t I? Almost as many as I find for Kondar, the worm-infested dung-heap who owns my Indenture.

Good thing the abhorrence is reciprocated. This visceral reaction is what I always count on.

It’s why I block his path instead of scurrying away as I scoff. “That’s harsh, dude! Aren’t you the sales rep or courier of the Light or whatever? Light up my day and spare some change.”

“I will spare you, this time. I won’t be so merciful if I catch you panhandling around here again.”

This up close, he’s almost unbearably pretty, and he does absolutely nothing for me. He even makes bile rush up my throat. Swallowing it down along with the urge to let him walk away, I grab his jacket, almost tripping him as I wished to earlier.

“Who’s panhandling? Who even says panhandling? I represent the Marked who clean up the streets after you celestial pigeons. You owe me a contribution comparable to the size of your earth-melting droppings.”

He stares down in stupefaction at my grimy, calloused hands as they crush his lapels. While he’s too shocked to react, I flit them all over him, patting every pocket. When I reach those on his ass, he lurches away, visibly struggling to fathom how a human can accost him, and worse, frisk him.

I tsk. “Got no change, huh? Only million-dollar credit cards from the Bank of Heaven? Figures. How about a cufflink?”

His belated rumble of affront would have brought anyone else to their knees. It makes my heart slam against my ribs. But this isn’t my first rodeo with his species, and I swipe for his left cufflink. He snatches his hand away as if from a slimy tentacle.

“Not feeling that charitable? Then give me something I can sell, dude. How about a feather?’’

I lunge around him, as if I’d help myself to one. His stunned expression becomes almost comical. I’ve seen angels lash out for far less, but my being human stymies this one.

That’s why I set up this scene where I’m protected by a) my species, and b) witnesses.

Still, such protection may mean nothing if I don’t manage his rising anger right. I need to push him to the edge, without tipping him over it. Any uncontrolled reaction on his side would break me in half.

“C’mon, dude, it’ll only sting for a sec, and I bet you’ll love it. I hear many angels have a feather-plucking fetish.” I advance again, and he tears out of reach. I sigh. “Celestial baby. Okay, how about a chewed gum? A used hanky? A dirty thong? Anything smeared in your angelic secretions should fetch a pretty penny on the Supernatural black market.”

He finds his voice again, an ominous rumble now. “Your reckless insolence will be the end of you, human.”

I wave him off in feigned boredom. “A thong it is then. Hop to that public restroom over there.” I pause, as if reconsidering. “On second thought, strip right here. That should make everyone on this street rich.”

His eyes suddenly become thoughtful, as if belatedly thinking I must be deranged.

Oh, no. I don’t want him cool and logical. I want him hopping mad.

“You’re useless, aren’t you, birdie?” I grab for his belt. “I’ll get it myself.”

He swings his briefcase to cover his crotch like a demure damsel. “Your end may well be today, mortal!”

“Big talk, Feather Face.” I toss my head towards our enraptured audience, still keeping my voice low enough for his ears only. “You can’t even risk pushing me away. Now give me that thong, or I’ll tell them you didn’t pay for our last feather-plucking session, and just threatened to kill me to silence me. You’ll be trending all over the world in minutes.”

I hold his gaze, bating my breath, adrenaline pumping in my veins in agitation.

I’ve made sure this looks like a minor infraction to everyone. And insolent pest or not, I’m still the species his kind claims to be here on earth to protect. But from the righteous fury in his eyes, he wants to execute me on the spot, for extorting and making a spectacle out of him. I’ve pushed him to the brink all right.

Now to find out if I’ve gauged handling him right, or if this will be the time an angel punches his fist through my skull.

I shudder with relief when he finally bites off, “I don’t wear underwear.”

Oh, man. This is priceless. He’s actually making excuses. The Designated Angels’ obsession with their public image is really their one weakness.

I huff in mock-resignation. “You’re worse than useless. Fine, I’ll take that hanky. Blow your pretty nose like a good boy.”

Without further resistance, he does just that. The moment I snatch the handkerchief from his hand, and though he looks murderous, he settles for shoving past me.

“So long, Winged Wuss,” I mutter as he strides away, dusting my mortal filth from his bespoke clothes. Angels supposedly have supernatural senses, which they tune out at will. From his stiffening, he’s still tuned in to me. So I add, “Oh, and, birdbrain, thanks for the wallet.”

It’s delicious, the way he screeches to a halt, patting himself in alarm. I can’t help laughing the moment he finds his wallet, and realizes I set him up. I can feel him struggling not to storm back and do something reckless.

As he flounces away instead, I smirk at his winged back until he disappears inside that steel-and-glass building he’s acquiring. After he does, our audience disperses, resuming their scramble to their nine-to-five jobs. Regulars. The lucky brats.

Before I get down to business, I make sure everyone has dismissed me. I also can’t spot any Supernaturals. Even if many Glamor themselves to look human, I can always tell them apart. Thankfully, most play to the stereotype of nocturnal creatures. Only the angels and the Fae seem diurnal.

But the Fae, either their trickster Seelie division or monstrous Unseelie one, don’t make a habit of walking mortal streets or mingling in our societies. Each prefers to lounge in their courts, gleefully plotting heartless exploitations or horrific demises.

While most angels prefer working from “home,” wherever that is. It’s said the internet boom in the last two decades was all their doing.

But that angel is among those who prefer a hands-on approach to business, the easiest type for me to hunt down. And thanks to this little skirmish, I got what I wanted from him.

I look up, and there it is. Time to nab that baby.

Come to Mama, my pretty.

As I get all I can, I see a bus stopping in the distance. Grr. Now I have to run to catch it. I have dirty floors to sweep and dirtier books to keep in Demonica at nine sharp.

Problem is, I never run. I can’t afford the effort or the calories. But since I can’t afford another flogging either, I break out in an awkward sprint. It quickly becomes a lung-busting one, and I toss my hood off my head, gasping for any oxygen left in the world.

I’m half a dozen feet from the bus when it sets off.

From the driver’s taunting grin, I know. He’s a Select. I’m certain even before I see his piercing.

While our Marks are different as fingerprints, the Select Sign is universal. An upper, right-ear piercing proudly displaying an angelic sign.

The Select are like us Owned, only angel owned. Granted, their slavery is implied, and not lethally binding. But they’re not that much better off working below minimum wage in the angels’ earthly enterprises.

But not only are they proud of the most underpaid job the angels cram them in, they fanatically share their masters’ hatred of us. He would have mowed me down if we were not forbidden from inflicting bodily harm on each other that requires more than a first-level healing spell. Apart from that, making each other’s lives hell has become a mandatory etiquette between us.

The Select even circulate Wild-West-Wanted-like posters of us. That’s how they recognize me and make my every step in this hellish city harder, whenever I’m not disguised.

Once the traffic forces the current piece-of-shit to slow down, I bang on the bus’s door. I know he won’t open, just need him to look at me.

When he does, I give him the finger, and shout, “Pay you back later, Select Skunk. You’ll never see it coming.”

The traffic moves again, and he leaves me behind with a final hate-filled glance.

Bravado expended, I stagger back to the sidewalk among enraged honks.

Once I reach the bus-stop, I bend over, gulping down shearing breaths. It takes long minutes before I’m confident I won’t die. It isn’t funny how out of shape I am. Not that I was ever in it.

What is wretchedly funny, though, is this pathetic civil war of ours. Here we are, insignificant human victims of the status quo, perpetuating the prejudices of those who oppress us, and victimizing one another according to their doctrines. Classic.

I guess it was always this way. The small cogs grinding each other at their operator’s whims.

The only difference is that, until the Apocalypse, it was human against human. There was always hope of changing the system, of overthrowing the despot. In this Afterworld ruled by creatures from humanity’s myths and nightmares, rebellion is not even an option.

Not that I’d join one if it is. I’m no revolutionary. I only ever did whatever it took to survive our life, because I couldn’t change it.

Now I finally can. If my plan works.

Another bus approaches, and thankfully, it’s not another Select at the wheel.

Thirty seconds later, I’m out of the chilly drizzle and in the last vacant seat next to some smelly dude. It’s a good thing my stomach is howling like the wind in a drafty mansion. He’s wolfing down something that smells like brimstone, and picking his nose while at it. At least he exudes a dumpster-fire kind of warmth that my frozen marrow is grateful for.

Smothering my nose in my hoodie, I look down at my hand and grin.

My plan is so going to work.

My optimism lasts only a few moments before it dissipates.

My day is just beginning and I’m already exhausted. It takes stamina to shut off the malignant whispers of doubt and dread.

But I can’t listen to them. I won’t.

It will work. I will do anything so it does.

My life, and Sarah’s, depend on it.