Celestial Magic

Did I mention I wasn’t an example of a perfect celestial soldier? Maybe it’d be a different story if I’d volunteered for the job. Ten years on, I didn’t remember much of the crash that’d killed my parents, just waking up in a morgue with my fatal injuries miraculously cured and scaring the hell out of the hospital staff. I’d spent the next year cursing the Divinities for sparing me and not my family. It’s not a promising way to begin my training.

At sixteen, I’d hit the peak of my rebellious phase and had zero patience for following the rules of an organization I’d never signed up for. What swayed me was that higher-level celestials got to travel worldwide on assignments. So I’d stayed the course and won my mentors’ grudging admiration because I was damned good at killing demons. Half of them still cheered behind closed doors when I left. I’d bet they did, anyway. But for all the trouble I’d caused, a murder accusation was a step too far. I returned the celestial soldiers’ wary looks and accusing stares with the most intense fuck off expression I could conjure.

They honestly thought I’d attacked one of them. At least they didn’t point their weapons at me, though I spotted knives and stakes strapped to the legs of my captors and, doubtless, more weapons inside their identical grey jackets. I’d bet the guild would have ordered everyone to dress in white if they could get away with it, but getting demon blood out of light-coloured fabric was a bloody nuisance.