God's Gone AWOL

[2] The Nephililm

THUD!

Frances tossed a book onto the table.

It was a classic, monstrous, old tome. With crusty, water-stained, yellowing pages and a rough, filthy cover which read: 'History of Nephilim in Modern Times'. Although looking at it, Atticus figured it must have been a while since anything written on those pages could be considered anywhere close to 'modern'. He wanted to c***k it open just to see what was written inside, but his angelic instincts saw the uncleanliness of the object, and therefore prevented him from physically interacting with it.

Frances, on the other hand, had no such restraint.

"This is the last record anyone ever bothered making of all of history's Nephilim. But it's not like there's been any born since, so it should be accurate to some degree,"

They quickly tossed it open and began flipping through page after page, scanning the words. After a moment of searching, their index finger found their target, poking the text aggressively. Bentley leaned over to glance at where their finger had landed.

"This is it?" She asked.

The 'this' she had referred to was a list containing the names of every Nephilim born since the beginning of humanity. And it wasn't very long. Atticus wondered what the point of the rest of the book was, if these few little lines of words were the most important parts. But then again, such was the way of old scholars. All across history, the people who wrote a lot or talked a lot tended to use an exceptional amount of words to say exceptionally unimportant things. However, if there was one piece of useful information hidden within, it was usually worth the rest.

"Who's the last name on this list?" Atticus pulled the book closer to himself, pretending not to see the suspicious side-glance from Bentley.

Frances scanned the page again.

"Isaiah Quinn," They said, "Born, 1893. Recorded human parent, a woman named Elizabeth Quinn. Angelic parent, Haniel, leader of the Principalities,"

Hearing the latter name, Bentley's face abruptly fell.

"So that's it then," She said, "All three of them are dead. I guess there's nothing I can do now but climb back into my grave and die-"

"Record all living descendants of Isaiah Quinn,"

As Bentley had been going off, Atticus had magically produced a notebook and pressed it against the pages of the old tome. When he spoke to it, his eyes flashed with golden light, and little neat letters began to trace themselves out between the blank lines. Soon enough, a name and address had already appeared.

Bentley huffed a sigh. Why was she sighing? That's what she was looking for, wasn't it??

"Come on, Halo Head, don't bother. there's going to be hundreds at this rate. I don't have time to sort through-"

The writing stopped before she could finish. And there was only one name.

Hazel Labonte. 363 Maple Street, Jericho WA.

"That was unexpected," Said Frances.

"Jericho, Washington? Again?!" Bentley smacked her own forehead. "We were just there!"

She glanced at Atticus, who said nothing. He was still staring at the page.

Hazel Labonte.

Hazel?? Hazel was descended from angels??? Atticus had always thought there was something just a little different about her, but he had never expected it to be something like this. They'd been friends for over a year. She was staying in his house right at this exact moment. How had he never caught on? How had Heaven never caught on?

It was extremely unlikely that Hazel had any idea of her own background. She was born human, raised by humans, surrounded by humans for her entire life. The fact that she had befriended Atticus seemed to just be a lucky coincidence, however now he was a little unsure. He suddenly found himself very much at a loss for what to think.

Seeing Atticus' expression, Bentley seemed to have connected the dots.

"What? Wait, Jericho..." She muttered, "Hazel? Is this that same chic who was at your house?"

Atticus nodded.

"She's my friend,"

For some reason, Bentley's eyes had started to glow red slightly. Tension suddenly rose in the little store and Frances conveniently dodged away from either side's eye-contact to go organize a stack of books. Atticus was not sure where this conversation was going, but he suddenly felt as though he needed to be careful.

"So you've just been hanging out with a Nephilim for the last couple years?" Bentley asked, her eyebrows lowered.

"She's not a full Nephilim. If she was, I would have long since known,"

"Why have you been around humans anyway? You've never been overly fond of them from what I recall. Did you really miss me that much that you resulted to communicating with commoners?"

Was that... jealousy in her tone?

"After you died, I no longer had anyone less intelligent than myself to talk to," Atticus said, calmly smiling.

"Ouch," Said Frances.

A cruel little laugh escaped Bentley's red lips.

"Okay, I see how it is," She said, "Fine then, you can keep your human friends. I'll go get myself another Nephilim to help me,"

"How do you plan on doing that?"

"Simple. I'll just make one of my own."

Atticus' eyes flashed with golden light again.

"How would-? Why-?"

She didn't have to explain how a Nephilim was 'made'. Atticus already knew. There had never been an instance of a demon-born Nephilim before, but the result would probably be similar. Either way the thought suddenly made him very, very uncomfortable. And for some reason, a little bit flustered.

"Oh, but that would require changing diapers, wouldn't it?" Bentley continued, "Here's the plan, Atticus. I go knock up a mortal, then you can raise my child for me, since you're so good with humans,"

"I'm sorry-?"

"You'd trust the one who killed you to take care of your child?" Frances asked,

"Sure. I mean, look at him. He might be cold and murderous on the outside, but on the inside, he's perfect mother material."

Atticus had finally had enough.

"We should go," He said.

Seeing how he had so quickly and unapologetically thrown the conversation off its course, both Bentley and Frances burst into laughter. A warm feeling grew across Atticus' face, but he refused to change his calm expression. At least the thought of making a new Nephilim was out the window.

By the time he successfully got Bentley out of the door, the sun that had been shining in through the window when they arrived, had since been switched out for a dreary afternoon rain. This was a lot more in-character for Paris. All the people passing by either had big umbrellas over their heads or rain jackets zipped tightly with the hoods drawn up. None of them even glanced at Atticus or Bentley as they stood under the awning together.

For a moment, Bentley was silent, her eyes fixed on the little drops rolling down onto the pavement in front of them. As Atticus thought about it, he realized that this was probably the first time she had seen rain in quite a while. The look on her face was so innocent, so pure. Once again, he found himself nearly forgetting their chaotic history.

"We need to be careful," He told her, "Heaven is looking for you,"

"You too." She tore her eyes away from the world around them. "Speaking of which, that thing... can I have it back?"

"What thing are you referring to?"

"That soul thing. I don't trust you with it,"

Ah. The it. The soul fragment that he'd accidentally stolen the night before.

"You don't trust me?" He asked,

"What do you think?"

After actually thinking, Atticus nodded.

"Alright, I can understand that. But doesn't it make more sense to leave it with me? You're the one in greater danger,"

And now it was her turn to consider his words.

"If anyone else gets their hands on it, it will be my turn to kill you, do you understand?"

"I understand,"

With a little clicking sound, Atticus opened a white umbrella from thin air. He held it out for her.

"Shall we?" He asked.

...