Marked by darkness

Five years later

Sophia Parks jolted awake in her small bed, gasping as she fought the lingering shadows of a horrific nightmare. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she was soaked in a cold, nervous sweat. With trembling hands, she fumbled for the bottle of anxiety medication on her nightstand, quickly dry-swallowing two pills. Reliving the brutal reality of her ex-boyfriend’s attack had become an exhausting, nightly ritual, one that had only intensified since she received word of Vincent’s release from prison. Her lawyer had broken the news that Vincent was out early for "good behavior," a revelation that had sent her PTSD spiraling into overdrive. When her alarm clock blared, she jumped, letting out a sharp, frustrated curse.

"Mondays are the absolute worst," she grumbled. She reached for her eyepatch, pulling it over her scarred eye, and trudged into the bathroom to start her routine. As she stared into the mirror, she tried to mentally prepare for the inevitable sting of the day, the cruel comments from local patrons and tourists alike. The constant barrage of being called a "monster" or "hideous" was wearing her down to the bone. She focused on her one healthy brown eye, whispering a mantra of hope. One day she would afford a prosthetic, and she wouldn’t have to hide behind this black patch forever. She pulled her chestnut hair into a tight, high bun and glanced out the window, sighing as she saw the thick, frosted layer covering the glass.

"Great, I’ll be shoveling snow until my back gives out after my shift," she muttered sourly. She bundled up in her heavy winter coat and boots, pulling the hood low to conceal the worst of her facial scarring, and stepped out into the biting cold to head toward the hotel. When she reached the lobby, her boss, Otis, greeted her with a strange, excited energy, telling her they’d had a new arrival late yesterday.

Paranoia flickered in her chest. She immediately leaned in to ask about the guest, fearing the worst.

"It’s not him, Sophia, don't you worry," Otis said, sensing her fear. "This guy is huge, bright blue eyes, thick black hair. Honestly, he looks like he walked right off a movie set," he added with a teasing glint in his eye. Sophia couldn't help but let out a small, skeptical giggle.

"I highly doubt a movie star is hiding out in a place like this, Otis."

"Well, he’s up in 205, and I want you to make sure that room is spotless. I charged him a premium too," Otis admitted with a smirk, causing Sophia to wag a finger at him in mock disapproval.

"Just make sure he gets extra soap and fresh towels, and see if he wants room service," Otis continued, his tone softening. "The big guy didn't eat a single thing when he checked in yesterday." Sophia nodded, stowing her heavy winter gear in the back office, and picked up her cleaning supplies with a heavy sigh before making her way down the long, quiet hallway.

The Previous Day

Faelon Ogrith, known in the dark realms as the Left Hand of Lucifer, was a massive being, a dark angel gifted with powerful, jet-black feathered wings. His nature was as frozen as the mountains he now stood upon. His disposition was heartless, and his expression was almost permanently locked in a deep, rugged scowl. Even the other demons usually gave him a wide berth. Lucifer had commanded him to descend to the human town of Winterset to observe the local reapers and the lives of the mortals who dwelled there. It was a quaint, picturesque place, but Faelon couldn't have cared less about the scenery. Normally, he would have defied such a trivial assignment, but the prospect of escaping the constant, suffocating advances of a demon named Cora, whom Lucifer was desperately trying to force him to marry, made the exile feel like a blessing. Cora was obsessed with him, and her relentless attempts to seduce him only fueled his disgust. He felt absolutely no romantic inclination toward her or anyone else for that matter.

A heavy blizzard had blanketed the landscape in pristine, blinding white while the humans crowded into their church for a Sunday sermon. The wind whipped freezing snow against Faelon’s face, causing his scowl to deepen. He sat perched on the church steeple, his massive black wings folded tightly against his broad, bare back, silently cursing the rhythmic, annoying tolling of the bells below. He was supposed to watch for the arrival of a reaper sent to collect an elderly man’s soul, but he had no clue when or where the transition would occur. He simply waited, his startling blue eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene below.

A couple walked toward the church entrance, clinging to each other with nauseating affection. "Yuck," he muttered, watching them with utter disdain. "What absolute garbage." Faelon was incapable of love, and the display made his skin crawl. He was momentarily startled when Lucifer materialized beside him with a mocking grin.

"I’ve provided you with some human clothes and a debit card so you can feed that massive frame and find a place to crash," Lucifer said, his tone dripping with fake cheer. "This mission will take time. Keep your wings hidden, and try to blend in with the cattle." Faelon growled, a low, guttural sound of pure irritation. He held out a hand, and as the falling snow touched his skin, it instantly evaporated into steam, hissing as it vanished. Lucifer’s smile faltered, and he stepped toward the edge of the steeple.

"Don't try my patience, Faelon, or I’ll set the hellhounds on you," Lucifer warned. Faelon let out a sharp, dark chuckle and snatched the duffel bag from the devil’s grip.

"Fine, boss. Whatever you say," he snapped. Lucifer nodded, satisfied, but lingering. "I’ll be checking on your progress periodically. Don’t get distracted." Faelon rolled his eyes and waved him away with a dismissive flick of his hand. Lucifer glanced at the swirling storm and shot him a parting look. "Enjoy the weather. It’s just as cold as your heart," he smirked before vanishing into thin air. Lucifer knew the dangerous, black-hearted angel didn't fear him, and that made him a significant liability.

Still invisible, Faelon dropped from the steeple and began walking toward the town, his heavy footsteps melting the snow beneath him. Realizing the humans might notice the strange footprints, he took to the air, flying toward the more cleared-off roads. He slipped into a dark alleyway, tucked his wings away, and pulled on a gray t-shirt and a long trench coat. He checked his pockets, ensuring the wallet and debit card were secure. He had been to the human world before, and he desperately hoped this would be his last.

He strode into the hotel lobby, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere of the room. A gray-haired man behind the desk peered over his spectacles, looking up at the towering, dangerous-looking stranger.

"I need a room for an indefinite stay," Faelon stated, his voice harsh and cold. The man, Otis, chuckled softly, seemingly unfazed by the intensity radiating off the visitor.

"You’ve come to the right place, sir. I’ve got the entire second floor vacant. It’s four hundred a week. I’ll need an ID and a card on file just in case of any accidents. Name’s Otis, I run this place." He gestured toward the hallway with a polite tilt of his head. Faelon pulled out his wallet, his movements clipped and efficient, and handed over his ID and the debit card. Otis processed the information with practiced ease.

"Here’s your key for 205. Housekeeping comes by at eleven to handle the basics. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Ogrith." Faelon didn't want to show his fangs, so he offered a curt, brisk nod, snatched the key, and marched up the stairs. He was livid that he was trapped in this mortal realm. The air felt thin and polluted, and the humans were entirely too strange for his liking. He entered his room, tossed the bag onto the bed, and stripped off his shirt and coat. His skin was always burning with the hellfire that coursed through his veins, making him perpetually overheated. After tossing his boots and pants aside, he stretched out on the king-sized bed and closed his eyes.

"At least here, there's peace," he growled to himself, drifting into a deep, heavy slumber. "No chance of that blonde wench bothering me here."