“Aw, poor you,” Sal taunted. “I wonder why you are so tired, always carrying a burden to be someone your father wishes when you aren’t that kind of person.” He ran his fingers along the glossy horns on his head and misdirected the conversation to: “I do feel pain when you get shot.”

On the corners of Sara’s lips, a smile twitched up. “Good.”

“You are horrible, just like your father,” growled Sal.

Sara glared daggers at him. “Oh, you want to go there?” She spat out, “You are the worst person ever. Worse than anyone in the world—hell, even more so than the Devil!” She folded her arms.

Cocking a grin, reclining on the loveseat, and spreading his legs in a manly manner, Sal chuckled, “Well, not to brag. I’m the best and most dashing devil in the universe.”

“You would turn any gay man straight,” Sara said flatly.

Sal sighed. “You are just saying that to infuriate me. Nice try.” He grinned. “Now, it’s my turn to throw an insult at you.” He tilted his head at her and chewed on his lips. “I know so much about you; it’s a pity you know nothing about me.

“Standing five feet and five inches, your insecurities reach to the sky, and you are just a lonely girl who is submissive to her father’s whims. When are you going to stand up for yourself? Probably never because you are good at burying your feelings, like putting people six feet under.”

“Agh, I hate you!” Sara snarled.

“Did I hit a nerve?” smirked Sal. “I’m barely scratching the surface.”

To the girl’s relief that he was not hurling more emotional damage statements, the frosted doors of the office opened, and her father strode in with a tray of supplies. He placed the tray on his desk, motioning for his daughter to come sit on his desk. Sara obeyed, swinging her leg back and forth, the other one sore from the bullet wound.

She grabbed the tweezers, but Michael interjected, “Let me get the bullets out for you, sweetie.” He took it from her.

Sara complained, “I don’t want to take off my shirt.”

Staring at her with dismay, Michael answered offendedly, “You’re my daughter.” He added, “If you aren’t uncomfortable, I understand, you don’t have either.” As a parent raising a child during the modern generation, he taught that if she wasn’t comfortable, ‘no’ meant no. He had to respect her privacy.

After a couple of beats, Sara stripped off her shirt. She sat there in her bra and black pants, trusting her father as much as Kate, knowing they didn’t care how she looked underneath her clothing.

The Archangel already began pulling out the bullets from her, not wasting a moment’s beat. Pressing his hand against her shoulder, he yanked an ammo wedged in the other side of her shoulder. Some blood spurted out. He glanced up to see if that stung, but she hadn’t flinched once, looking more bored than anything else.

He dropped the bullet in a glass bowl and moved to the next one in her arm. After extracting it, he tossed it into the bowl. He set the tweezers down, and once Sara put them back on her shirt, he stroked his beloved daughter’s cheek, his powers healing the wounds.

“So darling,” Michael said, breaking the silence. “Did you hit me last night?”

This time, Sara flinched up at him from the words dropping in her lap. Her coal eyes glimmered at him, unprepared for the question. She guessed the reason he wanted to take the bullets out of her was not only to make sure she didn’t use her non-sanitized fingers in an open wound but to interrogate her afterward.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Father, why on earth would you think I’d bash your head? I would never,” responded Sara, unable to look into his eyes.

“Then, do you know who did?” Michael knew she wasn’t lying, but she was hiding something from him.

“Come on, do you think I would know who had hit you?” Sara scoffed, digging her nails into the edge of his desk with a nervous gaze settling on her pale face.

“Answer the question, sweetie,” Michael pressed, watching her dart her eyes around, expecting to meet his.

“Well, um, you know I’d never hit you? I love you!” exclaimed Sara.

“I know,” answered Michael, waiting patiently for her reply. “Whatever you are keeping from me, it’s best for you to tell me.”

Sara hopped down from the desk, hugging herself tightly with a flustered look. “Father, you need to focus on the Gala. Hey, the Gala could’ve knocked you out of the room.” She smiled awkwardly at her poor excuse. She grimaced, “If I knew whoever hit you, I’m only trying to protect you!”

Michael furrowed his golden brows that arched handsomely and said, “I am the Archangel; nothing scares me.”

“Besides your brother,” giggled Sara.

“Alright, beside him.” He pointed out, poking at her slender nose, “You are changing the subject.”

His daughter gazed in wonderment, deciding if she should tell him. She shuffled her feet closer to him and leaned her head on his muscular chest, hearing the soft beat of his heart. Emotions choked in Sara’s throat.

Brushing her black hair, Michael whispered, “Is the voice back, Sara?”

Sara reacted too fidgety and horror-stuck to Michael’s liking. “Why are you asking that?”

“I heard you mumbling to yourself in the arena. Did the person in your head bash the plates on my head?” surmised Michael.

Blood drained from her cheeks. Her heart pounded so loudly that she thought her father might be able to hear it. She wished to flee from this conversation but had been taught to face her problems. Inhaling deeply, Sara grabbed his hands and asked, “Your promise to keep this a secret only between us?”

“Of course, sweetie,” smiled Michael. He held his breath for what she might say next and was glad her trust in him stayed strong. Sara wasn’t a girl who was an attention-seeker and conjured up lies to remain in the spotlight.

Just as Sara began to spurt out the truth and tears threatened to fall, the office doors burst open. Daniel and John were running in a panic. She pulled away from her father, letting him focus on the critical task at hand and secretly happy to be done with their talk.

John snapped a glare at Sara, a snarl creasing. He was disgusted by the fact that their leader was cuddling a demonic child. The archangel scowled, delivering the bad news: “San Francisco’s city lights have gone out.”

“What?” Michael gasped, staring perplexedly at his Choir. He turned to Daniel and asked, “Is this true?”

Daniel nodded quickly, and he tried to muster out the information to his brother with calmness, but he replied with quivering lips, “Michael, it’s all over the news. Not only are San Francisco’s lights out, but in Las Angeles too.”

With a shake of his head in distraughtness, Michael speculated, “The Gala is targeting where Lucifer and I live.” He ordered his sidekicks, “Get the Choirs working right away with the city lights.”

He paused only for a split second to think and then said, “Have Harmonie's surveillance cameras motoring every street in San Francisco and Las Angeles.” With both of the lights out in the two cities, his brother was bound to notice something unnatural.

“Yes, sir,” Daniel responded firmly, and he dashed out of the office, nearly dragging John with him to do the predominant tasks they were assigned.

Sara questioned, amazed with the situation at hand, “Is there anything I can help with?”

Grabbing the telephone hastily, Michael looked at his daughter, offering assistance. The ordeal with the cities’ lights off had spun his course of direction off track. He wanted so badly for her to finish her sentence before they were interrupted, but as the Archangel, he had to assiduously fix the problem dropped on him because no one else would—or could.

Cutting off the lights of any major cities, especially the hometown of the Celestial Realm, was a threatening blow to the Harmonies he had to act immediately. “Go tell the others what’s happening.”

Sara swayed her head, knowing her father needed to make the phone call right away to Lucifer. She rushed over to him and hugged Michael tightly, missing the moments of their time together that had slowly been slipping away. A sharp pain of remorse stabbed her as if she had done something, but she knew that wasn’t the case.

“I love you!” the assassin whispered.

Before Michael could reply, his daughter flashed out of the office in the blink of an eye, so fast that the papers on his desk fluttered in the air with her speed. He smiled, his soul aching, and wished for anything in the world to spend more time with her. He disliked not getting her answer, but he had to trust she could take care of herself until this madness was over. “I love you too, baby girl.”