A portal made out of heavenly fire whirled to life. Sara glanced at her father warily and then at her friend’s ghastly state before the assassin pressed the blade to the High-warlock’s neck. Pitch, Lucifer, and her strode into the waiting entrance to the Celestial Realm.

Entering the Harmony Sanctum, the girl breathed out quietly to calm her racing heart. Her stifling emotions made it hard to remain relaxed as she guided the two powerful Galas toward Michael’s office.

Once they reached there, two Choirs stood beside the Archangel’s desk. Sara wanted to see if they knew what to do with these men because she wasn’t too sure or confident.

However, before she could ask what to do, John glared at her as if she were the definition of offensive. He looked at her outfit in disgust and snarled, “Why are you wearing that? You look like a ghost stripper; aren’t you supposed to be dressed better than a whore? Aren’t you Michael’s daughter after all?”

Sara replied weakly, “I just..." she hunched her shoulders at the archangel’s comment, “wanted to wear something I like.”

The High-warlock pressed his lips into a thin line and chewed the inside of his cheeks as if he was attempting not to bite off John’s head.

“Do you need help?” Daniel asked in an assuring manner at the Prowler’s sad gaze.

Her voice was squeakier than she liked, and Sara answered the opposite response she had planned on stepping into the office minutes ago. “No thanks, I’m good.” Also, if she wished to prove to her father and the Harmonies that she was capable like them, then watching Lucifer and Pitch like a hawk should earn some respect for her.

The Prowler urged the two men—more like almost stabbed Pitch in the neck—to keep moving; they left and headed to the elevator. The black elevator was in contrast with the white walls, which were near the glass stairs in the lounge.

Harmonies looked in their direction with a suspicious gaze, especially at Lucifer. They wondered why, of all people, Michael’s daughter was to prevent the Devil from wreaking havoc. Then they shifted their attention to Pitch in his finest clothing and turned white.

“The rumor is true...no, the Archangel killed him...this is a shapeshifter who is playing a dirty trick!” The Harmonies muttered among themselves, never leaving their eyes off him.

“I can show you what a dirty trick is if you like,” Pitch said, raising his handcuffed hands and grinning dashingly.

Dignified Choirs stared horrified at his crude humor, and they put their hands over their hearts, and others gulped if he would.

Sara blinked at him in confusion, cocking her head. She seemed to be interested in what he meant by a ‘dirty trick’ but the elevator’s doors opened and she shoved him in, squinting her eyes and mincing at Lucifer to follow. The door closed with a soft click, and she pressed the button.

The Galas stood in awkward silence. Sara’s coal eyes stayed straight forward, not daring to look at them. Her legs wanted to shake in fear, but she controlled them and held her breath instead.

These men could easily kill her if they wanted to. She wondered why Pitch hadn’t even attempted to run yet. Maybe because he knew it was pointless? Was this even Dr. Pitch or some strange Gala with a new ability?

Pitch flickered his eyes up the ceiling, hearing the whirling sound as the elevator lowered down. Three minutes of absolute quiet tricked by, and he asked, “How long does it take to get into the basement?” He didn’t remember it taking this long nine years ago when the Choirs dragged him in the elevator, but he was an emotional mess and trying to claw away from them.

Feeling rude for not answering his simple question, Sara said, “It takes about five minutes,” she shrugged, “because the basement is the most secure place in the world. A Choir will be motoring us right now and checking out our identifications.”

“Ha, however, the Heaven and Hell Bank claimed they were the most peaceful place in the world, and look what happened,” gloated Pitch. Being a cocky person could be in his nature, but he hardly knew how he could be at something, yet he was testing the waters of how she would react to his self-righteousness.

“Do you want your neck slit open?” Sara questioned in a plain tone as if that were a chore she did every day. She didn’t look at his startled gaze, but her tensed face expressed that she would do it on impulse.

Pitch shut his mouth, the corner of his lavender eyes catching a fearful girl. Sara usually had pale skin, and her lips quivered in fear. She wore ankle boots and laced tights. A box pleat skirt rode up her thighs, and two belts completed her skirt fashionably.

He claimed he was a fashionable warlock, but she beat him in style and flare. The most interesting thing about her outfit was her leather princess vest with buckles around it.

“I like your cropped jacket,” Pitch complimented.

This time, Sara stared at him. She hugged herself and smiled weakly, which made him pity her a bit. “Thanks, you are the first to ever like my outfit.” Going back to her lingering stance, a sigh escaped her cracked lips. “It’s my first time wearing my completed work at home.”

She rubbed her arms as if she were embarrassed. “Everyone disapproves of the style I wear, so I try to dress like everyone else. Only Kate doesn’t care.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The Devil scoffed, and anger flared across his countenance. “You know, Sara, you shouldn’t allow Harmonies to order you around based on what you wear.”

“No matter what your gender is, you should be allowed to feel confident in your body. Not to be pressed to wear something innocent that fits your tastes.” Pitch added, “This gives an excuse for more people to control you. Look at me. People used to mock me for wearing this kind of clothing because it made me too gay or because I wasn’t formal enough as an all-powerful warlock.

“You have to bat away cruel comments and be yourself because you only get to live once,” Pitch finished.

The elevator’s doors finally opened. At a marbled, structured front desk, a Choir stood up from her chair more for the Prowler, “Madam, do you need help?”

The young assassin smiled gleefully, happy to have someone be nice to her for once. I presume my father contacted you on short notice. I’ll need you to open the cell for me, please.”

Since his arrival at the bank, Pitch has been reckless and playful. Yet, heading back to the same prison, he vowed he’d never go again once he broke free. His frightened senses overwhelmed him. Pitch’s heart thumped heavily in his chest, weighing him down as if his legs were made out of stones, and he could barely muster to step closer to the prison.

How long would it take the Archangel to come around and finish off what he started?

Pitch desired to sway his gaze to his best friend for comfort, but he looked directly forward. A metal deadbolt began to click, the hatch door whirling open. It was painted pearl white with golden swirls.

As the loud grinding noises of the gears turned, the Choir smiled at Sara and said, “I haven’t seen you in forever. I’m always on desk duty or helping the wounded Prowlers. I sometimes see Mr. Ricky and Demetrius, but not you or Kate. You both are outstanding in defeating the Infernals…” She gulped at Lucifer, baring a stare at her, and she wished she had thought before speaking.

“Anyway,” the woman said, nearly shrieking out her dismissal, “I just wanted to say happy birthday.”

“Wait, today is your birthday?” wondered Pitch, “Why did you tell me?”

Sara said flatly, “It’s not your business.” The Choir’s statement clicked, and her brows knitted together: “It’s not until tomorrow…” She mumbled, her face creasing into a sour complexion, in which her special day didn’t seem anything to celebrate.

“How old are you?” Pitch questioned.

The Prowler clammed her mouth, and the large hatchet door swung open. Not understanding why this man couldn’t keep his business to himself, she chewed on her lips.

“She’s fifteen,” Lucifer answered for her.

Watching the girl glance away with a saddened visage behind her eyes, Pitch guessed she wanted to be excited for her birthday but didn’t allow herself to be. He wanted to ask her what was wrong with turning sweet sixteen, but he understood it was indeed none of his business.

He stepped inside a brightened, short hallway that led to his imprisonment. Pitch’s spiked boots scuffed on the smooth flooring. Memories flashed through his mind the last time he was here. He awaited his execution, and the old fear of this place turned into a smirk on his face.

Luckily, Sara walked behind him, not able to see his cocky expression. If the cameras caught him smiling, he didn’t care—maybe the Harmonies give him bonus points for being evilly insane. The Galas walked into the room, and Pitch went inside the cell, turning around to her with a blank look. He lifted his hands, “Do you mind taking the handcuffs off?”

Looking at him wearily, Sara slowly nodded and unlocked his handcuffs from the key in her pocket. After giving him a ‘don’t even dare to escape glare,’ she touched a screen against the wall.

Magic coursed through the High-warlock’s body before his powers snapped out of him once again. The invisible barrier had been put into place.

“Do you think this is the real Pitch or someone else?” inquired Sara, folding her arms across her chest a bit too self-consciously. The men noticed she asked because she was required to get as much information as possible—trained to have instincts in being a detective and a fighter—to find out the mystery in anything supernaturally related.

“Yes,” Lucifer said.

Her phone chimed, and she pulled it out to check the notification. Sara exhaled heavily, her shoulders rising tensely. She put her phone away and slid her back against the walls. “Father wants me to watch both of you until he comes back with a guard.”

She tucked her legs close to her, hugging her knees.

For the first time, the Infernals didn’t see a girl who was Michael’s daughter, but a vulnerable, scared girl to do such a burdensome task.

Thanks to a magical curse that kept the Devil from killing people without reason, Lucifer couldn’t hurt her if he wished to. Despite him leaning on the opposite wall, Sara was nervous.

Pitch noted how drained she looked. Exhaustion wasn’t the right term; she batted away with ease, but something unnerved his gut feeling. No, her shyness and discomfort didn’t bother him; anyone in her position to watch these intimidating Infernals would probably be physically shaking from terror.

What disturbed him was the way she looked.

After some time elapsed, Sara was bored but refused to scroll on her phone. She wanted to be alert in case the men pulled a trick on her; however, Lucifer hadn’t moved from sitting on the ground.

The silence ate away at all of them.

Finally, Pitch figured out what bothered him about her.

Sara looked ill. Not a fever sickness, but something unnatural. Something that maybe she didn’t even know about. Her energy wore off unnoticed, and her blood seemed drained from her.

Irritation prickled at Pitch. How has her father not noticed this? He glimpsed at his friend, and Lucifer had the same recognition that she looked pallid.

Pitch wanted to give Michael the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he couldn’t do anything about it? The Archangel certainly wasn’t a doctor, but the leader of the imperial army of Choirs.

He should’ve known to swallow his business into the Pit, but he spurted out, “Are you feeling okay?”

Fazed by the long stretch of quietness, Sara jerked her head at him in bafflement and sleepiness; she might’ve dozed off. “Um yeah?” She raised her eyebrows suspiciously at him once she recollected herself. “Why?”

Expecting a reply along that line, the doctor shrugged nonchalantly. “Just wondering.” Still, the atmosphere around her felt unsettling. The more he lingered around her, the air became colder and denser.

Like a ghost was hunting her.