Seventh ranking in the supernatural list of who’s the most powerful, Timothy Watt could easily climb to third if he just stepped in as the new High-warlock everyone destined him to be. His emerald eyes shone back at the prisoner and he wearily looked up at two cameras motoring the room.

The door shut behind him with a bang, and he flinched at the loud sound. His nervous gaze queasily swiped around the cell, and he inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart.

The Archangel had asked him to do a favor and talk to this man. A simple conversation between warlock to warlock and see if Timothy could get anything out of him. Surely, if Michael couldn’t pry any information from Pitch, how could he?

Looking at the prisoner, Timothy saw the High-warlock’s trench coat had been taken away. He lay on the bed in his collared black shirt and leather pants. Although the boy was certain the Choirs had ensured Pitch had nothing on him, he blinked in surprise to see him wearing spiked boots.

"Hello, Timothy,” said Pitch, staring at the smooth ceiling. His black hair flayed around the soft pillow, tangled on his head but beautifully tangled. Slowly rising into a sitting position, his nostrils flared as he turned to him.

“Let me guess, Michael brought you here like a puppet for you to ask me some questions." He swung his legs over the bed’s edge, and his lavender eyes sparkled back at the older teenager, a snarl on his countenance.

"Yes!" stuttered Timothy. He breathed out to calm his racing heart. There was no weakness to be shown when he inched closer to the barrier, hoping to muster a blank expression. With a dry chuckle that rasped in his throat, he asked one of the list of questions the Archangel had written for him. “So, do you mind telling me who let you out?”

Pitch smiled warmly. “You know that Michael knows you are next in line to be the High-warlock?” He scoffed, “Michael was already using you even before you signed up, probably thinking you have accepted such a tremendous job—that is, literally, for a lifetime until you die.”

“I’ve helped him before,” replied the young warlock with pressed lips.

“How old are you again?” growled Pitch. “It seems your boss likes to hire the youngest people to serve him. His daughter is just fifteen during his dirty work; don’t let him pull you into it.”

Timothy glared at the prisoner, not expecting the conversation to turn on him. “I’m nineteen and can make my own choices.”

“Hardly an adult,” acknowledged Pitch.

“I understand that being an all-powerful warlock to the Galas is a huge job, but I’m considering it,” grumbled Timothy, and he paused to think about what to say next. Being an immortal, he would live a full life and wanted to make a difference before someone murdered him or something supernatural got to him.

“It’s not like I signed up to be a powerful person to serve people like you didn’t sign up to be back in this prison,” retorted Timothy, folding his arms across his chest, and his trench coat was splattered with blood and needed an iron.

Changing the subject, Pitch walked over to the invisible barrier. He tapped on it, his fingers feeling the cool, hard surface that felt like glass. “Do you think if I try to break this, I’ll go into a deep slumber?" He wondered because he recalled Kate having told me that face nine years ago.

“I wouldn’t try,” stated Timothy. He pursed his lips even more and asked, “Are you working with Lucifer?”

Pitch snared, “Lucifer tossed me away like a rag doll. There is no way in hell I would be working for him.” He glared at the cameras and said, “That’s a fucking insult.”

With that question answered truthfully or not, Timothy inquired, “If you have been alive all these years, why did you randomly appear now?”

A devilish smile flickered on the High-warlock’s face, and he said it with a twinkle in his gaze. “That’s a good question.”

“You go to taunt Kate, have her tell Michael that you are alive, and then go to Hell to provoke some more. Next, you decide to turn off the lights in Las Angeles and San Francisco. Was there any reason for your actions?”

Thomas Pitch shrugged with innocence. “Who doesn’t like some drama?”

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Feeling like the boy wasn’t making any progress and the man was answering the questions with a question, Timothy sighed. Why didn’t Michael choose someone better for this task?

He pushed, irritated in his polyester trench coat. “You walked into your death bed when presenting yourself at the Heaven and Hell Bank.”

“Yes, yes,” Pitch waved his hand dismissively. “So what, darling? I live on the dangerous side.”

“Who helped you escape?” challenged Timothy, who clutched his hands into a ball.

Leaning against the glass wall, Pitch huffed with a quirky grin, “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”

The teenager glanced at the cameras and took a timid step.

“A little bit closer, darling,” leered Pitch.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, Timothy scooted closer in his green sneakers.

“One more step, and I promise to spill the tea.”

With hesitation, Timothy locked eyes and moved one more step. His nose nearly touched the barrier, and he pleaded, “Tell me. Who let you out?”

Doctor Pitch faced him. A grin plastered on his complexion, and his lavender eyes shone out. He lowered his voice into a seductive whisper. “Don’t you like second chances?”

The young warlock stared at him with confusion. “What—” Yet Timothy sensed something mischievous in the prisoner’s eyes. The sound of glass shattered above him, and his heart dropped into his stomach like a dip on a roller coaster.

Snapping his gaze up, Timothy gasped, closing his eyes to not get glass in them. Stumbling back in utter shock and not getting cut by the glass, the presence of Pitch’s powers exploded in the air. Frisson chilled his back and had him shiver in astonishment at his powerful aura.

Sirens blared in the room, nearly piercing Timothy’s ears. A lavender blast slammed on his chest, and he flung back, hitting his back against the door. A crack boomed, and he screamed out in pain; his spine had broken.

However, he let the course of his power through him, healing himself as quickly as possible. He couldn’t get up to stop Pitch from the shock vibrating down his bones.

Thomas Pitch chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you fell for that trick, tsk tsk.” He stepped over the boy, seizing him in pain, and said, “Fine, you wanted to know why I let my beautiful self know to the world?” He responded coyly and lifted his hands, sparks of lavender electrifying the air. “I’ll show you, darling.”

The walls rumbled and exploded into thousands of pieces, floating around them. Choirs appeared all around Pitch, but he jerked his hand up, and they were paralyzed. He flickered his finger, and they soared across the room.

The desk lady screamed and scrambled away from him.

Where was Michael? Timothy was positive that he would be watching through the cameras. Now he recalled that the Archangel told him he was getting something for Sara’s birthday and trusted Timothy to handle it. He choked back a sob. The Archangel was stupid for trusting him.

The walls that completed the rooms around them burst into pieces also, and happiness danced over Pitch’s face. A glint of silver peaked out. He let the crumbling walls fall on the Choirs and flickered towards the silver. Lavender trailed behind him. He easily dodged the rest of the big chunks of walls drifting around the basement.

There were also broken ancient items, but many objects remained in one piece. Where the items were held in glass boxes, those cases had been shattered. A Holy War painting had been cut in two, the beautiful picture was separate, and no magic could repair it.

A sword levitated in front of Pitch, a heavenly glow surrounding it.

Inhaling deeply, Pitch punched the heavenly glow, his fist thrusting against the magical circle, and used his magic and shock blows to break the barrier. A splinting crack ruptured the circle, and oddly, the wind gusted at his face, his black hair ruffled.

The most powerful warlock cracked out in elation and rubbed his hands together. He had been waiting for this day to come.

“PITCH!” roared the Archangel behind him.

Thomas Pitch didn’t waste a beat and snapped the sword from its hold, whirling around and pointing the blade at him. “Ah, hello, Michael.”

Gaping at Pitch in horror, Michael’s lips trembled. He growled, “Give me that!”

“You see, Michael,” answered Pitch in a gloating tone, and he cocked his head to one side. “You have no power over me.”

The Archangel seethed at him through clenched teeth and hissed, “You have no idea what you are doing.”

"Actually, I do." Pitch grinned wickedly. “I hold the most powerful weapon in the world. The sword that can kill you.”

Michael lurched forward, his golden eyes blazing with hatred. The pieces of the walls came forth and blocked him. A sword burning with heavenly fire appeared in his hands, and he sliced the bare wall, hearing Pitch’s laughter ring out.

Particles of magic swirled around Thomas Pitch, almost looking like enlarged atoms coming together. The lavender particles touched every aspect of his body, and his eyes shone with triumph.

Michael brought the blade’s edge to split the warlock’s head open. However, the particles burst around Pitch, and he vanished.

The Archangel’s sword cut through empty air.