And I saw an angel coming down out of heaven, having the key to the Abyss and holding in his hand a great chain. He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil, or Satan, and bound him for a thousand years. He threw him into the Abyss, and locked and sealed it over him, to keep him from deceiving the nations anymore until the thousand years were ended. After that, he must be set free for a short time.

And so the Bible said, God created the world in six days, and on the seventh he rested. Riveting stuff, but it missed out all the fun parts. That seventh day hadn't exactly been tea and crumpets. The Old Man had left himself wide open. Mores the pity he'd still won the fight. That one was never going to stop stinging.

No land on earth could rival the heat of Gehenna, but San Antonio in August came pretty close. The air was too dry, too laden with cloying dust and dirt. It clung to every surface, every inch of his skin, suffocating the body he inhabited. It was close enough to home to be comfortable.

The lines of his face reflected in the glass were smooth, sharp but sensual. The type of face Michelangelo might have crafted if the bottom feeder had ever taken an interest in fucking a boy over the age of twelve. It had been years, centuries even since there had been a face on earth worthy of his unholy presence. He would know. He'd looked.

The human's name was Jensen. Danish. God is gracious. He approved of the irony. God might be gracious, but the old bastard had an eye for beauty, and he was beautiful. Burrowing home inside flesh and bone had been as easy as sliding into a silk shirt, that fragile little soul fleeing his presence like a scared virgin in the wake of an invasion. Traces of him remained, docile as a lamb, filling in all the blanks.

The rest he had been happy to figure out for himself. He'd fucked a woman before his host had stopped screaming, letting her live, just because he could. A man right after. He'd not gone so cleanly.

That one had been sloppy. He'd gotten a little overexcited. Justifiably, in his mind. Everyone was allowed a little downtime now and then. Even him.

On the plus side, sloppy meant hunters, and hunters meant entertainment. He'd not seen one of their kind since Jerusalem fell to Salah al-D?n.

The straight razor was cool against his skin, and he was careful not to nick, not to scratch. He liked this body, liked all the fun he could have in it.

All kinds of fun.

Bang. Bang. A heavy hand fell on his door. The razor slipped, drawing a tiny line of blood that wouldn't have hurt even if he could feel pain. He frowned, annoyed.

"Enough with the beautifying, dude, we got a flight to catch!"

He closed the razor silently, let it rest warm in his palm. He thought about taking it with him, just for giggles, until the voice inside told him of x-rays machines and metal detectors. He slipped it into the wash bag and stashed a ball point pen behind his ear.

Humans, they automatically assumed that the sharper weapon was the more dangerous.

"Jeeeen-ie, come on." The nickname had annoyed the human inside, but he'd never said anything, never had the balls to stand up to his friend.

That would change.

The wash bag settled between folded shirts and rolled up denim. He zipped the case closed and carried it to the door.

The door swung open, bright light streaming in from outside. "All right already." He drawled, easy and smooth. "Chill."

The human outside...he'd look so much better without flesh on his bones.

An arm settled on his shoulder, heavy, confining. Once upon a time, he'd allowed it, accepted the domination as if were preordained from above.

That was something else he'd have to fix.

A favor for his generous human host.

They stepped out into the bright Texan sun, and he smiled. Close enough to Hell.

The arm around him squeezed. "You looking forward to heading back to work?"

"Sure," he smiled, "can't wait."

Read the sequel Damnation Sings