It was a beautiful morning. It was the type of morning that hymnodists could fill a psalter with and still have ink left over. After all, it was the glory of God that lit the sun, stretched its rosy fingers past the horizon and grasped the Earth tight with light. The soil of the Earth. The filthy soil of the Earth. Puriel swallowed hard, the bitter ghost of earl gray stewing on the back of Cherry’s tongue. 

[i]Caffeine is bad for your health[/i], they conveyed. It was less talking and more conducting, waving the proverbial arm to guide the electrical web of the human brain into a thought. Sort of pathetic, really, how easily such things could be intercepted. But Puriel did not have a brain of their own on Earth, so it was Cherry’s they must deign to direct.

The aforementioned human snorted. Her tea was still a little too hot—she relished the weak burn of her palm against the metal of the thermos. [i]What are you, Mormon?[/i]

Puriel did not dignify that with a response. They were tired of this boring stroll down the sidewalk. Cherry had lost sight of the prophet and her paltry guard at least three times—once bumping into another pedestrian, twice watching a police car blare down the street, thrice spotting a set of kitchen knives in a shop window. And that wasn’t counting the amount of times she had glanced down at her precious tea just as the prophet was about to choose one tine of a fork in the path. Honestly. Puriel understood there couldn’t exactly be a vetting program for demonic vessels, but the fact that they got stuck in this one had to be some kind of joke. It might have been, actually. One did not make a lot of friends in hell, especially not if one was an angel. Is an angel.

[i]Focus[/i], Puriel commanded. They’d really hoped to conserve what control they could exercise for the confrontation itself, but at this rate no confrontation would come to pass. They didn’t suppress her consciousness entirely—just enough to direct motor functions—but they received a valiant attempt at resistance nonetheless. 

As they rounded the corner, catching a glimpse of the prophet entering a café, they smiled. And then schooled their expression immediately. Such a human instinct—Cherry must have been rubbing off on them. [i]We will conduct our business outside[/i], they said. [i]I have no wish to involve the authorities and I doubt the prophet will either. [/i]

[i]You never let me have any fun[/i]. Cherry tested her frontal lobes and Puriel loosened their grip on the reins. 

[i]Behave, and I may allow you.[/i]

Rolling her eyes, Cherry pushed open the door to the shop. A charming little bell announced her entry. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, platinum blonde and shining like the sunrise. [i]So… where are they?[/i]

Resisting the urge to use the Lord’s name in vain, Puriel gritted out, [i]Directly in front of us[/i]. The pair couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried. The knight was alert but not [i]on [/i]alert—clearly his sense of security had not yet been cored out. Likely armed, as well. His shirt was casually but importantly loose, allowing ample space for a gun or knife or vial of holy water. Or all of them. Yet he wouldn’t be the issue—knights seldom were, out of formation—the prophet would. If their sources were correct, she was uncannily adept at reading auras. The show would be on from the second she saw them. And she would be a fight, not an execution. Taking a deep breath, Puriel directed the body to tap the prophet on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Cherry said brightly, as if greeting a friend. “Jasmine! God, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Why don't we do a little catching up?" She gestured to the door with a hungry grin. "It's such a pretty day out.”