Puriel barked out a harsh, one-beat laugh. “An honorable man would not espouse such hubris. You are a dog, yes, but a vain beast cowed by no master. To speak so frankly with your prophet is a disgrace.”

With a sidelong glance at Jasmine: “Collar his corpse.”

They struck swiftly. There must be no hesitation—Puriel now shared in their human frailty. Cherry dove forward, ducking beneath the gun with supernatural speed and slamming her body into his left shin. He stumbled but did not fall, twisting to a more advantageous position—yet in doing so, he lowered the gun just slightly enough for her to grab the barrel and yank it down. A shot went off. Cracked the cement. Echoed down the alley. Christ, they'd gotten too used to silencers… damn knights and their glory. Fingers burning around the metal, she wrested it from his hands using the momentum from a roll to the side. Puriel detested the way she fought. Brutish, instinctive, wild—she couldn't name an actual maneuver to save her life. Though they doubted the street fights of her youth ever taught her one. In this brawl as in others, they yearned for the vicious discipline of a sword… but this was no time for daydreaming. A wave of adrenaline crashed through her veins, loosed from the tap by Puriel. No use spending magic when there were biological bolsters available. 

With a gleeful screech, Cherry cracked the barrel across the man's face. Infernal flame peeled from the bullet-seared chamber, boiling the skin-cartilage-blood of his nose. He cried out. Punched her in the stomach—excellent form—and followed it up with a slash from some unseen blade. Cherry giggled and hit him again. His nose was going to fall right off his face at this rate.

[i]Guns contain bullets[/i], Puriel advised flatly. [i]You might consider using them.[/i]

Cherry ignored them, high on combat. Sighing internally, they let her fight (bam bam bam liver damage bam bam ulna fracture bam knuckle contusion goddamn it was gonna take a lot of effort to heal her), turning their attention to the prophet. But it was not their target their gaze caught on—rather, the body slumped at the entrance to the alley. Shit. How had they not noticed that? They were becoming as reckless as Cherry. Speaking of recklessness: she could [i]probably[/i] handle herself. They needed to confirm the figure was not an enemy. 

Unfurling a mental tendril towards the woman, they heard her speak more through the mind than the mouth. “Demon.”

Excitement fizzled through them. Could it be…?

Horrific images overwhelmed her, strobing like an epileptic's nightmare. Demons. Demons that she was helpless to stop. That she did not understand. Oh, how they wanted to probe deeper, but could not. This was no mortal mind.

[i]Nephilim[/i].

God must have misplaced a miracle. Here, before them, an [i]angelborn[/i] (an angelborn!), untouched by the corrupting hands of the knights. Blessedly ignorant of God's lies. That He could demonstrate the deadly sin of pride, that He could wipe His angels’ memory and expect them to follow nonetheless… that was proof enough that the principles, not their creator, must be followed. This angel would understand. Puriel would make them.

Tuning back into the body, they gave pain a clinical ackowledgement. The knight was beating the shit out of Cherry, and having his shit beaten out in kind. Good to see humans playing fair. Puriel seized Cherry's arm, pulled the trigger, and blew his brains out with a bullet of pure brimstone.

“Hey!” she cried aloud, as if thinking it at them wasn't enough. “He was mine!”

[i]We have a new directive. We will obtain the nephilim.

The what?[/i]

Hissing through Cherry's teeth, Puriel took a heartbeat to consider. They had killed the knight in a matter of seconds. The others would be on them in less than that—it was the grace of Lucifer alone that had allowed them what little time they'd stolen. The prophet had to die. And yet. And yet and yet and yet… they would not be granted this opportunity again.

They dashed towards the angel.