Page 38 of Metatron

His wrath.

He boomed in a voice learned on the battlefield. “Unhand the holy man, foul creatures.”

The pope’s eyes widened as they fixated on the glowing Metatron.

The imps hissed and then dropped the pope, who shrieked, only to be caught by a different set of imps. Who also dropped and caught. The creatures played a game and drew attention. People appeared to gawk from windows and on balconies. They converged in the street as well, staring upwards at the unfolding drama caught in the roving spotlights the guards manipulated.

Gunshots rang out, and an imp fell, along with a cardinal.

The male in question didn’t scream when he hit the hard ground. Pulverized on impact.

It led to those watching exclaiming in horror. Metatron had to stop this.

Metatron hovered and projected his voice. “Unholy creatures, you have gone too far. Unhand His Holiness at once.” He used the honorific cognizant because he wanted the pope—however annoying—on his side.

The imps cooperated a little too well, letting go of the pope, who plummeted with a yell that cut off as Metatron only barely managed to grab hold, slowing his descent. He dropped the pope in a courtyard full of armed guards, who quickly circled the man.

He’d deal with him after he handled the imps facing him with slavering jaws and extended claws.

For some reason, a human expression slipped past his lips. “Bring it.”

The imps took it as an invitation to fight, and not only did they all converge on him at once, but they also dropped the remaining cardinal. This one didn’t splat but rather hit a roof and rolled, only barely catching a ledge. He’d better hold on because Metatron didn’t have time to rescue.

As the imps swooped in on Metatron, he took care of them, slashing and slicing, his body in continuous motion, his shield holding steady despite the many blows. Given the way they crowded, he landed atop a turret to battle, jaw gritted as he hacked, the imps seemingly an endless wave despite their dead bodies turning to ash.

It took all of his strength to keep fighting until he went to swing his sword and realized no imps remained. He took a moment to lean on the pommel of his weapon and surveyed the area around him. The sky appeared clear, but given the darkness of night, that didn’t mean anything. He heard no screams, but he did note the murmur of voices and see the many cameras aimed in his direction, taping his actions. Good. Let them see an angel fighting evil. It would make it harder for the pope to deny their existence.

Speaking of whom… He returned to the palace, landing in the courtyard and facing a pair of guns aimed at him.

“Where is the pope?” he asked.

One soldier swallowed hard before saying, “What are you?”

“God’s voice on Earth. Now where is he?”

The soldier pointed at the palace and the door leading inside. Metatron didn’t let the lock on it get in his way. He sliced his way through and found the disbeliever in white on his knees praying. “…Heavenly Father, forgive me my sin.” The guards in the room appeared confused, some raising their weapons to take aim, others dropping to their knees and bowing their heads.

To avoid injury, he kept his shield and HALO raised as he announced, “God hears your prayer, but he has yet to forgive, given your impertinence in refuting his messenger and warriors.”

His words drew the pope’s startled gaze, which quickly turned to fear, as he did the sign of the cross. “Get thee back, Satan.”

“Hardly Satan,” Metatron snorted. “I am an archangel of God. A warrior in his Army of Light.”

“Prove it.”

“It is not I who needs to prove his worth to God but you. Refuting his word. Ignoring his blessed warriors.” He pointed his sword. “By challenging his choir, you have aided the enemy. Are you an agent of Hell?”

“Never,” the pope blustered, struggling to his feet. “I am the holiest of men. God speaks to me!”

“That’s a lie,” Metatron’s flat reply. “If you were listening to God, you would have never disavowed our existence. You would be aiding us in our holy battle against Hell instead of strengthening the enemy.”

The pope refused to give in. “How do I know you’re his angel?”

The repeated stubbornness had even the pope’s own soldiers eyeing him with disbelief.

But looking at the sweating man, it hit Metatron. “You know I speak the truth; you just don’t care.”

“I do care,” the pope huffed. “I care about living. Hell is coming, and Heaven isn’t coming to help us. And a handful of angels won’t stop it.”