Chapter Five

If there was one part of the Flying Wing that Aeron loved, it had to be the bars. Hundreds of them lined the casino walls, each one fancier than the last. All the seats were covered in fine black leather and were also unbelievably soft. The largest was located at the back of the room, with at least a hundred bartenders manning its taps. The golden broth never stopped flowing here, and alcohol saturated every nook and cranny, transforming any mortal who entered the casino into a smelly, drunken horror. Sometimes he liked to pull up a chair and watch the chaos. Even now, the sound of four booze-fueled brawls filled the air. "One hundred years have done this place wonders," he thought to himself—surprised at the sheer amount of change the Flying Wing had undergone. The staff and the casino were still the same, but the architecture had gone through some incredible renovations. More windows had been added to the outer walls, and a skylight had been installed. Aeron couldn't help but marvel at the beautiful decor as he leaned on one of the many jewel-encrusted banisters.

Sadly, no amount of shine could hide the scum that infested the Flying Wing. He wasn't sure where to start. Poker sharks and predators roamed the halls in droves—their many victims bumbling about the tables like a swarm of locusts. A few of the less fortunate gamblers were crying, but that was normal. That was what happened in a casino, after all. Some people lost while others won; that's how the game works. He caught a few of the crooks eyeing him up. His bum-like fashion made him look like easy prey. "Hey, stranger, want to play a few hands?" one of the cockier sharks yelled, but he ignored them. He didn't stop walking until he finally arrived at a tiny hole-in-the-wall near the back of the main lobby.

This hidden slice of Heaven was one of the most miniature bars in the entire building. There were only three stools, and the counter wasn't even three meters long! The bartender wasn't much to look at either. She was an average-looking girl with pale ginger hair. Her apron was slightly askew, while her black belt lay strewn across the countertop. "How's it going, Kathy?" Aeron smiled as he leaned up against the counter. Kathy just glared at him and rolled her eyes. She must've remembered him.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Weber," she said as she corrected her crooked nametag. She immediately started to pour him a drink, almost as if he was a regular customer. "How're things going at The Courthouse?" Aeron shrugged as he took a generous sip from the hearty brew. The grin that rested upon Kathy's face was one of pure bliss. "What's the matter, Mr. Judge? Can't keep your liquor down?" If only she knew he was an Angel, that'd put her in her place. But he didn't want to tell her that. Instead, all he could do was stare at her cocky smile. If it weren't for the barkeep's yellow teeth, her grin would've been the same as Jeremy's.

Aeron couldn't help but curse as he tenderly cradled his pounding head. "Dammit, I came here to get away from that prick," he thought. "The last thing I need now is to be reminded of him." When the headache finally cleared, he downed the rest of his drink and sighed. Immediately, his body erupted into a veritable fountain of tremors. His arms shook like earthquakes, causing the entire countertop to rumble. But it didn't last long. The convulsions dispersed quickly, and soon he was back to normal. Except, this time, there was no headache. Kathy grinned as she cleaned his glass.

"I'm surprised you remembered the trick. Unless you gulp my concoctions down, you'll get a hangover that could knock even God himself to dreamland," she bragged as Aeron laughed. Her drinks might've been too strong, but they came with a strange sweetness that he adored.

"I remember when I first met you eight hundred years ago. You pulled that trick on Malcolm, and he was out cold for two straight days," Aeron told her as the demon of a bartender laughed—wallowing in her past nostalgia. "Still, it surprises me that they haven't fired you yet. After all, your hellish brews pack quite the dangerous punch." Aeron felt a shiver bolt through his body as he downed another mug of Kathy's finest. For a split second, the Angel could feel all his troubles wash away. If only the rest of Heaven was as pleasurable as one of these drinks. Sadly, luck wasn't on his side that night. As it didn't take long before the Templar's castle of pleasure came crashing down around him.

The chair crashed into him like a train. The wooden piece of furniture cracked and splintered as it forced Aeron off his stool, throwing him onto the cold hard ground. The mug he was holding flew up into the air; the golden broth it carried spilled onto the floor like rain. That was when he heard the yelling. "You cheating bastard! I demand you return my winnings!" Aeron grimaced as he tried to get back on his feet. The alcohol covering the floor didn't help as with every step, he slipped back down to the ground.

"Fuck," he hissed. His clothes were covered in drink from head to toe. Kathy's finest had found its way into every fiber of his coat, and judging by the unbelievable stench, the cloth would reek of booze for weeks. He would have asked her for laundry advice, but that dastardly bartender was already long gone. But he didn't blame her, as it seemed like the casino had transformed into a battlefield. A large group of men had gathered in the front of the lobby, their leader barking orders near the center of the mob. He was the one who screamed a few seconds ago. His chestnut hair was limp and messy, and he towered over most of the others. "He looks familiar," Aeron mumbled as he snuck towards the group.

"What the hell, man? You lost fair and square, accept it." Aeron looked over to the other end of the hall and saw a wealthy-looking patron hiding behind a group of bodyguards. Until today, he could never understand why there was a need for bodyguards in Heaven. Now it made sense; gambling turned men into monsters.

"You swindled me out of five centuries!" the tall bruiser yelled as he shoved his way past the escorts. He effortlessly knocked four of them out, and it didn't take long before he had the wealthy patron cornered. He ruthlessly grabbed the man's collar and dragged him into the air. Aeron could hear the wind leave the assaulted customer's lungs as he struggled to escape his assailant's steel-like grasp. The angry gambler's cronies were quick to rush past the customer's unconscious bodyguards. With nobody to help him, it seemed as if the mob's will would determine the patron's fate. "There's nowhere to run now, snake. Hurry up and return our winnings!" Instead of complying with his orders, the patron just smiled and spat on his aggressor's left cheek.

"I told you already I won fair and square. It's not my fault that you guys suck at poker." In return for that little comment, the bruiser burrowed his fist into the patron's stomach. Bright red blood poured out of his mouth, staining his and the assailants' clothes the color of roses. That was when the mob jumped in, and, without a moment's rest, they battered the man. Screaming bloody murder as they did. The casino's security didn't wait long to leap into the fray. With tasers and batons, they tried their best to suppress the crowd. After minutes of this, eventually, only one person remained standing: the original assailant.

"Sir, would you please come with us?" one of the personnel asked. At the very least, they were trying to be peaceful. Even the blood-hungry guard Aeron met at the entrance was there, trying his best to talk the man down. It went without saying that their efforts went right over the aggressor's head. The assailant was quick to turn his fists on the guards, and before anyone could blink, knocked three of them into dreamland. Taser prongs peppered his body, with one embedded in every major muscle. However, that failed to stop him. As the riot continued, a few of the mob members managed to break free from their bindings. Aeron knew that, at this rate, the security detail would be overwhelmed.

With a sigh, the alcohol-covered Angel frowned and cracked his knuckles. And, after straightening his vest, he headed into the chaos. "This situation's gotten pretty dire," he mumbled, a gigantic smile creeping upon his lips. It was time for him to get some much-needed relaxation. "I guess a little exercise wouldn't hurt." And with that, the assailants' fates were sealed.

Eight hundred and fifty years ago...

Since we Angels live for as long as we do, I find it hard to remember my early years. My first two centuries of life are a blur. Just a mismatch of occasional worship and boredom, but there is one aspect that I distinctly remember. I remember the fear. The other children were afraid of me. I never hit them, never cursed. I remember being popular. Yet still, the fear was always there. I could never seem to shake it off. That black cloud followed me everywhere I went. It stained every waking moment. One day the fear overflowed and took me over—that was the day I became a judge. Besides little bits and pieces like that, I can only clearly recall one other memory from my youth.

It was just a regular, sunny day—as the weather is always perfect in the upper echelons—and it was time for me to go to the daily worship. At that time, the stubby mass of feathers that were my wings had yet to develop. So, my only option was to walk up the many, many steps to the central cathedral. I don't recall much about the cathedral, but I do remember its simplicity. The Angels prided themselves on their so-called humbleness, which was probably why the cathedral completely lacked seats and benches. However, even as a child, I saw right through those lies. Even though the church was entirely crafted from cheap wood and had a dirt floor, whenever I stepped into that place, I could almost feel the cockiness of my brethren washing over me. The poor man's chapel was nothing more than a cover, a dim wall to hide our sense of superiority. The eldest Angels were the worst offenders. It was the way they carried themselves that pissed me off. All of them tried their best to act like saints, constantly chasing the attention and admiration of the others. The adoration the elders received must have been intoxicating. The mortals would say they were addicted to the spotlight.

During one of the elder's ego-stroking sermons, I, and a few friends, decided to climb up to the top of the roof. We heard the older Angels talk about how breathtaking the view up there was, and with none of us being able to fly, we had to make do with a partially collapsed wall in the church's backyard. We discovered the decrepit ruins a few months back. It was an ugly little pile of rotten planks and moss-covered bricks.

After an hour or two of experimenting, we managed to find a relatively safe route up to the top. The sermon was nearly over by the time we had finished our ascent. The jagged rocks had torn our baby-like hands to pieces. Dirt and debris stained our fresh wounds black. I'll be honest, at that time, I cried. We were sheltered Angels, and this was one of the first times we experienced pain.

But in between my choked wails and tears, I could feel myself begin to giggle. I felt my once-frozen heart melt as I stared down at the mountain I'd just conquered—the blood pouring out of my burning wounds staining my silken cloak red. And for the first time in years, I was happy to be alive. I can't say that my friends agreed with me. They were too busy crying over the pain to notice their beating hearts. It took hours before we were discovered and rescued. The boys were happy to leave that tower, but I wanted to stay. I think it was then that they recognized me as something to be feared. But I didn't mind. After all, that was when I realized that I was alive, while my "friends" opted to stay chained. And the living shouldn't have any business with befriending the dead.