The valet, eyes darting around the opulent foyer, sneered. "Is this a twenty-to-one? Seriously?"
Fabian's hair shimmered with a brilliant yellow light, and his eyes glowed intensely.
A glowing white line spiraled around his arms, forming a striking dot on his back, with the lines subtly glowing beneath his shirt. His fingers sparkled with a soft luminescence, completing the otherworldly look.
Jermaine's muscles bulged, the sound of tearing fabric echoing as his clothes ripped apart.
Tiger-like markings emerged across his skin, dark stripes contrasting against his tone, while his eyes glowed an intense yellow.
"Yo, Malachi, what we doing?" he called out, ready for action.
The valet stood tall, a cruel smirk on his face as the wound on his hip healed, along with all his other injuries.
"Hate to burst your bubbles, but I don't consent to this," he said, his tone dripping with mockery.
Deon sucked his teeth, annoyance etched on his face.
Deon extended his hand, and a shimmering staff emerged, solidifying in his grip.
With a swift motion, he hurled it forward, declaring, "Man, shut up!"
The valet, quick on his feet, leaned aside just in time, watching the staff embed itself firmly into a distant column.
Turning back to Deon, the valet's eyes widened in awe, and he could only manage to say, "Boy..."
Miguel surged forward, a fiery aura trailing behind him as he drove his knee with brutal force into the valet's jaw. The impact sent the valet hurtling backward, his body cutting through the air like a rag-doll before crashing into the grand staircase.
Wood splintered and cracked beneath him, and he slumped momentarily, dazed by the punishing blow.
Struggling to regain his senses, the valet blinked rapidly, the fight momentarily knocked out of him as he lay amidst the debris, astonished by the sheer force of the strike.
Malachi watched, the scene unfolding before him. "Alright, guys, how about you guys get out of here," he ordered.
Jermaine shook his head. "Nah, I ain't going nowhere."
Noah gave Malachi a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Remember, I told you I got your back."
Ronaldo, fidgeting, muttered, "I don't know what's up with you guys, but I'm out of here."
Before he could take another step, Alexis declared, "I'm coming with you." Ronaldo, surprised but relieved, simply nodded, "Alright, come on then ."
Hugging Malachi, she whispered, "Thanks for saving me." He smirked, amused at how he almost bailed.
"Come out of this alive," she grinned, then ran off with Ronaldo. Malachi chuckled, finding the whole situation unexpectedly funny.
The chaos around him couldn't entirely diminish the warmth spreading through Malachi.
He was struck by how much larger and more muscular Jermaine appeared.
The valet burst from the rubble into the ballroom, his clothes tattered and skin streaked with dust and blood.
The valet leapt out of the rubble, dust pluming around him as he struggled to remain upright.
Jermaine dashed toward him, moving so quickly he was little more than a blur slicing through the chaos.
Fabian, standing firm, thrust his palm forward; a white projectile shot swiftly from his hand, streaking over Jermaine's shoulder with a faint whistle.
The projectile struck the valet, searing through his shoulder with a sizzling crack, and he staggered back, clutching the burning wound.
"God damn," he muttered, a grimace twisting his blood-smeared lips.
The valet blinked in bewilderment, trying to focus through the pain, but before he could react further, the blur materialized beside him.
Jermaine appeared, eyes glowing purple, moving with a primal grace. His fist collided with the valet, sending him crashing to the ground.
The earth quaked beneath them, spiderweb cracks radiating from the impact.
The air was filled with the stench of dust and the echoing crack of earth splitting, causing Miguel and Deon to steady themselves.
Deon approached, a triumphant grin on his face, and patted Jermaine on the shoulder, murmuring, "My man."
The valet lay on his stomach, blood trickled from his lips onto the cracked concrete, each ragged breath causing his muscles to tense and his eyes to flicker in pain.
He leaned up, shaking his head with a resigned bitterness. "Damn," he rasped, his voice rough and pained. "You boys gonna kill me."
Deon snapped his fingers and said, "Yes," with quiet certainty. The silver staff tore free from the pillar, flying into his hand.
It shimmered as it transformed, twisting into a sickle with a blade that mirrored the crescent moon, gleaming as the ballroom's lights flickered and danced around it.
Deon used the blade to lift the valet's chin, the sharp edge grazing the skin and drawing a thin line of blood that slowly trickled down amidst the dust and grime.
Deon tilted his own chin upward slightly, eyes fixed on the valet with an unsettling intensity, as if he were considering a delicacy.
Miguel approached Deon with a somber expression, his features carved with concern.
Malachi then spotted Deon and shouted, "Yo!" Deon turned back, momentarily surprised.
Malachi asked, "What do you think you're doing?" Deon replied, frustration edging his voice, "Negro, is you blind? Use your eyes before you lose them, yeah?"
Malachi shook his head, striving to maintain his composure.
Malachi, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke, conveyed an urgent plea.
"Think this through, man," he insisted, his fingers slicing through the air for emphasis. "If we kill him now, we lose any chance to gather intel.
This guy could have accomplices, or we might be smack in the middle of something much bigger." His eyes darted between his companions, searching for understanding amid the tension.
Miguel placed a steadying hand on Deon's shoulder. "Yeah He's right, D," he said calmly.
Deon pressed the blade to the valet's neck, voice steely.
Deon sucked his teeth in frustration, the sound sharp and dismissive. With a swift, powerful motion, he drove the sickle into the wall an inch from the valet's face, the blade quivering from the impact.
Without uttering another word, Deon turned on his heel and walked away, his departure laced with unspoken menace.
Watching him go, the valet muttered under his breath, "That kid's got some problems."
Deon shot him a cutting side-eye, a silent warning that held its own weight.
Malachi smoothly stepped into the valet's line of sight, blocking any further exchange. His presence was commanding, yet calm.
"Now, I've got some questions for you," Malachi declared, his voice steady and unyielding. "And you're going to tell me what I want to know."
As he spoke, Malachi's seriousness deepened when he watched in disbelief as the valet's wounds and swollen face began to heal rapidly before his eyes.
The valet massaged his jaw and shoulder with surprising ease, prompting Malachi to wonder, who is this guy?
The valet's fingers danced nervously over his goatee, his eyes alight with a manic gleam.
"You want to know why?
Maybe it's because I tried saying what's up, and you just sidestepped me," he sneered, bitterness threading through his words.
Miguel shook his head. "Now that's petty."
The valet chuckled. "Nah, I'm playing. But honestly, I never believed in God."
Deon sucked his teeth in frustration. "Come on, man, we ain't got time to deal with your disbelief," he shot back, urgency clear in his voice.
"Well," the valet began, his voice edged with irritation, "as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," he barked at Deon, eyes flashing.
He then turned back to Malachi, his tone shifting to an unsettling mix of reverence and disbelief.
"I never believed in God," he confessed, "not until I met His sons."
Malachi's curiosity piqued, he said, "You met the angels?" Internally, he couldn't help but reflect on how he had tried to live a righteous life and had never seen an angel.
Miguel asked skeptically, his eyes darting between Malachi and the valet, "You met an angel? As in, from heaven?"
The valet nodded. "Yeah, but one that's been cast out."
Deon scoffed, his voice tinged with doubt. "That's a lie... The gates of hell are sealed off, aren't they?"
The valet ran his fingers over the slit on his neck, the dark blood smearing ominously across his skin.
A twisted grin crept onto his face as he chuckled darkly.
"Who told you that?" he sneered. "They've already told me the gates are wide open."
"You can thank those overseas scientists for that little oversight.
"Now the fallen ones—they're not just on a sightseeing tour.
They're hungry, and they're after souls. Your souls," he paused, his grin widening with malice, "well, the superhuman souls, to be exact."
To be continued...