Swear to the stars, I'll burn this whole city down.
For a moment Raguel just stood on the sidewalk, taking in the sight of the smoldering rubble and the pungent, sickly-sweet smell of charred flesh and bone mixing with sulfur. Then, with a shake of his head and an exasperated sigh, he stepped into the ashes to examine the debris. Most of it was just the remnants of the walls, but here and there a raw-red and charred mass of sulfurous flesh peeked out from the ashes; now and then, he came across a blackened bone sticking up between what had once been the roof.
"Great. Fucking great," he muttered, instinctively patting his coat pocket for a half-crumpled cigarette and squatting to light it on the glowing embers of a pillar. There was no way that this was a random fire, no way it was even set by humans. Whoever had done this (and Raguel was sure it was a who, not a what), they'd been powerful. Neutral ground though the bar was, it wasn't unprotected; Lucifer wasn't foolish enough to leave it vulnerable, and the demons who had died inside it wouldn't have let just any grudging spirit lay it to waste.
Coaxing a puff of smoke from the cigarette, Raguel exhaled it through his nose and sat back on his heels. Scanning the site at eye level, he noticed one single piece of unburnt paper, nudged partway underneath the melted remains of a wine bottle. He picked it up, unfolded it, read the note scrawled there in familiar handwriting.
"Not sorry."
Raguel stared down at it for a moment, refolded it, returned it to its place. For a second he debated whether to take it with him or not, but the message wasn't meant for him. No matter; he knew who had written it, knew who was responsible for the destruction. Standing and stepping from the site, he sighed again, this time in exasperation. "Oh, Michael," he murmured, half to himself and half to the whole of the city around him. "That was such a bad idea."
"Great. Fucking great," he muttered, instinctively patting his coat pocket for a half-crumpled cigarette and squatting to light it on the glowing embers of a pillar. There was no way that this was a random fire, no way it was even set by humans. Whoever had done this (and Raguel was sure it was a who, not a what), they'd been powerful. Neutral ground though the bar was, it wasn't unprotected; Lucifer wasn't foolish enough to leave it vulnerable, and the demons who had died inside it wouldn't have let just any grudging spirit lay it to waste.
Coaxing a puff of smoke from the cigarette, Raguel exhaled it through his nose and sat back on his heels. Scanning the site at eye level, he noticed one single piece of unburnt paper, nudged partway underneath the melted remains of a wine bottle. He picked it up, unfolded it, read the note scrawled there in familiar handwriting.
"Not sorry."
Raguel stared down at it for a moment, refolded it, returned it to its place. For a second he debated whether to take it with him or not, but the message wasn't meant for him. No matter; he knew who had written it, knew who was responsible for the destruction. Standing and stepping from the site, he sighed again, this time in exasperation. "Oh, Michael," he murmured, half to himself and half to the whole of the city around him. "That was such a bad idea."