Blake rose, smiling, and spat on Azrael’s corpse. “Light weight,” Blake said.

There was a blinding light, as if the sun had descended to earth. Blake raised his arm, blocking his eyes, seeing naught but colorful spots dance before his vision.

The light dimmed, a star caught in a black hole, and then it spoke: “Robert Anthony Blake.”

“Um,â€? Blake stuttered, blind and confounded, “yes.”

“Come hither with Us. Gaze once more upon your erstwhile companion.”

“Oh, my,” Blake started, “you’re…”

“We are Lucifer, the bringer of light and the star of the morning, the first of the fallen, most beloved of the seraphim.”

The light significantly diminished, Blake lowered his arm. Before him stood a magnificent man, beautiful beyond the ideals of any poet or author, who had six wings: with two He covered His face, and with two He covered His feet, and with two He flew. A fiery serpent of a tongue lashed and darted out of His partially concealed mouth.

“We are rebellion and thought. And We wish for all to finally end.”