1 Prologue

Samael lay by Heaven's edge, face crushed in by Michael's foot. A very stylish sandal was the culprit. Samael wondered how long it would take to wash the blood from his brother's footwear.

Michael towered over him. He didn't seem to be thinking of his shoes, unless that was what caused his tears. The artists, when they painted Samael's defeat, would always forget Michael's remorse.

Samael wished they would remember.

"Son of a Gorgon. Hate to ruin a good tunic." Samael coughed up gore. He strained to look at Michael. "Can't say this is a very stylish downfall."

"It does lack a certain flair." Michael's hair was the color of a scab. Like saffron threads, according to Islamic lore. Samael wished his brother would dye it. Red always clashed with Michael's robes.

Funny, one of the last things Samael would notice was Michael's unfortunate braid. Samael always said you should laugh at a tragedy, and if Michael's updo was anything, it was certainly worthy of mourning.

Samael struggled to smile, which was difficult, considering his face looked like a land mine exploded somewhere north of his nose. "Perhaps you can make my end more iconic. Give the poets something to write about."

"If that's your last wish," Michael said. "I could give you a dunce cap. Maybe make you a toga out of CAUTION tape?"

"Put that sword you're overcompensating with to use, then."

Michael stepped back. "I was joking."

Samael attempted to smirk with a broken mouth. "It's my parting request, ginger."

"You were always dramatic. Fine. But only so you'll owe me."

Michael drove his sword deep into his twin's breast.

Samael screamed. He tried to do so in a manly fashion. There were a lot of female seraphim watching.

Michael dabbed his eyes. "You can still repent," he murmured. "Father's forgiven you."

"You and your daddy complex," Samael said. He grabbed hold of Michael's sword and buried it deeper into his chest. Samael nearly bit his tongue off to stay silent. Anything for style. "Either way, I win - your favorite shoes are ruined."

"This is my best pair." Michael withdrew his sword and knelt by his brother. He placed a hand on Samael's charred wing. "What are we doing? There's no victory. You should know that."

Samael struggled to reach the circlet at his brow. The Lapis Exillis – the bright morning star - shone from its center.

Samael offered it to Michael. "Of course. I wasn't born last eon. Take it, will you? Something to remember me by. I'd give you a lock of my hair, but it's all burnt off."

Michael clasped the circlet. "I always hated this thing. Made you look like Eve during her princess phase." He hurled it into the abyss. "Let's forget this happened. We can go home, drink some Manna-hattans. We can walk away now – or in your case, crawl. I could even carry you."

"Too late for cocktails. Take care of her, would you? I didn't mean to screw her over so badly."

Michael's eyes turned hard. "Eve's dead. And this wasn't about humanity's temptation. This was about your selfishness. Your pride. "

Samael's gaze strayed to space, from which a third of the stars had fallen. "Not this argument again. You're right. This war was about more than the apes. It was about truth. But who's right? Father or I?"

Michael stood. "The answer is in the fields of the slain"

Samael ignored him. He dragged himself to the lip of the abyss.

"I can almost see her down there. Perhaps I'll go fishing for souls."

"Wait - no!" Michael boomed.

The archangel reached out to grasp only air. Samael had tossed himself off the cliff in a last ditch effort at a dramatic exit.

Michael cursed.

A breath – a crash – a last screw-you to a Heaven too small for the likes of the Devil:

"Better to reign in the wastes than serve an absent God."