Back in the Fifteenth Century London, at the ravaged Forest of Mayfair, the young Black woman, bound to a life of servitude, had no idea whatsoever that the man before her—Raphael—was not of this world. He had come to her with a request, offering her an urgent role in nursing an unconscious, mortally wounded man back to health. But she recoiled, declining without hesitation.
"I cannot," she murmured, lowering her gaze. "I belong to another in servitude."
Back in the present moment, Gozie, again, interrupted Raph's story, leaning in with interest. "Why didn't you heal him yourself?" he asked.
"Inasmuch as Angels are hard to kill," Raph replied, "and inasmuch as we have skins far tougher than mortal flesh… when an Angel is deeply injured, he is equally difficult to heal."
"But you healed Baalzebub's body in the blink of an eye," Gozie challenged.
"His borrowed body, you mean? Which, of course, is made of dense molecular particles—very easy to mend. But celestial forms are vastly more intricate. Angels and Demons exist on frequencies beyond simple matter," Raph responded.
Truth was, Raph wasn't telling the whole truth. He was hiding something from Gozie which the young man was not meant to know. Yet. Good a thing Baalzebub wasn't there to spill the beans.
Convinced, however, Gọzie smirked. "The jargon is well understood, Dr. Rapha. You may continue."
Raph smiled. The convenient half-truth remained convincing. Then he continued...
Back in Fifteenth Century London, within the Ravaged Forest of Mayfair, Raphael explained to the servingwomen that she shouldn't worry about her predicament.
"Your status is irrelevant," he emphasized, his tone unwavering, his pale hands gesturing over the ruined landscape. "You will be taken care of."
The young woman hesitated, drawing her shawl tighter around her. Though undeniably beautiful by human standards, she felt utterly insignificant in his presence.
"I don't think so," she countered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What you think is equally irrelevant," he said matter-of-factly. "Take me to the one who claims dominion over you."
Such audacity.
"That's impossible!" she protested. "Diabolus would have me executed for even speaking to you!"
Raphael raised a brow. An inner bell jingled. "Diabolus?"
"My camp's overseer," she replied.
"Oh…"
"He is a despicably evil man," she stressed.
Raphael studied her closely. "And who gave him such a name?"
"No one," she said with a shudder. "One morning, he awoke and claimed he had been baptized in a dream—renouncing his birth name, Moses Pluem, for Diabolus, the name he said was bestowed upon him in his dream."
"Interesting."
"No," she said, trembling slightly. "There is nothing interesting about him. He is abomination itself. I should not even be here."
"You came because you have a healer's heart," Raphael said gently.
To reveal that he had summoned her through the subtle power of MenTalk—the silent, cosmic art of Mental-Talking—would have been too much for her to comprehend.
"What good is a kind heart if its owner is doomed?" she whispered.
"That will not happen. I will make your master an offer he cannot refuse. And you… you will walk free."
"You speak as though you are an angel," she said, a spark of curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Raphael smiled knowingly. "You have no idea," he enigmatically intoned.
Later that night… Somewhere in Primrose Hill… With the unconscious Angel cradled in his arms, Raphael walked alongside the woman—Benita, as she later revealed her name. It was her given name within the confines of her servitude, though Raphael already knew her true name. Still, it was important she felt the agency to share it with him.
To gain her trust, he had crafted a careful falsehood. He told her they were wealthy explorers from Brighton, seeking adventure. That they had been camping in the forest when the shooting star fell. That he had been fortunate to escape injury, though his companion had been struck unconscious by a falling log.
Using the Quantum Science of Biotech Alchemy—a sacred technology embedded within the DNA of all Angels—Raphael had seamlessly transformed his celestial armor into proper English attire: trousers, a tailored coat, and a bowler hat.
His great wings had retracted, concealed within his shoulder blades. He had even altered his wounded brother's ruined armor into something more humanly comprehensible, though the blood-streaked fabric still bore a haunting presence.
They walked for miles. Yet, despite carrying another being in his arms, Raphael showed no sign of weariness.
Benita stole a glance at him. "Does he not exhaust you?" she asked, her voice tinged with fatigue.
"Of course he is heavy," Raphael replied mildly, keeping pace with her. "But I am strong."
She smiled, her first genuine expression of ease since they met. "I bet you are," she said warmly.
Raphael understood the undertone in her voice but responded only with a neutral smile.
Then she recalled her near-death encounter with an indescribable beast, and how her life had been saved by someone—or something—even more elusive to her grasp.
Reflecting on that thought, she quipped, "And I hope you're strong enough to defeat another beast," her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"A-another beast," Raphael stammered, feigning terror while dramatically glancing about the forest.
"Don't tell me you're scared," Benita teased, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She found his theatrical display oddly charming.
"S-scared?" Raphael continued his performance, his voice rising an octave. "N-nobody told me there are beasts in this forest." His wide eyes darted between the shadowy trees, though Benita couldn't see the calculated awareness behind his apparent fear.
She paused, studying his face with newfound concern. "You mean you don't know?" The playfulness in her voice gave way to genuine worry.
He hesitated too, the weight of his angelic kin, a burden almost weightless on his back. "Nope," he lied smoothly.
"Then why did you cover my mouth?" Benita's brow furrowed, suspicion replacing her earlier amusement.
"Well... I..." Words failed him as his mind raced while he debated his options. Should he confess that he was actually the blur that saved her from the werewolf poised to finish her off? The truth hovered on his lips, threatening to spill out despite his better judgment.
Absolutely not. She must remain unaware of his angelic nature. At least, for now. Nor should she discover why a Werewolf scout was sent by his pack to investigate the site of the alleged fallen star.
Well, It wasn't actually a star that fell, of course, he reflected knowingly. Yet since Benita clung to this belief, he'd let her maintain the illusion. Some secrets, he silently ruminated, are best kept hidden.
"Well?" She urged on.
"I thought I heard something... off," he said, feigning seriousness, "but I didn't see what it was... I hid in the bush, until I saw you."
She considered his words. He seemed convincing enough. She shrugged and continued to lead the way.
An impish grin escaped his lips as Raphael, carrying his brother, followed her.
They pressed on in silence until a grand structure emerged in the moonlight—a stately cottage atop a hill. Raphael halted, admiration flickering in his gaze.
"Who owns this house?"
Benita hesitated before answering. "Diabolus' new home. It is completed, but he has yet to move in."
Raphael exhaled thoughtfully. "For someone so dark-hearted, he has remarkable taste."
"Good taste is his only redeeming quality," she said sadly.
"You can say that again," he humored.
They shared a brief chuckle, careful to keep it subdued.
Then Raphael turned to her, his gaze piercing—so intense it sent shivers through her.
"How would you feel if this place became yours?" he asked, his voice steady.
Benita's lips parted in stunned silence. She could scarcely process the thought, much less the question.
"Like knocking on Heaven's door," she murmured dreamily. But then reality crashed in, and she quickly shook her head. "But that will never be."
"In that case," Raphael said, "this is where you will live."
She stared at him, her breath catching. "Y-you can't be serious…"
"Come," he said, shifting the weight of his unconscious brother. "Let's take a look at your new home, then we'll go to your camp to make the necessary arrangements."
Her mind reeled. "You truly mean to buy this place?"
His smile was angelic. "By all means."
"But… do you have the money?"
This time he didn't smile. He grinned. "I have more."
"Who are you?"
Now he stopped grinning. And chuckled. "I am rich."
Moments later, after feigning exhaustion and slumping on the floor of the corridor to rest—not that he needed it, but appearances demanded it after carrying his brother through such a long distance—Raphael conceived an idea.
"Since you're going to be living in this house, I see no reason why we shouldn't move in already," he suggested.
Astonished, Benita gaped at him as he rose, approached, and examined the locked door. She remained beside Raphael's unconscious brother, her expression frozen in disbelief.
With a subtle glance toward the distance—an old distraction technique that worked perfectly as Benita's eyes followed his gaze—Raphael seized the moment to undo the lock with a secret spell, his pupils subtly shifting color from gold to sapphire blue hue, before returning to normalcy; then he swung the door open.
When Benita, seeing nothing across the distance, glanced back at Raphael, whom she knew as Jeremy Josh, her heart hitched.
"How did you—?" Her words hung.
"It wasn't locked—just closed," he lied. A lie she readily believed.
Inside the grand house, Raphael carefully placed his unconscious brother on a long couch, its fine fabric draped in shadows.
As they departed, walking the winding path toward the encampment, silence stretched between them like an unseen thread.
Finally, unable to contain her curiosity, Benita asked, "Is he your friend?"
Raphael's expression softened. "He is my cousin." And in truth, he meant it.
"No wonder."
"No wonder what?"
"You are both…" She hesitated, then smiled, "beautiful."
Raphael arched an eyebrow. "Really?"
"As a matter of truth," she declared, her voice firm, "beautiful beyond beauty should be the definition."
He let out a quiet chuckle. "Thou sayest."