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The sound of a child’s moan distracted him from his agony.
The Nephilim’s brother, the imperfect one called Stevie, sat on the far side of the altar and rocked from side to side, staring wide-eyed at what had been placed before him.
It was a helmet the rich color of blood, cast in the forges of Heaven—a gift to the child from his new master.
The child groaned again, his eyes transfixed upon it, almost as if he were somehow cognizant of the fate he, and it, would eventually share.
“I shall change you, my pet,” Verchiel said with a hiss, his body trembling with torment as more of his skin was cut away. A pile of dead flesh grew at his feet as the healer continued his gruesome task.
“Transforming you into my hunter of false prophets—”
The child rocked from side to side, his repetitive cries of “no” echoing through the once holy place.
“A tool of absolution,” Verchiel said as he leaned his head back against the chair and again looked to the church ceiling and the all too human images of Paradise. A place that, if he were to have his way, only the truly worthy would ever be allowed to enter.
“My instrument of redemption.”