We're killing strangers,
So we don't kill the ones that we love.
We pack demolition,
We can't pack emotion,
Dynamite? We just might...
So blow us a kiss,
blow us a kiss,
Blow us a kiss,
We'll blow you to pieces.

-Killing Strangers, Marilyn Manson

17

Death woke to the sound of voices.

He was really sick now. Last night had apparently been a short spark of energy before it fizzled and died; he couldn't even lift his hands and he was struggling to just breathe. A pain in his chest was beginning to grow and crater there while a numbness formed in the rest of his body as his insides felt like they were pinching together.

Insanity was closing in slowly. Most of his thoughts were strange and confused. At one point he had believed he had saw Absalom standing over him when it had been Jessica instead. Another time he thought he saws demon huddled in the corner, its loose bottom jaw dripping with drool as a spiked tail whipped back and forth behind it -that demon turned out to be chicken that was sitting in the opened living room window. The food Jessica had tried to get him to eat looked like a pulsing heart, still pumping blood from small red tubes. If he dozed off, sick, whispering voices plagued his mind, telling him to give him and welcome them.

Before this he had been okay with the oncoming doom Jessica had explained. Crazy thoughts? Mind splintering pain in his chest? Annoying voices trying to convince him to fail? He had been through tougher. He had just simply shrugged, reassuring Jessica that he had been through worse and that he would okay by the time that War and Abbygail returned with Mama.

At the moment, he was eating his own words.

Truthfully, the thought of death didn't scare him. Hell, he was Death. What scared him the most was leaving his siblings. Who cares about death? Actually dying seemed like a blessing at the moment as the pain pulled at his chest and insanity just crept closer. But he couldn't leave them. What kind of brother would he be, leaving his sister and brothers alone?

If he left Fury, she might never be found again at his disappearance. As far as he knew, he was the only one who encouraged to study every subject that she ever became interested in. He had convinced her in the beginning that she could be an amazing warrior despite popular belief of her lack in size. She used him as a buoy, a person that she could depend on to be believe that she could be the best that she could possibly be.

If he left Strife, no one would be to keep the man in line. Strife needed someone to make rules for him to break; he enjoyed being the rebel and knowing that someone cared about his wellbeing. As much as he fought, bit, and threatened Death, he knew that he had someone to trust. Someone that loves him with all of his mistakes, edges, and scars. The disagreeing was what kept Strife sane. While arrogant and confident in his abilities, Strife needed someone to tell him that not everything was his fault.

And War, damn it, he couldn't leave War. War had been the last generation of Nephilim that had been created by Lilith by hand, not by a male or female. The first time that Death had seen War, he was a small, puny little babe wailing at the top of its lungs that was being held out to him in confusion. "A mistake," he had been told. "This one wasn't supposed to happen... There hadn't been enough energy to create an adult. He's just a mistake. He shares the same demon gene as you; Absalom said you are to raise him." A mistake. That's what he had believed War had been for a long time. It was hard to see any good in the small bundle of fat that was more concerned about when his next meal was with his pearl-white hair he kept trying to eat and his large ice-blue eyes. Out of all the Firstborn (which wasn't many), Death had been the one to get stuck with the first baby Nephilim.

It had not been easy. If any said child raising was easy, Death would frown and then precede to ignore every single little thing that they said next while he was in their proximity. Because, clearly, they were idiots. Death found more comparison to stabbing himself through the heart with the dullest sword he could find with raising War than saying it was as easy as pie. However, he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Raising War for a painstaking hundred years, since Nephilim matured much slower than the Kingdom of Man, had been surprisingly fun. Granted, Death had more fun chucking soiled diapers at Strife than when War began to talk back once he became a teenager.

But it was still a hell of an experience. Since Nephilim were considered to be siblings if they shared the majority of angelic or demonic genes, Fury and Strife shared the same home as Death, therefor playing a large role in War's raising. It caused them to come together as a family. There were plenty of mistakes made. Strife was babysitting War once when Death had left for a meeting with Absalom; when the eldest had returned, Strife was aiming Mercy at the apple balanced on the top of War's head as he gnawed at another apple with four baby teeth. Fury was teaching War how to mount a horse when the moody mare bucked; War ended that day with three broken ribs and a concussion. When Death was working on Harvester, the prototype of the Nephilim weapons, he brought War only once when he was just beginning to speak to watch him since both Fury and Strife were busy; Absalom had walked in at one point to discuss business when War pointed at him with a chubby hand and the other with his fingers hooked in his mouth and declared "big fat bastard!" at the top of his lungs. And those were the more laughable of the mistakes.

If Death was to leave War... he couldn't imagine it.

A particularly strong blast of pain helped Death jerk awake from his sleep to hear two people talking. He grunted, ignoring the voices, and tried the strong urge to itch at his chest. This part of the sickness hadn't started until today. In a way, it almost felt like something was burrowing in his chest or was trying to burst free; he could almost feel it wiggling about in behind his ribs. He hoped that it was just part of the impending insanity.

Absentmindedly he somehow found enough strength to raise a hand and slap it across his chest. His worst fears were confirmed when he did feel something moving just slightly underneath his palm. He took a deep breath just to make sure; something wiggled, pressing firmly against his skin and causing a wave of pain to flash through him as it rubbed up against his lungs. Holy shit. Something was living inside of him. Something was inside of him. Holy shit.

As panic settled in his throat, he found himself scratching before he realized it.  Adrenaline raced through him, giving him enough strength to pull his sweater off and toss it aside to give him better access to his chest and the thing inside of him. He ignored the prickles of pain as his nails began prying into his skin.

He needed to get that thing out of him.

"Death! What the hell are you doing?!" Jessica's voice came from somewhere on his right; he was having trouble seeing and mostly just saw a dark blur racing toward him before her small, recognizable hands were grabbing his, pulling them away. "No! Don't do that! Shit! Madeline! He's in the last stage! Damn it! No, Death! Stop fighting me! You're going to kill yourself if you keep doing that!"

Kill himself? Shit, that seemed lovely. It felt like he had awake the beast inside of him and it was having a party with its buddies. He was in so much pain that he had gone completely numb, sight seemed overrated, and his hearing was surprisingly very selective. The only person he could hear was Jessica, but that could be because she still had his hands and he desperately wanted those to scratch.

"Death, I need to listen to me."

Listen? Who does that? Wimps. But this was Jessica and, if he didn't listen, she would hurt him. Who knows how, but that wasn't the point. It was Jessica.

She had grown on him. For the past few days of her pampering him unlike anyone else had ever before, he had started to enjoy her company. He had told himself for a while now that it was because no one had ever offered to care for him when he was sick. No one had ever approached him with a bowl of soup and a large smile on their face, promising that he would get better. No one had ever forced him to sit down and eat. No one had ever been so open and yet so distant. He was a dying man. He was well aware of it, too. People did crazy things when they knew something as important as that. It changed them. Warped their mind. Then again, he was already losing his, so what was the difference?

"I'm going to die." His voice didn't even sound the same. Everything sounded like he had taken his tongue and was busy scraping it with sandpaper as he spoke. Salvia even felt like it was choking him. Part of him still wanted to pull away from Jessica as she held his hands, her warmth beside his legs as she sat on the couch with him, struggling to contain him.

"No, you're not. Now, listen." He tried to grasp onto her voice and failed; the voices in his head were almost overpowering, muttering things that confused him. It was amazing he could still make out her words with their intensity. "Please, Death."

Please. Had anyone ever said that to him? A brief recollection of a white-haired boy, blue eyes wide as his little button nose shone through his red cheeks, holding a cookie up with a pleading, quivering lip appeared in his mind through the whispering. Please. A dark haired man, guns trained on a few people that Death would recognize as his friends, cried just a few tears as he shot each one between the eyes. Please forgive me of my sins. A woman with purple hair that stood before the other Firstborn, back straight, lips pursed in concentration, as she tried to convince them to allow her to train to be a warrior just like him. Please help me become something I wasn't meant to be.

... Please.

"I need you to calm down. It's all in your head."

Yes, it was all in his head. The voices; they were in his head, but the thing in his chest wasn't. Its movements had increased tenfold when Jessica had sat beside him and restricted his hands from harming himself any further. The pain had too. The insanity seemed even closer, like he could reach out and touch it. Hm, this was fun. Insanity.

"I have someone who's here to help you. She's going to heal you. I just need you to just not scratch yourself. I know it hurts. I know. Just don't scratch."

Don't scratch.... The urge to do just that increased every time that he managed to take a breath between every panicked thought and the pressure pushing on his lungs from the thing inside of him. Breathing was becoming harder. That was strange. The thing was beginning to climb further up now, making it more difficult to breathe, something he hadn't experienced in a very long time. The effort alone was causing a sheen of sweat to appear on his skin, making the black sweater he was wearing very pointless. His skin was crawling as it moved there. He had to scratch to get it out.

Another voice came from nearby but he ignored it, deciding to focus more upon the light chocolate of Jessica's eyes. Shit. Had they ever been that beautiful? He squirmed and squeezed his eyes closed to try and ease the pain away that was starting to claw at his throat as the voices in his head grew so loud that he couldn't hear Jessica's soft, reassuring whispers she had just began muttering, her small hands patting his shaking ones gently. There wasn't no doubt that he wasn't going to live much longer. He had never died before, but he sure as hell had been close to it before being almost indestructible. As a human, he wasn't. But he wasn't stupid to believe that this was just a common cold; the thing that was wiggling near his heart now destroyed any chances of it being an ordinary disease.

It was then that something snapped in his head. Pain exploded through every pore in his body and he ripped his hands away from Jessica's, jolting back. Instinct was causing him to dry heave; he could practically feel the creature clawing in his throat to escape. Jessica was screaming now and he felt her hands ghosting over his forehead and cheeks. The salty tang of blood was in his mouth now and, when he managed to actually breathe, the smell of it was just as heavily. A cold numbness had began spreading over his limbs and the pain had become a constant drone everywhere along his body.

This was it. He was dying now.

A blinding flash appeared in front of him and almost immediately the pain was gone. Air crashed into him and he jerked, reaching for anything that his arms could reach, succeeding when he felt the soft couch in his left and the wooden table creaking underneath his right hand. Jessica's hands slid down to his chest as he pushed himself up more into her lap; she had been cradling his head when he had rolled off the couch (he had not been aware of that) and had started all that. The numbness had disappeared and he was still struggling to fill his lungs once more. The movement in his chest was now gone, though he felt like he had burned all over his torso. Despite having been just seconds away from death, that wasn't what was bothering him.

The fact that Jessica was screaming bloody murder was much more nerve racking to him.

Forcing open his eyes, Death almost screamed himself when he saw the creature that was struggling to flip itself over by his socked feet. This he could understand Jessica's horror. In a way, it reminded him of a worm, only one that was much more gruesome and ugly. Large white teeth was revealed when the thing opened its mouth, showing several layers of the razors, and flapped its segmented brown body about wildly. Stinky liquid that Death refused to know the name of fell off the beast as it flailed. It hardly appeared affected when he gave the thing a quick kick to what he hoped was the head; the beast used his weak attack to turn over onto its belly and raise its head, flaring open a mane of light brown spikes to make it even larger. Drool dripped from between its fangs and it reared back like it was going to attack them. Death scrambled back, slinging his foot at it a few more times, and he felt Jessica doing the same, her small fingers digging into his black sweater.

The thing was in the process of slinging itself forward when a broom struck it. With a squeal that sounded abnormally high pitched, the worm-like creature was flung out of Death's sight and behind the couch. He looked up in time to see an older woman with straight, graying blonde hair, a brown jacket that fell down to her knees, a plump figure, and her arm outstretched toward the creature. She whispered a few words and the squeal sounded again, this time ending with another flash of light and a whooshing sound that sounded similar to a very flammable object catching flame.

Silence enveloped the once noisy household. Death's gaze flickered between the spot where the creature had disappeared to the woman was standing, unsure who he should be more concerned about. The thing that had tried to attack him, or the woman who had just did something to the thing.... Jessica's hands still rested on his chest, clutching tightly to the fabric of the sweater, and he could feel how tense that she still was. If she wasn't comfortable, then he wasn't either.

"Damn, I think that's the biggest one that I've seen in a long time," the elder woman exclaimed, placing the broom on the floor and propping a hand on her hip with a smile touching her wrinkled face lightly. "You're damn lucky that it hadn't eaten your heart before I got here. It was moving damn fast from Jessie's description." Death stared at her, not helping but to notice the similarity between the way that Jessica and this woman spoke.

"Betty, check on Rosaline for me." Jessica's voice dripped with venom and her grip on his sweater tightened, balling the soft, heavy fabric in her strong grip.

Blue eyes turned toward them, confusion hinting in their depths. "But Rosalind is fine, dear. How many times have I told you to call me Mama? Besides, you never introduced me to this fine man of yours. You're holding on to him pretty tightly."

Jessica's grip loosened immediately. Death couldn't help but to watch her hands as they released him, disappearing around behind his arms though he could still feel her fingertips resting on one as if to comfort him. Her breath blew across the back of his head; he hadn't realized how close he was to her. "You lost that privilege a long time ago, Betty."

"Indeed..." Betty's voice trailed off before she fixed her gaze upon Death. He refused to look away and didn't until she did, returning her gaze back to back to her daughter. "I'll go make sure that she's alright."

The second that the older woman had left, the brown haired one behind him grabbed his head, forcing him to push himself up onto his knees and face her. The Pale Horseman was unprepared for when she released a shaky sob and flung her arms about his neck. Shocked, Death stared at the top of her head as she cried into his chest. Slowly, so not to frighten her, he gently placed a hand upon her head and slipped his other arm around her, pulling her closer into his chest. Without considering the consequences, he buried his face into the space where her neck and shoulder met and closed his eyes, inhaling her scent at the same time to try and calm himself. The few times that Fury had hugged Death, he had hardly returned it. He had simply wrapped an arm loosely about her and that was all she had needed to feel safe. Jessica clearly was not like that.

"It's okay," he breathed once she had calmed enough to whimper softly instead of hysterically sobbing.

She sniffed, creating a humorous and extremely unladylike noise, and shifted further into him, plastering her face more against him. He tried to fight down the smile that threaten to overtake his face. He had never considered himself to be someone to give comfort to someone besides from his family ever before. "You almost died," her voice was hoarse as she grabbed another fistful of the front of his increasingly stuffy sweater as if to keep herself from falling over.

"I didn't, did I? See? It takes more than a cold to kill me."

"You don't get it, do you?" Her brown eyes turned up towards his, shining from her tears. "That wasn't just any sort of cold or disease..." The grip that she had on his sweater tightened and her gaze suddenly dropped to his chest. "It was a Demons... It was trying to inhabit your body..."

Death blinked. "What?"

"A demon. It was trying to make you its host." She took a deep breath, obviously fighting down more than just fright. "Not too long long ago, Demons and Angels came by the hundreds to take over Earth since whatever that was keeping them away had disappeared. The Demons were the worst." The woman shivered in his arms at the memories. "Some of them could take over a person... take them over. Some times it took a long time and others were done for in just a few days." Tears once again shone in her eyes. "Michael, my husband, became sick first... then Sammy, our son, did too. Sammy... he... he died first and Michael passed within the next hour..." She choked on her own words as a few more tears fell down her cheeks.

Not sure what to say, Death simply whipped away her tears and pulled her back into the protectiveness of his arms as he thought to himself. He racked his memory. Possession in demons actually wasn't that common; he only knew of a few that had the ability to do so. And there was only one who could infect a person so quickly and so many that it could be confused as a disease.

"Legion," Death muttered underneath his breath.

"What's that?"

"A demon," he said after a moment, pulling away from her to examine her face carefully. "Legion is the strongest of the Demon Lords and can possess anything that he wishes. I don't know how he knows that I'm here though..."

She gave him a confused look. "Why would he know that you are here? Did you do something to him?"

Pausing, he considered the danger that she still might be in if he told her who he was. "No," he said after a moment. "You should just stay very far away from the Demons."

"I knew that already." Jessica poked his chest with a determined glint in her brown eyes. "I want to know what you're not telling me."

An urge to kiss suddenly washed over him and he stared at her.

"Wait!" She grabbed his shoulders and he felt himself flush across his cheeks as he continued to stare into her eyes, thinking that she had somehow read his thoughts. "I need you to take off your shirt!"

Well, that was fast.

"I need to make sure that Demon shit didn't mess up your chest," she defended herself as she used his shoulders to stand. "Besides you have to be getting hot in that sweater since you're not running a fever anymore, aren't you? I'll get you a t-shirt." And, with that, she had bounced onto her feet and had disappeared somewhere in her house.

Blinking at the spot that she had just disappeared behind, Death took a few seconds to recover before shaking his head and standing, pulling the snot-filled black sweater over his head in one fluid motion. The adrenaline that had been racing through him after the Demon had left was slowing down, leaving him terribly sleepy and uneasy. It didn't help that had just happened with Jessica. Was he really beginning to enjoy being near that woman so much that he would give her a hug and comfort her when she cried? What the hell was happening to him? Was he going soft? He pictured Strife briefly making fun of him and crinkled his nose, folding the sweater in his arms before chucking it onto the couch. He was not going soft.

Something in his chest caught his attention and he looked down. To his surprise, he saw an entire network of scars that had not been there before. His old ones, the ones that decorated his right shoulder and then his right pectoral, were still there, marring him for the rest of his life. However, it looked like someone else had taken a match and had just randomly dragged it across his entire chest. It served no purpose either; the burn-like scar ran across his torso, dipping down into the muscular indents even, was mostly massed together by his heart. Sighing, he shook his head. Just another one for his collection.

Jessica appeared once more in the doorframe that she had disappeared behind, holding a basket of first aide materials with an orange shirt draped across her arms. She was looking away from him, focused more on the picture on one of the walls, but she looked up when he spoke.

"I don't think we need to bandage me," Death told her, gesturing at the massive scar and ignoring the way that he jaw dropped a little. "I'm afraid that there's no hope for any healing."

"Yeah..." Jessica trailed off and Death couldn't help but to smile.

"Something you like?" He quirked an eyebrow and couldn't help but to flex his six pack a little. "Sweaters never were my thing, I'm afraid."

"Hell yeah, they're not."

Beaming, he was about to respond, probably comment on how frizzy her hair was to tease her, when he heard someone clear their throat. He turned slightly to see the older woman standing near the kitchen doorway, a young girl who couldn't have been older than five propped upon her hip. The little girl and Betty, the older woman, shared more similarities than Jessica and her supposed mother. They shared almost identical beautiful faces; Betty's was wrinkled from age while the little girl had a perfectly round face. The girl had Betty's jacket in her hands and had pulled it closer to her face, hiding her skinny frame from view. Her eyes were incredibly large and blue, her hair shiny and healthy as it was a strange and yet beautiful braid that fell all the way to her waist. The dress she was wearing was pink and polka-a-dotted and her feet were covered by brown slippers. In other words, she was utterly adorable. However, there was intelligence and wisdom that shone in her eyes, betraying how smart that the girl was.

"Something on that I should know about, Jessica?" Betty asked smugly, her eyes flickering between the two of them with an amused glint.

Heat flushed across Death's face. Something smacked him across his face and he spluttered as he pulled the orange shirt away, shooting a glare over at Jessica before he slipped it over his head. Wincing slightly at how tight it was, he looked back up at Betty and the child on her hip before remembering something that was probably very, very important. The Demon.

"Get out of my business, Betty," Jessica snapped, walking further into the room and dropping the supplies that she had brought down onto the wooden table with a loud thump. "You can't just expect to come back into my life after everything that has happened."

Curiosity arose in Death's chest as he leaned about the couch, catching sight of a massive scorch mark that had marred the tan carpet. Eyebrows furrowing, he glanced over at Betty curiously. What had she done to that Demon? He hadn't really thought about it before; he had just survived almost being possessed by the Demon Lord Legion and Jessica had thrown herself at him before he could truly comprehend anything earlier. Now things had calmed down and he was able to think.

"I wasn't expecting too, but a welcome for saving your friend would be nice."

"Thank you." Jessica's gaze darted over to Death before returning to Betty. She crossed her arms over her chest and bowed her head, visibly grinding her teeth. "He would have died without you."

Death had edged over to the spot where the Demon had clearly caught flame. He crouched down, placing a hand upon the still heated spot on the floor. Another flare of curiosity scorched through him as he found that blood smeared across his fingertips when he lifted his hand away, the black liquid surprisingly thicker than human blood, stickier, smellier with a hint of decay, and so dark in color that it rivaled the blackness of his hair. Burning would mean that there would be no blood. Which meant that the Demon hadn't died from being burned like he had originally believed...

"Sure have with the size of that thing. But we won't talk about it with Rosaline in the same room, shall we? Might give the sweetie nightmares." There was a small shuffling but Death paid it no heed as he continued to examine the mark on the carpet. "Introductions haven't properly been made, young man."

Turning his orange eyes up, he found the old woman to be standing over him, eyebrows raised as she studied him with interest. He returned her intense stare as he shifted into a more comfortable position. A tense moment passed until he shot a questioning look at Jessica; she knew the other woman apparently very well and he was the guest in her house. She simply shrugged her shoulders and turned away, lips pursed in annoyance. Death stood and nodded at Betty in greeting.

"I am Death," he said, holding out a hand for her to shake. "My brothers and I are currently in Jessica's care."

The woman regarded him with a curious glint in her blue eyes. The little girl in her arms, who he thought was named Rosaline, was staring at him from around Betty's jacket. "Good to know that my daughter has some hospitality in that stone heart of hers." In the background, Jessica's face was flushing red in anger and her fist were beginning to curl. "You shall call me Mama, not Betty. Everyone you meet calls me Mama. This," she motioned at the little girl, "is my granddaughter, Rosaline. She's Jessica's niece."

Death nodded, attempting politeness. His gaze drifted back over to the Demon and he decided to ask the question that had been bothering since he had found the blood. "How did you dispose of the Demon?"

"Dispose?" Mama repeated as she placed Rosaline on the table carefully. The little girl immediately placed a hand in her mouth; a nervous habit probably. "Is that what you call it when you kill your enemies, Kinslayer?"

Bewilderment flashed through Death as his head snapped up to meet Mama's narrowed eyes, confusion following when he found her to be serious and confident in what she said.

"Surprised?" Betty placed her hands on her hip. "Surprised that I know who you are, Horseman? It's not that hard. Granted, it helped that my son can see the future at times, but it's pretty obvious. You looked like death anyways with those pale features."

"He's been sick for almost a week in a half! Of course he's pale, Betty!"

"And that black hair." She threw a hand up in the air, rolling her eyes dramatically as she ignored her completely embarrassed daughter that was begging for her to stop. "It doesn't help that you've got orange eyes. Most unnatural thing for a human that I think I've ever seen. Perfect, sexy body and face like an artist did it."

"Um, thank you?"

"Is that all you have to say after lying to my daughter for so long now? Lying to everyone that you've met as a human? How does that make you feel?"

"Death." Jessica's voice was shaking. Her hands were shaking slightly as she stared at him. "Is that true?"

He sighed, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. Pausing, he couldn't help but to notice just how incredibly pitch black that it was, darker even than Abbygail's dark hair, as he moved the strands through his fingers. Was he truly that much different than a regular human being even after being turned mortal? Of course he had notice his orange eyes when he had looked into the mirror in Jessica's bathroom, the way that the contours of his face were perfect, the way every muscle in his body was strangely sculpted perfectly without any mistakes whatsoever. Maybe it wouldn't have been hard to notice he wasn't human if they had known what they were looking for.

"I did it keep everyone safe," he muttered after a few moments. "Having the knowledge of who I am is extremely dangerous."

Jessica still seemed confused as Mama furrowed her eyebrows at him. "What do you mean? Who are you exactly?"

"Sit down, sweetie." Mama took a spot on the couch, moving Rosaline from the table to her lap. "If you want to know the entire truth, then we're going to be here for a little while."