Cesare Borgia was once again a favoured son, a beloved general to a benevolent Master. Since receiving his mission three days ago, he had successfully formed his strike team. It hadn't been easy at first, but the demons selected would certainly prove a challenge for any angel or Nephilim that crossed their path, for they all had one thing in common - ruthlessness.

There were fellow two noblemen. One was the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, who had fought with Joan of Arc against the English and had even watched her burn. That would certainly be a pleasant reunion. The other was a richly dressed Prince by the name of Vlad Tepes. Many rumours of this man had spread, and he became known far and wide as the Impaler, the inspiration for one of the greatest monsters ever created, the vampire Count Dracula. All spoke of the horrifying acts he had committed, the terror he struck in the hearts of his enemies, the bloodshed... A worthy addition to the mission.
Cesare looked on as the noblemen duelled each other. De Rais certainly had grace, whereas Tepes had a rougher and more direct approach. Both men looked alike, with hair as dark as his own, sharp facial features, and (surprisingly) neatly trimmed moustaches. The Frenchman carried a haughty demeanour compared to the regal Walachian Prince.

A soft mumbling coming from a corner of the training grounds drew Cesare's attention. He eyed Erzsebet Bathory suspiciously and with some concern. Had he been allowed to have a say in the matter, he wouldn't have even considered that witch. Yet the Master himself had requested her, and to question him now would be most unwise. 
Bathory was close to royalty, owning lands in Hungary and Transylvania. History knew her as the Blood Countess, having killed over five hundred women in her lifetime. With the help of a few selected servants, she had bathed in her victims' blood in the firm belief that the ritual proved to be some pagan Fountain of Youth.
Cesare looked at the Bathory woman more closely. Porcelain skin, almost too white. Thick brown hair, carefully plaited. Dark, unholy eyes which stood quite close together, and delicate pink lips. She looked Lucrezia's age and yet had died whilst well in her fifties, in a cold tower, where the only light that shone came from the latch that had opened three times a day to hand her food. Perhaps there was some truth in the legend? Or perhaps her youth had been the price of a deal struck with a higher power?
Thus far, the only thing Bathory had done was sit in a corner, surrounded by candles, mumbling words that no one could make sense of. It was clear that there was far more to the Blood Countess than everyone assumed. He would have to watch his back around her.

And then, of course, there was the sinister figure, dressed in dark clothes and hiding his face under a top hat, sharpening his blades under a red canopy - the Ripper. His identity was still a mystery, but his skill and bloodlust were fact. Jack the Ripper had made the Whitechapel district in London unsafe on the eve of the twentieth century, killing a select group of women, motives unclear.
Cesare had not hesitated in selecting him. The Ripper was a silent murderer. His blades were well hidden, and when one did see them, it was already too late. A single slash across the throat was all he needed. For some reason, the Ripper liked to take out organs as well, but Cesare had not asked why. He hated to admit it, but he actually feared the answer. Best to know as little as possible about what drove this... creature, in lack of a better term. It did not matter anyway. All Cesare needed were assassins, which was precisely what he had now.

"Signore, a moment, if you will?"

Cesare turned to find the Russian monk at the entrance of the training grounds. He sneered at the Master's stooge.

"What do you want?" 

"I have a message from the Master," answered the man he knew was named Grigori. "Our Lord wishes to inform you of a... development."

"Yes?" Cesare grew impatient.

"Gabriël and Joan are together."

Cesare raised his brow.

"Together how?" he questioned curiously.

"In every meaning of the word." 

"So, Gabriël finally gave in?" Cesare grinned at the news. "I really don't understand why he didn't screw the bitch the moment she got up there."

"Michael's rules forbid it, as you well know. And Gabriël respects Joan, but that concept may be unfamiliar to you."

Cesare threw the man a threatening glare. This monaco was lucky he was a favourite of the Master, else he would be sure to teach him a lesson.

"How do we proceed now?" he asked, clenching his fist to keep from striking.

"We continue waiting, but the Master is certain that it will not be long before Michael finds out. With or without our help. And when he does, you must be ready."

"Well, what do you think I am doing here, picking daisies?"

"I am simply relaying the Master's message to you."

"Then you may relay my message as well; we stand ready and await orders. Now scurry back to the Master's heel. This is no place for the likes of you."

Grigori gave a curt bow of his head and left him be. Cesare turned back to his strike team. Just a little while longer. Then he would take revenge on Gabriël by stripping him of everything he held dear. His title, his wings, and most importantly, Joan of Arc.

***

Joan sat on the bed beside Gabriël, gently caressing his cheek. His eyes fluttered open. He smiled when he saw her, but the corners of his mouth turned down into a pout when he realised she was clothed. 

"I don't recall telling you to put your clothes back on," he teased, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Oh? So you wouldn't have minded if Raphael saw me naked?" She grinned.

Gabriël's eyes widened in panic. He jerked up straight at her words, gripping her hand firmly in his, but she raised the other before he could speak.

"Relax, we're safe. I was already in the kitchen, fully dressed, when he stopped by. I told him you were so tired from the walk home you went straight to bed. He opened the bedroom door a bit to see if you were okay, but I covered you up so you wouldn't catch a cold."

"Thank God." Gabriël sighed in relief.

Joan squeezed his hand. He caught her seductive gaze and leaned in to press his lips against hers. She responded eagerly, to which Gabriël spun and pushed her onto the pillows. 

"You know, it's very inconvenient to do this if you're dressed," he whispered. "You're leaving me no choice but to rip these clothes off you."

"Don't you dare," she said, biting his ear playfully. "I don't mind taking everything off again, but you need to do something for me first."

"Hm, what's that?"

Joan pushed the vial between them. It was half empty.

"I've rubbed it on your wound. You just have to drink the rest. Preferably now, as you're already behind on schedule."

Pinching his lips, Gabriël took the vial from Joan and sat against the bedpost to drink it. His face twisted in disgust. No matter how many times he took it, he couldn't get used to the thick and sweet texture of the liquid. 

"I wonder what Raphael was doing here," he mused aloud, putting the empty vial on the nightstand.

"He said he would check up on you, didn't he?"

"Well, yes, but only hours after he discharged me? If he wasn't sure I wouldn't be okay, he wouldn't have done so."

Joan noted the pensive look on Gabriël's face. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

"I'm just... wondering... if Michael sent him."

"No, no, don't do that." Joan huddled closer to Gabriël, her hand on his chest. "Don't assume the worst. Rafe is your doctor and friend. He's worried about you. We all are. Marina, Cate, and I dare say Michael most of all. You didn't see him, Gabriël. I've never seen him so... lost."

"What do you mean?"

"When he believed you were dead. Didn't he or Raphael tell you? Michael arrived here before me. I found him holding you in his arms. He was giving you his blood and couldn't move to get the antidote. I helped him, but you couldn't swallow it. You were too far gone. He was convinced you were dead. Then I felt your heartbeat and told him, but he wouldn't believe me. I had to take charge because he was in shock. I suppose all this opened his eyes and made him realise even Archangels can -"

"Can die," finished Gabriël. "I never knew he was here. I just assumed you had sent word of what had happened, and Michael had sent for Rafe to take me back to the Hospitium."

Joan felt something wet fall on her hand. She sat up and saw tears rolling down Gabriël's cheeks. He rubbed them away with the back of his hand before she could do so herself. She knew he hated her seeing him like this; fragile, emotional... She softly touched her lips to the side of his cheek.

"Forgive me," he said, smiling weakly.

"There's no need." Joan returned his smile. "Maybe go to him later? To make sure he's all right."

"Since when do you concern yourself with Michael?" asked Gabriël, his brow slightly raised.

"I don't," Joan said defensively. "My concern is for you. But you and Michael have been close since creation itself. You need your friends to get through whatever this is. Don't push him away because you're afraid of what he could do to us."

"I suppose you're right. And the closer I stand to him, the less suspicious he will be of us."

"Exactly. Now, get dressed. It's about time you got a bit of exercise."

"Oh, but I disagree. In fact, I had plenty of exercise earlier. But maybe you need a reminder?"

Gabriël tried to pin Joan on the bed, but she was faster than him. She pushed him down on his back with a swift motion and sat astride him, holding his wrists beside his head. Her hair cascaded like a waterfall down the side of her face. She grinned at Gabriël's stupefied expression.

"Did you really think I would allow you to even try?" 

He chuckled at her taunt. Joan lowered her body to kiss him. Gabriël lifted his head up to meet her halfway. As their lips touched, Joan replayed every single moment of their lovemaking in her head. She felt heat rising in her belly. Slowly, she dragged her hands away from Gabriël's wrists, stroking up his arms to his shoulders and neck to cup his face. The kiss grew deeper, intenser. Until...

"Ouch!" Joan quickly pushed herself away. "Gabriël, what -?"

She stiffened as blood trickled down her chin from where he'd bitten her lip. But that not-so-playful nip wasn't what troubled her; it was Gabriël's eyes. They were pitch black, mere bits of white sclera remaining in the corners. And the way he looked at her with such unbound, ravenous lust as if she were the apple of Eden. It frightened her so much that she didn't dare move as Gabriël sat up. He stroked her hair away from her face with one hand as he placed the other around her throat.

"Gabriël? What are you doing?"

"Shut up," he growled.

His free hand roamed down her body, touching every inch of her breasts, her belly, her hip, her... She gasped as he touched her between her legs. Even through her dress, she felt his fingers pressing up against her core. Rowdily, not nearly as careful as he'd done before. Then, his hand left her to grab and push her down on him by her hips. She involuntarily ground against his covered member. That momentary friction made him harden instantly.
His snarling voice made Joan look at Gabriël's face. She only saw darkness. He was no longer the sweet angel she knew. He was a... demon.

With immense force and speed, Gabriël was suddenly on top of her, nearly strangling her in his wild movement. She grabbed his wrist with both hands, clawing at his skin to free herself. He barely seemed to notice. Joan struggled and tried to kick him, but he held her down easily. The sudden sting as he slapped her face made her yelp. Terrified, she stared back at Gabriël's maniacal grin. He looked so much like the men at the Rouen prison.
The brief paralysis that took hold of her turned into a frenzy when he tore the skirt of her dress and undergarments to shreds. No, not again! And not Gabriël! He wasn't one of those monsters. She had to keep fighting. She had to get through and release the demon's hold on him before that thing made him do something he would regret for eternity. Joan finally managed to loosen his grip around her throat and screamed as loud as she could. 

"GABRIËL, STOP!"

He stiffened. She put her hand on his chest - it felt as cold as ice - and pushed him away, trying to create as much space between them as possible. As soon as she saw her chance, Joan rolled off the bed and reached under it. She knew Gabriël kept a dagger there. It seemed strange to use his own blade, but she needed something to protect herself with.
Against Gabriël? No. No, she didn't need protection from Gabriël, but from whatever took possession of him.
Joan rose and looked at the man on the bed. He sat on his knees, his hair messed up, his skin pale. The sheets were tangled around him. With the dagger held out, Joan bent a little closer to see his eyes. The white of his eyes was returning slowly, but his irises and pupils were still black as coal. She touched his cheek with the tip of her fingers, unsure what he might do. He remained motionless, but his body quivered, as if a struggle was going on inside of him. Joan dared to sit on the edge of the bed. Tears welled up. 

"Gabriël," she whispered, "I know you can hear me. Come back to me."

Nothing happened. 

"Gabriël, I know you're in there. Don't let this thing win. Fight it, please."

He blinked and shook his head to get rid of the daze, one hand against his temple. His eyes found hers - ocean blue. Not a hint of darkness remained. He furrowed his brow in confusion. 

"Joan? What did I - my God, your face! What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Remember? No, I -" Gabriël's gaze fell on Joan's hand as she unsuccessfully tried to hide the dagger behind her between the sheets. "Why do you have my dagger?"

"You weren't you, Gabriël. You frightened me so, I just -"

"So much that you would need a dagger? Against me? Joan, I could never -"

His arm froze mid-air as he reached for her. The nail marks on the back of his hand and around his fore-arm were staring up at Gabriël. He drew back and looked Joan over, his eyes lingering on the torn tatters of her dress. Before Joan could stop him, he uncovered her legs. Bruises were already forming.

"Did... I do that?" Gabriël asked.

She cast her gaze down, unable to admit the horrid truth. Peering up through her lashes, she saw his devastated expression. Part of her wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, assure him she was fine. The other part was itching to run away and never come back. But she couldn't abandon him. Not now.

"You should leave." Gabriël's voice broke as he spoke. "You're not safe with me."

"No, Gabriël, that wasn't you," said Joan despite her fear. "Whatever just happened, I know that was not you. Something took control of you. I could see it in your eyes."

"Even so, it would be better if you left."

"I can't," she insisted.

"Joan, I can't say why this happened. Nor can I promise it won't happen again. If you're with me when it does, and I... Look at what happened already. I hurt you. I could never live with myself if I did anything else to you."

"No, come on, let's think rationally for a second. It must be the poison. What else could -?"

"I'm sure it is," he interrupted her. "But until we know what triggered this, we can't be together. I won't allow you to... be alone with me."

Joan's mind told her to accept what he was saying. She wasn't safe with him, and they both knew it. But that reasoning didn't stop her heart from breaking at his adamant insistence and concern for her. She nodded and got up. Gabriël seized her wrist. For a moment, Joan thought the demon had taken over again. But he did nothing to harm her. The creature from the dark wasn't back. All she saw was a broken Archangel. 

"Please, forgive me," he begged of her.

Joan leaned in to kiss his head like a mother would a child. She didn't care if her lip stung; this small token of affection was the very least she could give him. As she then stepped back, her wrist slipped from Gabriël's grasp. He didn't capture her again, but let her go. She walked through the rooms, out of the cottage, not looking back. The sound of his heartrending screams and the shattering of wood followed her, but she didn't return to him. Gabriël needed to be alone. As did she.