“It’s an exploration into the depths of the human soul,” the first man said as he twisted one end of his mustache into an upward handlebar.

The woman next to him disagreed. “No. It’s clearly a representation of the beginning of life. The darkness of the womb in relation to the darkness of space. The wonderful twilight of man’s early ignorance.”

“No. No. No. It’s most obviously a reflection of the immorality of society,” said another man who wore a long scarf despite the California heat.

The large painting by which they were wonderstruck was a black canvas with random splotches of blue shades. It was so simple that even a toddler could have made it. Despite the lack of artistic aptitude not one of the many in attendance had a single negative point to make. An entire crowd of Los Angeles critics, whose entire profession revolved around being dismissive and cynical, could find nothing besides perfection. They passed by it and the many other paintings, each as mundane and simplistic as the last, with awe and wonder, each ascribing its grandiosity differently.

The artist, Sebastian Gaston, real name Steven Gibson, observed all of this with the biggest of possible smiles. Just two months ago he’d been shopping for his clothing at thrift stores and working nights as a janitor. Now he wore a tailor-made suit and hosted his third gallery in as many weeks. He’d spent more on his current haircut than he previously had on food.

An attractive young woman examined the painting nearest him. She had a notebook and a pen and jotted down notes in between casting coy glances at him. Finally, she worked up the nerve to ask, “So what does this painting mean to you?”

The painting in question, titled Tightrope, sported a red background with crude stick-like people standing on a black solid line. “Why don’t you tell me what you think?” he reflected the question, as he had no real answer for her, other than he had wanted to use up some red paint and thrown some goofy people in to spice it up.

She was delighted to be put on the spot. “I’d say that it was a feministic representation of the menstrual cycle. The red represents the flow and the woman on the line are clearly tiptoeing along the negative stigma of being on their menses in a work environment.”

Sebastian had quickly learned not to act too surprised at the varied interpretations people had of his work. It was wild where all the fascinating places their minds would go. This woman’s take proved to be one of the better ones he’d heard, and he made a mental note to use it himself if someone else asked. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

His agreement delighted her. “Mr. Gaston, I do some writing for a free newspaper, Los Art-geles, and I would be so honored if we could get an interview.”

“I’m familiar with it,” he said. Not long ago it was the only newspaper he could afford. “Would I be doing the interview with you?”

“Maybe. It might be one of the other, more seasoned writers but…”

“I tell you what. Call my agent. If the interview is with you then I’ll do it. If not, then no. How does that sound?”

Her cheeks went red as the Tightrope painting and by the time she finished thanking him several more critics had lined up to gush over him.

On and on it went and he relished every minute of it. Years of having his work critically savaged or dismissed altogether had left him craving such attention. With little over an hour left every painting had been marked as ‘SOLD’. It was enough money to buy a house. He had just finished agreeing to yet another interview when he noticed a late-comer doing a round of his work.

With the sheer number of enthusiastic fans that Sebastian had seen today, he wasn’t quite sure at first what made this man so distinctive. He watched him wander from painting to painting with far more speed than any of the critics had done. That was it, Sebastian realized. The man looked bored. This irked the artist as he had been promised that any negative reaction to his work was now impossible.

“Hi. I’m Sebastian. This is my exhibit,” he said too forcefully as he approached the man. When the man turned to look at him Sebastian couldn’t help but be stunned at how dramatically handsome he was. He was like a work of art unto himself as if someone had been tasked with making a perfect model of a human male.

“Hello,” he said and went back to perusing the work. In yet another affront to Sebastian, the man actually shook his head at one painting and walked right past the next. Completely perplexed, Sebastian pursued the man.

“If you have any questions feel free to ask.”

The man paused. “This painting,” he nodded at a blue canvas that had ‘X’s in each corner. “What’s the title of this one?”

“I call it Battleflag.”

“What does it mean?”

Sebastian fell back to his normal deflection with a hint of a smile. “What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea. It’s four marks and some blue paint. A little too banal for my taste.”

“Ba...banal...what...” Sebastian stuttered. He really had no idea how to respond. Quick fear clutched him. Had the aura faded already? He glanced around the room and was reassured when he met the adoring gazes of all the other entranced fans. Everything was proceeding as promised. Except for this one gentleman, who proved somehow immune.

“Sorry Steven. I’m just not that impressed. It doesn’t seem worth it,” the man finally said and left.

Sebastian stood stunned for several moments, barely hearing the continued praise from the rest of his admirers, even when one asked, “Why did he call you Steven?”

***

By the time Sebastion returned to his newly purchased studio space he had put the negative critic out of his mind. After all, he couldn’t quite remember if he’d been promised that all people would love his work. Maybe some hated art so much they were immune to his new abilities. In the end, it barely mattered. One out of thousands had to be acceptable. No need to be that greedy.

He tucked the bottle of champagne he’d bought to celebrate under one arm and spent the next two minutes undoing all of the locks he’d installed on his studio door. With his new success, one couldn’t be too careful. He got inside and fumbled in the dark for twice as long to reengage the deadbolts.

“Is it hollow?” a voice said from the shadows.

The bottle fell from his hands and shattered in a spray of foam and glass. “Who’s there?” he tried to ask in an authoritative tone, but the words came out in a croak.

“The success. Is it hollow because it wasn’t earned?”

Sebastian backed away from the questions and fumbled to get the door open, cursing the multi-step lock system. Just as he pulled it open something sailed past his head and slammed it shut. He looked up to see a short silver javelin, still quivering from the force, had pinned the door shut. He yanked on the knob several times to no avail and then reached to pluck the weapon out.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said the unknown person.

The metal was beyond ice cold and Sebastian howled in pain when his flesh came into contact with it. When he pulled it away the skin of his palm was blackened as if it had been outside in subzero temperatures for hours. With his uninjured one, he began digging for his cell phone. His skin-tight jeans made the relatively simple action into an arduous one and long seconds drug by before he was able to retrieve it and thumb it to life. Before he could dial a second small spear whistled past with a contrail of icy wind that numbed his face. The phone dropped from his hand, landing screen down to deny him even that meager light.

At this point Sebastian conceded defeat. “Don’t hurt me. Just take what you want.”

All of the lights in the studio came to life. The chandelier, the antique lamps, and the tacky strings of Christmas lights that crisscrossed the ceiling, all flickered on, each growing in intensity, like freshly lit candles. As the shadows receded a man was revealed—the harsh critic from his exhibit. “You? You’re the one who could see...” he trailed off, not wanting to admit to his deception.

“Yes. I was the one who could see your work for what it is.” The man sat in Sebastian’s leather chair. It was the first piece of furniture he bought after his newfound fame and fortune. “So, I ask again, is it hollow?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean?”

“Your success. Is it fulfilling or empty?

“My success?” Sebastian followed that with a lot of stammering before he finally said, “It’s fulfilling.”

The man sighed. “That is so disappointing. I had hoped for some contrition.”

“What?” Sebastian moved just enough to get to a dishtowel that he wrapped around his hand with a wince. “Why? I’m an artist. That’s what I do.”

“Because of what you gave up.”

The painter’s mouth opened, closed, opened, closed, with no words coming. “I...I don’t know...” He protested like a child who had not yet learned to lie.

“You sold your soul. You were a failing artist until you traded away the greatest gift in creation. You bartered your way to eternal damnation for wealth and fame. I admit this chair is rather nice though.” He stroked the leather arm before he stood. Although the man moved slowly, passively, Sebastian still stumbled back as if being attacked.

“Who are you?” the artist repeated. In response, there was a flare, like a snapshot, that created a split-second image in Sebastian’s head. The man suddenly glowed and from his back came lightning flashes frozen in time that shaped into wings before fading just as quickly. “No...it can’t be. You’re an angel?”

“Yes. I am an angel. You may call me Kushiel. Please don’t look so awestruck. The demon you consorted with made a more impressive introduction I’m sure. My station, even amongst my peers, is rather low. I am much like how you were, or rather, how you are supposed to be. Unnoticed and unimpressive. A nobody. Although, I suppose I've also committed a crime by stepping out of my lane.” He stopped at an easel and studied the current work on it. “What is this?”

Challenged on his art Sebastian found his spine and replied, “It’s an abstract critique meant to provoke thoughts on toxic masculinity and economic inequality.”

“Is it now?” Kushiel tilted his head around the color-splashed canvas. “No. I don’t see it. Therein lies the problem. You can no longer provoke anything but adoration. Art is meant to be more than that. People will fawn over you like a parent does to a child’s scribbling. So, I ask again. Is it hollow?”

“I guess. But you know what, it’s certainly better than mopping floors to pay the rent while everyone pisses on my work. The issue with being a starving artist is the starving part.”

“So, you have no regrets?”

“I don’t. The demon honored his end. What’s done is done. No use fretting about it when I can enjoy the best life has to offer for the rest of my days.”

Kushiel shook his head. “Like the others before you, you just can’t see it. From the moment of your birth, your beloved creator mapped your life from beginning to end. Starving artist or scrubber of floors, your only duty was to be content with your lot, thus proving your soul was worthy of ascension at the end of your time. Selling your soul is the one thing that could deviate your path. It’s the one decision that God does not allow for. You have removed yourself from His plan.”

Sebastian didn’t react. The lecture seemed small potatoes compared to his meeting with the demon last year. “Let’s be honest. God didn’t have much of a plan for me.”

“I don’t blame you for thinking that. We, the Lord’s Host, have given little to the world in our charge. We expect you to take your suffering on faith and then we leave you to your fate when you accept a better deal.”

The artist thought about this and then nodded with some enthusiasm. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You understand?”

“Completely.” Kushiel wandered to a stack of canvases and thumbed through them, finally drawing one out and holding it up. It depicted a girl in a yellow flowing dress dancing through a field of colored leaves. It was simple, if slightly amateurish. “I like this one. What’s it called?”

“I never named it. I painted it years ago.”

“Ah. Before your deal then. I thought so. I can feel that you put more soul into it.”

Despite the fear in his heart and the pain in his hand, Sebastian didn’t care for the pun and snapped back. “What do you want? I can’t undo the deal, even if I wanted to.”

“When a crime is committed justice must be meted as quickly as possible. Allowing the perpetrator any time at all to prosper or enjoy the fruits of his transgression is an affront to the creator and a signal to others to emulate that behavior.”

“What?”

“I must make an example of you.” Suddenly, as if he pulled it from the thin air, Kushiel held yet another of the silver javelins.

“No. You can’t be serious.” Sebastian was backing up now, sliding along the wall as if there was anywhere to retreat to.

“I’m sorry Steven. I truly am.”

The javelin caught Sebastian in the chest and pinned him to the wall. Death proved instantaneous. There had been no desire to make him suffer. The poor sod had all eternity for that.

Kushiel examined the painting of the girl in the yellow dress again. It really was the best of the bunch and the angel hadn’t lied when he said he could feel the soul in it.

He retrieved his javelins and lowered the body gently to the floor. With a silent command from the angel, the javelin pieces floated freely in the air before combining into one long, gleaming spear. Before leaving he set the painting of the girl in the yellow dress next to the body. Maybe that bit of soul would carry with him to the next world and mitigate his suffering.

But probably not.

***

The demon Naefur missed the killing by several hours. The death could be smelled through the door, so he didn’t bother with pleasantries and simply kicked it open, spraying broken pieces of the multiple locks across the studio. The corpse confirmed his suspicions, but the demon gave it a close examination in the vain hope he was wrong. Alas, the wound was the same—deep, precise, and bloodless from the searing of angel-forged metal.

It truly was a worst-case scenario. This was the third of his customers to end up dead, all within a few weeks of their barter, all at the hands of a vigilante angel. The actual deaths didn’t really have an effect on the demon. The souls continued to be his—all sales were final, no refunds given, and no regrets considered. But he had to consider the broader problem and that was angels weren’t allowed to fucking do this.

This information was dangerous, whether he kept it a secret or he shouted it from the mountain. He had no safe path to take. If he reported it to his superiors they may overreact and enflame the situation into open war, or even worse, they may task him to take care of the angel himself. Naefur was not a warrior. He was a salesman—a negotiator at best, and a swindler at worst. Going toe to toe with a murderous angel would most likely be the end of him.

That’s when the phone rang.