Belial used to burn for his old master, that strong figure with eyes alight, dark skin and hair always in motion, or fire himself, coils whipping through air with the snapping speed of inspiration. Burn for him. And Gabriel never looked at him. He'd hold his heart up to Gabriel and Gabriel's attention would touch him and move on, his heart ignored.

He burned, burned, burned and he'd decided to burn even Gabriel. Even Gabriel could burn. Bitch.

Oh, he'd laughed. He'd laughed and laughed when he'd felt it happen. When the beautiful scream of Gabriel's Word on his own had spun out of balance. When Gabriel turned female in defiance (or was it defence?), when she fled her own side's persecution. He'd sought her out on Earth, drawn her out, thin and drawn, her eyes absent. A girl. "The better to fuck you up, my dear," he'd said, and she'd burned him. Him! As if she had the right to burn Fire. He'd burn *her*, see how *she* liked it. His lip curled. He'd make sure she liked it.

He could hear her now through their shared Word. Her crooning to herself. Guttering. She will not last the night. And shit like that.

He's holding a wood carving of the Archangel Gabriel. Looks nothing like the bitch, some human invention. But it has her label. It burns in his hands and he throws his hatred, his delight at her image's destruction, at their Word. She croons with more agitation and he can feel her arms like ghostly fingers, around herself.

The brand in his hands crackles and breaks as his knuckles whiten. "Crash and burn, bitch," he croons back at her, feeling and ignoring the thickness of spittle on his chin. "Crash and burn."