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He was pale and precious. Soft lips perfectly sculpted for sinful things. Wings and hair soft and white as snowflakes…
Pitchiner wonders at his fall, at the stainlessness of his soul. The boy-thing is of the Power, a magnificently strong breed. He wonders how long it will take to corrupt the flesh and heart of this being, how easy it will be to make the soft body pliant beneath his own, lusting and loud beneath silver-gray fingers.
Feathers brush the ground, a cape of downy, brilliant light. The Child of Heaven smiles without care, unknowing but not uncertain or afraid. And, oh, how Pitchiner would feast upon such tender fear as his, rending open his soul to consume the sweetness of his terror.
He follows as the boy wanders into a human settlement where the sky is dark and the stillness overwhelming. Pitchiner can taste the stormfear glinting jagged through the air, pushing the cowering, whimpering humans into their cowering, whimpering shacks. But the angel-child goes undaunted to the center of the town, which all the rickety cottages face.
There is a steeple rising from the empty, lifeless square, dull and unimpressive. Pitchiner sees the smallest of glows reflecting from the chipped, white-washed cedar of its siding and knows he cannot tread there. The boy does not move beyond the gate, where the hallowed ground begins, but he smiles at the pathetic construction as if it were a palace.
Pitchiner glares, hissing. These humans with their simple minds and pointless loyalties know not the lies they have believed, the Great Lie they have trusted for these centuries.
The boy turns toward Pitchiner, eyeing the darkness where the demon rests but shrugging off the apparent threat. The dark being sees quickly why.
Children, smiling and laughing and chasing, even as a storm brews above. The boy smiles with them, unfurls his wings to chase them. Pitchiner follows, curious. He watches the twist and flutter of white wings against a dreary sky and the arch of the thin body held aloft, the curl of bone-white toes. He admires the bare form, innocent and blameless, virginal. His body aches to take it, to ruin and conquer and break.
The boy lands before the children, kneeling down to greet them in the leaves and brush of the forest. He holds his arms out, calling to them. His voice is lyrical, dancing through Pitchiner’s body, tightly coiling in his loins. He wants the child to weep and scream and moan, to gasp and whimper through his sweet lips with such a beautiful voice…
Curiously, the children seem not to see their heavenly guest, occupied by their play as they are. But when they run, passing through the boy as if he were air, Pitchiner understands.
The angel-child weeps and the darkness moves in, surrounding in a facsimile of comfort, smiling viciously, hungrily. The boy looks up into the darkness, small and quivering as he sobs. Pitchiner bends down close, engulfing the boy, swallowing him with fear and lust.