Uriel (Speed Dating with the Denizens of the Underworld #39)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Uriel

I never imagined the gates of Hell would open in Los Angeles on a Tuesday.

The acrid stench of smoke and desperation permeates the air as I stride through Angelstone Hospital’s emergency room. The fluorescent lights flicker ominously overhead, casting sickly shadows across faces contorted in pain and fear. Sirens wail in the distance, a reminder of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls.

I move down the hallway, the familiar weight of my angelic duty settling upon my shoulders. But it’s more than just the burden of an archangel—it’s the crushing responsibility of one who stands at the crossroads of realms, maintaining a precarious balance between worlds.

As the Celestial Harmonizer, each decision I make, each action I take, ripples across the cosmos, affecting the delicate equilibrium I’m sworn to preserve. The pandemonium before me in this mortal hospital is but a pale reflection of the supernatural disorder I must daily hold at bay.

My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of human suffering that surrounds me. Nurses rush past, their scrubs already stained with blood and worse. Somewhere, a child is crying, the sound piercing through the din like an arrow to the heart.

Chaos reigns supreme—moans of pain mingle with barked orders, the sound a hellish orchestra scoring this disaster.

“Dr. Angelstone!” a harried nurse calls out, thrusting a chart into my hands. Her pallid face and wide eyes betray both exhaustion and barely contained panic. “Male, forties, crush injuries. BP’s dropping fast.”

I scan the information, my mind cataloging symptoms and treatment protocols with practiced efficiency. The words on the page seem to blur for a moment, and I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. Lives hang in the balance. There’s no room for error, no time for doubt.

“OR 2, stat,” I state coolly. “Page Dr. Ramírez.”

The nurse nods sharply and spins on her heel, already relaying orders into her radio as she hurries away. I watch her go, a fleeting moment of admiration for her composure in the face of such chaos.

The earth trembles again, an aftershock that sends fear rippling through the crowded ER. The floor beneath my feet bucks and heaves, as if some great beast were trying to break free from the depths below. Carts rattle, vials shatter, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if the building itself might come down around us.

A child wails, the sound cutting through the din like a knife. I spot the source—a little girl, no more than five or six, clutching a teddy bear with one arm while the other hangs at an unnatural angle. Her eyes meet mine, wide and pleading, and for a moment I feel a very human urge to gather her in my arms and promise that everything will be alright.

But I can’t. I’m not here to provide comfort. I’m here to save lives, to maintain order in the face of unprecedented disaster. I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders as I push aside the flood of earthly emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

The mayhem around me threatens to spiral out of control. Voices rise in panic, machines beep urgently, medical equipment clatters to the floor. I can sense the staff’s mounting anxiety, their desperate need for direction. This is the moment where leadership is crucial, where a steady hand can mean the difference between order and anarchy.

I remain unmoved, an island of calm in the storm.

“Everyone!” My voice cuts through the din. All eyes turn to me. I can feel the weight of their gazes—patients, nurses, doctors alike—all looking to me for guidance, for reassurance. I must not falter. I cannot show weakness. “We have a job to do. Lives depend on our focus. Now, triage protocol Alpha. Move!”

The staff snaps to attention, order slowly emerging from bedlam. This is why I’m here—to maintain control when the world spirals into madness. It’s my purpose, my calling.

As the emergency room staff falls into the familiar rhythms of triage, I allow myself a moment to survey the scene. Gurneys line the hallways, each one bearing a soul in desperate need of aid. This is a test of our skills, our resources, our very humanity.

And yet, even as I watch my team work with practiced efficiency, I can’t shake the feeling that this is more than just a natural disaster. There’s something in the air, a charge that sets my celestial senses on edge. Something is coming... Something big.

A flurry of movement catches my eye. Emilia Thornton, our infuriatingly idealistic social worker, kneels beside a sobbing woman. Her honey-blonde hair, usually neatly pinned back, has come loose, wild tendrils framing a face smudged with dirt and what might be ash. Her blue scrubs are rumpled and stained, a far cry from her usual put-together appearance. Yet her eyes shine with warmth as she clasps the patient’s hand.

“It’s going to be alright,” Emilia soothes. Her voice is low and steady, a calm port in the storm of panic and pain that surrounds us. “We’ll find your daughter, I promise.”

I clench my jaw. Promises are dangerous things, especially now. They’re a luxury we can’t afford, a kindness that might prove cruel in the face of harsh reality. We can’t afford to waste resources on?—

“Dr. Angelstone!” Emilia’s voice rings out, sharp and demanding. She’s on her feet now, eyes blazing with that familiar fire that both annoys and, though I’m loath to admit it, impresses me. “This woman’s child is missing. We need to?—”

“We need to focus on saving the lives in front of us, Ms. Thornton,” I interrupt coldly. I can see the hurt flash across her face at my tone, quickly replaced by determination. Part of me admires her passion, her unwavering commitment to each soul. But I can’t afford to think that way. Not now. Not with so much at stake. “The rescue teams will handle missing persons.”

Emilia’s cheeks burn red scarlet. “But doctor, if we just?—”

The ground beneath us gives a sickening lurch, cutting off her words. For a split second, the world seems to hold its breath. Then chaos erupts once again.

The ground bucks violently beneath our feet. Screams rise as ceiling tiles rain down. Dust fills the air, choking and blinding. I lunge forward instinctively, shielding Emilia and her patient with my body. I sense the impact of debris against my back, hear the crash of medical equipment toppling around us. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into eternity.

For a heartbeat, I’m acutely aware of her warmth pressed against me, the scent of lavender barely discernible beneath the smoke. Her breath comes in short, panicked gasps, her heart racing so fast I can feel it even through the layers of clothing that separate us… In this moment of crisis, of primal fear, I’m struck by how fragile humans are. How precious.

The shaking finally subsides. I step back quickly, uncomfortable with the lingering sensation of her touch. My skin tingles where she pressed against me, a sensation both foreign and disturbingly pleasant. I push the feeling aside, locking it away in a corner of my mind to be examined later. Or preferably, never.

“Are you alright?” I ask, my tone clipped. I run my eyes over her quickly, assessing for injury. She seems shaken but unharmed, though there’s a small cut on her cheek that’s starting to bead with blood.

Emilia nods, a strange expression flickering across her face. For a moment, she looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. There’s something in her eyes—gratitude, confusion, and something else I can’t quite name. “Thank you,” she says softly.

I open my mouth to respond, though I’m not sure what I intend to say. But before I can speak, the moment is shattered. A doctor shouts from across the room. “We’ve got multiple incoming traumas! All hands on deck!”

I straighten, pushing aside the odd moment of connection. There’s work to be done. “Ms. Thornton, make yourself useful and help with intake,” I order. “I need to get to surgery.”

As I turn away, I hear her mutter, “Yes, Your Highness.”

The words are quiet, clearly not meant for my ears, but they reach me nonetheless. A wave of irritation washes over me, followed quickly by something that might be amusement. Even in the midst of disaster, Emilia Thornton manages to be a thorn in my side—a stubborn thorn, lodged in me for the past six months.

I ignore the jab, focusing on the tasks ahead. I am Uriel, Archangel of Repentance, defender of divine order. I will not be swayed by human emotions or petty conflicts.

As I make my way towards the operating room, I can’t help but cast one last glance over my shoulder. Emilia is already back at work, her face set in determination as she helps direct the flow of incoming patients. For a moment, I feel a twinge of something—admiration, perhaps, or kinship. We may disagree on methods, but our goal is the same: to save as many lives as we can.

I shake my head, banishing the thought. There’s no time for such musings. The next wave of casualties will be arriving any minute, and I need to be ready. With a deep breath, I steel myself for the long hours ahead. Whatever hell has broken loose in Los Angeles, I will face it head-on. It’s what I was created for, after all.

But as I scrub in for surgery, I can’t quite shake the lingering warmth where Emilia’s body pressed against mine. The sensation is... unsettling. Inappropriate. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

No.

With practiced discipline, I push away the unwelcome feelings, locking them behind iron walls in my mind. There’s no room for distraction, not when lives hang in the balance. I focus on the cool rush of water over my hands, the familiar ritual grounding me in purpose once more. My fingers move mechanically, scrubbing each digit with precise, efficient motions. By the time I’m done, I’ve regained my composure, my mind clear and ready for the grueling hours ahead. I glance at the clock—barely noon. It’s going to be a long day, but I am prepared.

I always am.