SINNERS

 

CHAPTER FOUR: THE HERALD AND THE FIRE

Bucky BonAires sat hunched over scripture in his candlelit sanctum, the flickering light casting demonic shadows across the cracked walls. The room reeked of burnt sage and dried blood. He hadn't eaten nor drunk in days. When questioned, he would simply say in a hoarse whisper,
"I fast, for the Lord cannot rest while pestilence feeds upon my flock."

At night, the silence was shattered by his screams—frantic, ancient incantations that tore through the halls like spiritual artillery. Servants would awaken, trembling, as his voice echoed through the compound. His eyes—normally cold and glassy—would glow red, infernal, as if some unseen entity were clawing through his soul.

The room housed bizarre, arcane relics—silver chalices filled with black liquid, jars of preserved eyes, crucifixes twisted into impossible shapes. Beneath the carpet, a scorched pentagram lay hidden, surrounded by blackened candles and the scent of dried iron.

There, Bucky would perform his midnight rites—chanting in languages long dead, drinking bitter elixirs that made his veins glow blue. He'd strip his back and lash himself raw with a whip carved from bone and hide, his cries of agony echoing as offerings to a God only he seemed to know. In those moments, he believed his suffering was holy—that penance was the only way to hear God’s voice.

And then, one night—just before the dawn—he heard something.

Not from the shadows.
From above.

A voice, deep and dreadful, rolled through the room like thunder through catacombs. It spoke in a tongue that shook the candles from their holders.

And then—light.

A blinding column of divine brilliance split the ceiling asunder. From it descended an angel, tall and terrible, cloaked in celestial armor that shimmered like liquid metal under moonlight. His wings stretched far and wide—wrought from sunlight, silver, and holy fire. His eyes burned like crucibles of molten gold and obsidian, ancient and unyielding.

Michael. The Archangel.

With a voice that cracked the walls, he spoke:
"Bucky BonAires, your judgment awaits."

A flaming sword hung on his back, humming with pure, destructive grace. His presence was unbearable—every molecule of air screamed in reverence. Light poured from him like a storm, and his halo spun with radiant power.

"I herald your beginning. I herald your end. I herald God Almighty."

The very earth shook beneath the church. Plaster rained from the ceiling. Servants ran in panic, unsure whether they were witnessing salvation or the apocalypse.

"What is happening?!" cried one clergyman down the corridor.

"I serve God!" Bucky roared. "Why else would He give me this power?!"

Michael’s gaze cut through him like flame through parchment.
"My Father is not pleased. Do this by your own hand—or I will summon the host of Heaven and end this false crusade."

And in a final flare of white light, he was gone.

---

Later that Day...

The sun had risen, but light still struggled to enter Bucky’s chamber. The curtains were drawn, save for a single golden shaft that danced through dust and incense. Blood from last night’s penance had dried on his back. He was disturbed, yes—but resolute. The world was sin, and he was the redeemer.

A frantic knock. Then—

"Sir! Two officers… they’re here. They… they want to speak with you!" gasped a terrified young acolyte, sweat soaking through his robe.

"What do they want?" Bucky asked, without looking up.

"I—I don’t know, your Holiness."

Bucky followed him to the church entrance. Two officers waited—one older, white, sharp-jawed. The other, tall, Black, with a stern expression and unblinking eyes. Their cruiser sat parked beneath an old apple tree, withered and gray.

"Mr. BonAires," said the first, flashing a badge. "I’m Detective John, this is Detective Mike. We’re investigating the disappearance of MaryAnne Munroe. Mind telling us where you were Sunday night?"

Bucky’s tone was calm, detached.
"Delivering a sermon. As always."

Mike stepped forward. His voice cut like steel.
"Witnesses claim you burned MaryAnne at the stake—right here in your church. Called her a witch."

Bucky’s eyes gleamed.
"I did not murder anyone. I was executing divine judgment."

John moved to cuff him.
"You’ll need to come with us for further questioning—"

But before the sentence was finished, Bucky’s hand shot forward, shoving him back ten feet across the porch. John hit the railing, gasping.

"You are mistaken!" Bucky bellowed. "Leave now—or face the wrath of the Harbinger!"

He pointed toward the police cruiser. The moment his arm stretched out, the air twisted—BOOM!—a fireball engulfed the vehicle, erupting in a violent inferno.

"Oh my God!" screamed Detective John.

"There is no God here…" Bucky growled, eyes blazing.
"Only Bucky BonAires… The Redeemer."

As the fire roared and smoke swallowed the tree, the officers turned and fled, leaving the preacher laughing in the smoke—half man, half monster, wholly anointed.