Raphael finished off the last morsel of the corn bread and sipped at his coffee. The Young waitress busied herself cleaning tables, sweeping and cleaning up small plates and cups. Raphael watched her as though a young man were observing a football match. He saw the woman clearly through the elder man's eyes. Raphael paid little attention to the waitress. He was focused on the conversation down the street. No words were heard, but he could sensed the tenor; no, mood of the conversation. He could sense Isolde's strength. She stood her ground this time, unlike her previous encounter with Asmodeus. For this, he was grateful. He knew she was strong; knew God knew she was strong; that was a quality that attracted God to her thousands of years earlier.<br/><br/>The meeting appeared to be breaking up. He wanted to meet them in the street. He knew it would take him several minutes before he got out, yet desired to retain his concealment; to not be identified by the demons. There was no need to reveal himself to the Polish woman. He knew she, also was strong. He met her several thousand years earlier. She would be a pivotal figure in the fight with Darcy when the time was right. It still was not right. He wondered if she knew how important her role would be during that conflagration.<br/><br/>Raphael returned the small ceramic cup back upon its saucer. Glancing out the window, he immediately recognized, not a German Army officer, but a spawn of Satan replete with black orbs for eyes, horns and boiling, seared flesh, rippled with muscle. The image waned swiftly, replaced by that of the Germany Army officer he imitated. The blackness surrounding the man was undeniable. In his wake, he left a trail back to something horrible.<br/><br/>The demon injured someone recently. Raphael raised himself from the chair, considering who departed the residence. As he placed<span style="font-style: italic">die ein mark funfsisch stucke</span>on the table, it came to him. 'Diese Italienishe offizieren!' Raphael thought to himself, 'wo sind Sie?' [tr. The Italian officer! where is he?]<br/><br/>Father Fischer replaced his woolen cap on his head and pulled on the leather gloves. The coldness in the air had no effect on his angelic flesh. It meant nothing to him, even in this mortal form. He could not feel the bitterness of the cold. With his occupation of Father Fischer, neither did the catholic priest. For the priest, his spirit remained fast asleep inside the corporeal being.<br/><br/>After climbing over a snow pile, steam billowing from his mouth, he landed in the slushy street and slowly glided diagonally across the street. He climbed a small snow pile on the far side of the street and made his way towards Isolde's apartment building. As he moved east along the cobbled walk, he spied the first rays of the morning sun streaming out across the city landscape, beginning its sojourn into the morning sky.<br/><br/>Upon inspection of the alley next to the apartment building, Raphael found the Italian officer asleep in a semi-sprawled seated position slumped against a wall. The unconscious man suffered a concussion and was bleeding from a blunt force trauma to the skull. Raphael dragged the man into the darkness of the alley. He slowly changed his appearance from that of Father Fischer to the arch angel Raphael.<br/><br/>The archangel lowered himself over the unconscious man, wrapping his wings around the man's being. He emanated warmth felt by any human within a three hundred yard radius. It would make them feel confident and good about themselves. The warmth radiated out away from the angel in short pulses. Any demons in the area would suffer a tolerable anguish. The warmth of Raphael's healing pulses, would not restore the man's memory, but would cure him of his ailments. He would come out of this experience feeling much better than he had in his life. Raphael picked the man up and brought him inside the apartment building. He lowered him onto the floor, just inside the door and the slowly returned to the guise of Father Raphael Fischer.<br/><br/>The catholic priest stepped back into the cold air and began walking toward Peterskirche. He was scheduled to say mass in an hour. As he walked by the liquor establishment near the coffee shop, he felt the dark aura of the demon in the basement. He would be more than happy to banish this creature back to the depths of hell, but God instructed him to leave them alone for now. The forces of good may require their unholy assistance with the fight to come.<br/><br/>To fight alongside the demons was not a foreign concept to Raphael. He had on several occasions entered into temporary arrangements with the Fallen to defeat one of their own. The Fallen did not care. They stabbed each other in the back more often than they consumed the souls of mortals.<br/><br/>When he reached the church, he entered by a side door approached the altar, genuflected; took a knee, bowed his head and blessed himself. He looked up at the wooden crucifix and uttered, "deus qui inhabitare facit," in Latin. Latin was after all the language spoken in all catholic masses, even here in Southern Germany. [tr. God bless us all.]