Fall for Freedom

by Winnie Jean Howard

  She holds out her hand and we shake.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “A car will be here shortly to take us to Sisters of the Divine Heart Convent. The Sword of Sin is there as well as a priest with more information about Azael. It’s also where we’ll break your contract with Satan.”

  “What about the mercenary?” We look over at Roy, who’s sipping espresso with his pinky finger pointed skyward, almost taking the edge off his threatening appearance. Then a large beetle crawls out of his ear, rolling an orange ball of ear wax down his arm and toward the cup.

  Don’t do it, Boss says.

  Before I can verify Boss is thinking what I’m thinking, the orange ball drops into the cup as does my stomach drop.

  Eww, echoes in my head from the both of us.

  “The sooner we get out of here, the better.” Trisha’s lips draw back. “Unfortunately, I can’t call off your kill warrant until Azael’s back in his cell. So I sneaked a note to Harvey when I paid for your coffee, asking him to slip a mickey in Roy’s drink,” she says. “Get ready. When he nods off, we’re out the door.”

  Courting Nuns

  The convent resides in an adobe-style mansion with a terracotta exterior. Cross-cut logs stained a dark brown, dot across the full length of two floors. Foothills rise in the distance, but the building sits on flat and barren wasteland, covered with rocks, sagebrush, and sparse ponderosa pine trees.

  Trisha makes herself at home by opening the tall, ornately carved door that swings on black metal hinges. I, on the other hand, hesitate to walk through the archway, expecting Boss and I will burn up like vampires.

  Trisha waves me inside. “The nuns are sweethearts, and Father Timothy should be pleased you’re joining us.”

  ’Should be?’ Boss says. What does she mean by, ‘should be?’

  Cautiously, I stride through the doorway unharmed, but the place is so quiet, the echo from my cowboy boots could wake the dead.

  We pause under a black iron chandelier and face a set of grand staircases with dark oak steps and twisted railings. “They must be praying,” she says, then turns right, leading the way down a long hallway with tall windows that look out onto the front yard. Statues of saints are inset on the opposite wall.

  Double doors lead into the chapel. Behind the altar hangs a life-like painted figure of Jesus on the cross. Twenty nuns in black veils kneel in the pews, chanting a prayer in Latin. Goosebumps break out on my arms from the decrease in temperature or the smell of incense that flashes me back to an unhappy parochial education.

  I say to Boss, You’re remarkably calm for a demon in church.

  What do you mean? he replies. A chapel’s the best place for a demon to fuck with sinful souls.

  I half grin.

  The dark-haired priest closes the Bible and steps away from the pulpit. He’s wearing the traditional clerical collar and black shirt above faded jeans. His sandals flap against the wood floor as he hurries to meet us halfway down the far-left aisle. “Trisha,” he says.

  “Father Timothy.” She kisses his cheek, leaving a momentary glow of lip prints.

  He frowns and extends a hand. “Who’s this?” While we shake, he focuses on my violet eyes.

  “Name’s Pete.”

  “He’s a courier,” Trisha says. “The man wanted for closing the hellhole.”

  The priest stiffens and jerks away his hand. A few of the nuns turn and gasp. “Why would you bring him here?”

  “I didn’t do it,” I assure him, although I expect Father Timothy’s two seconds away from throwing me out on my ass.

  “It’s okay,” Trisha says. “He’s willing to help us with Azael.”

  “Sisters.” Father Timothy’s voice echoes throughout the chapel. “Please go to your rooms until dinner.”

  The nuns stand in unison. If it weren’t for their varying sizes, they’d be clones in their oversized gray sweaters and black skirts. With their veiled heads bowed and their hands clasped, they file out of the pews and through the doors where we’d entered.

  Once they’re gone, Father Timothy says, “Trisha, there’s no one I trust more than you, but—”

  “He’s immortal,” she says, “and has worked for Margery since the end of the Second World War. Anyone who can evade me for that many years has the skills we need.”

  “You’re giving me too much credit,” I say. “Without Margery’s protection hexes, you were able to corner me in the Purgalator.” But no one seems to care about my objection.

  “We’re under a time crunch,” Trisha says.

  “But we still have to be cautious.” Father Timothy turns to me. “No offense, but I’ve been fighting on God’s Behalf for ten years, and never once have I met anyone or anything trustworthy on the side of evil. How can we be sure you won’t align yourself with Azael?”

  All I can do is nod. He’s right in not trusting a guy who sold out to Satan and relies on a demon twenty-four-seven. I, too, have no faith in my fellow couriers, my suspicions about being set up today a perfect example.

  An explosive crash and a wave of screams erupts in the hall. We run from the chapel to investigate. My heart quickens at the thought of how unprepared I am for whatever awaits. Boss concurs by squealing in my head.

  Several nuns block our ability to access the grand entryway. My muscles tense as I inch forward through the crowd and make out the horrific scene. A winged being, at least ten feet tall and shimmering like a bronze statue, stands broad-chested, one fist resting at his waist. With a chiseled jaw, dark eyes and spiky hair, he’s handsome, yet terrifying in a way that makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it’s the fact he’s holding a nun’s decapitated head in his other hand.

  Up above, where the iron chandelier once hung, a large hole now opens to the bright blue Colorado sky. Two sisters lay under the collapsed fixture, and a river of crimson seeps across broken candles. At the fallen angel’s feet lies the headless body of a heavyset nun, her blood creeping to meet with the expired life-forces of the other sisters.

  The creature flaps his black-and-bronze wings a full twenty-feet before they disappear into his shoulder blades. A gust of air brushes a mixture of sulfur and men’s locker room stench over us. I gag.

  It’s him. It’s Azael. Boss’ voice shakes in a way I’ve never heard.

  He smells vulgar, I say.

  To women, he’s intoxicating.

  Evidenced by the five nuns standing in a single row, presenting themselves to Azael. They stare straight ahead, frozen in place, under some sort of spell. One pulls off her veil. Long golden hair flows across her back while she waves her hands as if in worship.

  Boss adds, Bettin’ the blond wants to be first to have his baby.

  This is the worst introduction to the fallen angel imaginable. My mouth goes dry. There’s no chance I can save the world from this unholy beast. “We’re screwed,” I whisper.

  Try screwed with a double shot of fucked up the ass, Boss says.

  While Father Timothy hurries the remaining nuns back into the chapel, Trisha advances. I somehow find the courage to push forward along with her, despite the sharp pain in my lower-back. I tell Boss, Stop playing my spine or I’ll end up headless too.

  He lightens the pressure.

  Trisha fixes her stare on Azael and says, “We’ve got to get those five nuns away from him.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Azael turns to us. His deep laugh sends a vibration across the room that raises the hair on every part of my body. With a tight grip on the nun’s head, he winds up like a major-league pitcher and throws it at Trisha.

  She makes the catch. Warm droplets of blood splatter over our faces and my knees weaken. Careful not to take her eyes off Azael, Trisha places the head on the floor, then she squeezes my arm and holds me near her side, as if she senses I want to run. “Where’s Father Timothy?” she says. “We need the Sword of Sin.”

  “I’m right here.” He’s out of breath as he jogs in and joins us. “It’s lock
ed up in Mother Superior’s office.”

  “Let me guess.” Trisha huddles us closer. “Mother Superior has the only set of keys in her pocket.”

  “Let me guess.” I point at the severed head, which has bulging eyes and a protruding tongue. “She’s Mother Superior.”

  “Yes and yes.” The priest’s hand shakes while signing the cross.

  “Then we do this the hard way.” Trisha gathers her hair, and it magically stays in a ponytail. “I’ll rush Azael and knock him off his feet. Pete, you run in and get the keys out of Mother Superior’s pocket. Throw them to Father Timothy.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to break into the office?” My wobbly legs unwilling to follow through on her plan.

  “No.” Before I can object further, she rushes at the fallen angel.

  I’m about to dash toward Mother Superior when Azael peers skyward and whistles. Five white warriors descend through the ceiling and each grab a spellbound nun. The warriors ascend through the roof before Trisha can connect or anyone can intervene.

  “Come back here, you traitors.” Trisha waves her fist.

  “What are you waiting for?” Father Timothy shoves me. “We need the keys.”

  Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to fight a cowardly demon, limiting his movement.

  Across the room, Trisha pulls at Azael’s leg, but the fallen angel stands as still as a statue. “Look at the little one, trying to be a real angel.” As if she’s an annoying fly, he swats her into the air.

  She clutches the iron railing on the second floor, and her only wing extends. He leaps at her, grabs the appendage, and shakes her in midair until the adjoining bone snaps and rips away from her shoulder blade. Again, his laughter rattles the room. Then he bares sharp, pointy teeth and rips into her wing like a hungry lion.

  Trisha lands near Mother Superior, digs into the headless nun’s pocket, then springs to her feet and holds up the keys. Her white silk blouse and miniskirt drip blood. She throws the keys to Father Timothy. He pushes me out of the way and makes the catch before running between the grand staircases.

  Trisha pirouettes and invites Azael to join her for another round. “Let’s go, asshole.”

  “I have my brides,” he says. “Bye, bye, little cherub.” He springs through the roof.

  She stomps her foot in a puddle of blood and shakes a fist at the sky. “Goddamn you!” After using the Lord’s name in vain, her eyes pop and she covers her mouth. She holds her palms together in prayer and bows her head.

  The sisters rush into the room weeping. Some sign the cross while others hold their rosaries to their lips. The damage, barely believable, brings tears to my eye. At the same time, I wonder, Why didn’t he kill more of us?

  Why would he destroy what he wants? Boss says. He’ll be back for more nuns.

  “Sisters, to your rooms!” Father Timothy shouts when he returns to the entryway. He’s holding a wooden box long enough to house a sword. “Trisha and Pete, follow me.”

  His deep scowl shows he’s ready to kill.

  A Little Somethin’ for Boss

  Inside the industrial-sized kitchen, a plump two-headed woman chops carrots. The head with the tight salt-and-pepper bun sits centered, as if original to the body, while the one with blond hair and rosy cheeks appears attached at the right shoulder. Both look around sixty, but if they’re immortal, there’s no telling their true age.

  Oh shit, Boss says. It’s Ulla and Inez.

  Who?

  Necromancers, Demon Whisperers, you name it. Two heads you want on your side when they open up a magical can of whoopass.

  “In a convent?” I say. Father Timothy’s concerned about me being here, yet they get a pass. The Catholic Church used to burn their type at the stake.

  The priest snaps his attention to me, his expression drawn and sober. “Did you say something?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  After placing the wooden box onto the counter, Father Timothy addresses the ladies. “He needs the antidote for a soul contract, and he’s possessed, so he’ll need to regain control of his body as well.”

  The two-headed woman moves in and sizes me up, the one with the bun expressing a more judgmental frown. Around my back, a finger draws up my spine.

  Oh, crap. Boss says. It could turn ugly if they detect I’m the demon possessing you.

  They dislike you?

  Try despise me. Especially Inez, the one with the bun.

  “Hello.” I grin and twiddle my fingers at them.

  The blond makes an effort to smile, but the other grunts and turns away, taking them into the walk-in refrigerator. Then the door slams.

  What do they have against you? I ask.

  They exorcized me from my last host, but I escaped before they could put me into a keepsake jars for use in a potion. In the end, the fight resulted in a scar under their housecoat that traumatized me more than them.

  Trisha leads me to a tall table in the corner. We sit at the only two chairs. The priest starts to pace. “Pete,” he says, “considering what just happened, we require your support more than ever. But you not going after the keys when directed concerns me.”

  “Why did you hold back?” Trisha asks.

  I tell them Boss immobilized me, even if I was equally hesitant to retrieve the keys.

  Father Timothy’s brow puckers. “We need to work together, but we can’t accomplish this without trust. So, Pete, we need to know if you’re up for this?”

  “You hesitate again,” Trisha says, “I lop off your head.”

  Promises, Boss says. Wading across the Sea of Shit in the eighth level of Hell with a bunch of false flatterers would be more pleasant than a face off with a fallen angel.

  No matter who chops off my head, our fates are worse than that, I remind him. Me guarding Hell’s Refugee Camp comes with ten times higher levels of punishment. And you could lose your identity in the molten demon recycling pool. If we take down Azael, we’re free.

  Trisha’s eyes tighten in on mine. “You want to share the conversation you’re having with your demon.”

  “Boss has no confidence I can beat Azael.” So I have to ask, “Why do you believe I’m capable?”

  “Our beliefs are not a priority for discussion.” Father Timothy’s pacing slows. “Azael prefers to procreate with holy women, and now that he has what he wants, we must get to Trisha’s cave before he impregnates the nuns.”

  Told ya Azael’s horny, Boss says.

  “If he’s able to impregnate any of the five sisters,” Trisha says, “they’ll come to term in a few hours. Each of his offspring will make him stronger, and forcing him back into his cell will be more difficult. Basically, we’ve got to capture Azael before he creates a litter of Nephilim.”

  “Nephilim?” I ask.

  “Children of fallen angels and human women.” Trisha clears her throat. “Listen. There’s no more time to stroke your ego. What’s it going to be? Help us, or lose your head?”

  “I agreed to help.” I rub my hands on my jeans to release nervous energy. Too bad it doesn’t work. Then I add, “I won’t go back on my word.”

  The refrigerator door pops open, and I nearly jump out of my skin. The two-headed lady exits holding a tall green cup. She waddles over and places it in front of me. “Drink it. Every last bit,” the blond head says. “In a half hour, it will free you from your contract with Satan, and your demon will no longer drive your actions.”

  Inez cuts in. “Although you can still communicate with Boss.”

  Shit, they know it’s me.

  I ignore him and ask, “But I’ll continue to be immortal?”

  “Of course,” Ulla says. “While couriers like yourself wish to regain their freedom from evil forces, they’re not so willing to lose the amenities—”

  Inez adds, “We have taken this into consideration in our antidote. Unfortunately, the automatic cash flow to your wallet for service to Satan will end.”

  Boss gasps. How will you buy me p
orn?

  Inez leans in close and smirks. “I heard that, and I know you’re in there, Boss. We’ve added something special for you. You’ll figure it out when it hits, but you won’t like it.” While she walks away, she sniffs and grunts an odd sort of laugh.

  Drink it and I’ll twist your balls. Boss strikes at my coccyx.

  Knock it off. I draw in a deep breath and cup my crotch, prepared for a below the belt jab.

  “What’s the matter?” Trisha asks.

  “Boss is resisting.”

  “Listen here, demon.” Trisha digs her nails into my arm. “I’m sure you deserve whatever Ulla and Inez put in the antidote, so don’t ruin Pete’s only chance to keep his head.”

  “Hey,” I say with eyes wide on her grip. “That hurts me, not him.”

  They both lighten their hold. Last thing I want is to be in the middle of their war. Boss is probably already plotting his revenge.

  I focus on the brew. How could a release from the underworld be as simple as downing a potion? Then tiny eyeballs float to the surface along with the ass end of a beetle. The foul odor of a sunbaked bait bucket burns my nose hairs. “You expect me to drink this.”

  “Yes,” Trisha says. “Until your contract is fully broken, Margery can track you. Satan can find you.”

  I lift the cup and wonder why I agreed to help. I’m not the sort of man who saves the world. I’m the sort who sits in a van for nine hours a day, and by night, consumes a microwave dinner, half a bottle of scotch, and the latest political thriller. In a few gulps, fifty years of dependence on the forces of evil will end. It sounds terrifying, although not as horrific as Azael impregnating nuns.

  Don’t be a fool, Boss says. You’re no hero. Grab the sword, weaken Trisha, and I’ll lead us to safety in the mountains.

  I’d never beat her to the wooden box, I tell Boss. Besides, life isn’t worth living on the run for an eternity.

  Trisha waves her red fingernail at me. “Is your demon giving you more trouble?”