Fall for Freedom

by Winnie Jean Howard

  Still holding the glass, I shake my head and let out a slow exhale. Swiftly, I chug a few swallows, then gag. After a long burp, it’s obvious that keeping the potion in my nervous stomach will be challenging. But the disgust I have for the drink is nothing compared to how I feel about the dead and kidnapped nuns.

  You better hope this is worth it, Boss says, because thirty minutes from now, you’re on your own.

  We can still talk.

  Why? If I can’t get a rise out of you, I might as well take a nap.

  About to Crap Yourself?

  Ten minutes later, we’re in a white Bronco, Father Timothy behind the wheel, heading west toward Trisha’s cave.

  In the back seat, on my lap, rests the olive wood case that contains the Sword of Sin. It stretches three feet long and eight inches wide and was made to stifle the blade’s powers. I trace the dark woodgrain with my finger. All too soon, it will be my only defense, even though I lack the skills to use.

  Feels like you’re about to crap yourself, Boss says.

  I ignore him and study the mountain range to our right.

  Open the box. You know you want to. Boss plucks at my lower spine, but the usual stab is no more than a tickle now that the potion has kicked in.

  So far, Trisha and the priest have insisted I keep the container closed, but I finally give in to temptation and fiddle with the rusty latches. The hinges squeak as I open the lid a few inches to reveal the dull gray sword with nicks across the full length. Awe-inspiring that the thing’s made from metals that once penetrated Jesus’ body, but the thing appears useless against a rat, let alone an angel.

  Trisha reaches back and forces the lid shut, pinching my index finger. “I told you not to open that.” She rubs her temple and takes a deep breath. “It’s bad enough I’ve lost my wings. Don’t make me defenseless before we even reach my cave.”

  “Sorry.” I refasten the latches. “I didn’t think it would work that fast.”

  She flips her curly ponytail. “When the box is open, it’s a dead giveaway to any angel that the Sword of Sin is near. The worst thing you can do is open it too soon and give Azael time to escape.”

  “How do you know he’s camped out at your cave?”

  “I don’t,” she says, “but moving a hundred white warriors to a new location isn’t exactly easy, so going there is our best first option.”

  “You never answered my question earlier,” I say.

  “What question?” she asks.

  “Why you both think I can fight a fallen angel?”

  They share a glance before Trisha says, “It’s not that we think you can succeed, but more that you’re our best short-term solution. Besides the three of us, we have little to no support.”

  “Huh?” I bite my lip and frown.

  You heard her, Boss says. We do this and we’re on our own. Can you live with that?

  “We want to help you in any way we can,” she says, “but the Catholic Church can’t—”

  “What she’s trying to say is we’ve moved into a new age of technology,” Father Timothy says. “Most of the world doesn’t believe in the supernatural and religious ways of the past. Today’s Catholic Church is a business. Priests are talented in raising funds, not protection against evil forces. To announce to the world that a fallen angel has escaped and is threatening free will is to further risk the reputation of the Church.”

  “Excuse my language, Father, but that’s fucked up.” My eye twitches. “If you have no support, how do you have the sword or even know how to capture Azael?”

  “I’m a member of a small elite group of priests who reports directly to the Pope. We battle evil for the Catholic Church,” Father Timothy says. “There’s a diary at the Vatican that was written by a Knight of the Templar. He was part of an order that escaped to North America with important artifacts at the time the Templars were being hunted and destroyed. I’ve studied the book for years, specifically how to use the Sword of Sin.”

  “And you haven’t shown it to me,” I say. “Where is it?”

  “It’s too fragile to remove from the Vatican Archives in Rome,” he says. “But you can rest assured I’m an expert on its contents.”

  “Well, start talking.” My voice elevates. “How do I take down the bastard?”

  “Calm down,” Trisha says. “You’ll first need to understand that angels’ life forces are in the light that encompasses us. We are separate, yet one. We communicate and offer protection to humans through the light. But fallen angels are separate from the collective. Their former brilliance has imploded, leaving behind a dark void the size of a human heart.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “It’s where to stab Azael?”

  Trisha nods. “Yes.”

  I lower my head and close my eyes. “What does the diary say he’ll do after he’s stabbed?”

  No one answers.

  The more, or less, they confess, the more dangerous this mission feels. “Come on. I deserve to know.”

  The priest clears his throat. “Remember that the Sword of Sin weakens him.”

  Bet they have no idea, Boss says.

  The priest confirms Boss’ suspicions when he says, “The journal is missing pages.”

  You should have asked for the ability to kiss your ass goodbye because we won’t last five minutes against Azael, Boss says.

  Demon pool, I remind him and slump in my seat.

  “Turn here.” Trisha points down a dirt road, past a sign that says Poison Canyon.

  Off to the west, the wind has blown sand from the Great Sand Dunes National Park over the mountains, forming the tan mounds that dot a landscape of jagged rocks and dead trees. No sane person would come here without a purpose and five gallons of water.

  My stomach gurgles. While I’m nearly free from Satan’s contract and Boss’ control, the two-headed lady failed to mention the cramping side effects would worsen.

  If the chaos in your gut doesn’t settle down, you’ll have another weapon against Azael—projectile vomiting.

  Suddenly, the engine ceases and the Bronco slows. “What the heck?” Father Timothy struggles to steer to the side of the road, then hits the brake and shifts into park. He tries to restart the engine a few times, but it’s dead.

  I fixate on the keys hanging from the ignition. “What happened?”

  “We’re close to my cave,” Trisha says. “Could be Azael senses our presence and has put a hex on the vehicle.”

  “How could he know we’re here?” My voice shakes, and so do my legs. “I only exposed the sword for half a second.”

  “It’s probably not that.” She kicks open her door. “We angels, dark or light, have a way of knowing when our kind is near. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

  She may be ready for our next big challenge, but no matter how many deep breaths I take, my body continues to tremble.

  We’re screwed, Boss says. Whip out the blade and get us out of here. She can’t do anything about it.

  Trisha pivots and stomps to my window. She yanks at the locked door handle, then rapidly knocks on the glass. “You better not be conspiring with that demon of yours!”

  “Nothing has changed. I’m with you.” I release the lock and show my hands. “Besides, Boss’s lost most of his control.”

  “Good.” She opens the door and snatches the case. “Until that antidote works farther into your system, Father Timothy will hold the sword.”

  “Fine with me,” I say.

  Boss blows raspberries. Pussy.

  We gather at the rear of the vehicle where the priest collects a utility belt with a knife and flashlight attached to the loops. “We don’t have any water,” he says.

  “You won’t need it.” Trisha points south. “See the tall black crevasse beside that huge boulder? It’s the back entrance to my cave.”

  Having Azael this close sends a chill up my spine.

  “Once we’re inside,” she says, “we’ll have another five-minute climb through a narrow tunnel t
o reach the main cavern’s opening. Azael’s probably holding the nuns there. Pete, remember to remove the sword from the case as close to Azael as you can.”

  “What if Azael orders your white warriors to attack us before we get there?” I ask.

  “Focus on your task,” she says, “and I’ll take care of my army of deserters.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” She hands the priest the olive wood case. He balances it under his arm with one hand and slams the Bronco closed with the other.

  A loud pop sounds off, followed by another. Behind us, familiar black splotches dot the red dirt. Margery’s magically explosive cigarettes. Trisha and I step away from the Bronco and follow the breadcrumb trail of tobacco ash.

  This is no time for my chain-smoking, demonic supervisor to intervene. She once hit me with a butt that made all my hair grow inward. Pricked my flesh like dull needles for days. “You said she wouldn’t be able to track me once I drank the bug juice.”

  “We left the convent too soon.” Trisha stands with hands on hips, scanning the area. “Where the heck is she? Holding her off without wings will be a bitch.”

  “Trisha!” Father Timothy calls out. He’s staring at the Bronco, which is off the ground. Shiny orange spandex pants come into view. Margery grunts as she lifts the vehicle skyward, above her five-foot stance. With the saggy skin of a hundred-year-old lady, charcoal-lined eyes, and spiky red-and-orange hair, she belongs in a freak show. World’s Scariest Strong Woman. Margery grows to seven-foot-tall. Her body stretches and turns black. Real flames and sparks shoot out of her head. In true demon form, she’s extra pissed, as usual.

  Down the road, racing toward us, the Horror Circus introduces its next act with a cloud of dirt around Roy Morrow’s pickup truck.

  “Hurry!” Trisha says. “Get to the crevasse. I’ll hold them off.” She pushes the priest off-road ahead of me. His sandals scrape down the gravel path and he loses his footing. I rush to lift him and notice his terrified eyes are glued on Margery.

  Behind us, tires skid to a stop as we take off for the opening. My cowboy boots sink into a mix of pebbles and sand. Trisha better be as tough without wings as she is with them because I couldn’t outrun a turtle in these shoes.

  A baritone voice roars. “You’re going to pay for what you did, Pete!” The Bronco flies over our heads and lands with a loud crash before rolling a few feet farther.

  It’s a miss! No major league pitching deal in Margery’s future, Boss says. Nor is Olympic sprinting in yours.

  Not now! My heart races and sweat oozes from every pore as I stumble around the hood. Cigarette butts rain down next, each hit accompanied by a full-body electrical surge. Who needs pitching skills when you’ve got volume on your side? The pain could easily take down a mortal, but just over my shoulder the priest carries on with the sword.

  Screeching battle cries between angel and demon and mercenary fade into the distance. Thirty yards from the crevasse, the whooshing wings of three white warriors dive at my head. A gust of wind nearly knocks me off my feet.

  “Hurry!” Father Timothy yells. “Get in the cave!”

  The vultures circle and descend for another attack, but not before I’m through the entrance. A rock wall breaks my run. The priest skids in after, crashes into me, and drops the box containing the sword. I run to the case, grateful the wood’s still intact.

  Then the Bronco hits the crevasse. The cave groans. Dust crumble onto our heads. Father Timothy grabs my arm and pulls me farther inside and away from collapsing rock and rubble.

  “Trisha!” I call out. She’s lost behind the rockslide.

  And we’re lost in the darkness.

  Too Late to Turn Back Now

  Between fits of coughing up dust, I ask, “Are you okay, Father?”

  “Fine.” He switches on the flashlight while clearing his throat, then shines the beam on my face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” I turn away from the offending light and approach the obstruction, a mix of rock and the underside of the Bronco. “You think Trisha’s okay?”

  “She can take care of herself,” the priest says. “Right now we need to advance to the main cavern.” He flashes light down the dark tunnel. “You carry the case.”

  Olive wood box in hand, I continue to worry that Trisha is alone against Margery, Roy, and the white warriors. But I’m more concerned about what’s ahead.

  Hunched over, we trudge across an obstacle course of jagged rock. My heart skips with each misstep, terrified the jostling of pebbles will reveal our approach. Or, at any moment, Azael could provoke a collapse.

  A few minutes later, my gut cramps. I drop to my knees and burp up rotten fish. What were they thinking, having me drink Ulla and Inez’s brew before battling a fallen angel? I’m defenseless once the spasms kick in. We’re all going to die. Or worse, be buried alive and conscious while my body withers away.

  Sheesh, Boss says, you make torture sound miserable to a demon.

  Shut up, I tell him. If Trisha can sense you, so can Azael.

  The sooner he finds you, the sooner we finish this. Or should I say, he finishes you.

  You sensing Ulla and Inez’s curse yet, I ask. Because I’m hoping it comes with a muzzle and atomic pain.

  Pshaw, he says. Them bitches can’t mess with me.

  We’ll see.

  The priest nudges my shoulder and turns off the flashlight. Above our heads, an unknown light source filters through an opening. At the end of the path, a steep, six-foot incline leads to a platform barely wide enough to hold both of us. He points and whispers, “That has to be the entrance to the main cavern, the one that Trisha mentioned.”

  “I’ll check,” I say and hand him the box.

  “Be careful.”

  I nod and climb toward the light, cautious not to make any noise. My ears strain to identify a song playing on the other side. It’s Can’t Get Enough of Your Love Baby by Barry White.

  Boss chuckles. Someone’s horny.

  I turn up my lip. Live action sex between a fallen angel and nuns is the last thing I want to witness, although catching him with his pants down might make it easier to drive the sword through his black heart.

  On top of the platform, water drips from the ceiling, leaving the floor beneath my feet slick. A cue to never go spelunking in cowboy boots again.

  I lift myself to the narrow gap. This is one time I’m glad to be smaller than average.

  The opening looks down into a cavern the size of a high school gym. Thirty feet below, chained to the far wall, three nuns huddle together, weeping.

  Dead center, the blond nun stands over a rock altar, the bottom of her buttocks and naked legs extending below her oversized gray sweater. A chill runs up my spine when I spot a meat cleaver in her hand.

  Where’s the fifth one? Boss asks.

  The nun raises the cleaver. At the same time I draw in a deep breath.

  Then she chops.

  Bone cracks under the blade.

  And an arm falls to the ground.

  The chained women shriek and struggle against their restraints.

  Found her, Boss sings.

  I turn away and clutch my chest. I’m not ready for this.

  Told ya to run, Boss says. Shoulda listened.

  Dammit, be quiet.

  The stream of light flickers. Something has the nuns shrieking again. My body stiffens, and I build up the courage to peek back through the hole.

  Azael’s shadow trails across the floor while he re-enters the cave and flies to the altar. Hopefully he hasn’t returned because he sensed the chatty demon in my head. He lands beside the Butcher of the Divine Heart Convent, puffs out his chest, and adjusts his wings against his back. His muscular bronze arm envelops her waist, and he lifts her five feet to his level. She cheerfully pecks kisses on his cheek, then raises her sweater to expose her pregnant belly. The proud daddy grins and strokes the near-term bump.

  Holding her like a baby, he bends at the knees to pi
ck up the severed limb. Between kisses, they growl and rip their teeth into the dead nun’s bicep.

  I retch while scooting back to Father Timothy’s level.

  He whispers, “What’s going on?”

  “The nuns are there.”

  His voice wavers. “Are they okay?”

  To avoid describing the horrific scene, I ask, “Did you tell me everything you know about Azael?”

  “Yes, why?” He frowns and repeats, “What’s going on? It sounds like feeding time at the zoo.”

  This time I swallow hard and give it to him straight.

  Even in the darkened cave, the whites of Father Timothy’s eyes brighten and pop. He turns away, his back hunched.

  “You had to know about this.” I grab his shoulder and motion for him to face me.

  “We only knew about Azael impregnating holy women.” He shakes his head. “How can this be happening?”

  I peer down at the box. “It’s time to use the Sword of Sin.”

  The priest remains stationary, his back to me, seemingly unable to react.

  “Father.” I tighten my grip on his shoulder. “It’s time.”

  He pats my hand. “You’re right. We should go.”

  So far, Father Timothy has been calm and collected. Now he seems reluctant. What will he say when he sees the bite marks in the dismembered nun?

  ‘Did you thank the Lord for the meal you received?’ Boss says.

  Black Hearts Drop Tarts

  Back on the platform, I thread the box through the hole and onto the narrow ledge. The priest boosts me through the opening, the jagged gap cutting my hands.

  Thirty feet below, the happy couple ravage their meal and each other, oblivious to my presence. It helps that Barry White blares on an infinite loop, muffling the sound of the pebbles scraping beneath my stomach as I aimlessly crawl forward. If only I had a clue what to do next.

  Jump, Boss says.

  It’s the quickest route to Azael, but… What if I break a bone? What if I impale myself? My arm once took five minutes to heal after Margery fractured it for taking an extended lunch. It’d be enough time for Azael to break every other bone in my body.