by J. J. Dean
Flawed Angel
By J.J. Dean
Kindle Edition Copyright © 2019 J.J. Dean
Cover Art Design 2018 by JODIELOCKS Designs
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted material is illegal.
This is fiction completely from the imagination. The people, places, and events are based on fictitious use.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
J.J. Dean’s Social Links
Dedicated to those who keep my secrets.
Millenia ago came the Reaping, where one Angel turned against his Creator, claiming to be better than the life he had been given by Him, restricted by too many rules and fueled by jealousy for His newest Creations. The Angel begged his Creator for freedom, pleaded for a life more suited to what the Angel desired. His request was denied for He found the Angel to be greedy in his wants and selfish in his requests. The Angel’s Creator knew if He were to submit to the Angel's every whim, Earth and His creations would suffer, for He realized the Angel wanted nothing more but to corrupt His beings and wreak havoc on a world where too much chaos already existed.
Furious that He would choose His puny creations above him and his fellow Angels, a war broke out in the Heavens. Angels fought against Angels, those siding with the wronged Angel and those following in their Creator’s will.
The war continued for centuries until He could no longer bear to see His children suffer a war that held no purpose other than one being’s petty jealousy. He found the only option would be to banish the Angel who'd rather war against Him than live in harmony in the clouds.
With a decision made, came the Reaping. The Angel and the Creator gathered all of the Angels and offered them a choice: abide by Him and His teachings or follow in the footsteps of the Angel and a ruleless future, one of anarchy and disarray.
So, the Angels chose. Half to stand by their Creator and half wanting a life free from restraints and to indulge in the life His creations lived, a life the Creator thought highly of. The Angels who chose against Him were banished along with their leader and the Angels who followed Him remained on their pedestals in Heaven.
Every Angel chose a side.
All but one.
The Creator’s daughter stood firm, her refusal to choose any side as strong as her will. She'd been an Angel He had been honored to have stand on her pedestal closest to His throne, reveled in His pride for the Angel He'd created. Until He realized the Angel had gained too much independence, curiosity and compassion. He'd allowed her to watch over His Creations for too long and came to realize His Angel was already partly corrupted.
When asked again to pick a side, the Angel simply stated that she wouldn’t choose, but instead chose to follow in the footsteps of His creations...
Humanity.
The Angel had proclaimed the Angels should be gifted with both the freedom to feel, to become their own persons, yet continue to stand by their Creator. She'd declared that He had cast too many restrictions upon them all and in doing such, resulted in a war that could have been avoided.
Enraged that His prized Angel had defied Him, He cast the Angel out of Heaven, exiling her to live a never-ending life amongst the Creations He'd once admired, her punishment to blend with the humans that He now found the focus of His resentment.
And so, banished, wingless, and giftless...
The flawed Angel fell.
Luna
Relaxed in the comfiest chair in the room - my chair, as Ms. Frenchie calls it seeing as how often I take up the space at her store, Frenchie’s - I take a look around the quaint coffee/book store, placing the book I was thoroughly enjoying down on my lap with my hand tucked inside the page so as not to lose my place.
The store is beautiful. The front window spans the entire wall, sunlight trickling through the wide expanse of the glass. Every other wall but one is lined with books upon books, not a shelf in sight that is lacking in paperbacks. At the left, bookless side of the store, sits a bar where you can order the most incredibly delicious coffee that was ever created. The smell of freshly made coffee permeates the air, mixed with the pleasant smell of good old-fashioned books, the scent of new and old paper intertwining with Ms. Frenchie’s - real name Francis French – infamous, mouthwatering chocolate chip cookies.
The store has a soft, warm-toned theme, various shades of yellows, oranges, and red splattered around. From the cushions on the plush reading chairs to the decorations that are placed throughout, may it be the quirky, red clock that hangs behind the counter or the cute owl figurines on the bookshelves. It's as though Fall threw up in here but in the best possible way. It’s quite possibly the homiest place anyone could ever visit.
My seat is situated at the back of the store, tucked away in the corner by the section of my favorite books, safe enough away from gawking eyes and judging stares. See, as cute and delightful as the store is, I'm the polar opposite. Yup. Cute and quirky are not adjectives anyone would use to describe me. With my arms, back, and right leg full of black and gray tattoos, a hoop piercing through my left nostril, ears filled with stylish earrings, and dark purple hair, cute is so far off the table that it's laughable.
I’m in my usual worn-down, black Converse that I refuse to part with and a black chiffon dress with little white stars covering the entirety of the material. My almost-ass-length, wavy dark purple locks are piled in a messy bun at the top of my head, a few loose strands framing my face. My cheekbones sit high, emphasized by the trusty help of contouring - not that I really need it, but makeup is hella fun to play with. I've nailed the smoky eye look; a dark purple to match my hair graces my eyelids, with the perfectly executed winged eyeliner that makes my gray eyes stand out. My lips are stained the same shade as my hair, giving them a fuller look than I could pull off naturally. In short, I don't look like the kind of chick you'd take home to meet your mother. In fact, she’d be more likely to throw holy water at me and yell “may the power of Christ compel you” than have a domestic dinner around the dining table with me.
Before this look, I went through an intense passion for all
things nineties, from the mom jeans to the bright colored anything. I’ve gone from one extreme to the other, but I’d say I’ve improved a whole lot since then. Anyway, my style mixed with the way I can cuss up a storm enough to make a sailor blush... well, yeah, definitely not parent meeting worthy, that's for fucking sure.
So, what am I doing sitting in the most adorable little coffee shop when I look like one of Lucifer's spawn? Simple. My book nerd heart and I have an understanding that I spend as much time reading as possible while drinking my body weight in coffee. I just don’t have the will power to deny what my brain wants. That's right, I am an honorary reader. Just because I look like I should be at the nearest goth club, doesn't mean I don't enjoy the comforting words of a damn good book. I'm in this store about five out of seven days a week. It's my safe haven, my little piece of comfort I've been indulging in for years.
"Alright, there, Loony Toon?" Ms. Frenchie’s voice breaks through the fog in my brain, almost causing me to drop the book that's now firmly clutched in my ring covered fingers. I don’t know why she insists on using that wretched nickname. Likely because she knows how much it pisses me off. I mean, do I look like Bugs Bunny or some shit? Damn lady.
"Sweet Heavens, Ms. Frenchie, don't do that to a woman daydreaming," I gasp, clutching my other tatted hand to my chest, overplaying the drama card.
Her laughter pours out of her, infectious enough that I can't help but laugh along with her.
"Sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. You just seemed miles away. Everything alright?" She questions, sets a withered hand gently on my shoulder and gives it an affectionate squeeze. All faux animosity towards my unwanted nickname flies right out the giant window at the worry lacing her words.
Ms. Frenchie is one hell of a woman. In her late sixties, she's still as spritely as she was in her younger years. And stubborn. A trait I doubt she has plans on changing.
Her dark gray hair frames her face, highlighting her round cheeks, and tucks just passed her chin in a stylish bob. Her gray wide-rimmed glasses that she always forgets are on her head and not her face, constantly slide down her small nose and take up most of her face, but they suit her perfectly. The creases around her eyes are signs of a woman who’s laughed a lot throughout her life and her eyes twinkle with undeniable mischief that lights up her wrinkled face. Despite her age, she truly is a beautiful human.
"I'm good, I promise. Just fell into the past for a few minutes there." I give her a genuine smile and pat her hand. Always concerned for me, is my Francis.
"You wanna talk about it?" she asks like she does every time she catches me in a daydream. In all the years I've known her, I've come to realize she's very perceptive. Nothing gets past this woman.
I shake my head while still smiling at her, hoping she won’t press further. She knows me too well by now to push something I don't want to talk about. Our forty-year friendship should be enough time to figure out how I work.
Yep. Forty. My ancient ass looks no older than twenty-five, but it's all one big clear skinned, non-wrinkled lie. I've been around for, quite literally, Millennia. I've seen every era that's been so far, every new fashion trend and every genre of music that becomes the next best thing. Being immortal gives you that complicated gift of seeing time slowly pass by, watching everything change, while your body stays exactly the same, never changing the slightest. Not that I'm complaining. I mean, I've seen some pretty awesome shit through the times.
They really should bring back the boombox.
The moving around after a while - so no one catches on to my ageless self - gets tedious, but I do it over and over again without fuss because this is my life. This is what I've been given as a punishment, though it's hardly a punishment at all when living amongst the humans is exactly where I want to be.
Anyway, I met Ms. Frenchie when she was in her early twenties when she worked at the library I frequented. She struck up a conversation, the only one in miles who didn’t judge me right off the bat for how I looked and dressed, and we’ve been stuck at the hip ever since. She's the only human to know that I'm more than I appear - as was quickly noticed when I hadn’t aged a day since meeting her - but she never questions me, for which I am eternally grateful. Over the years, she’s just rolled with my unique brand of weird. She's kept my secret, not that she knows too much of it, and has given me a safe space to be me when I need it. Ms. Frenchie is my rock, my anchor, and my best friend.
You see, my immortal status comes in the form of my Angel genetics. I'm what you'd call a Fallen Angel, not that I actually fell, but was more shoved. I’m a Shoved Angel. Anyway, I didn't fall for choosing to follow that dickwad Lucifer. Nor did I fall for taking His side either. I fell because I chose humanity. I chose to want the life of a human, feeling every emotion a human feels; love and heartbreak, joy and sadness, compassion and hate. Having the freedom to have my own personality, to be my own person. I decided feeling everything was better than feeling nothing. My pedestal up above, right next to His throne, got a little dreary and crowded for me.
Feeling nothing but a constant wave of calm and serenity started to weigh heavily on me, so when the time came for picking good or evil, God or Satan, I essentially chose both and neither all at once, landing me wingless and face first in a crater almost as big as the fucking moon, ash covering every surface for miles and miles, my clothes covered in soot and torn in various places and my once pristine toga nothing but a tattered mess. I’d been left with nothing but the scraps of ruined material and two freshly stitched wounds that ran between my shoulder blades and stopped in the middle of my spine.
Earth was, in short, a shithole when I got exiled to the massive round ball of crap. But, as the years dragged on, it became everything to me: my sanctuary, my haven, somewhere I could be free to feel. Being free of the crushing weight of His rules was liberating, though being thrown out of Heaven wasn’t exactly my plan. I've never once regretted my decision, however, because being a faux human suits me just fine.
"Luna, I lost you again. You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Ms. Frenchie gently prods, likely knowing the answer already but not one to not offer an ear to listen.
"I appreciate it, but I really am good. Got lost in my head, is all. Anyway, what's up with all the posters I'm seeing about a live band?" I chirp, deflecting none too subtly, pointing out that I have, in fact, noticed the orange and yellow posters boasting about a karaoke night and surprise band. I mean, they’re pretty hard not to notice given the fact that they’re bright orange and yellow. I’m talking highlighter colors. And those things are everywhere. I’ve only caught the word ‘band’ and Ms. Frenchie’s store name any time I’ve seen the flyers, so I’ve no idea what it’s about other than the obvious.
Ms. Frenchie gives me a look as if to say I’m not fooling anyone and studies me for a moment before telling me, “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, I still have my hearing intact, no matter how bad my eyesight is getting. You know I’ll listen, okay?”
“I know. You’re the best.” I smile. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about this elusive band you’ve happened to snag.”
The change of topic has the desired effect when her soft smile turns into a beaming grin and she starts explaining there's a new band in town that she booked last minute. She tells me it’s a guy rock band and that they’re, and I quote, “uber current” - cue cringe from me - and other things about the band that I wouldn’t normally be interested in but can’t help but take interest with how excited she is.
I miss the name of the band, however, when her chatter becomes too fast to follow, so I sit back, rest my head on the back of my cushioned chair and watch her with a soft smile on my face, entranced by her wild hand gestures and the happiness that pours from each word that comes out of her mouth.
Her giddiness is infectious, and I can’t help but smile along with her, even though I’ve lost track of the conversation all together at this point. Just listening to her talk about some
thing with such enthusiasm has always made me stop and listen, appreciating the emotions and feelings that are practically tangible around my Francis. I’m sure she has that effect on everyone, not just the Angel she befriended long ago, but it’s a treasure to watch her wrinkled face light up like it has.
How could I ever choose anything over this?
Luna
"Loony Toon, you want to take the last of these cookies home with you?" Ms. Frenchie calls from where she's tucked under the counter doing whatever it is store owners do. I personally think she just hides behind that giant slab of wood when it comes to closing time so customers can’t order any more coffee and overstay their welcome. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me, seeing as though when the door chimes with the sound of the last of the customers leaving, I hear a quiet but very distinct, “Yes!” from behind the counter.
"Ms. Frenchie. I'm wounded. Do you really think that even needs to be a question? When have you ever had to ask if I want to take your heavenly cookies home?" I reply dramatically, placing my now finished book, back on the shelf from where I'd snagged it a few hours before. Another book completed with only five minutes before closing time. Score.
The hours have flown by, and it’s nearly evening already, a sunset proudly on display in the sky. I snatch my aubergine colored purse off the floor and hook it over my shoulder, before making my way to the counter where Ms. Frenchie is still rustling and bustling. I make a conscious effort to make my footsteps light as I walk, and I reach the counter without making a single noise.
"What are you even doing?" I ask loudly, breaking into the peace and quiet which in turn causes Ms. Frenchie to jump out of fright and knock her head with an audible thunk on the counter when she jumps. Oops.
"Luna! What have I told you about doing that?!" She yells while rubbing the sore spot where her head connected with the wood, mussing up her dark gray hair in the process.