Flawed Angel (The Fall Book 1)

by J. J. Dean

  "It's not like I planned it, you ninny! How was I supposed to know that would happen? I can’t tell the future, you know?" I do my very best to stop the laughter that threatens to pour out of me.

  Her green-eyed glare is fierce when she straightens up from underneath the counter and looks over at me where I'm leaning my arms on the counter, hands clasped together, not really a picture of innocence at all when I lose the battle with my grin.

  "Because you do it every damned day you're here," she grinds through her pearly white dentures.

  I snicker before I can stop myself and am too slow to duck out of the way of the withered hand that comes soaring through the air and towards my exposed forehead and quite literally facepalms me.

  Quietness permeates the air before our laughter cuts through the silence like a hot knife through butter; Ms. Frenchie's cackling and wheezy inhales cause more laughter to erupt from me, and tears gathering in my eyes from the hilarity.

  "Get out of here, trouble," Ms. Frenchie laughs out, "and take those cookies with you before I feed them to Brutus."

  I gasp in faux dismay, fluttering my eyelashes quickly. "You wouldn't dare give my cookies to that giant oaf you call a dog. The beast is fat enough no thanks to your excessive feeding. He could stand to lose a few pounds."

  That horse like dog is all muscle, and she knows it. He could eat a boat full of food, and simply wouldn’t get fat. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one with a metabolism that could rival Brutus’, so I’m convinced he’s a mutant doggo, even though it’s probably just good genes.

  Ms. Frenchie grins in my direction and, very unladylike, flips me her middle finger while calling out, “See you later, alligator.”

  I shake my head at her with another grin of my own and make my way to the door, calling, "In a while, crocodile," over my shoulder before letting myself out into the cool spring air.

  My body involuntary shudders when a particularly cold breath of air tickles my spine, so I cross my arms over my chest and briskly walk to my car that I'd parked a block over. I reach my beautiful, sleek, black 1968 Dodge Charger in record time, jump in the driver's leather seat and crank the heat to shake off the chill that slowly seeped into my bones as I walked. I take a quick look around at my surroundings as I buckle myself in and freeze.

  In the corner of my eye, I catch a sudden movement. I twist my head in the direction it came but catch nothing but the tail end of a black scruffy cloak scurrying behind its wearer into the alley that I am in no rush to make any movement towards. The sky has begun to turn gorgeous shades of blue, sunshine fading to darkness, causing the alley to look a lot more ominous than it had before. The sense of foreboding crashes down on me when I see the tail end of tattered material that I know all too well as a cloak. And I’ve seen that cloak before.

  Instead of re-enacting every horror movie ever, because you can’t ever be too sure, I push my foot on the accelerator and high tail it back to my loft apartment. My heartbeat is thumping a little too fast for my liking as I drive home, breathing exercises dubbed a crock of shit when they do nothing for my panicked state. There’s only one reason I would see that cloak and that must mean it’s that time where my life is about to become increasingly difficult... again.

  I make it back to my apartment in half the time it should have taken me thanks to my less than stellar driving. I reach for my purse, open the car door, and bolt to my building before slamming the door of my apartment building shut right after me, waiting until I hear the blissful sound of the lock clicking in place.

  I'm up the five flights of stairs, fuck you very much broken elevator, quicker than you can say Underworld and am rushing through my door and closing it before I have a second to think. I take a deep, calming breath the moment I'm safe surrounded by the comforting red and brown brick walls that is my home and all of my belongings.

  My reprieve is short lived when not even a second later there's a knock at my door.

  "Fuck sake," I grumble, turning to look through the peephole in my door. What stands on the other side is the bastard I knew I saw in the alley. I'd recognize that stupid cloak anywhere. I see it every hundred years. Has it really been that long already?

  I don't answer the door. Instead, I choose to rest my head on the dark mahogany that is the only barrier between me and him. Being a messenger of the asshole, Lucifer, he gives me the creeps, no matter how friendly he tries to make his visits, so the door shall remain closed.

  "Nevaeh, I know you're in there. I saw you practically flying up the stairs," comes a gravelly voice, the sound of stone grating against stone penetrates the door and causes me to wince. The use of the name He gave me, the one I haven’t used since my Fall, has my eyes narrowing and my temper rising.

  "There's no Nevaeh here, you fuck ugly troll. Go away," I call through the door.

  "I'm a Gargoyle, you shit. Not a troll. Now open the door or I’ll break it down myself," comes his aggravated response.

  Ugh. Why does this always happen to me? Oh, yeah. Because I’m the only damn Angel living on Earth to pester.

  Slowly and begrudgingly, I open the door that separates me and the Gargoyle. I’m talking an actual stone Gargoyle. Stubby wings and everything. His face is naturally scrunched up and his head is far too small for his overgrown stone body that is covered in what would have been considered peasant clothes. He’s not exactly a sight to behold and he makes the hairs on my arms rise with discomfort. At least I got one part of my insult right.

  I move backwards, enough for the monster to trail past the doorway and into my large open plan living room without brushing close to my body. He takes his time perusing my abode, checking out my top of the range kitchen, beautiful living room with dark brown leather sofas, a giant television with the latest game console and shelves stacked with a wide range of DVDs on either side. He looks at the one wall that's completely covered with books and then to the wall that harbors a beautiful large round window at the front of the building which looks out over the city. The original red and brown brick is on display on the wall that holds the window and television, whereas the others have been plastered and painted a pale beige. It's nothing short of stunning, but the breathing statue is ruining it.

  "What can I do for you, Javos?" I grumble, making no effort to welcome him. He's really not welcome. He’s a Satan advocate, after all. His polar opposite twin, Brolos the Cherub, His advocate, is as welcome as the stone creature. Now that's one creature I'm really glad isn't here. If I thought Javos was fugly, he's got nothing on his brother. Contrary to popular belief, Cherubs aren't these cute little angelic babies wearing diapers and sporting adorable little white wings and round chubby cheeks. Oh no. Cherubs are essentially overgrown hunchback babies, coarse curly blonde hair for each of them, black beady eyes, small pert noses and a toothless mouth that makes understanding them hella difficult. It’s like He was completely wasted when creating those nasty looking things and thought, “eh, fuck it. It’ll do,” when He was done.

  I involuntary shudder at the memory of the Cherub I haven't seen in over a hundred years and bring my attention back to the Gargoyle I haven't heard from in the same amount of time. I wish it were longer.

  "Well? I'm not getting any younger." I stifle a snigger at my own joke, guaranteed the Gargoyle won’t find me in the least bit funny.

  "I see your sense of humor still needs work," he gripes.

  Cue eye roll from me. I called it. "I'd say it's improved somewhat. Now what the fuck are you doing here?" I ask in all my blunt glory, before making my way to the kitchen for a bottle of wine that I know I’ll need after this visit.

  Javos follows not too far behind, his stone feet clunking heavily on my wooden flooring, and waits for me to reach the fridge where I've stored my cheap wine, pour it into a glass, and situate myself at the long bar that separates the kitchen and living room.

  "I think you know why, Nev-" he starts but cuts himself off when I glare daggers at him sharp enough that he winces. My name isn’t N
evaeh anymore. That name was left amongst the clouds when He saw fit to throw me away when I wouldn’t blindly follow Him anymore. It’s Luna Greyson, and Luna fucking Greyson only.

  "Please, do shine some light on the reasoning for gracing me with your presence," I retort sarcastically with a bitter smile. I know why he's here, and surely Pebble Penis already knows my response before he’s even said what he’s come here to say.

  "You need to choose a side. There's another war brewing and the longer we all wait for you to make up your mind, the worse it's going to get," he replies.

  Idiot. He really should know by now. For six hundred years they've been sending their messengers to convince me to pick a side. Every hundred years I'll get a visit from Javos, Bolos or two of the unpleasant creatures, one trying to push me towards Lucifer and his cronies and the other shoving me towards following His will. Fuck it all.

  "I'll tell you what I told you over a hundred years ago, and every hundred for the last the five hundred before that: fuck you and shove your sides where the sun doesn’t shine. I already made up my mind, and no one liked my decision. That’s how I ended up here in the first place. But you know what? I don’t care. This was my choice. Earth, humanity and everything that comes with being human. I'm not picking anything else, so save it," I bite out, quickly reaching the end of my tether with all of this bullshit and down the entire glass of wine without coming up for air.

  "You aren't human, Nevaeh.” I grind my teeth at the use of my real name, but he continues before I can berate him. “You're a god damned angel in the most literal way. You're pretending here. You need to pick a side and go home," he pleads.

  "I'm more human than Angel, am I not? I'm wingless, I have two gifts to my name because He took away my remaining three. I'm just a slightly evolved human, for all intents and purposes. As for going home? I am home. Have been since I got thrown out of Heaven. So, why don't you do us both a favor and get lost?" I snap. He has no right forcing me to choose again, and I won’t. They already gave me the option to choose, and here we are.

  "You'll have to pick a side, sooner or later. You can't keep living somewhere you don't belong." What a mistake those poorly executed words were. Something he realizes when my eyes flash in anger from their normal gray and turn a silvery white so bright that he's forced to cover his own eyes with the giant stone paw he has for hands.

  My voice comes out sharp and ethereal, the hairs on my own arms rising at the sound, "I belong here, the only place I've been able to be myself without consequence. I won't get my wings ripped apart here because the only ones I have now are tattooed across the scars left on my back. I am home. Now get the fuck out."

  He stares at me for a little longer, realizing that he's getting nowhere. He shakes his head with a sigh and turns to leave. Before he steps out of the room, however, he murmurs something that has my anger stepping up a notch. "Make your mistakes, but you will choose a side. It may not be now, but it'll happen."

  He leaves and shuts the door behind him, and before I can control my bubbling anger, I'm picking up the bottle of wine and throwing it across the room and into the door he just left out of. The bottle smashes and wine splatters everywhere, and I'm thanking my lucky stars that it was only white wine and not red.

  Luna

  A week goes by without incident, no Gargoyles or Cherubs checking in, making conversation, trying to make me choose between Heaven and Hell. Just the normal, average week.

  I've been back and forth to Frenchie's all week, reading, drinking coffee and helping Ms. Frenchie get ready for the live band that I still don't know the name of. I really should ask her the name. They're due to play next week, and the woman wants everything perfect before the show. Who am I not to offer a helping hand?

  "Francis, where do you want this?" I call out, struggling with a large amp for an electric guitar, trying to step over tangled wires and avoid walking into chairs and tables whilst carrying the heaviest item she could have asked me to move. I may be an Angel, but I’m not the damn Hulk.

  "If you're calling me Francis now, I'll keep calling you Loony Toon," she quips before pointing to the furthest corner opposite where my chair is.

  "You call me Loony Toon anyway, so what difference does it make?" I roll my eyes while shuffling my way to the area she pointed to set the amp down, stretching out my back when I stand straight again. “And anyway, I feel a change in the air, so Francis it will be until I decide otherwise.”

  I brush my hands over my gray, cold-shoulder cropped shirt and tight high waisted denim jeans, removing the dust that gathered from the equipment that hasn't seen the light of day in far too long. I roll my long sleeves back down from where they'd been tucked in the crook of my elbows to keep them from getting dirty.

  Once my hands are clean of dust, I make my way to Francis who is balancing very unsteadily on a crooked ladder, attempting to place tea lights on the highest bookshelves she had in the store.

  "Francis, dammit, why didn't you ask me to do that?" I scold, reaching to grip the shaky ladder before the old bat goes tumbling and breaks a hip.

  "I'm old, not incompetent. I can hang some lights, no trouble," she rebukes, like the ladder she’s standing on isn’t as ancient as me and looks like it’ll crumble to dust at any given moment.

  "Fine. But when you break your old lady hip, I reserve all the rights to say 'I told you so', you hear?" I grumble. If it were possible for me to suffer with such illnesses, this woman would no doubt give me a heart attack.

  "Old lady, my ass. I can still hang things and make sure I don't break a hip, old or otherwise. Now get out of the way, you nuisance, so I can get down safely," she further berates me.

  I snort at her weak attempt at an insult. She calls me a nuisance. That's a fine joke right there. "I'm the nuisance helping your wrinkled ass with this shit. Show some appreciation or I'll steal your giant dog." I'm grinning cheekily, but she's still stuck on the ladder so she can’t see, but her response is like music to my ears.

  "You touch my Brutus and I'll slap you silly, girl. I’m old, but I’ll do it. Just because you've bothered me for forty long damn years, does not mean I won't beat you with a broom if you steal my puppy," she calls down from her perch on the top rung of the ladder.

  I break out in a fit of laughter at her calling the beast a puppy and once I've caught my breath, I chuckle out, "okay, first things first, that dog is NOT a puppy. That beast is an eight-year-old Great Dane that looks like he eats whole pigs for breakfast. He’s like an overgrown Scooby-Doo. Puppy, be damned. Second, what the hell are you talking about, 'bothered you'? You stalked me into a friendship, you weirdo. I distinctly remember, time and time again, telling you I didn't want to join your book club, and you harassed me until I caved. I've been stuck with you since."

  She's laughing under her breath when she replies, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Move out of my way, you."

  I shimmy to the side with a grin and let go of the ladder once the crazy lady is on safe, solid ground, making a mental note to replace the contraption that should have been thrown away decades ago, and walk over to the window where the rest of the equipment lies.

  "We haven't got much left to do, sweetie. I'll get some cookies ready for you to take home with you to show my appreciation." Ms. Frenchie winks at me before turning to the back door that will lead her to her apartment above the store. Cookies as payment? She knows me too well.

  I clamber towards the rest of the junk Ms. Frenchie wants me to sort through, stepping over various wires and items that look like they've seen better days. I accidentally kick a microphone halfway across the room and I’m positive I see rust chip off and fall to the floor. I shake my head at the lousy condition Ms. Frenchie has kept everything in and make my way to the second amp that’s laying on the floor.

  Before I bend over to pick the second amp up, my eyes catch a figure standing across the street. I pay it no attention for a moment, moving the heavy amp to where I placed its twin, but when I rise again, I spot the
figure still standing where I saw him or her last through the stream of cars.

  Too many cars are driving past, so making out who the person is becomes a difficult task, but I know for certain it's a he when a bus shows me enough of the figure and a flash of white blonde hair, before getting in the way again, and he is looking right at me.

  My heart stills in my chest before picking up the pace again, a beat faster than normal. More cars drive past, obstructing my view, so I take matters into my own hands and walk outside. When I get there, however, the steady stream of cars has lessened but the man has disappeared. It's like he’d never even been there. I know I saw him, though. I'm not going crazy. Right? Can Angels go crazy? Certainly something to Google when I get home.

  I wait patiently for another car to speed by before stepping out onto the road, quickly crossing to the other side where I could have sworn the man stood. I check the store I'm standing in front of but come up empty. I take another quick look around but when I still find nothing to indicate that I saw what I think I did, I cross back over the road.

  I stand outside for a moment longer but decide to brush off the random encounter and make my way back into the store. I close the door quickly once I'm inside, not wanting to let out too much of the store’s glorious heat, but the second the door latches closed, I'm pricked with the sensation of being watched. I can feel a gaze burning in the back of my head, the distinct feeling that there's a set of eyes planted right on me. A shiver runs over my entire body at the feeling.

  Slowly, I twist on my Converse covered heels and look around, pressing my face closer to the glass of the window. I get close enough that my nose is practically hugging the glass, leaving a smudge on the once pristine surface. No matter which direction I look, I still see nothing but vehicles driving by and the same stores that I see regularly.

  I take one last long look around but come up empty, yet the feeling that someone is watching my every move just won’t dissipate. The sensation crawls uncomfortably up my spine and settles at the nape of my neck, goosebumps breaking out all over my body.