Ascent of the Fallen

by Rebecca L. Frencl

  He nodded, not wanting to turn, not wanting Joss to recognize him. Regretting that it was summer and he couldn’t shove his hands deep into pockets and hide his face in the shadows of a hood, he turned wandering toward the Artist’s Café.

  Footsteps pounded the pavement behind him. He braced himself a moment before the pressure of a hand landed on his shoulder. “Rue?” Joss’ voice trembled, though he couldn’t identify the emotion behind it.

  Bracing himself, he turned.

  Joss’ dark eyes widened, his mouth dropping open. “Dude, I don’t know if I should hug you or punch you in the face.”

  He felt his mouth twist into a crooked smile. “Your choice, but –” he looked around as a woman teetering on three inch heels, barking orders into a cellphone elbowed past him, “ –you might want privacy for both of those.”

  Joss’ face split into a slow smile. He clapped Rue on the back and gestured with his other towards the Den. “Come on. It’s just me today. Herm’s got the drunk flu and the first appointment is at three.”

  He nodded, following the artist.

  “Where’s...?”

  “Fina?” He unlocked the Den, gesturing Rue through. “On vacation. She, Chloe and Dan went to England for ten days.” He gestured to the newly refurbished shop. “What do you think?” It was sleek and modern, cool silver and black counters and shiny mirrors. Brilliant red leather chairs and modern art with wild slashes of color adorned the walls.

  “It looks like a new shop.”

  Joss nodded, dropped into one of the red leather chairs. “Better than what Herm originally bought. The old bastard paid a premium for his insurance and this part of the Loop’s gone bugnuts in value since he bought here.” He grinned. “It’s like working in one of those fancy places you see on TV. Herm’s been playing around with the idea of changing our name to Chicago Ink. I told him he better look into the copyright laws there.”

  Rue perched on one of the red leather chairs. His wings were just ink and skin at the moment, but old habits died hard. “Why don’t you ask me what’s really on your mind?”

  Joss fell silent, and leaned forward, his hands folded on his knees. “Why don’t you ask me what’s really on your mind?”

  Man and angel fell silent.

  Joss stared at his arms, rubbing the long fingers of one hand over the seraph on his left arm. Rue remained quiet and still. He had to remind himself to breathe. Finally, the man looked up. “Am I crazy?”

  He didn’t ask for clarification. He knew what he meant. After a brief internal debate, he shook his head. “No, Joss, you’re not crazy.”

  “So, I did see wings?” He shook his head, forestalling any excuses, “I don’t mean the wings I gave you. Real wings?”

  Rue smiled, nodded. “Real wings. Though the ones you gave me come in handy at times.”

  Joss frowned in puzzlement.

  He stood and pulled off his shirt, turning to show the inked wings covering his back – as perfect as they’d been when he’d first had drawn them. “You gave me back my wings in more ways than you know.” He thought not only of the art etched into his skin, but the fact that the act of saving Joss’ life was the selfless action that caught the attention of heaven’s princes.

  A tugging sensation, the copper scent of blood, though none fell, the sound of tearing cloth and the wings pulled free. His fourteen-foot wingspan crowded the shop. He glanced back over his shoulder, catching sight of Joss’ hand outstretched as if to touch the feathers. The tattoo artist paused, dropped the hand back to his lap, and leaned back in a casual pose, though, judging from the leap of the pulse in his throat, he wasn’t causal at all.

  “That’s something,” he murmured. One hand scrubbed over his face.

  Rue felt his mouth twist up into a smile, the first real smile he’d felt since returning to Hell’s gate. “Well, they certainly impress the locals.” With a careful turn, he closed his eyes for a moment, willing the wings to fold back into the delicately colored artwork.

  After another moment of silence, “She said she sent you away,” Joss told him, his eyes grim. “She said you didn’t want to go, but that she sent you away. She couldn’t stand you watching her fade minute by minute.”

  Rue bent his head. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I see that now.” His face twisted into an ironic smile. “I wasn’t the only one who wanted to take you apart for abandoning her, brother.”

  Rue sat back down. “I don’t blame you. There have been times in the last several weeks I’ve wanted to throw myself into the fires for abandoning her.” Silence fell, thick between them. “How is she?” The words crept across the quiet.

  Joss didn’t respond right away. He gnawed his bottom lip as though chewing his words. “She’s weaker by the day.” He shook his head and rose wandering over to the tall locked glass cabinet behind the register. He unlocked one of the drawers in the bottom and started to pull out bottles of paints and other sealed bits and bobs. “She won’t say, but I don’t think she’s takin’ all the meds the doctors want her to.” He lined the little bottles up on the counter. “She –” he broke off as the door open, the bell above it jangling.

  A tall thin young black man, his denim shorts sagging low and a tight white sleeveless tee clinging with perspiration, let the door close behind him. “You take walk-ins?” A blue bandana wrapped around his head didn’t stop the line of sweat from sliding down the back of his neck.

  “Yeah,” Joss smiled. “I don’t have an appointment for another few hours, so we can maybe get started.” He gestured to the short bookshelf on the wall nearest the counter. “Do you have an idea or do you want to look at the portfolios?” Thick black binders – some with Joss’ name, some with Herm’s name – sat on the shelf next to several other ink magazines.

  A shivery prickle skated down Rue’s spine. Fear and guilt poured off the young man in waves and another bead of sweat slipped down his cheek. Without a word, he stood, shifting to look at some of the framed pictures behind the counter. “Joss, you did some of Kane’s art?” Kane, a local body builder and new Hollywood action legend, beamed from behind the glass.

  Joss grinned as the kid shifted his feet. “Yeah, Celtic cross on the dude’s right pec.” He shook his head, tossing a look over his shoulder at the kid. “So, you got an idea?”

  The kid shuffled back, keeping both men in his line of sight. “Yeah, I want this,” he shoved a hand in one sagging pocket and came out with a gun. The weapon glinted in the sunlight-washed shop as it wavered in the kid’s hand. “Just gimme what’s in the register and no one gets hurt.” He swiped his sweating brow with his free hand.

  Joss froze, his hands coming up in that universal, “I’m unarmed” move. “Whoa, kid.” His voice lowered, slowed. “You don’t want to do this.” He shook his head, his dreadlocks bouncing against his cheeks. “Seriously, man, you don’t wanna do this. I gotta brother doing a dime down in Cook right now....”

  “Shut up and jus’ do what I say!” The kid’s hand shook more.

  Rue unfocused his eyes, letting himself see past the flesh to the spirit. The kid was a glowing coal of resentment, anger and fear. He could see the promises made, fueled by anger, vengeance and alcohol. He saw the gun pressed into the kid’s hand by a much older man with a shaved head, a tribal tattoo over one side of his pate, and a cruel scar under one eye. He saw other men smile and laugh when the kid swore he’d be back with the money or die trying. He also saw the young man’s mother, a rail-thin woman with tired eyes and the picture of one dead child already on the wall. Rue shifted, breaking with their reality for a moment, stepping into the space between worlds to close the distance between himself and the boy. To the boy and Joss he knew it would look like he’d simply disappeared and reappeared in the blink of an eye. Willing himself beside the kid, he reached a hand out and in, grasping the boy’s soul. The gun clattered with the ground when the young man gave out a painful gasp. Joss jumped on the weapon, snatching it up, flicking someth
ing on the side. Rue pulled the soul, stretching it out from the young man’s body. Some part of his mind wondered if it hurt.

  “Greed, fear, vengeance….” He looked at the boy, capturing the kid’s dark gaze with his own. “If I were to judge you now, I would send you to the fires for punishment, for cleansing.” He released the soul, letting it snap like a rubber band back into the boy who dropped shivering to the tiles of the store. “Your mother’s already lost one child. Do not let her lose another.” He pointed out toward the street, allowed his voice to echo chorally. “Go. Repent. Save yourself.” The boy scrambled to his feet and all but dove out the door.

  “Damn.” Joss’ curse was a long drawn-out sigh. “Damn, Rue, you’re one scary dude.” He shook his head. “I swear, man, when you were talking to that punk, I could almost see the shadow of your wings behind you.”

  Rue shrugged.

  The bell over the door rang again. Rue sank back into a red upholstered chair when he recognized the tall dark man in the rather severe looking suit. “Ruvan,” he nodded.

  He nodded back. “Azrael,” he acknowledged.

  Azrael looked over at Joss. “Sir,” he said admiringly, one side of his mouth tipping up in a smile that didn’t reach his golden eyes as he spoke. “We never do seem to meet.” He slanted another look over at Rue. “Someone always keeps interfering.”

  Rue lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “You can’t expect me to apologize, Azrael.”

  Joss backed up until his back pressed up against the glass cabinets behind him. “Do I know you?” he finally asked, after studying Azrael’s face for a long, silent minute.

  The angel nodded. “All men know me.” He stepped forward offering his hand. Joss took the proffered hand automatically. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Azrael, Angel of Death.”

  Joss gasped, dropping his hand.

  “Ah, well.” Azrael sighed, turning to Rue. “No one ever seems happy to meet us, Ruvan.” The angel dropped into a seat beside him. “We need to talk.” He gestured and Joss froze. The traffic behind them and even the fly bopping itself against the plate glass window at their backs halted mid-air as Azrael slipped them between the worlds. “I think you should see this.” He tossed Rue his iPhone open to the calendar.

  He frowned down at the list of appointments Azrael had in four months’ time. “It’s November, what about it?” He scrolled down through the list.

  “There’s supposed to be an early snowstorm before Thanksgiving this year. Several of those are homeless who don’t make it through the first night.” He nodded. “Keep looking.”

  “A lot to attend to personally here, aren’t there?” Rue asked.

  Azrael sighed. “I’m thinking of taking on an apprentice this winter.” He gestured, the silver ring on his hand glinting in the frozen sunlight. “It’s always the busy season.” He fell silent.

  He continued to scroll, to scan the names. They meant nothing to him. Nothing. He hadn’t been with humanity long enough to really form any... then he saw it. Serafina. He knew that if he still needed breath it would have stopped up in his throat. His gaze flew up to Azrael’s. He nodded and waggled his fingers for the phone. Rue looked again, just to make certain.

  November 10th— Serafina was slated for departure.

  “I made sure that she’d be on my list when her time came. I wanted to tell you, let you come along and ease her through.” Azrael tucked the phone back in his pocket. “When I saw how soon it would be I thought you should know.” He snapped his fingers again and rose fluidly, nothing in his manner indicating that more than a fleeting second had gone by. He nodded to Joss, giving him almost a small bow. “I will see you again, though,” his chuckle sounded like the dry scrape of leaves over the pavement. “Just not for a very long time. You have an interfering guardian angel.”

  “Thank God for that,” Joss muttered, then bit his lips when he realized what he’d said.

  “Yes,” Azrael nodded, “thank God for that indeed.” He nodded to Rue, “Ruvan, I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

  “Yes,” he managed. “Soon.”

  Azrael ducked out of the door, the bell jangling.

  Joss let out a pent-up breath. “Well, man, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He went over the first station and rummaged through the bottom drawer. “Herm keeps a fifth of tequila here for a bad day, and seriously, this is one of those bad days.” He held up the bottle sloshing the three inches or so of golden liquid inside it in invitation. “You want?”

  Rue shook his head. “No, I should be going.” He stood and flexed his shoulders, feeling his wings. “Who knows how many souls have piled up in my absence?”

  Joss shook his head, tilting the bottle back. “I seriously think I might cancel that three o’clock, go home and get piss-faced.” Rue laughed and reached out to clap his friend on the shoulder.

  “Well,” he smiled, “it isn’t every day a man meets the Angel of Death and lives to talk about it.”

  “Amen to that, brother, amen to that.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Excellent.” Lucivar stroked long fingers over his chin. Asmoday knelt on the gray stones before the iron throne and bowed his blond head in supplication. A small dragon-like creature with stubby leathery wings, sharp teeth and protruding yellow eyes crept from behind the Lord’s throne, its claws clicking on the flagstones. “You’ve pleased me, Asmoday.” The demon looked up, a small smile hovering on his lips. “She’ll go with you when the time comes and the snows will fall early this year.” The Lord of Hell shook his head, his long black hair brushing against his shoulders. “All these centuries and I’m still amazed by the gullibility of these mortals.”

  He reached down to stroke the dragonet’s wedge- shaped head. The yellow eyes slitted in pleasure. “Shall I have Lilith prepare her a room in the newest wing, Master?” Asmoday settled back on his heels. “She will upset the balance of Hell if she’s allowed to mingle with the lost souls.”

  Lucivar nodded, his eyes glowing like red coals. “That’s for the best. Tell Cethan that she’s to be housed….”

  Terik, a huge demon with the traditional goat’s hooves, red skin and black horns, tapped on the hall’s great door. Lucivar’s eyes flared at the interruption. “Semiazas is here, Lord, as you asked.”

  Lucivar nodded and settled back on his throne. “Semiazas,” he acknowledged, waving the dark angel forward. Sem’s gray and black wings cast long shadows behind him and his arrogance matched the Lord of Hell’s own.

  “You called for me?” His voice was not at all gracious.

  “Semiazas,” Lucivar began, his voice a low thrum that could slice through human bone, “you and your brothers and sisters enjoy your sanctuary here in the darkness, do you not?” A wealth of threat hung in the air. Asmoday’s eyes flicked from one being to the other, then froze on the stones. He didn’t want to draw either the dark angel’s attention or the Lord of Hell’s notice. Best to just fade into the stones. The little dragon must have had the same thought, for it scuttled below the Lord’s throne. All he could see were its bright little eyes shining from the darkness. He kind of wished he could wedge himself into a hole as well.

  He knew Semiazas was seeing his adopted home in his head. Seeing the sun-washed fields of the Fallen Isles, the sugar sand beaches, glistening water and white marble hall where they were attended by air spirits, kept in much better state than they’d ever seen in the halls of heaven. In all honesty, if he were ever honest even with himself, Asmoday had to admit the dark angels had it pretty good. If he could stand all that white marble and angelic posturing, he’d visit the Fallen Isles a little more often himself.

  Semiazas bowed his head momentarily in acknowledgement, resentment burning in his eyes. “Your commands, my Lord?”

  Lucivar smiled, tenting his hands on his lap. “Not so onerous a duty as you’re thinking, my dear Semiazas. I wish you only to take a brother of yours on a little tour of your haven. Show him the wonders I have giv
en you, the pleasures you can have that those who are still slaving in heaven cannot.” He waved one slender hand vaguely in the direction of the Fallen Isles. “Your little Eden in the midst of Hell.” A chuckle escaped the devil at the phrase.

  “Who?” Semiazas frowned.

  “Ruvan.”

  He nodded. “I understand, my Lord. I had heard that he’d returned to Hell’s Gate.” The dark angel shook his head, long red hair brushing the shoulders of his golden garments. “I can see how you would not wish to have a compassionate judge cluttering up the works.” He looked around the nearly empty throne room. “I have noticed that the construction in the newest of the halls has slowed.”

  Lucivar nodded. “It disturbs me. I wish to tempt him to join you.” He waved Semiazas away.

  Sem bobbed a bow that was barely civil. “How, my Lord, did you wish me to lure him here?”

  Lucivar nodded to Asmoday, who rose. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Semiazas. Rue will come to you.” Asmoday smiled at his Lord. He did have an ace up his sleeve there.

  After a moment, Sem nodded once more, then left.

  “He doubts you, my lord,” Asmoday warned.

  “Then he’s not a complete idiot.” Lucivar replied and shook his head. His longer hair retracted back into his head and slicked back to a wicked widow’s peak. His teeth elongated until his eye teeth were fangs fit for the best B-movie vampire and his skin darkened, deepening from the sallow olive complexion it had been when Asmoday’d entered the throne room to a deep red. The tailored suit disappeared, revealing red musculature and goat’s legs with sharp black hooves. A whiplike tail slashed the air behind him. “I’ve a need to talk to Hathorn, Asmoday. He’s been fomenting a rebellion in the 8th circle. Perhaps, it’s time to move him down a level?”

  Satan, as he’d now adorned himself, stalked out of the hall, his black hooves striking sparks from the stones.

  Asmoday shook his head and finally pushed to his feet. Hathorn had better watch it, he mused. He remembered whispering in the councilman’s ear back in Salem, reinforcing the foolish girls’ story of witchcraft. Hathorn had been personally responsible for the deaths of seven of Salem’s victims. “Good times,” Asmoday murmured, smiling. “Good times.” Too bad humanity wasn’t quite that gullible any more. No matter that the Lord of Hell still thought them nothing more than foolish sheep; the demon knew better. He’d been out in the world. With the exception of a few forays, it had been centuries since the Lord had walked for any length of time among humanity. “Damn science,” he muttered and wandered out of the hall. Maybe he’d take a field trip to Hell’s gate and see what Rue was up to.