by Nola Cancel
“What about him?” Nino replied, “I don’t give a flying fuck about that creepy asshole.”
Nino put the nine on the corner of his mahogany desk and took his seat.
“What’re you going to tell him about another missing angel?” Paulie was methodically rolling Johnny Mac’s body in the plastic tarp on which he was killed.
“I’m gonna tell him the truth,” Nino declared. “Someone let him go and I took care of it.”
“But what about the essence?”
“WHAT ABOUT IT?” Nino roared and jumped out of his chair. The speed of his father’s movements startled Joe as his father picked up the nine and put it to Paulie’s head.
Paulie stood perfectly still, and said, “Nothing, Nino. Nothing.” His fear was so palpable, Joe’s own breathing sped up, and he started sweating profusely.
“You’re fucking right, nothing.” Nino put the gun back in his pocket and moved towards his chair. He hadn’t even realized he’d been standing on dead Johnny Mac’s face.
“We should have never gotten into this angel blood bullshit. No matter how much money we made selling that blue shit to the junkies, it’s just not worth it.” Nino’s voice was tinged with regret. “Fuck Belial, fuck his gorilla, fuck the money, and especially fuck angels.” He picked up the picture of his wife and son that sat on his desk and stared at it.
“God help me,” he whispered. “Belial, that MOTHERFUCKER!”
Why did his father suddenly sound like a woman? Joe’s eyes sprang open and he was back in the E.R.
However, the image of Johnny Mac’s face and the guilt he bore over his death lingered like a living, breathing nightmare.
The irony of his current situation wasn’t lost on Joe. An innocent man had died because he let the angels go. Now he was keeping another one hostage and slowly draining it of its essence, just like his father.
That’s what he was alright. But not for long. Soon all of his prayers would be answered and Nan could take it easy. They’d be okay and then he’d set the captive angel free.
I’m not my father, Joe tried to convince himself.
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
The how to do it was the problem. Joe popped another pill. His father had used Belial for the mechanics and marketing of the angels’ essence. Joe remembered his old man used to say Belial knew all about these poor feathered fucks, so let him handle it.
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
Cradling his hurt wrist with his other arm, Joe knew the only thing he’d let Belial do now was die.
I’ll figure it out myself, Joe thought. John will help me.
Joe started drifting again.
I’ll get my shit tight once more and everything will be fine.
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
Joe smiled through the haze.
“You tell ’em, Sweetheart—you tell ’em.
Motherfucker is right.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Michael knew instantly who’d killed this poor soul in front of him.
The body had been sliced to pieces with a precision that insured the victim felt every cut but would not die until the sadistic murderer was ready for him to.
“Belial.” Michael bent down to look for clues. “Only a monster would take such pleasure in tormenting a human. But why?”
Michael had left Maria sleeping and decided to take another look around the area where Azriel had disappeared. He was about to give up when he stumbled over the dead body.
Going through the dead man’s pockets, Michael could not figure it out. Belial didn’t even like being around the meat-bags, much less touching them himself. As much as he loved to watch them suffer and then die, he usually had Mal do his dirty work.
Michael recognized this soul from the neighborhood, though he didn’t know him well.
From the needle tracks on what was left of his arms, Michael could tell he was a pretty bad drug abuser.
As long as he’d been on this world, he still could not understand the people. These souls, beloved by God more than any other creature, constantly searched for meaning in their lives using artificial means and chemical compounds when God’s love was well within their grasp.
How many angels had fought and perished in the Great War over humans and their right to live their own lives blessed with God’s gift of free will, unencumbered by any divine intervention.
Michael never knowingly questioned God, but looking at this poor dead soul laying on the ground he could only shake his head at the waste of this gift.
He pulled out an old, beat up business card from the dead man’s back pocket. On the front was the name and address of a common neighborhood florist. Written on the back was an address Michael recognized almost immediately.
It was around the corner from this location where he had found Simon.
Michael’s demeanor hardened as he recalled that rainy day more than fifteen years ago. Simon was the third angel to go missing in as many months.
The council had ordered Michael to find them and find out what happened to their shared mind connection.
The word on the street never mentioned angels, but it was becoming widely known that there was a powerful new drug making the rounds that gave the user an amazing euphoric feeling that lasted for as long as twenty-four hours. One shot cost $1,000 but once you experienced it, you’d kill your own mother for another taste.
Michael knew all about the powerful effect angel essence had on humans. Once a human felt that one of a kind euphoria, they would lose all reason and free will in order to sustain the feeling.
But some of the fallen, like Belial, considered humans nothing more than pets and enjoyed playing with their lives, no matter the cost.
The night Michael found Simon was cold and dark with thick cloud cover that impeded any light from the sky.
Michael had received a tip that this new drug could be purchased from a club on Avenue U in Brooklyn.
When he arrived at the nondescript storefront and looked around, he sensed an angel had been there. But it wasn’t until he went into the back room that he was certain.
The walls were lined with wooden shelves that contained vial after vial of angel essence. If Simon still lived, he would be incredibly weak.
Searching for more clues, Michael was horrified by what he found next.
On the floor were Simon’s once beautiful and majestic wings. They had been sawed off his back. Whoever committed this atrocity had been particularly cold and heartless.
An angel’s wings, bestowed upon them by the creator, were their crowning jewel. Each set was different from all other angels’ and treasured by them above all else, even though it was never discussed.
He could only imagine how his friend felt at having to witness his own desecration but quickly realized Simon couldn’t have witnessed it. There, on a small table next to the metal crucifix where Simon had been restrained, were his brilliant blue-green eyes. With tears in his own eyes, Michael picked them up and placed them gently in his pocket. He wept for his friend and for the brutality he had been forced to endure.
Realizing that in his condition Simon couldn’t have gotten far, Michael continued to search.
He followed the fresh trail of angel essence that led out the back door. Michael had walked only a few feet before he found his fallen friend.
“Simon!” Michael cried. Bending down, he took his fallen brother in his arms.
“I knew you’d come,” Simon said, his voice barely above a whisper. “My wings—they cut off my wings.”
“Who did this to you? Where are Castiel and Anakel?” Michael asked, trying in vain to comfort his friend but allowing his anger and need for vengeance to seep into his tone.
“I don’t know. I could not see. They took my eyes.”
Michael had forgotten about the eyes. “Do not worry. I have them,” he said quietly. “It’s okay, everything will be fine.” Michael knew he was lying to both himself and Simon.
“They are strange creatures, these hum
ans,” Simon said, his breathing becoming shallow. “They have an immense capacity to love but are just as capable of unbelievable cruelty.”
Michael looked at his friend’s battered body. Where Simon’s eyes should have been there were instead two gaping holes. All that was left of his incredible wings were jagged bone and featherless husks.
“Shh. Rest now.” Michael held him tighter. “All will be well once more.”
Then he kissed Simon goodbye, looked up to the sky, and asked the heavenly Father to forgive him for not arriving in time.
When he was finished, Michael looked back down. Simon was gone.
Who had done this? He had an idea but needed confirmation.
There was only one way to find out the answer. Reaching into his raincoat, Michael pulled out Simon’s eyes. Holding them with love and care in the palm of his hand, Michael stared into them. Whoever hurt his brother did not know or didn’t much care that an angel’s eyes would continue to bear witness and record their surroundings whether attached to the angel or not.
His gaze never wavered as Michael watched everything that had happened to Simon. He watched as a five-year-old girl crossed the street with her
grandmother and a car came straight for them. He watched as Simon pushed the souls out of the way and was hit by the car in their stead. Then he continued to watch as Malachi got out of the driver’s seat of the car that hit Simon, took out a strange wooden dagger, and stabbed Simon in the side. He was immediately incapacitated and placed in the back seat of a black Lincoln Town Car. This all happened in the blink of a human’s eye and the little girl and old woman never knew a thing. But Michael saw it all, including the passenger in the back seat of the Lincoln—Belial.
After that, the eyes recorded Mal and Belial as they hooked Simon to the metal crucifix and started the task of draining his essence. The fallen smiled and laughed the entire time.
The rest of the time recorded was more of the same. Michael couldn’t tell how long his brother had been tortured before the eyes bore witness to someone else.
The first human Simon’s eyes showed was an older man that Michael recognized as a mid-level mobster that lived and worked in the same neighborhood where he had found Simon.
This man came in, pointed at Simon as he shook his head back and forth, and argued with Belial.
Without sound, Michael could not tell what they had said but the mobster looked almost sad as he walked out the door.
The last thing the eyes recorded before Michael found Simon was a teenage boy. He was obviously scared as he approached the angel and kept looking around the room. Then the young man in the black Yankee sweatshirt and Yankee baseball cap took out a key and unlocked Simon. There were tears in his eyes as he watched Simon struggle to leave, and he gave the sign of the cross before he himself left the building.
The eyes told Michael nothing about where he might find Castiel or Anakel, but now he knew for sure who was behind their disappearance. Based on the teenager’s actions, he might not be too late to help them. He found out later he was wrong.
Two weeks after finding Simon’s brutalized human form, Michael received another tip and found Anakel on the stairs of Our Lady of Grace church on Avenue X in Brooklyn. He was in the same condition as Simon, but as well as his eyes, his tongue had also been cut out rendering him speechless and unable to pray. Before he disappeared and in front of this manmade monument to the Lord, Michael prayed for them both.
Castiel was never found. He didn’t have to be. Michael felt the loss of his missing friend as soon as he was gone. He didn’t need to know how he was destroyed or by whom.
Now in the present, it was as if no time had passed and he had just lost them all over again. Michael looked at the dead human on the ground one last time before putting the old business card in his pocket. Sixteen years ago, he had been too late to help his friends or seek vengeance on Belial for the atrocities he’d committed.
Soon after Michael discovered the truth, Belial went into hiding, and try as he might, Michael could not find him.
However, he was back now and another angel, his brother Azriel, was missing. This time, Michael knew where to look. This time he would not be too late.
Leaving the dead junkie exactly as he found him, Michael offered up a silent prayer for his soul.
“Heavenly Father, please guide this poor soul on his path to your glory and grant him eternal peace at your side. Please strengthen me, Lord. Guide your servant’s hand as I seek justice for all your heavenly creations. God, make strong my sword as I strike down the fallen and gut that piece of shit, Belial. In your name, I pray.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Where the fuck is John?” Joe wondered aloud, checking his phone for what seemed like the hundredth time. There were still the same six or seven calls as before, but no messages. Three of the calls had been from Nan but he’d have to call her back later. After he figured out what to do next with the angel.
The remaining calls were from a number he didn’t recognize. The way Joe figured it, if it was important whoever it was would leave a message.
Joe was supposed to hook up with John hours ago but the hospital had taken forever to put a cast on his wrist and get him a prescription for 10 Tylenol with codeine.
“Not even Percocet,” Joe grumbled to the nurse who had handed it to him. “Fucking doctors.”
But John was nowhere to be found and that in and of itself was gnawing at the back of Joe’s drug-addled mind. When it came to getting high or making money to get him high, John could be one patient son of a bitch.
“So, where is that jerk-off?”
As if in answer to his question, his cell phone, with David Bowie and Freddie Mercury singing Under Pressure as his ringtone, sounded. It was the same number that had called earlier.
Thinking it could be John using someone else’s phone, Joe answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, Joe, what’dya know?”
Joe felt a chill run down his spine as he instantly recognized the voice on the other end. “What do you want, Belial? Why are you calling me?”
Joe had other questions like how’d you get my number and why don’t you die, but wanted this phone call over as soon as possible. He instinctively reached for and retrieved a Marlboro from the inside pocket of his coat, found a book of matches in another pocket, and lit the cigarette, all using only one hand.
“Heard you were looking for John and thought maybe I could help you with that,” Belial calmly stated.
Joe was getting worried. “Where is he, Belial? What did you do with him?”
“Why, Joe, you offend me. I simply had a chat with your friend. He was more than cooperative.” Belial chuckled maliciously.
“If you fucked with him, I’ll—” Joe began.
“You’ll what? You live or die by my say-so you junkie piece of shit. Just keep your mouth shut and listen to me. Your father had the same fucking problem. Always running his mouth when he should have just listened. Maybe he’d still be alive if he shut the fuck up once in a while.”
“What do you want?” Joe tried to sound hard, sound like his old man, but his hand was shaking so bad he could barely hold his cigarette.
“I want your winged friend,” Belial said.
“Wha-I don’t know what you’re talking—” Joe searched for words, the panic evident in his voice.
“There you go again, Joe. Insulting my intelligence. Let me make this crystal fucking clear—you give me the angel and I leave you and your pretty little wife alone,” Belial threatened. “Fuck with me,” he laughed, “and I’ll have Mal do a number on her while you watch until you both beg for the sweet release of death.”
Joe lost his balance and fell to his knees.
“No,” he pleaded into the phone.
“Now, here’s what I need you to do.”
Michael watched Joe fall from across the street. Blessed with preternatural hearing, he had heard Joe’s end of the phone call and knew who had been on the other
line.
Like father, like son, Michael thought.
After finding the old business card with the address to Joe’s father’s club on Avenue U in the dead junkie’s pocket, Michael remembered where he had seen him before—with Joe DeFalco, Nino’s son. In fact, as he recalled, they were always together. Or at least they used to be.
The phone conversation confirmed what Michael had already suspected. Joe was keeping Azriel, like his father before him, and Belial wanted him. That was not going to happen. Not this time.
Michael watched Joe get up on shaky legs and followed him around the corner to his home on Lake Street and Avenue T. Hoping he would walk Azriel out or take him to his location, Michael waited.
After a minute or so, there was an anguished scream coming from inside Joe’s house. Not wanting to disappear in front of any souls who might be wandering by, Michael ran as fast as possible across the street and into Joe’s open house.
“No…no…no!” The cries seemed to be coming from the basement.
Michael ran down the stairs. Joe was sitting on the floor. In his broken right hand he held a letter and in the left a .45 automatic.
“She’s gone,” he said, not caring who had entered his home or what they wanted. “She said it was over, she couldn’t live like this anymore.”
“It will be okay, Joe,” Michael said, carefully choosing his words and slowly moving closer to him.
Michael’s voice was soothing and seemed to comfort the distraught man. After a few more seconds, he looked up from the letter.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Joe asked.
“My name is Michael and I’m here to help you.”
Joe started to cry. It was obvious to Michael that he was overwhelmed.
“You can’t help me. No one can. He’s going to bury me and it’s all my fault,” Joe screamed, waving the gun haphazardly in the air.
“I won’t let that happen, Joe,” Michael swore. “Just tell me where Azriel is and we’ll work all this out.”
Michael inched closer to Joe.
“Azriel? Who the fuck is Azriel? I don’t know no— wait, the angel? Is that his name? I never knew,” Joe said, guilt washing over him and his thoughts drifting back to another time.