Though the Brightest Fell (The Brooklyn Angels Series Book 1)

by Nola Cancel

  “What about Nan?” Joe asked again. “Can you see her? Is she with him?”

  “Yes, she is with him.”

  Joe let out a sigh of relief. “Handy tool as long as you don’t like any privacy.”

  “Privacy is a human necessity,” Michael lied. “Angels have no need of such human requirements.”

  “Hmm, so you guys never want some alone time?” Joe asked, giggling at the thought of taking a shit and having everyone else know how many turds you made.

  The more he thought about it, the more Joe found this idea hysterical and started laughing until his drug deprived body rejected any semblance of happiness and his own need to use the toilet began to, literally, surface.

  “Listen, dude,” Joe said, turning to face Michael. “I’ve got to use the bathroom, like now.”

  “You will go when we stop,” Michael replied.

  “I don’t think you get it, Angel-boy.” Joe had had enough. “We’ve been driving for over two hours now and I really gotta go.”

  “You will wait,” Michael repeated, his temper rising.

  “I don’t think you get it, Mikey,” Joe replied. “I’m not asking. Pull the fuck over. NOW!” Michael swerved the car off the side of the road, causing Joe’s head to hit the dashboard.

  “GOD DAMN, SON OF A BITCH, MOTHER-FUCKING, COCK—” Before he could finish the word, Joe felt himself being lifted by the back of his neck and thrown head first out of the car.

  Laying on the cold, hard ground, stunned and in pain, Joe couldn’t decide what hurt worse—his head, his broken arm, or his broken nose. When he looked up, Michael was towering above him.

  “Now you listen.” Michael’s voice was loud and commanding. “I know why you are ill. I have lived among your kind long enough to witness how you torture yourselves with fabrications of happiness. Whether it’s pills or inhalants or needles, you all seek an end to your individual perceived pain when true peace can easily be found in all that God has given you.”

  Joe began to shake all over. His body wracked by spasms, his mind by shame, he started to cry for the man he once was and the human garbage he had become. A shadow of his former self, a man who kidnapped and tortured one of God’s own creatures. He silently wished he still had his gun. He’d blow his brains out and be done with it all.

  “I know,” Michael said, “the euphoria you humans feel when you mix your own blood with ours. The temporary ecstasy that you seek above all else. Your kind knows nothing of true suffering. I have watched you live and die since your time began. I have witnessed how you teach your children to covet that which belongs to others, hate those who do not resemble yourselves, and how to kill in the name of he who is most holy. And, in the end, without fail, you all die screaming for his mercy.”

  Joe continued to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I only wanted to make things right and give Nan the kind of life she deserves. I’m sorry for what I did to your friend. I’m sorry for everything.”

  He raised his head to look at Michael. A soft light appeared to be emanating from the palms of his hands, bathing his entire form in a brilliant luminescence. Michael extended his hand to Joe and the moment they touched, Joe felt the most glorious tremor pass through his arm and slowly spread across his entire body. He had never felt anything like it. Not getting high, not shooting angel essence, not even getting laid.

  It was as if he were bathing in a pool of warm water that reinvigorated every part of him, leaving Joe feeling whole and renewed.

  And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.

  Joe hadn’t even realized his eyes had been closed, but when he opened them, Michael had stopped glowing and was standing in front of him.

  “What happened?” Joe asked, coming to the immediate realization that he was no longer sweaty, shaking, or in need of the bathroom. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he was completely straight, his body totally clean of drugs, but he was certain this had been what it had felt like so many years ago.

  “I have cleansed you of the poison that was corrupting your body, mind, and soul,” Michael said, looking a little tired. “I have also healed the maladies that were causing you pain. Your life is your own, once again, to do with as you wish.”

  “But how—why?” Joe asked, wiping the dirt off his pants.

  “There are gifts we have been given and things that we do that I am not at liberty to explain.”

  Michael started walking back towards the car. Grabbing the handle, he turned, once again, to face Joe. “I am still in need of your assistance. If we are to find your wife and Azriel before Belial, we must hurry. Will you help me?” Michael asked.

  “Nan.” The thought of his wife in trouble brought him back to the present. Suddenly, without any drugs to alter his thoughts and cause him to forget everything and everyone, Joe felt the full force of his love for his wife hit him like an oncoming train. He was clean and she didn’t even know. For the first time in a long time, Joe had real, genuine hope.

  “Absofuckinglutely, Mikey,” Joe said, climbing out of the ditch with the ease and speed of a teenager. “Where are we going? Oh, yeah. Valhalla.”

  As he climbed in the passenger seat, Joe was struck by a long forgotten memory. “Hey, Mikey. I think I know where Nan and your buddy are going,” he said.

  “Good,” Michael replied, turning the car keys and putting the Caddy into gear. “And my name is Michael.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The tracking device in Joe’s car started transmitting again as soon as Michael and Joe were back on the road.

  “Why do you think they stopped?” Mal asked Belial, who sat in the back of the Lincoln playing with his coin.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Belial replied. “Maybe the meat-bag had to take a piss. Just don’t lose them.”

  “I won’t, Boss,” Mal said as he continued to watch the road, glancing now and them at the tracker.

  Belial was getting impatient. It had been far too long since he’d had a clear-cut way to hurt Michael, and Belial knew nothing hurt his former brother worse than torturing and killing one of his own. And once that was done, he would get rid of Michael for good and make sure that piece of shit Joe learned the real meaning of pain . But first, he would bleed Azriel dry and make a ton of money off his essence.

  Not that he needed money. He had made more than he could ever use in an eternity by stringing out the meat-bags on angel essence and then making them earn for him in order to feed their habit for that precious blue liquid.

  Belial turned his head to look out the window. It was the fall and the trees rushed by in a multi-color blur. How he hated this place, this garden, this world. And the longer he lived among these hideous souls, like gasoline added to a fire, the brighter his hatred burned.

  He had been judged, found guilty, and sentenced to an eternity without grace by a Father who was supposed to love all his children. Never to hear his voice, feel that warmth or ever know the majestic glory of that love, was a price Belial had not been prepared to pay. He would mourn its loss till the end of time.

  And, for what? he thought. What had been my unforgivable trespass that would cause me to suffer so?

  Were angels not superior to men? Did they not deserve to be treated with respect and gratitude by those they were charged to safeguard? These were the questions that hounded Belial ever since he had killed a human who had offended him and was cast out of heaven.

  “They should thank us for their very existence,” he justified to himself, “yet they continue to mock us with their disbelief in all we know as truth and their ingratitude to a God who bestowed upon them the very right to make such choices.” He despised them for their faithlessness, for their freedom, and especially for their souls—the biggest difference between angel and man.

  Who are these ants that scurry about causing harm and pain to whomever and whatever crosses their paths to be given such a precious gift? What makes them so sp
ecial and beloved by God? Belial would never understand, and this inability to explain God’s choices or accept them made him bitter and full of hate.

  Ever since Belial had been thrown out like so much refuge, he’d made it his sole purpose on this world to make the humans suffer for all he had lost. It made him less miserable and gave him something to do for eternity.

  As he continued to glance out the window at a world that would never compare to the one that was taken from him, Belial spotted a human on the side of the road.

  “Pull over, Mal,” he said.

  “Huh? What for?” Mal asked, as he quickly turned the steering wheel and came to a complete stop on the embankment.

  “I’m bored,” Belial said, an evil smirk upon his face. “I feel like some fun.”

  “What about Joe and Michael?”

  “You said the tracking device is working fine,” Belial replied as he lowered his tinted window. “We’ll catch up to them soon enough.”

  Up ahead, walking very slowly and carefully, was a man in a leather vest and dirty jeans. To anyone else, he might have appeared imposing. To Belial, he was exactly what he needed to pass some time.

  If he ever saw that bitch again, he’d have her begging for mercy and then kill her.

  The same for that fucking freak that was with her. He would take particular pleasure in watching whatever that was suffer horribly.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

  Mr. Scary had spent most of his life angry. Angry at his father for what he did to him, angry at his mother for not giving a shit, and angry at the world for pretending he didn’t exist. In return, he spent most of his life punishing others for his crappy childhood.

  His junkie mother died when he was seven from an overdose and left young Mr. Scary with an abusive, alcoholic father who sold him to the highest bidder whenever he needed money for booze.

  Struggling to climb out of the ditch that bitch and her friend had thrown him in, he remembered very clearly, the day he finally got his revenge.

  He was fifteen and in 8th grade. Years behind others his age because of his home life. His father had been called to the school to talk to the principal. Usually he would not go, but this was serious and his father knew if social services got involved, they could take his son away along with his drinking money.

  A couple of days earlier, young Mr. Scary had beat another boy senseless just because he could.

  He’d broken three ribs and the poor kid’s nose simply for the fact that he was an easy target whom everyone else labeled as gay.

  For a while now, he had begun to question his own sexuality. The men he was sold to repulsed him, but deep down in his private thoughts, he found himself attracted to men more and more. He lived in terror that someone would find out about his secret feelings, especially his father, and God only knew what he would do to him after that.

  The meeting had gone exactly like young Mr. Scary knew it would.

  At 6’3”, 280 lbs., his father was always imposing. But, put a few drinks under his belt and he was downright terrifying.

  The principal, on the other hand, was 5’6”, weighed 150 soaking wet, and had never hurt a fly.

  “I imagine you know why I asked you to come in today, Mr. Lipnicki,” his principal said.

  “Don’t imagine anything,” young Mr. Scary’s father growled, “just tell me what he did this time.”

  “He put another student in the hospital. He beat him so bad that—”

  “What did the other boy do to him?” his father interrupted.

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Your son has been calling him names and tormenting the boy for months.”

  “Why?” his father asked, not really interested in the answer.

  “Maybe you should ask your son,” the principal said, looking at young Mr. Scary.

  “Hey, fuck-face, why did you beat this kid up?” His father’s gaze was cold and intimidating.

  “He’s a fag. He made a pass at me,” young Mr. Scary lied. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Well, there you go.” His father turned to face the principal. “You heard him. This fag made a pass at him. He just put a stop to it. Case closed.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Lipnicki.” The principal had never met another man like this and never wanted to again. “We have no choice but to expel your son. Our school has a zero tolerance policy for any violence against another student.”

  “Why you lousy fucking—” Mr. Lipnicki reached out to grab the principal, but his son held him back.

  “No, Pop, you can’t,” young Mr. Scary pleaded. “They’ll put you in jail again.”

  “Get the fuck off me, you little piece of shit,” his father yelled as he smacked him hard across the mouth.

  Young Mr. Scary fell to the floor and hit his head. He would have blacked out if his rage hadn’t taken over. Either way, what happened next was a blur that changed his whole life.

  When his head was finally clear, his father lay on the ground, his brains bashed in by the fire extinguisher that lay on the floor next to him. The same one that that had been hanging above the principal’s desk just a minute ago.

  Once the cops arrived, they arrested him and brought young Mr. Scary to the nearest precinct.

  He was charged with Manslaughter One and sentenced to five years in Greenhaven Correctional Facility, an adult-only prison.

  Inside, he learned all sorts of new things. He learned how to knit because it passed the time between the rapes and beatings he endured. As a bonus, the knitting needles, once sharpened, made a badass weapon if the need arose.

  He also learned how to speak Latin because no one understood the dead language and it made the white supremacists that protected him from other inmates, as he was passed from one to the other, laugh, as he called them every name in the book without their knowledge.

  The last thing he learned was to make people suffer for all that he had suffered. Whether straight or gay, it didn’t matter. Everyone was the same when they died by his hands.

  Mr. Scary turned to see who’d pulled up behind him. His balls still ached from that bitch squeezing them with all her might, and his head felt like a hundred pound bowling ball that had been dropped one too many times, but basically all he really needed was to kick someone’s ass and get back to his bike.

  “Maybe,” he considered, looking at the well-dressed guy stepping out of the back seat of the Lincoln Town Car, “I can kill two fags with one stone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Belial had learned years ago how to tolerate the nearness of meat-bags. But no matter how long he lived among them, he never got used to that smell. A disgusting mix of sweat, shit, and desperation that assaulted his senses until he sent them away or killed them.

  The guy in the vest with his facial scar, tattooed arms, and filthy hair was a prime example of human excrement. Under normal circumstances, Belial would have ended him quickly and painfully, but at this very moment, he was bored.

  “So,” Belial began, “what happened to your vehicle?” Mr. Scary smiled at Belial as he tried to hide his disdain for the type of man he thought he was. “My bike gave out about a mile and a half down the road,” he said.

  “I was trying to get to the nearest gas station when you guys were kind enough to stop.” “No problem,” Belial said. “Always happy to help a fellow traveler. What is it you do for a living, Mr.— I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

  “Herman. My name is Herman,” Mr. Scary lied, trying to get a better look at the Lincoln’s driver, who seemed like he might be a little more of a problem than the smelly asshole that sat next to him. Since he first sat down, the odor of cheap cologne was making his fucking eyes water.

  “Well, Herman,” Belial said, “what is it you do?” Mr. Scary smiled. “Just about anything,” he said, turning ever so slightly to face Belial directly.

  “Really? Do tell,” Belial said, getting way too much pleasure from his cat and m
ouse game.

  “Do tell what?” Mr. Scary asked.

  “Do tell me what ‘just about anything’ entails.”

  “Well,” Mr. Scary said as he quickly reached out his hand and grabbed Belial by his windpipe and just as quickly pulled the hand back in agony.

  His hand felt like it had been dipped in a vat of acid and looked the same way. The skin was hanging off his fingers and the bones were exposed. He had never felt this kind of pain. Not even when he crashed his bike and tore his knee to pieces.

  He could barely hear himself scream over the pounding of his own heart. Mr. Scary was going into shock and starting to fall.

  “Not so fast, meat-bag,” Belial said, pulling a handywipe from his breast pocket that he wrapped around his hand and used to push Mr. Scary back into a seated position. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  Mr. Scary was moaning. His good right hand grasped the mangled remains of his left as he rocked back and forth.

  “Are you listening, human—I mean Herman?” Belial asked menacingly.

  “Jesus—Oh Jesus—Oh God,” Mr. Scary repeated over and over, praying to names he knew but never believed in.

  “That number’s been disconnected,” Belial said with an evil smile. “It’s no longer in service.”

  “What the fuck did you do to me? Who the fuck are you?” Mr. Scary asked, struggling to get out each and every word.

  “Much less than you deserve.”

  Belial pulled a hundred dollar Monte Cristo from his inside pocket. With the tip of his finger and a couple of puffs, the cigar glowed a bright red.

  “Tell me a story,” he said, as Mal snickered from the driver’s seat. “If it’s a good one, maybe I’ll let you exit this car with some skin left on your body. If it bores me, well who knows what I’ll burn next.”