by Amanda Jones
DARK ANGEL Mandy Lee Jones 1
The Fallen Chronicles:
Dark Angel
By
Mandy Lee Jones
( c ) copyright by Mandy Lee Jones, March 2017
(c ) coverart by Jenny Dixon, March 2017
ISBN 978-1-60394-970-5
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Acknowledgements
To all the fantastic folks in my life who supported my crazy ideas! Frank, Filippo, Karen, Howie, and my amazing family. Stacey – your support means the world to me. I appreciate your advice more than you can ever know.
Kristan Roetker & Karla Goforth – your editing skills are bad ass!
Madris DePasture – thanks for taking a chance on me!
Max Ablitzer’s music can be found at www.maxablitzer.com
Chapter One
Lucifer
Lucifer glanced around the bar from his corner table and sighed. Not much had changed here for the better part of a century. In fact, the establishment had been there far longer, changing its’ face and name with the times, but was always accessible as a way station and watering hole for all beings on the dark side of the supernatural. This was the only place in the city where demons, shifters, vampires, and the fallen could congregate without fear, thanks to Friday night at The Devil’s Advocate
The Advocate’s status as a haven.
A series of complex spells and enchantments kept the entrance to the building hidden from the view of most of the non-otherworld population. However, if a human managed to wander in accidentally, all bets were off. The Advocate was also conveniently located directly above the North American Sheolic conduit, allowing a straight shot home at the end of the evening if one lived in the Netherworld city of Outer-Sheol. The colored lighting cast a red glow, making everyone and everything look like they’d just been bathed in blood. So cliché, but fitting seeing as there wasn’t a single being in the bar that didn’t have some kind of body count, Luc included.
The Balkan-style demonic band was strumming out a catchy folk tune from the small stage. Luc sighed again, took another long swig of beer, and looked down at his hands, eyeing the dried blood he hadn’t been able to wash from under his fingernails. What bothered him most was that his stomach hadn’t lurched at the sight of blood on his hands in centuries. The numbness had crept over him gradually, his heart slowly becoming encased in an icy coldness that allowed him to carry out the dark deeds that were required of him. What was it the humans always called him…right — The Prince of Darkness.
“My ass,” he muttered under his breath. Millennia of the same bullshit and no end in sight. All of this had started because he wanted to have some kind of control over his own destiny — free will — to lead a life of his own choosing. He chuckled bitterly to himself. Look how well that went. He’d traded one set of shackles for another. He’d been tossed out of the heavens with no second chances, no redemption. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, go straight to your new boss. And boy, was he an asshole!
Luc peered over the rim of his mug at the other Princes of Hell. They had been among the original angels created by The Deity, meant to be the princes of the heavens. They were all here as usual. Azazel, Baliel, and Asmodeus were over at the bar spewing vitriol at each other over which hockey team would win the cup this year. Bataryal and Samael were shooting pool and checking out the new bartender. Yetarel was busy fixing his hair and admiring himself in a mirror at the back of the bar. Luc had never seen anyone so in love with himself.
The crew had been created together, worked together, played together, and had fallen together. Now they hung out at The Advocate on a regular basis to trade war stories and drink, sometimes drinking themselves into oblivion to forget the horrible things they’d been forced to do in the service of their master, Satan. The scene before him looked so oddly normal. Almost like watching a group of humans having a good time on a Friday night at the pub. If only it were that simple. They tried not to get too serious when they were together, but all of the princes knew the darkness, the despair, the constant weight of eternity bearing down on them. Luc closed his eyes for a moment as exhaustion rolled over him. With his defenses down, unbidden images bubbled up to torment him.
The heavens had been divided into two warring factions. The renegades had followed Lucifer Morningstar into battle; his loyal troops headed up by his six closest friends. They had followed his lead, galvanized by his impassioned speeches about leading a life of their own choosing and having free will to determine their destinies instead of being shackled to The Deity. All he’d wanted were the same freedoms given to the humans.
With the light of the sun filtering down upon him, he had stood in all his glory — his wings spread, his robes white and pristine, and a golden glow emanating from his body. They had come together in their desires for freedom, not realizing the terrible price they would be made to pay as would their brethren for their selfishness.
At first, Lucifer waged a war of words against his maker, crying out for his freedom. Before long, words no longer seemed enough as his pleas went unanswered. Battles began, small skirmishes at first that soon escalated into a full-blown war. Angels pitted against angels.
Snowy-white wings and robes were bathed in blood as the renegades fought for freedom, felling many of their friends and brothers that stood against them. Metatron, the Voice of The Deity, had pleaded with the Morningstar to stop his campaign that was wreaking only death and violence, saying that it was not too late for him to be forgiven.
But the Morningstar had persisted. As Lucifer stood alone at the end of the war drenched in the blood of his brethren as they lay fallen around him, he had felt a part of his soul crack. He finally saw the awful results of his foolish quest as he gazed out over the field of battle.
Luc sighed and squeezed his eyes closed tightly, trying desperately to will away the horrible images of his fall from grace, wishing he’d known then what he knew now. Though they’d been created as fully-formed men, the angels had been much like children in the beginning. The Deity wasn’t withholding their freedom, but giving them the opportunity to mature, to grow up in a sense, before bestowing upon them the ability to determine their paths.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Luc looked down at the document in front of him — a summons from the boss, hand delivered by Red Devil Courier. Satan was such a fucking egomaniac. As usual, the missive was written in what looked suspiciously like blood on dried skin, which may or may not have been human. Satan did love to have a good time with some of his souls…before they died at times, and the tortures he meted out were…unique at best. Luc had once made the mistake of entering Satan’s private office in Halja castle without invitation and had witnessed a rather disturbing scene involving a St. Andrew’s cross, razor wire, and one of Satan’s souls being whipped by a lash made of human spinal bones.
He wasn’t always the best-behaved boy, but Luc did not appreciate the constant confusion over Lucifer and Satan being one and the same. Huge shout-out to Dante for screwing that one up when he wrote “Inferno.” Sometimes Luc just wanted to end it all. Too bad the only way out for an immortal was decapitation, and it was kind of difficult to cut off your own head, not to mention it would result in the only thing worse than his present situation. As a suicide, his soul would belong to Satan eternally.
He’d already earned indentured servitude; he’d keep what was left of his cracked and damaged soul, thank you very much — little as it was worth. As a fallen angel
, the longer he was away from the light of the heavens, the more he lost of his angelic essence. Every century that passed, his essence grew darker. The blood in his veins now felt like an insidious black sludge that slowly permeated every cell in his body while replacing everything that was once good and pure with undiluted evil. Over time, the majority of demons had developed the ability to exercise free will, much like the angels. Those who chose to remain tethered to Satan now belonged to him body and soul. Just one more “fuck you” to add to the list.
He’d fallen because of a desire for free will and wound up as one of the few on the dark side that still didn’t have it. For centuries, Luc dreamt of finding a way to earn back his place in the heavens. At this point, the dream was gone, its memory like a whisper of the angel he once was — the Morningstar, Son of the Dawn, Bringer of Light. The light was gone now, along with his wings. He lived in the shadows with only his fallen-angel brethren as companions in their eternal limbo between the realm of man and the evil of Inner-Sheol. Now he’d been summoned once again for a little face time with Satan, which meant another trip to the inner ring of Sheol and the fortified castle at its center.
He rubbed the heel of his palm against the sigil branded above his heart, an action that had become second nature centuries ago after his expulsion. All angels had them, a mark denoting their hierarchy within the angelic world and a symbol of their name emblazoned above their heart in a show of their love and fidelity to the heavens. The sigil had once glowed with a bright gold light. Where it was once light, it was now a black mark that burned a bit more painfully with every dark deed he performed in the service of Satan. The once smooth, pale skin surrounding it was now a mess of blackened veins radiating from the sigil like snakes spreading out across his chest. The heart beneath it felt dead and frozen — like the lake of frozen blood surrounding Satan’s castle.
Luc dreaded every message received from Satan, never knowing what would be asked of him. Most often, it was to deliver the holder of a soul Satan now owned so he could have some pre-reaping fun. Other times it was to contract assassinations, direct requests to eliminate those who had offended him, or to submit to some specialized torture for refusing to carry out one of said requests. Luc had participated in all of the above. Each time, he felt a bit more of his own soul chip away and the darkness within him grow. Death, destruction, and pain no longer had the same effect on him. They were routine, much like his morning coffee. Sad, he thought, that delivering souls was considered a best-case scenario.
At least he could comfort himself in the knowledge that the individual in question had brought it upon themselves by making a deal with the Devil of their own free will. Luc understood what drove humans to make these deals. He knew exactly what Satan and his minions were capable of and eternal torture was not worth youth, wealth, or power. Once a human was marked by a demon’s sigil, there was no turning back. Their name was permanently etched in Satan’s Red Book. Game over.
Across the tavern, a loud groan and a victory whoop caught Luc’s attention. Glancing past a group of Vampires playing poker, he watched as Samael smiled as he pulled the black eight ball out of the side pocket of the pool table. He chucked it carelessly at Bataryal and tossed out a “Better luck next time!” He turned towards Luc’s table, eyeing the dark look on his face, and raised his eyebrow in question. Samael began threading his way through the crowd towards him. As he made his way, the women turned one by one to mark his progress.
No surprise there, Samael attracted attention everywhere he went with his short, stylishly-dishevelled, light brown hair, lightly-tanned skin, piercing blue eyes, and light dusting of five o’clock shadow. He dressed casually in lightly-worn jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his toned body to its best advantage. Given all the female attention you’d think the guy had it made. But in his former life in the heavens, he’d been the angel of death, a high-ranking member of The Host who oversaw the collection of souls to be brought into the light.
After his fall, Samael had been ordered to continue as a Reaper for the Sheolic side, working closely with the dark, skeletal Thanatos – Death himself. Not much of a change on the surface, but in the fine print he was cursed to never come into contact with any living being without inadvertently taking their soul. As soon as he came into direct contact, Samael’s curse would activate, ripping the soul directly out of his victim, condemning them to an eternity in the deepest abyss of Sheol. They would have no chance of entering the light. Samael was cursed to kill them, then to escort their soul into the darkness. The only beings able to touch him directly were other fallen. Thus, though he was magnetic and attractive, the women could only admire him from a distance. He had been cursed to millennia of abstinence.
Samael arrived at Luc’s table, pulled out a chair, and plopped down across from him. He signalled to the bartender to bring another beer. “So, my friend, what’s this — a royal summons?” he said, indicating the missive still sitting unfolded in front of Luc.
“It’s a birthday card from my mother.”
Samael snorted as he reached for the beer that had just been deposited in front of him by the server. “Yeah, I might buy that if you had a birthday…or a mother for that matter. Nothing says “I love you” like a message dripping in blood.”
Luc gave Samael a wry look and slowly folded up the letter. No matter how many times they went through this song and dance, they always tried to make light of it, as though these little summons and nightmarish assignments weren’t hellish for all of them.
“Well, we’re going through a rough patch in our relationship right now. Having some mommy issues and she’s paying me back for my teenage years.”
Samael laughed again then gave Luc a pointed look. “Luc, my man, what’s he after this time? You look like you’d have more fun climbing the tallest building in the city and taking a header just for shits and giggles.”
“That’s just the problem, Sam, it’s pretty vague this time, which has me freaking the fuck out. You know how he is. Normally he just comes out and says what he wants and demands our presence to give the specifics. This time he’s just saying: Your presence is required at the castle. There is an important assignment that cannot be delayed. Arrive within six hours of receipt of this request. Be late or absent at your own peril. Of course, he did sign off with the usual, ‘Love Always,’ the sick fuck.
Sam leaned back, propped his feet up on the seat of the chair kitty corner to him, and tilted his chair onto its two back legs. He looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Luc looked back down into his mug of beer as though he could divine the answer to the problem at the bottom of the glass. A few minutes ticked by in silence — both men lost to their musings, trying to figure out how bad this could be or what it could mean. Sam suddenly righted his chair, dropping back down onto all four legs with a loud thud; Luc’s head snapped to attention.
“Have you heard any rumblings through the grapevine? Anything that might interest our erstwhile employer? I mean, if it were a standard soul-snatching, he would have just said it. Unless…you haven’t turned down another one of his fucking requests, have you?”
Luc frowned in thought and slowly shook his head. “Nope, I’ve heard nothing new or interesting through my Netherworld contacts, and I haven’t turned down any of his recent requests…not since he asked me to kidnap that kid to use as leverage. I had to draw the line somewhere.” Luc shuddered at the memory.
He had brought Satan the thirty-nine-year-old lawyer who had sold his soul in exchange for winning a high-profile case defending a serial killer and Luc had had no qualms doing it; the guy was slime. But when Luc had been asked to kidnap the man’s son; that had been the outside of enough. That little instance of rebellion had earned him twenty-four hours of torture.
Luc now had an intimate knowledge of how it felt to have the skin peeled from his back with a dull bone knife. He also knew exactly how long it took to regenerate said skin in order to have it peeled off again. In total the process wa
s repeated six times over the twenty-four hour period. In his many centuries of life, Luc had experienced different kinds of torture and pain and had come to learn that there are several levels of pain: tolerable, agonizing, excruciating, and finally, the stage at which all the pain receptors in the body have ceased to register. That final stage comes directly before one passes out. Luc had reached that particular level of pain all six times. It was a relief when he finally got there because he knew he would soon be unconscious, and he would have at least thirty minutes during which time he could float in blissful darkness.
He shook his head, clearing the horrific memories and bringing himself back to the present. “Heard anything on your end?”
Sam shook his head and twisted in his seat, waving Bataryal over from the bar where he’d joined the others. “Let’s see if B knows anything. He was at Halja last. Maybe he heard something while he was there.”
Bataryal strolled over, grabbed a chair, flipped it around, and sat down crossing his arms over the chair-back in front of him. “What’s up?”
“We wanted to see if you’d heard anything new and interesting last time you were visiting His Supreme Douchbaginess? Oh, and you owe me fifty bucks from the pool game. Someday you’ll stop putting money on it. I just keep handing you your ass on a silver platter.”
“Sam, first of all, I don’t have fifty bucks on me. Second, when have I ever actually paid up on a bet?” Luc and Sam looked at each other and started laughing. Bataryal smiled, reached across the table, grabbed Luc’s beer, and took a big gulp. “You know I’m always broke as shit. By the way, thanks for the beer.”
Luc rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Remind me why we’re still friends with him?” he asked sarcastically.
“Because you can’t live without all my awesomeness.” Bataryal smiled. “As for your other issue, what type of new and interesting information are you looking for? I hear a lot of things from a lot of people. I guess I just have one of those faces that screams, “Tell me everything.” Either that or there’s a flashing neon sign on my forehead.” He shrugged and drank more beer. In reality, it was probably option one. On the surface, Bataryal had clean cut all-American good looks. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a GAP ad, all sunny smiles and good clean fun. The other Princes knew better; they all had their inner demons to fight. Bataryal had always been the best at hiding his.