Fallen Love

By William Price, Jr

Adam Kadmon wants nothing more than to be left alone. His past has left him an empty shell with no hope, no joy, and no faith in anything. Despair was his only companion. He had lost all purpose until fate forced a new purpose upon him.
Holly MacAllister had a normal life until they came for her. Now her family is gone and her life is a nightmare. On the run with the whole world turning against her, she is losing hope.
Something has drawn these two together. Something keeps them together. Something will unite them in a battle against the encroaching darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Price, Jr
• Release date: Nov 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301506712

William Price, Jr

William J. Price Jr. was born in December of 1976 in San Diego, California. Joining the United States Army in 1997, William has served in Kosovo, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and as an emergency relief firefighter in Montana. William now resides in Killeen, Texas, where he attends the University of Mary-Hardin Baylor, studying History and English.

Book preview

Book 1 of the Fallen Angel Series

By William Price Jr

Copyright 2012 William Price Jr

Smashwords Edition

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1

It really wasn't much of a bar. There was only a single counter, from which a lone bartender sold the cheapest alcohol. It was hard liquor, meant to help people quickly forget whatever had brought them into this dark, dank, pit of filth. A line of barstools, each stained and losing what little padding they began with, ran parallel to the bar. Only a few of the stools were occupied on opposite ends of the short bar, since most of the patrons preferred the isolation of the stained booths that lined the opposing wall. There was no air conditioning, only a few idling spinning ceiling fans made any attempt to keep back the oppressive Central Texas heat. None of the handful of people that came to this Waystation to Hell minded the discomfort, though, lost as they were in their individual misery.

Adam liked this place, as much as he liked anything. From the time he entered the bar in the late afternoon to the time he staggered out at closing time each and every night, nobody bothered him. Nobody looked twice at his tattered white leather coat, stained with the dust of miles and out of place in the summer months. Nobody asked about the light scars on his hands or face, mute evidence of hard work or hard fighting. The few women that came into the Waystation from time to time made no notice of Adam’s fading good looks, his bright blue eyes that were now sunken in dark rings, nor the curve of lips, which seemed eternally trapped in a disapproving frown. Nobody asked him questions or engaged him in unwanted conversation, the few talkative men that tried being easily warned off by a single glance through his long, disheveled hair. Here, Adam could find at least a few hours to escape his memories; here, he could find some measure of peace.

He pushed forward his empty glass. Without a word, Candace refilled it. Unlike her other customers, she never demanded immediate payment from this one. Adam always settled his tab at the end of each night, and never tried to short her. Although not the best tipper, Candace never had to watch out for this one. He never made a grab for her, no matter how far down the bottle he went. Unlike her other regulars, he didn't make constant comments on her large chest, nor how time was starting to take its toll. Her ass was safe around him, regardless of the tight jeans she had to wear in search of tips. Hell, she could even take off the stupid ball cap the owner insisted she wear and air out her long brown hair now and then and not have to worry about him making some smart-ass remark about the few grays that had started to sneak in. Not that he spoke much anyway.

In fact, in the few months that he had been coming to the Waystation, Candace could not remember Adam saying more than a dozen words. Hell, even getting his name had taken the better part of three weeks. Most customers would talk her ear off at some point, especially once they had some liquor in them. More than a few of these sorry sons of bitches would hit her with their best game to try to get in her pants. Sometimes she would play along, either for better tips or just for the ego boost. Sometimes she might even take one of them home if the mood hit her right. He was different though. The day Adam walked in, he just ordered a drink, and then another of the same. Other than that, he only communicated with the occasional asshole that got too pushy with her, and then only with a look that spoke clearly of violence. Every now and then Candace tried to get something out of him, but always hit the same dead end.

In the mood for anythin' different tonight, she sometimes asked.

Same's fine, he always replied, pushing his emptied glass forward.

She would refill his glass. I can get you somethin' harder. The bartender would nod towards the row of bottles behind her. We’ve got all kinds of drink here, you know.

He would just throw back the drink and push his glass forward again.

Candace would then sigh at that point, accepting the futility of the conversation. Is there anythin' else I can do for you? she would finally ask.

You're doing just fine like this.

After one such conversation, on a night like any other, Candace nodded and refilled the pretzel bowel at Adam’s elbow, then moved down to the other end of the bar. A young girl had come in with a boy only a little older than her earlier that night, and the bartender had been trying to keep an eye on them. Luckily, with the Waystation’s typical lack of a Friday night crowd and closing time approaching, there was little else to distract her. Although Candace’s first instincts had been to throw both the kids out, they had legal I.D., or at least illegal enough to satisfy her, and the owner had made it clear that she was not to turn any paying customers away unless they were likely to cause damage he would have to pay for, so she had served them.

Within a half-hour of their coming in, Candace’s instincts looked to be correct. Since they had started drinking, their behavior had gone from bad to you-need-to-get-your-ass-to-church. At first, the girl had seemed decent enough, laughing at his jokes and putting up with the hand on her knee but shying away from anything heavier. Once she had a littler liquor in her, though, the party-child had come out. She had switched-off from inhaling anything liquid put in front of her to sticking her tongue down the boys throat, to running her hands over every inch of his body. Nor did she bat one of those enormous eyelashes as he let his own hands go roaming over her tiny body. Candace had seen the drink take plenty of girls down the wrong road, but this one was going a bit too far on the fast lane.

How you kids doin'? the bartender asked.

The girl, who looked like she hadn't seen the sun in many weeks, glanced in Candace’s general direction, blinking her big black eyes though her long, black bangs. She suddenly started giggling as though she had heard the funniest thing in her life and buried her face in her hands.

Her escort, looking much less the worse for wear, smiled his too-perfect smile. We're doing just fine bar-lady. The slick boy reached a manicured hand into the back pocket of his designer jeans and pulled out his wallet. He made little effort in concealing the large wad of bills that were folded inside. Mr. Slick pulled out another twenty and laid it on the bar. Why don't you set us up again?

The girl pulled her face up, showing that she had smeared her dark makeup but did not seem to care. Shots, she giggled. I want shots.

Her companion smiled tolerantly at her. You heard the lady, another round of shots.

Candace took the cash and poured them another round. Noticing the not-too-subtle look from Mr. Slick to go away, she left the couple to their enjoyment. Out of the corner of her eye, however, the bartender noticed the gentleman slip a little something extra into his companion’s drink.

The bartender considered her options. Candace feared trying to interfere herself, the bartender’s hand unconsciously going to the surgical scar her t-shirt concealed, the only physical evidence of her first, last, and only attempt at stopping a man from taking advantage of another woman. The cops would take too long to respond, Candace knew, if they came at all. Instead, she tried something else.

Somethin' bad's gonna happen, the bartender said as she poured another drink.

Something always does, Adam replied.

True, but sometimes somethin' can be done to prevent it. Candace locked eyes with him and then looked meaningfully at the kids at the end of the bar.

He followed her gaze and recognized what was happening immediately. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. Not my problem.

It's someone's problem.

Then let someone else deal with it.

The girl at the end of the bar stood, still giggling, and began to make her swaying way towards the door. Her gentleman companion was chivalrous enough to stand and help her with a friendly hand on her ass.

You know what he's goin' to do, Candace insisted in a low voice.

Her fault, he replied, keeping his eyes downward. He finished his drink and pushed the glass forward. Her decision; her consequences.

Candace crossed her arms. "Your decision not to help," she pointed out in a whisper.

The couple lost their footing and bumped into the bar very close to him. The muscle in his cheek jumped in response.

Mr. Slick laughed and pulled his lady back to her feet. Sorry, friend, he said, patting him on the shoulder before moving towards the door.

His face lost what little expression it had held.

Candace leaned in to him. Please help her.

Dammit, he growled through clenched teeth and stood.

He followed the couple outside of the Waystation, unsurprised that they had only managed to go a few feet from the door. The street was empty but for what had to be Mr. Slick's car.

Pretty dumb to park a red sports car in this neighborhood, Adam thought. The scumbag in question was trying to maintain his grip on the nearly catatonic girl in his arms while fishing his keys out of his pocket.

Hey, asshole, Adam said in a calm voice.

Mr. Slick half turned, dropping the girl into the street and reaching for what Adam moderately hoped was a weapon. Don't try anything stupid here, friend, the child said in a shaking voice that he tried to make sound husky.

Adam stopped and took a deep breath. Ok, three things, and I'm not going to repeat any of this so listen up. One: I'm not your friend, so stop calling me that, it's pissing me off. Two: do yourself a favor and get your hand away from whatever you've got in there. Three: step away from the girl, go home, jerk off, forget you ever met her, and never let me see you again.

"Or what?

"Or I'm going to try not to kill you, but I won't try very hard."

Fuck you! Mr. Slick tried to pull something that looked like a pretty sissy gun from his pocket put did not quite make it, since a small blade intercepted his hand, sending the lady-gun flying across the street.

Adam shot forward, catching Mr. Slick before he could fall and pummeled him for a while. There was no real need, the knife having effectively ended the fight, but Adam was pissed and needed to work a few things out. Besides, the little shit obliviously needed an ass-kicking. After beating the young stud's face into his spiffy car, idly wondering if it was ensured, Adam remembered to pick up his blade. Grabbing the knife, which was still imbedded in Mr. Slick's hand, Adam pulled it downwards, splitting the hand into two halves. For good measure he broke the little bastard's jaw and stomped on his balls a few times as well, just to make sure he got his point across.

Afterwards, once Mr. Slick was nice and unconscious, Adam took a few deep breaths, letting the flames out and slowing his heart rate. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small cigar, then lit it and pulled a long drag. A moan drew his attention back to the other side of the street and the nearly comatose girl.

Ah, shit. Adam knew he had forgotten something. He looked at Mr. Slick but immediately dismissed that possibility. He then glanced at the Waystation, but Candace had already hung the CLOSED sign and turned out the lights. Sneaky bitch. Desperately, Adam looked up and down the deserted road but saw nothing.

Are we still going to your place? the ditzy broad moaned before starting to snore.

DAMMIT!

2

Holly woke up to the worst hangover in history. Granted, she wasn't that old, nor all that familiar with hangovers, but this one was a bitch. A pair of pliers was attached to her head and someone was squeezing down hard. Her mouth tasted like something had dirty sex in it… without lube. Her tongue felt like someone else had puked down her throat. Every time she tried to breathe, some of that sex/puke/death came up and out through her nostrils. Holly had no idea where she was. All she knew was the pain and the ugh. if she could, she would have just laid down wherever she was forever… but her rotten stomach decided otherwise.

As she was throwing up, Holly realized where she was. This was Hell. It was hot as balls, but she was shivering. The lights were way too bright, making her feel like some dickhead cop was shining his flashlight in her face again. She had no idea how she got here, but she kinda had the feeling she deserved being... wherever. And, oh yeah, Holly was throwing up so hard, she was pretty sure her eyes were going to pop out. She was in Hell. Or maybe Austin.

WHENEVER YOU'RE DONE!!!!!

Oww! Holly protested. Whoever that miserable bastard was with the impossibly loud voice, he really needed to shut up. Quiet, she whispered with a finger to her lips. Quiet good. Talking bad. Holly tried to cover the evil sunlight with her eyes but it just seemed to be everywhere.

A source of wonderful coolness was put against her hand. It was solid and round and stable, unlike the rest of the spinning world. Her angel, her amazing benefactor and protector, had brought her a glass of ice water. Holly's throat screamed at her with a fiery hatred, but somehow, this wonderful angel had known of her need and delivered to her the remedy. The suffering girl brought the perfect coolness to her tiny mouth and reveled in the feeling of icy relief.

Not too fast, her angel warned in a deep, soft voice. You'll just puke it up again.

The water of life greatly eased her suffering, so Holly felt brave enough to try to open her eyes again. Still the damned light was just too painful. This time, however, she spotted another source of relief. The miserable girl reached down to the stained coffee table in front of her and grabbed, after a few tries, the large sunglasses lying upon it. Once safely covering here bloodstained eyes, Holly was able to view her surroundings with only minor agony.

Hell has a really shitty decorator, she thought.

Holly was sitting on a ratty old couch in the corner of some dingy, one-bedroom apartment. The nasty green carpet had several holes in it, not to mention a fresh pile of vomit. The curtain rod was missing curtains, which was unfortunate since the view out the small window was only to the window of the next apartment building, and Holly idly thought the meth lab over there might like a little privacy. The kitchen cubicle showed no signs of use, other than the dead rat and colony of ants that were busy removing it. Somewhere in the distance, Holly could hear a car going by; either a car or just some vibrating metal, anyway.

Nice place, she said, leaning her head back against the couch and hoping she wouldn't stick to it.

Thanks. Her benefactor, a medium sized guy with a thick build, took the glass and put it down on the stained coffee table.

He wasn’t a bad looking guy, Holly mused. Or at least, he wouldn't be if he took a shower and practiced a little grooming, you know, once a century. Not to mention his sense of fashion was shit. Who the hell wears a long-sleeved shirt in the summer?

Feeling better? he asked, apparently without much interest.

Holly rubbed her head and nodded. A little, she replied.

Good, now get out.

What happened last night? Holly asked. She looked around at this guy's apartment with a sinking feeling. Oh God, we didn't...

No, he replied flatly. Your boyfriend slipped you something. Get out.

Holly carefully