Fallen Angel: Redemption

By Sean P. Martin

Cassiel has had a good four years since the events of fallen Angel: Penance. But all good things must come to and end, as they say. Stuck in a foreign country. Out of friends, out of luck and out of time, his past comes back to haunt him. And there will be Hell to pay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean P. Martin
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310867484

Sean P. Martin

Sean P. Martin lives in Dunedin, New Zealand (not Florida), with his wife, his kids, his animals, and his gadgets. In his day job, he works with children and families. He has never managed to grasp the concept of relaxation, choosing to spend his free hours slaving over a keyboard.

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FALLEN ANGEL:

REDEMPTION

Sean P. Martin

Copyright © 2014 Sean P. Martin

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to all the men and women who work to keep the children of our world safe from exploitation and abuse.

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction. Names, dates, places, historical events, pretty much everything contained herein, are fictitious or have been used fictitiously.

Any significant similarity to actual people or places is pure coincidence.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the support of my family, friends, and you, the reader. I hope you enjoy reading about Cassiel’s adventures as much as I enjoy chronicling them.

Cassiel’s cover image was originally created by ink.black.sky, using images courtesy of mousiestock.deviantart.com and antiretrovirus.deviantart.com.

The background cover image came from somadjinn.deviantart.com. I thank these people and those like them willing to share their hard work and creativity with those of us who are artistically challenged.

1

I woke up. And as I had done every morning for the last four years, I stared at the face of the angel sleeping beside me. Her name was Angela, she was the grown-up daughter of my first love and my mentor, and she had rescued me from the depression which had threatened to claim me four years earlier. You kind of open yourself up for that when you’ve killed a serial killer, first letting him murder an innocent man, and then gone on something of a killing spree yourself, taking down a group of human trafficking pedophiles. Not all at once, of course. That would be... extreme, even for someone as driven as me.

The whole process took about a year. It scarred me to a much greater degree than I would’ve thought possible. But two good things had come out of it – my beautiful wife Angela, and, more recently, our daughter, Genevieve.

Oof. Genevieve had decided to wake daddy up in the best way she knew – by launching herself into the air and onto my genitals.

Get up daddy, she squealed. Get up.

I did as I was told. I had learned that with three-year-olds it was often easier than arguing. This whole parenting thing was taking some getting used to. I really appreciated everything my first wife, Elspeth, had done in raising our son. Before I had to dismember him. Long story.

Anyway, I duly followed Genevieve downstairs, trying to avoid standing on all the small, sharp, plastic toys that never managed to stay put away. I envied Angela her ability to sleep through Genevieve’s enthusiasm.

Look, daddy. Look.

The thing at which she was pointing was huge – easily five feet from floor to top. Or is it hoof to ears? Or hands? Whatever the unit of measurement, it was big. And black. And breathing. And swishing its tail while flicking its ears. And in my house. There was only one person who would do something like this.

Demid! Get your big black butt out here!

Chuckling, my ‘best’ friend, Demid E’mon stepped forward from the alcove in which he had hidden. His hair was done in corn braids, and with his goatee, he looked more like a rapper than a Fallen Demon. Which was probably the idea. One never knew with him.

Just what every girl wants, isn’t it, Cassiel? Demid asked in his high-pitched voice. Her very own pony.

Yes, I said through gritted teeth. But not when she lives in a house with no yard. Not when her parents are getting ready to take her on an overseas holiday for a month, and most definitely not when her father hates ponies!

Oh, do you? I forgot. His grin told me that he hadn’t. Sometimes I don’t know why he and I have become, and remained, such good friends. We had both gone through some serious trials in the last few years, but we’d come through the other side with only minimal scarring.

Can I keep him daddy? Can I? Genevieve had completely ignored the adult conversation that was going on, and had gone straight for the animal. She had an amazing affinity for them. Even when they were injured or otherwise upset, she was able to calm them down with a few murmured words and a touch. Sometimes, just by talking to them. Her mother and I thought this was her Gift – the special ability that all Fallen (Angels and Demons) and their offspring have.

The pony had lowered his head, and was nuzzling Genevieve’s palm. It grieved me to do it, but I was going to have to be strong.

I hate you, I whispered to Demid. Ah, Genevieve -

– of course you may. That was Angela, completing my sentence in the worst way imaginable. Then she once again proved that I was right to love her. But he will have to live at Uncle Demid’s.

The look on Demid’s face was priceless. But he knew when he’d been bested, and he accepted his defeat gracefully.

Of course, he told Genevieve. I hadn’t gotten around to telling you that, but, yes, as your mother said, he will have to live with me. Don’t worry, he continued as Genevieve’s face fell. You’ll be able to come visit him and ride him whenever you like.

That mollified her somewhat. Even at the tender age of three, she often showed an understanding of things far beyond her years. I guess she had what people call an ‘old soul’.

Okay. More presents?

Of course, sweetie. Angela took her by the hand and allowed herself to be led into the living room. All the furniture in it came from low-end department stores, with the difference between that price and what I would have paid donated to the homeless. It was one of the ways Angela had helped me to become a better man. She had shown me that small gestures were just as meaningful as larger ones, and were most times less taxing on the person doing the giving.

For her birthday this year, as on every other birthday, Christmas, Easter, Winter Solstice, Summer Solstice and any other ‘special’ day, my little girl was spoiled rotten. We tried to go easy on the gifts, not wanting to raise a spoiled brat, but Demid and her Godparents, Gene and Marie Travelli, didn’t see things that way.

We just saw it and fell in love, Marie would often tell us. It’s perfect for her, wouldn’t you agree. And I would agree, and so would Angela, because whatever it was really would be perfect for Genevieve. And that was how she ended up with enough girly crap to fill two rooms in our three-bedroomed house. And that gosh darned pony. I was really going to have to think hard to outdo Demid on that one.

Special events at our place usually lasted the whole day, and this one was no exception. At the end of it all, when Demid had finally left, taking his equine friend with him, and Gene and Marie had gone on their merry way (after leaving us heaping plates of food), and Genevieve had crashed out on the sofa, Angela and I were finally able to relax.

Another one over, Angela said, pouring us both glasses of sparkling grape juice.

Yep, I agreed. I slipped off my shoes and swung my feet up onto the footrest. Angela put down her glass and began to rub my feet.

Ooh, that’s it, I told her. But I should warn you, if you keep that up, it could lead to… other things.

She smiled, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my brain and… lower parts of my anatomy. We abandoned the grape juice, I carried Genevieve up to bed and tucked her in, and then I disrobed at lightning speed and joined my wife in bed.

If I’d known it would be our last birthday together as a family, I don’t think I would’ve done a single thing differently.

2

Got the tickets? That was Angela, asking me for what felt like the hundredth time.

Yes.

Passports?

Yes.

Hotel reservations?

Yes. Yes, yes, whatever you ask, yes. I stuck my tongue out. Say what you like about the relaxing nature of vacations, there’s nothing quite so stressful as the last minute rush to make sure you haven’t forgotten something vital, like underwear.

The door closed behind me with what, looking back, sounded like a foreboding boom. Of course, that’s probably just my imagination. At the time, I had no idea of what was to come; it just sounded like it always did. The taxi driver was waiting patiently in the driveway, engine (and probably meter) running. He smiled as we walked toward him, coming forward to take our suitcases and stow them in the trunk. We climbed inside, closed the doors, and breathed a sigh of relief as the driver began reversing out.

Then, at the same time, we spoke: Genevieve!

I didn’t even wait for the cab to stop before I flung myself out of the door, sprawled on the pavement, clambered to my feet and raced for our front door. My hands refused to work properly as I fumbled to get keys in locks, and I was acutely aware of my heart pounding so hard against my chest that it felt like it was threatening to burst through my rib cage and go in and get Genevieve itself.

I flung the door open and darted inside, just feeling the barest touch of Angela’s hand on my bare arm as I did. That fleeting sensation was enough for rational thought to reassert itself. Together, Angela and I went from room to room, calling Genevieve’s name.

Thoughts of all the nasty things that could happen to a child left on her own (even for just a few minutes, as the safety commercials say) ran through my mind. Drowning, impalement, poisoning, kidnapping… I kind of got stuck with those four running over and over. Angela noticed, and whispered to me: Relax. She’ll be fine. Angela’s Gift lay in soothing troubled people. With me, and my tendencies, I was half surprised her reserve still hadn’t become empty. Despite my own reservations, I felt the tension leave my body completely.

She was right, of course. When we got to Genevieve’s room, there she was, playing happily with her farm animals.

Look, daddy. Pony, she said, waving said animal.

That’s right, pumpkin. It’s a pony like yours. Can you put pony away? We have to go to the airport now. She really had no idea that just a minute earlier her father had been rushing around in a panic, searching for her.

Your face red, daddy. Genevieve put a hand up to my cheek as I lifted her. You sick?

I laughed.

No, he’s just out of shape! Angela called from the stairs. Now come on, you two. Adventure awaits!

Somewhat reluctantly, I lowered Genevieve so we could descend the stairs in safety. I would’ve preferred to keep holding her close, as if physical contact alone could keep her safe. No, it was more than that; it felt like if I let go of my hold on her, I was abandoning her for all the terrors of the world to take. Overprotective, I know. But logic and emotion rarely go hand in hand.

The rest of the trip to the airport passed without stress. Well, I say ‘without’, but what I really mean is with only the usual: insane drivers, construction delays, tired child, sick child, hungry child, sick child again, feeling better-but-wanting-to-ask-four-thousand-questions child. It wasn’t a quiet trip, but it was a good one.

Ninety-two fifty, the driver said. I pulled out my wallet, calculated the tip, added an extra fifty, and paid. The cabbie’s smile told me that I’d just made his day, just one more of the small things that Angela made me see I could do for people. Besides, it’s not like I was short of money – when you live as long as we do, it’s very difficult to actually stay broke. The driver unloaded our suitcases, wished us a happy day, and drove off whistling. I turned, took Genevieve by one hand (her mother held the other), and wrestled my suitcase inside.

As soon as the doors slid shut, it felt like we were in a different world. Fluorescent lights cast their harsh glare over everything. Lines of people were everywhere, check-in counters dotted the landscape, and there was the ever-present smell of Transport Safety personnel. Nothing against them personally, of course, but I’ve noticed that there’s a particular odor that follows them along like a trail. Maybe it comes from hanging around so many hot, sweaty travelers in recycled air all day.

Angela found our counter, and we dutifully lined up. If I’d thought the taxi ride was challenging, it’s nothing compared with trying to keep a three-year-old occupied in a queue for forty minutes. Sheesh. I’d almost gotten down to the last of ninety-nine bottles of ginger beer (on the wall) when we finally reached the head of the line. Fortunately, the ticketing process went smoothly, and from there we moved on to the duty-free section while we filled in the next hour waiting for the boarding call. I have a deep and profound respect both for the people who work in these places, and for those who regularly take young children on long journeys. You almost need a fourteen-hour flight just to let all the tension leave your body.

Anyway, we did make it to the boarding call, and were allowed on first, because of Genevieve. I’m not sure I follow the logic, because really, what’s the benefit of trapping a small child on the plane for an extra thirty or forty minutes while everyone else shuffles on board? Eventually, the doors closed, we sat through the mandatory safety briefing, and we took off. I closed my eyes as we did, remembering the feeling of the wind rushing through my hair and ruffling the feathers in my wings in the old days.

A gentle poke in the ribs brought me back to wakefulness. I hadn’t even realized that I’d gone to sleep. Genevieve was in her seat between Angela and me, and it was her little finger that had jabbed me. I looked over at her and raised my eyebrows.

Bathroom, daddy, she whispered. The cabin was dark, and most of the passengers around us were asleep, or nearly so. I must’ve slept right through dinner.

Okay. I undid our belts, eased myself up and out, and walked my daughter to the facilities. We only noticed one person awake as we passed, an older man with a fringe of white hair ringing his scalp. He smiled as we went past, showing a single gold tooth. On the way back, he smiled again, and Genevieve responded in kind.

I went bathroom. By myself, she announced. The old man looked suitably impressed. He nodded gravely, and then reached into the pocket of the seat in front.

Such an achievement deserves a reward, he said. If that’s all right with your father? He spoke with quite a strong accent – German, maybe, or Dutch. In his hand he held a lollipop. Pink. Of course, it was too late for me to object, unless