The Watcher: The Lucifer Chronicles, #2

By Carmen Kern

SOMEONE WATCHES FROM THE DARK. EVEN THE DEVIL HAS A SHADOW.

 

Penemue, A Watcher, and fallen angel sets his sights on James Rucker and Lucifer Morningstar aka the Devil in penance for sins committed millennia ago. Penemue is on an eternal stakeout. One without the thermos of coffee or the satisfaction of taking out the bad guy.

 

But missions change, even after millennia. Now, Penemue must emerge from the shadows to help Rucker write Lucifer's memoir and secure his role as an ambassador between Heaven and Earth.

 

All Penemue has to do is relive the most painful day of his long life, keep the apocalypse at bay, and outwit the Devil.

 

FOR THE WATCHER, THE PAST HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THE FUTURE.

 

THE WATCHER is the second novella in THE LUCIFER CHRONICLES series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmen Kern
• Release date: Aug 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393376729

Book preview

Chapter 1

Don’t take my devils away, because my angels may flee too.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

I am called the Watcher. An angel fallen from Grace, reassigned to watch over this human and the one who holds him hostage, Lucifer. Now, I stand here, a blade’s width from both of them, unmoving, silent, and hidden. Lucifer casts his shadow on the end of Rucker’s bed—but he is still gold and light. And I, I am the shadows, listening to the Devil’s nails clicking on the bed frame. Tasting the promise of another lie and, perhaps, truth. Funny how they have the same sweet aftertaste.

There is a wall on the other side of the room. One built from crushed human bones and hellish fires. It is black and ancient and the stones wind-smoothed by time. The mortar drips blood in the wee hours of night, when secrets and sins are whispered into the ear of darkness. It is the foundation for the University Library above, where books and shelves, computers and tables and the last set of Britannica Encyclopedias made their home.

Lucifer Morningstar walks through this wall. His claws morph from talons to fingers, long manicured fingers that could belong to a concert pianist, or a serial strangler. Gold metal wings rise behind him, clanking and clinking as they lower, grinding against mechanical joints. With each downbeat of the wings, sinew and cartilage and feathers regrow, mutating back to their original splendor.

Lucifer’s eyes are spinning and wild. Droplets of blood shimmer on his fingertips. He narrows his stance, careful not to get bloodstains on his Italian leather shoes.

His words are fire-breathed. There is little meat on a dove. Did you know that, Rucker?

Rucker snorts and rolls over, the sheets wrapping around his legs. He kicks at them, loosening their hold. He settles again, dangling between dreams of wings stretching and flapping against the wind before perching on the branch of a willow tree. Coo, coo, coo, coo, a bird-voice calls.

But there’s plenty on an angel. More meat than you might think. Lucifer smacks his lips while drumming his palms against the metal bed frame. Whump, whump, whump. The rhythm increases.

Rucker moans. His fingers clench. The dream bird vanishes. Yellow eyes glow from the darkness under the tree. A mouth opens wide, exposing bone-white fangs dripping with venom. A long black tongue unfurls to taste the air, to taste his flesh.

Whump! Lucifer slams his blood crusted palms against the frame. The metal feet screech as they slide on the cement floor. Wake up, Rucker!

Rucker’s eyes snap open. He shoots up; the mattress shifting beneath him. Dude, not cool! The Devil standing at the end of your bed—that’s a heart attack waiting to happen! He flops back on the softest pillow he’s ever slept on.

A few months ago, you prayed for death, and now you curse the possibility of a heart attack. You’ve become a woman. I want this. No, that. It’s hard to keep straight. Time for show and tell. Lucifer’s voice shotguns around the room. Move! Find your man parts, get dressed and come with me.

Arrrr. Rucker throws back his covers and sits on the side of the bed, his feet warm against the cold cement. He stretches, then glances at his crotch. Looks like I’ve found them. And check what century you’re in, that kind of male chauvinist attitude has been shot, skinned, and buried, Rucker mumbles and grabs the pair of jeans he’d left on the chair beside his bed. My dream sucked anyway. Seems the Devil had me locked away in some cold, dark library and was forcing me to write his memoir. Pulling yesterday’s t-shirt over his head, he pauses, his arm sticking out of the head hole. Oh wait, it’s no dream, it’s my sucky life. He gets the right body parts through the proper openings and smoothes the wrinkles out of the faded words, ‘Grateful Dead,’ printed across his chest.

Lucifer crosses his arms. His white button-up shirt pulls across his biceps. You went back for those clothes? Lucky for you it wasn’t your looks or sense of style that got my attention.

Yeah, lucky me. Rucker slips one foot into a Reef flip-flop. Hey, is that blood? He points to Lucifer’s hands and the splatters across his usually spotless clothes.

While you’ve been getting your beauty sleep, I’ve been dealing with a family issue.

Father or brothers? Rucker scratches his belly.

Brothers. Two of them.

That your blood or theirs?

Raphael’s. Uriel had to see a man about a dog.

You know what that means, don’t you?

I know damn well what it means. Clenching his teeth, Lucifer snaps his fingers. Blood and bits of flesh vanish from his skin and clothes. The only trace of Raphael is the smell of ozone lingering in his nose.

Ok, guess we’re skipping the small talk.

Nice deduction, Sherlock. Here, Lucifer says, tossing a granola bar at Rucker’s head. Breakfast of champions.

Stumbling, Rucker shoves his other foot into his flip-flop and manages to catch the bar before it hits his cheek.

Decent reflexes for a history geek. Lucifer flashes his teeth. Come, the day is getting old.

Need to make a pit stop first. Rucker’s on the receiving end of the Devil’s glare. What? Me, human. Rucker pounds his chest. Need to pee. He heads to the bathroom without waiting for a response.

Lucifer moves across the open concept apartment, leans on Rucker’s writing desk and thumbs through the legal pad pages full of writing. He reads his memoir. He grins. He extends his talons and pierces the pad of paper.

The toilet flushes.

From the dark corner of the room, I watch Lucifer thumbing the pages Rucker had slaved over—cursing and sometimes laughing as he wrote. What will your selfie look like, Lucifer? When your memoir takes shape, as Rucker inks it into existence, will you smooth the lines, hide the dirt and festering insides? I think you will. Your appreciation for beauty has only gotten stronger over time. And the origins of this world, and of you, are a deep and stunning ugly. The type of ugly a filter can’t fix.

Lucifer closes his eyes and turns in a slow circle. His palms raise toward the ceiling. He mouths words no one hears, but he says them none the less.

A static noise. A pulse.

I cross my arms in front of me, the tattooed spells on my skin lining up, reforming, deleting my angelic smell. A reinforcement of wardings. You’ll find me when I want to be found, Lucifer—only then.

I finish my counter spells as Lucifer moves back to the desk, fingertips shimmer from talon to skin as he caresses the pages of his memoir.

Do you see yourself as a hero or villain? Or maybe the victim? Perhaps this story could use another point of view, say, of one who has seen all sides from the very beginning. An interview with the Watcher. Now that has a certain ring to it.

I’m ready, Rucker announces while chewing on the granola bar. He snatches a new legal pad off the pile.

Lucifer drops his hands with a loud smack against his thighs.

Rucker holds up his pencil. So, we’ve talked about a laptop, right? This whole chicken scratching thing is getting old, and my printing sucks. He chews and talks at the same time. The granola bar is muck in his mouth. He smacks his lips.

Lucifer’s eyes are still on the ceiling.

Hello? I’m chewing cud here and you aren’t saying anything? Are you sick? Can you even get sick?

I can get sick of you. With this, Lucifer lowers his head to look at Rucker.

There he is. The Devil is back! Rucker’s grin is slightly off, slanted and tired.

The Devil, as you annoyingly refer to me, never leaves. Keep that in mind. Lucifer’s smile wavers like a mirage. The brilliance of his face, the perfect cut of his clothes, and the bottomless silver of his eyes make it hard for Rucker to focus on the words coming from his boss’s mouth.

I’ve got heaven and hell literally on my mind. Lucifer fills Rucker’s vision, moving within a blade’s width, refocusing the human with his sulphur breath. Bigger things than you, don’t you think?

Rucker swallows hard and nods.

Lucifer steps back. He conjures an arched wood door. His manicured talon carves beasts shooting flames from giant maws, and winged angels screaming silent screams as they battle on a field of blood. The wood is red with death.

A little morbid, isn’t it? You need coffee. Just one cup of java and the day seems much brighter. Rucker shoves the rest of his breakfast in his mouth and tosses the wrapper on his desk.

Waving the back of his hand, Lucifer motions the door open, the hinges groaning and popping from disuse. A vast hallway is exposed. Large cages filled with clusters of light bulbs hang from a barrel vault ceiling, their glow casting an artificial warmth onto the brick walls and stone floor. A stale wind blows into Rucker’s apartment, forcing dust mites from their hiding places among the hundreds of books filling floor to ceiling bookcases.

Um, not sure I want to go out there again. Rucker glances into the hall. Didn’t like what I found last time, this time, who knows? Could be a room full of freaky clowns making balloon animals or string puppets hanging from the ceiling, smiling wooden smiles. Nobody needs to see that. I’m prone to nightmares.

Lucifer grabs Rucker’s elbow. A slithering warmth moves through Rucker’s veins. Four beats of his heart and Rucker’s sight sharpens. Colors deepen and saturate his field of view. He smells leftover pizza from last night and the dirty socks thrown on the floor by his bed. He’s fully awake and razor sharp. Jolted by the touch of the Devil.

The enormous hall smells of bleach and earth and fermented wine.

These are not the halls of Level 5. You’ve never seen this place. Lucifer releases Rucker’s arm.

The high of Lucifer’s touch fades as Rucker’s world sheds the sparkle and glitz and pulls on the dull old sweatshirt it always wears.

And you have my word, no clowns. Lucifer’s smile stretches across his face, distorted, with freakishly wide red lips. But only for a moment. He slaps Rucker on the back. Come on. You’ll want to see this.

Lucifer leads the way, lengthening his stride as he walks. Rucker breaks into a slow jog to keep up. The long hall is vacant of furniture, art, or life.

Here we are. Lucifer stops in front of a brick wall, the same as all the others. The brick dissolves with a wave of his hand, exposing a vault door that would make the most seasoned safecracker cut their losses and find the nearest bar. Metal. Off-color and dull, the ornate wheeled handle stands out against the symbols etched into the massive structure.

Lucifer snaps his fingers once, then twice. The heavy door eases open.

What secrets are you hiding, Lucifer? This is no ordinary door. The artistry is angelic. Iron and fire. I smell our brother, Azazel, branded into his creation. The origin of all steel. You have stolen it. How wickedly smart. This here is a big deal, a magnum opus—this thing you hide. Ah, smells of heaven. I’m lost in the moment; homesick, soul sick for everything I’ve lost.

Come, Lucifer says. His words winch Rucker into a darkened room interrupted with flashing shapes and colors from multiple screens.

Rucker steps through the steel frame and stops. Four large monitors form a square in the center of a fifty-foot wall. On either side, thirty or more