The Fallen: The Lucifer Chronicles, #3

By Carmen Kern

A DEMON, AN ANGEL, AND A HUMAN HUNT FOR A SUPERNATURAL ARTIFACT...WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

 

Lucifer Morningstar, aka the Devil, has a lead on an ancient and powerful object, one that will render his growing army virtually indestructible. Unfortunately, he has pressing business to attend to. Fortunately, he has 'people' to do his bidding.

 

Lucifer interrupts Rucker's rigid writing schedule to vlog the evening's adventures with Fear, a demon and Lucifer's right-hand man, and Penn, his not so guardian angel, as they track an ancient garment with supernatural powers. What they don't expect is the attack of an ancient god-king, Rucker's 'dead' father showing up, artifact in hand, or an unsuspecting passenger with gut issues. 

 

Rucker faces a world where his father has as many secrets as the Devil, an ancient king of Babylon turns into a gargoyle, and angels and demons have more in common than they would admit.

 

As Lucifer's collection of supernatural weapons grows along with the rumors of an apocalyptic war, Rucker secretly digs in the library archives for a way to stop it. But with little freedom, limited resources, and a shortlist of allies, Rucker will need more than a miracle to save himself and the ones he loves––even his father.

THE FALLEN is the third novella in The Lucifer Chronicles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Djinn & Tonic Publications
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393356264

Book preview

The Fallen is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s overactive imagination and love of myth/folklore and the supernatural. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and a little scary. Although, stranger things could happen, just watch the news.

Copyright ©2019 by Carmen Kern

All rights reserved.

Cover & interior book design by Carmen Kern

ISBN 978-1-7325498-7-6

For those who see magic around every street corner.

Chapter 1

I have dined with kings, I've been offered wings. And I've never been too impressed. 

—Bob Dylan

I am the Watcher, Penemue. An angel fallen from Grace, reassigned to watch over one particular human, James Rucker, and the one who holds him hostage, Lucifer. And for me, here, standing in the snack aisle of Ed’s Eats, I can tell you I’ve made the most elementary of mistakes once again. Humans, they suck you in. Make you care. And that is one thing I cannot afford. Truth be told, I’ve been eating too much sugar lately, what with Rucker not talking to me. He’s mad as hell that I’m keeping secrets from him. Secrets about his undead father. Have you ever tried the pizza cooking under the heat lamps? The pepperoni shines like…no! The three-cheese topping will not seduce me. Humans. Devils. They are a complicated bunch, no?

Rucker pulls his hood over his head with one hand, clutching a leather shoulder strap in the other. It is one in the morning. Seven minutes earlier, he was sleeping at his desk, one sweaty cheek pressed against page fifty-four of the American God novel Darcy had snuck to him. Some good old-fashioned fiction to take Rucker’s mind off the tenth circle of hell he now calls home. It was the best sleep he had in weeks, all thanks to his favorite librarian. He might have been dreaming of her and her crooked bottom tooth he only sees when she laughs from her belly, the pattern of freckles on her nose, and the touch of her soft, cocoa-butter-smelling skin.

And, as usual, Lucifer had to pluck even the smallest ounce of pleasure from Rucker’s life by blowing the horn of a yak in his ear and laughing his golden laugh before telling him to get his lazy self up and follow him.

Rucker scrunches his shoulders against the cold, burrowing his chin into the neck of his hoodie. Some gothic monstrosity of a door, slithering and rippling with Leviathan and other mythical beasts Rucker can’t name, slams closed behind them.

Don’t look back. Rucker thinks this a lot lately. But he never heeds the warning. When that shiver shoots up the back of his neck, and he feels the darkness stir with a fibrous sound, a shifting of sinew or a cracking of bone, or wet footsteps dragging across a wood floor, there is something inside that makes him turn around. As if seeing what crawls out of the dark will take away the fear. It never does. And now that he works for Lucifer, he checks over his shoulder more often than he ever did.

But right now, Rucker’s attention is on the demon buffing a gold Cadillac underneath the alley’s streetlight. The demon, Fear, rubs a spot on the car’s hood with the sleeve of a blue flannel shirt tied around his waist. The rest of him is three shades of black, each one darker than the other—jeans, long sleeve t-shirt, and leather boots.

The streetlight strung heavy with wires from the neighboring buildings glares down at them. Its one-eyed stare fixated on the car below, glowing off the metallic finish in a way that could make a blind man cringe.

Ain’t she a beaut? Lucifer opens his arms as if to hug the gold ‘77 Cadillac DeVille.

No. We aren’t taking this. Rucker looks to Fear for any sign of a joke.

Doesn’t get better than this! Fear grins like a lion. Wait until you hear her purr. Sweetest sound from a female you’ve ever heard.

That’s debatable. The camera bag strap clutched in Rucker’s hand is damp with sweat. I’ll look like a damn pimp riding in that.

It used to belong to one. The guy handed it over to Lucifer. Traded for something more valuable. Come to think of it, he handed over a few things that night. Fear nudges Lucifer with his elbow.

That was a good night. Lucifer’s eyes glow the same gold as the car.

I don’t want to know about it. The pimp or the night or his soul—I’m assuming his soul had something to do with it.

The Watcher, Penn, strolls towards them, corner store bags in hand, munching on an Almond Joy. He’s taken to wearing gray cardigan sweaters for warmth and to cover his sleeves of tattoos. He is a combination of pawnshop owner and college professor. A look no one could pull off successfully. Coconut and chocolate, a little piece of heaven right here on earth. He picks a sliver of coconut from his front teeth.

Rucker turns away from the silver-skinned angel, words of hate banging on the door of his mouth. He won’t let them out. Not now, not after a month-long silence brought on by the angel’s denials.

I’ll talk when he does, when he spills what he knows about my father’s death and miraculous reappearance.

Penn kneels beside the car’s back tire, running a finger along the circle of white in reverence. Did it come with white walls?

No, those are aftermarket. Got a great deal from a guy who owed us. He threw in the labor cost, Fear states, keeping a close eye on Penn’s hands.

Look, I’m happy to be breathing non-filtered air and smelling week old pizza and stale—what is that beer or urine? Rucker sniffs and continues, But can we cut the car talk and get on with whatever the hell we’re doing here? He toe-kicks the green dumpster overflowing with garbage bags and boxes and at least a dozen heavy diapers someone tried to throw inside but missed. The small bundles ended up sliding down the pile and splatting on the ground.

With one hand on the roof of the car, Penn tips his head back and gazes into the sky. I love the full moon. It looks like butter. Never bought into the comparison to cheese, but from here it looks like you could cut it with a knife and spread it over fresh bread. Penn wets his lips. He didn’t eat much when he first took on this human form. Adjusting to intestines and shitting and having to shower, well, let’s just say it takes some time for the angelic body to adapt to the human experience. But, since Rucker’s oath of silence and the dark looks thrown in Penn’s direction, looks that could start fires and explode planets, there was no satisfying the beastly hunger inside. The thought of bread makes his stomach rumble. He looks at the half-eaten candy bar in his hand and tosses it into the dumpster.

Lucifer pitches the car keys to Fear. You know where you’re going? You won’t be able to reach me tonight.

I do.

You have heard of a little thing called GPS, haven’t you? Rucker asks. I thought you were all high tech, or is that just when you’re screwing with people’s lives?

Nothing wrong with going old school once in a while, Lucifer says, not taking Rucker’s bait. Fear, take the backstreets. No need for undue attention.

Lucifer, looking 007 sleek in a white tux and black shirt, runs a manicured hand along the roof of the car. He licks a finger and rubs a spot on the back passenger window. Penn, keep your eyes on Rucker. Get him back to me in one piece. He throws a hard look in the angel’s direction. Nod if you understand.

Penn locks eyes with the Devil. He clicks his silver-capped teeth before nodding.

Rucker whispers, fierce and full of fire, Why is he coming? He’s leashed to both of us. Why can’t he be your date tonight?

First, he’s not my type. Too holy. And second, this little field trip will force you to talk to the Watcher. Work out whatever has your boxers in a bunch. Lucifer adjusts a monogrammed cufflink. "I decided to shut you both in a small space, give you a mission, and let you tear each other to pieces as long as in the end you’ll have a beer together, slap one another on the back, and call them mate. This little tantrum of yours needs to end tonight."

Rucker has done his best to avoid Penn the past month, but now he looks at him with a snarl. There is more than a whiff of annoyance in Rucker’s tone. Can’t I get rid of the angel? Exorcize him or something? Cut whatever ties there are between us?

Lucifer straightens his perfect white bow tie. You don’t have that kind of power, Rucker. To state the obvious, you are human. You have no dominion here. And really, Lucifer arches a perfect brow and fingers air quotes, exorcize him?

Could have just said no.

Fear cracks open the car door, the hinges creak. They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore. He slides onto the leather seat, strokes the dashboard, and fires the ignition. The engine revs. Fear closes his eyes as the rumble of 275 horsepower shakes the steering wheel. His grip tightens around the leather wrap.

Rucker, Lucifer grabs his elbow, you renegotiated your job description. Time to do more than write. Lucifer taps the bag in Rucker’s hand. Keep this video camera attached to you. That means you’re recording if you’re running, diving for cover, or falling into the burning pits of hell. I want everything you do on video. Think of it as PR.

Wait, why am I running or diving for cover? Rucker raises the camera bag. And PR for what?

For my memoir. Never too early to think of marketing. I read somewhere that if you want to connect with your target audience, they need to know you. Gotta get personal. Let them see the real you. This is me being authentic, baby!

You’re not even coming with us.

True. But tonight, in a roundabout way, is all about me. Well, every day is about me, but tonight’s shenanigans could be the stuff of legends. Tonight, you are the historian, cinematographer, and hunter. Lucifer smiles, radiant and a little sly. I assume you know how to use a video camera. It was one of your classes your second year—Ms. Remple was your teacher. Didn’t you have a thing for her?

First of all, she was hot. All the guys except Ryan had a thing for her. Second, yes, I can use a camera. Did okay with the editing, too.

Good. I want you to commentate and interview these two when you can. I want a live and unedited version of a night out with the boys.

A vlog. That’s what you want? A demon, an angel, and a human cruising in a gold Cadillac and looking for trouble. Either this is the start of a bad joke or a video that’ll go viral. Hard to say which. Rucker shuffles his feet to the back seat of the land yacht and pulls on the handle. It snaps out of his fingers.

Fear looks over his shoulder and lays out a greasy grin. She’s finicky. Or maybe she doesn’t like you.