Lucifer

By Jolie A Reynolds

Half of Heaven has plans for Mia and her patchwork family of Fallen angels and extraordinary humans - the plot, however, remains a mystery. Hell just wants them all dead, and the other half of Heaven? Well, they won’t be handing her a medal any time soon. A new member has joined the group, and it’s the last person Mia wanted back into her life. Or is he exactly what she needs? Either way, having him in their ranks only makes them a bigger target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483490359

Book preview

08/22/2018

PROLOGUE

E ngland was so different from Jerusalem. Beyond the weather, the languages and culture, Jerusalem owned a wealth of religion and beliefs. This new land could only boast of one, and whispers of schism echoed in the most secretive of conclaves. The old religion was only practiced in the shadows of the forests and under penalty of death. England had less war but more disease, less hatred for the color of her skin but far more sunless days. Rather than the life of a busy Jewish merchant’s wife, she was living as a Catholic noble woman. The woman’s days were far idler in this life, her clothing heavy and restrictive. In Jerusalem they owned a modest home and had to fight, more than once, to keep it; dynasties rose and fell and somehow they managed to blend in for the decades they had chosen to exist there. This incarnation in England was largely spent at court, tucked quietly away in quarters whose ownership depended on the whim of King Henry.

Filling time was an art she feared she would never master. Only those whose time was finite could feel its weight and mark its passing. She believed they were living as English nobles lived, without making mistakes that might single them out. The man, her mate in all things, acted as military and political council for the King. His strategic skill was unmatched and Henry desired much of his attention, leaving her alone more often than not. Noble women had roles far removed from their male counterparts: dressing, sitting in groups discussing men and babies and affairs, refining talents like music and needlepoint. Dining in the King’s presence meant that she could only watch her love from his position near their sovereign and he would not return to their quarters until late at night.

A civil war caused a great break among her people; the whole of her kind was now two tribes rather than one. She and her mate, along with about 3 million others, found themselves on the losing side of the war and exiled from home. Exiles scattered across the earth and so her tribe was now no more than the two of them, unless they happened upon another on their travels. Such an occurrence was a happy accident that had not happened in three or four centuries. All of her deposed brothers and sisters were forced to hide even in exile, to travel forever so that their secrets could remain just that: secrets. Nothing about her was real anymore; not her name or her family history, how she met her husband, not even her age.

The woman was bored and frightfully lonely.

For ages they traveled and fought. Together they battled back the armies of the Holy Roman Empire that threatened Hungary. When Harald Hardrada landed his troops at Scarborough, both of them were counted among the Norwegian horde. The first Crusade took the man and woman back to the Jerusalem and the Middle East. Of course, not all of their centuries of exile were washed in blood; the human world held innumerable wonders, and opportunities to help them grow. As the Nile froze they prayed alongside Egyptians; Viking explorers took them to lands untouched by the violence of Europe and Africa. Ground had been broken to build Westminster Abbey with them in attendance.

Nearly one thousand, five hundred Earth years were spent hand in hand, every day, and that devotion to each other and the Creator brought them to this place.

Just as she did most evenings, she excused herself from the company of the other courtiers under the guise of illness. It was a story rarely questioned. She was so pale and small, and unable to bear a child. No doubt the moment she was out of earshot the other women would begin to speculate about her health, and whether or not they could seduce her mate away with promises of a more vital wife and children to carry on his noble line. The courtiers wished her well as she practically ran to her rooms.

Once inside, the woman began removing all the trappings of courtly beauty. First came the stomacher, richly embroidered, then the lacings of her kirtle. The outer gown fell to the floor, happily discarded, and her small fingers went to work unlacing the corset that threatened to squeeze all air from her body. Though she was afforded a hand maiden to assist in dressing and undressing, she often sent her to gossip with the other girls. Finally free, wearing a simple cream chemise, she gathered up the kirtle and corset and draped them over a form built to hold the heavy clothing. Swathed over a small wooden bar was her favorite bit of wardrobe, a loose kirtle the color of a clear midnight sky. It secured only beneath her bosom with silver ribbon, and while it was still intricately embroidered, the delicate grey rose pattern was not as heavy. Liberating her hair came next, yards of thick curls pinned and braided into submission then covered with a heavy circlet and veil. She missed a simple braid and the loose, modest head coverings of Jerusalem. Slowly she worked out the braids until she was curtained in white honey hair that fell nearly to the floor.

Cold was seeping into the stone floor and walls, whispered through the substantial curtains hanging at the windows. England always seemed so cold. She replaced her uncomfortable satin slippers with warm lambskin, and knelt before a hearth large enough for a man to stand in, stoking the fire back to life.

It was difficult for her not to think of these quarters as a prison. Intricate and beautiful tapestries decorated the walls but did little to detract from the desolate grey stone. Light was sparse even on the brightest day. While she was every bit as capable of defending herself as any male, she could not venture far from His Majesty’s home or favored acquisitions without escort. Windsor Castle was unlike any residence in which she had found herself, a grand estate that for a king could be a paradise, a sanctuary, or a fortress. For a woman of her station, there was only one aspect to Windsor.

Both she and her spouse had come to England to see change come to an indulgent Catholic church, to help bring about change. Henry was largely regarded as a well-educated Catholic, devout, and if anyone in power could sway the Holy Mother Church back to a more humble path, it was sure to be Henry VIII. Since they had first attended His Majesty, participating in a voyage from Dover to Calais to form a sort of kinship between himself and the ruler of France, they had witnessed excess that rivaled – often eclipsed – any opulence Rome was enjoying. Had it all been taken too far; could this abundance not be laid to rest by the very men who held it? And what might happen should their stories and histories be questioned? Might they be seen as traitors to both the Crown and Rome itself?

They were traitors, in the more common definition of the word. If the Catholic Church refused to turn away from indulgence, and those most powerful and wealthy on their side continued to follow suit, then change had to come. Humanity had to find some balance. The Creator needed to be the center of the faith, not riches or influence. Their souls could not grow in the barren land where they lay. Martin Luther had not been any more wrong or right in terms of the immortal soul, but the branch of religion he sparked was worth its existence. Rome was afraid, and rather than change course and look to the care of its people, they began to incite violence and misunderstanding among the common Catholics. The man and the woman were trying, quietly and without raising too much suspicion, to prove to England that there was room in God’s heart for both religions to thrive. So far, success had been out of their grasp, not even with the King of England searching for an annulment from his wife and stirrings of Protestantism among nobles across Europe.

In an attempt to rid her mind of dark worry, the woman took to her needlework, an intricate piece depicting a peacock wandering a lush walled garden. As her fingers labored she prayed to her Creator:

Help me find the wisdom to turn the hearts of these, your most adored creation, away from selfish indulgence and toward your Truth. Lead Michael to forgiveness so that we can be whole as a family once more. Thank you for the continued opportunity to fulfill the purpose with which you imbued me. Thank you for my mate and his passion for humanity.

Prayers were once wordless exaltations of gratitude and love. Asking for assistance was for humans, as she was given all that she required at the moment of her birth. Strong, snowy wings and inexhaustible certainty were replaced by doubt, fear, and physical limitations when she Fell. She could hear demons scraping inside people around her like feral claws against a door, but she could not banish them. Babies died because of demons, loving marriages dissolved into apathy and despair under their taint and she was powerless to stop it.

Hurried feet swished past her door, several leather-clad shuffles on the stone floor. The woman pulled her attention from her needlework and her brooding; days in the palace were becoming tenuous, even for those held in the king’s confidence…perhaps especially so for them. When more footsteps approached, they carried with them the metallic whispers of sheathed weapons. Armed guards stopped just seconds before a knock thundered through her thick wooden door.

My wife, please open the door. I must speak with you at once.

His knocking was irregular. Their marriage was atypical in that they shared quarters, even at court. The man’s space was her space. Alarm flooded her. She stood, ran her hands down the brocade of her robe to dry them, and pulled open the door. There was the man, her mate through war and disease and years of peaceful travels, flanked by four of his personal guard.

What is happening? Why are you protected so?

The King wishes to see me. I believe he will accuse me of treason for my visits with Charles and Francis. Malicious gossip dictates that I am an agent for the Holy Roman Empire. We must speak quickly and prepare faster still.

She gasped, paled, her hands went clammy cold. Anyone who committed treason was hanged, or thrust into a hole and forgotten. The King was becoming increasingly paranoid; he fretted over a legitimate male heir and made use of many courtly women, he often appeared ill at ease and his temper was volatile. Men like Wolsey and Cromwell held Henry captive by weaving tapestries of gossip and discord, and as a young man was blind to the manipulation. This king would easily behead her spouse for his correspondence and travels to visit the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of France, regardless of his innocent intentions.

The truth was that he was not innocent, not wholly. Another truth lay in the fact that beheading her husband would not kill him. Chaos would ensue, fed by religious zealots and fear of what the man might or might not be.

Of course. I shall have all we require gathered in but a moment. We can send for the carriage straight away. She turned to begin the process of packing only essentials, an exercise they both knew too well. The man and the woman had disappeared many times before.

He grabbed her wrist. No. Confusion played on the woman’s face; he despised himself for what he had chosen for them. Sit, my love. We must talk and there is little time.

She sat. He spoke. She raged. He held firm. For the first time since they stood, forsaken, on the battlefields of Africa, they were to part. One thousand, five hundred years – and he was now leaving her alone in a den of danger while he fled.

You cannot do this thing, the woman begged, tears flowing faster than her handkerchief could catch. To leave me here will mean I will stand in your place before the King. Surely I will be the one who can no longer keep up the charade, with my head severed and my body continuing to thrive. Please, take me with you. I do not understand why you have decided to abandon me.

I do not abandon you. Even as he said it, he knew what a grievous lie it was. The King favors you; you have no political dealings, no family ties of substantial influence, and no knowledge of the fruit of my travels. There are members of the Privy Council who will stand for you, and suggest you serve the Queen. You will not lose favor, and can continue the mission we began years ago. Hearing her beg, witnessing her grief was more than he could stand. The man loved the woman, with a love that those who die cannot comprehend. Yet for the two of them to solidify the reformation they had seen to from the beginning, she would have to stay behind. If they were to both flee, there would be continued dissension. More humans would die. The religion in England would never solidify and Rome would once again hold dominion. To ensure the survival of both religions and those who sought a greater connection to God, their work must be done. And yet he was breaking his most solemn promise, the only promise he had ever made. All other duties were born in the moment he was Created.

The man held the woman. Her hair curled riotously beneath his fingers, her sobs vibrated against his chest. If it was to be their last embrace, he believed he deserved the agony he felt. All of her pain he would gladly bear on his shoulders. Not only was he the cause of her current tears, but for the fifteen centuries of imprisonment, flightless and hidden from her family. Their family. Three million others owed their punishment to his rebellion, and if he could serve three million eternities alone so that they might return home, the man would have. Impotent, cowardly, he rocked his woman as he prayed:

Give her strength. Help her to realize her importance and send her guidance, someone to remind her that she is loved and not alone. Thank you for the ability to love so purely. Thank you for letting it be her.

When will we reunite? Where? How long will this torment persist?

I do not know the where or the when, but this I swear to you: one day, my most precious mate, I will return to you.

1

W hen air is cold and still, it takes on an unperceivable weight. Breathing is a chore; a person’s lungs could harden slowly as if they were filled with concrete. Everyone takes for granted the fact that there isn’t snow on the ground, that sleet and ice aren’t pelting their faces. It’s the quiet, unassuming winter that will bleed the life from a body.

I love, I miss that kind of cold.

This was my first winter in New Orleans, but it wasn’t really that different from winter in Houston, the town I called home for almost a decade. No promise of snow, just frigid nights and chilly days that even the sun’s persistence can’t chase away. As we stepped out onto the street, I looked up into a sky so bright and recently cloudless I regretted leaving my shades upstairs. Ethan, my friend, my roommate and Champion, smugly slid his trendy sunglasses from atop his head down to his nose. Ignoring his smirk, I linked my fingers with his and yanked him toward the French Market.

Ethan and I had known each other less than a year; nine months, to be exact. In the time it takes a healthy human life to form, I had managed to completely redefine his. Without a doubt, he had also altered mine. He was one of the few mortals who not only knew beyond doubt that angels and demons existed; Ethan lived among them and called them his family. Gone were the days of college graduation and marrying the girl next door. Instead he was living with a woman he loved but couldn’t have, chasing down demons and learning how to fight as if he might never die. People who had known him before the previous Spring Break holiday might not notice any change in him at first sight: his hair was still shiny black curls kept long enough to appear careless, the cornflower blue of his eyes hadn’t darkened or diminished. Ethan would always be tall and on the lanky side, even though recent physical rigors pushed him into the next clothing size.

Our first days together were spent in a remote cabin outside of New Orleans, immersed in discovery, violence, and lies. With the help of my fellow angels and another Champion, Ethan and I protected the angel who had once protected Christ. Over time, however, we learned that our life together had nothing to do with protecting the Beloved Disciple; it was just about us as a couple, or perhaps as a group. Heaven was gearing up for another war and we were some sort of ultimate pawns in it. Months later, we still didn’t quite understand how or why.

So there I was, stepping out onto a wet, chilly Chartres Street with Ethan in tow, embracing that patient air as it stung my nostrils and beginning another day of a life that was more mystery than existence.

Our family was split, all of us coming back to the city and settling into different little pockets. Dominic was back in his cozy shotgun-style apartment blocks away from Loyola University. His sabbatical was over once the winter break ended, so come January the Beloved Disciple would once again be Dr. Dominic Peters, Professor of Theological History. Even his weekly poker game with other tenured professors was back in full swing.

Emmanuel and Joseph returned to their place as well, happy above their apothecary shop on Ursuline Street. Ever the odd couple, the angel known as The Apothecary and his thousand-year-old Champion couldn’t be more different. Where Emmanuel appeared to be an Anglo-Saxon of average height, with grey hair and a grouchy demeanor, Joseph stretched past six-foot-six and was graced with the swarthy, exotic looks of a Middle Eastern man. Though they hadn’t exactly taken sabbatical, their drug store was closed half the week during our six months in the cabin. Having that old manual cash register chiming six days a week put Manny back into an agreeable level of saltiness. Joseph had even managed to procure an antique medic’s bag to celebrate their return, complete with tiny glass vials and arcane probes and snips, for their museum-quality display windows. He enjoyed telling the hipsters that patronized their establishment the rumors of the pieces’ Wild West days.

Three or four blocks away on the ever-renovating strip of Decatur, Augustine and Faith bought a posh new flat. Faith was enrolled in a private school that could boast – and did, in every brochure – their elite list of graduates. Her schedule was aggressive but it seemed as if Faith was up to the challenge. Augustine doted on her as any single father would, and endeavored to run his empire from the Crescent City instead of his offices in Houston, Boston, Dublin or Dubai. Just like with Manny and Joe, life slowed for half a year, but needed to renew their pace.

We were just a few blocks from them, across from Jackson Square, but our one-bedroom walk-up flat was far more Bohemian. Less than a thousand square feet, with one bathroom and a tiny wrought-iron balcony where I planned on showcasing a riot of colorful planters and flowers come March. Man, I missed having house plants. Ethan trained and ate, studied ancient tomes and helped our downstairs neighbor carry out his trash twice a week. Not having an actual job was sitting well on him, though he sometimes hinted at taking a bartending job so as not to appear idly wealthy.

Although we were no further than a short street car ride away from each other, I still couldn’t help but feel too scattered sometimes.

Where are you, Puddin’? Ethan asked, his lanky arms snaking around my torso. Even through my heavy hoodie and his pea coat, I could feel his recently honed arms and the snappy electricity that built between us every time we touched. He never let on that he felt the same sensation, and I never asked. I wished, for his sake, that he didn’t feel it.

I’m in a world where you come up with a better pet name for me, I teased. This air is so nice. December is my favorite month.

His lips pressed amiably against my temple. Of course it is. And we’ll have plenty of it on the way to the Market. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get the day over with. That way we might have something for people to sit on and we can cram everyone into our flat. You’re itching for a too-cozy spaghetti dinner, and it leaks over onto me.

Just like that, he had my number. A couple of times a week we were all gathered together at either Dominic’s place or Augustine’s. Virtually every day some combination of the group met for a meal or intelligence sharing, or both. But the woman in me wanted all of us under my own roof, sharing food and enjoying each other in my nest. The reality of choosing an eight hundred square foot space made dinner for seven, or anything for seven, a bit of an impossibility. Additionally, the two of us had been living in a beautiful box with nothing but a bed, a futon, dishes for two, a television, and a lamp for over two months. It was time for Ethan and me to make it home. Settling down again was not exactly something I was prepared to face, but he needed some sense of stability.

Why don’t we just worry about making ourselves comfortable? If we aren’t going to be hunting this month, we might as well focus on having a normal life.

Darling Mia, Ethan said, squeezing my hand and tugging as we passed the steely grey monument of St. Louis Cathedral, nothing about our lives is normal.

Truer words were never spoken. Neither of us had jobs; at least, nothing that brought in an honest day’s wage. By day we poured through books and journals, searching for some insight on Heaven’s machinations. Believe it or not, some of us angels aren’t very good at keeping a secret, and nothing happens quickly. If part of the Ascended were conspiring against Michael’s reign, they’ve been doing it for decades, maybe centuries, and probably amongst mortals. Somewhere, someone was bound to have stood witness to it. When leads ran dry we took to reconnaissance, spying or eavesdropping on the scores of humans in New Orleans possessed by demons. Hell knew less than we did, or at least the creatures pinging our radars were that way. Crack heads and vagrants whispered about the new war and the end of days; it was the sort of talk that the mortal world largely ignored. Ethan and I sopped up every word, then shooed away whatever bad guys we could from their hosts. A host of hours had been volunteered to St. Augustus convent, cleaning and tending the grounds for Sister Margaret and her charges. As often as I could, I spirited away to Dominic’s to work on the catalogue of angelic weapons he had amassed. The cache grew almost monthly, only by one or two pieces, but each belonged to a beloved sibling and deserved to be recorded and preserved.

Our nights were even more out of the ordinary. At least five nights a week we hunted and dispatched demons. Sometimes others would join us and we would take down the heartier denizens, but when it was just us two we lured the infants of Satan’s horde with promises of food or vice. Nine times out of ten the demons would release their human once they realized they had walked into a celestial sting. An exorcism wasn’t always necessary. For those other times, we angels had collected enough human spiritual muscle to get the job done. Sister Margaret handled what she could, but none of us wanted to raise suspicion within the archdiocese that she was performing unsanctioned rites of exorcism. The Catholic Church is more than a little protective of the rules governing their handling of otherworldly problems. Over time we tapped an Evangelist preacher, two holistic mind and body experts, and one very inquisitive Hindu priest. From September through November the six of us (Faith still wasn’t privy to who we really were or what we did, or at least she never let on) had successfully dispatched thirty-four demons and chased off dozens more. Our only problem: for every baddie we managed to destroy, two more seemed to appear in a days’ time.

All right, perhaps it wasn’t our only problem. Heaven’s plan for Ethan and I was still a sucking wound of a mystery. Neither of us could dwell on it for very long without becoming irritable with each other, so we had just that morning agreed to let it unravel before us as it would, at least for a while. The family needed tending, and Ethan’s actual family was chomping at the bit to see us, to finally meet the gal who single-handedly derailed their legacy. Thanksgiving came and went without the trek to affluent Oxford. We blamed it on intense research that had us neck deep in historical documents recently released by the Ugandan government. When one has devoted one’s life to the pursuit of ancient biblical knowledge, turkey and football has to take a back seat to diplomacy and dead language deciphers. Truthfully, we were just too tired. A family pledge was made: from December first to January third, there would be no hunting – be it demon or information. The two of us would scamper away for a week to Mississippi to see Ethan’s family and three best friends. To ring in the new year and have one last fling before diving back into our nasty existence, all seven of us were attending Augustine’s Gem Gala he held in Houston every year, benefitting women’s and children’s shelters in the metro-plex.

For thirty-three days