Magic and Mayhem: Angels and Avalon, #5

By Catherine Milos

Elizabeth McAllistar gave up her magic to stop Lucifer and lock him away. She's a witch without magic who can't see it, sense it, or use it. And Elizabeth's not having a good time of it.

Waking up covered in vomit and blood and no idea where you are is terrifying enough, but worse, a video surfaces showing Elizabeth killing men behind a bar she remembers drinking at.

None of her friends are available to help and her only help rests with Liam, a mysterious witch who believes she needs help controlling new powers; that is, until Lucifer returns with the promise of restoring her magic to her and stopping the gods and Angels meddling in her life for good.

In this final installment in the Angels and Avalon series, Elizabeth must trust Lucifer or risk blacking out and killing again. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Milos
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781988951065

Catherine Milos

Catherine Milos is a Canadian author who has been writing stories since she could hold a crayon. She has published numerous creative non-fiction articles in journals, essays, poetry and occasionally the odd business writing piece. She finds the most enjoyment in writing novel-length fiction.Aside from writing, Catherine’s passions include rescuing strays, creating and appreciating art, connecting with nature, and being amazed by the magic of life.

Book preview

1

His dark goddess slept. Roger turned away from Elizabeth’s house and walked the two blocks to his new home. He watched Elizabeth through her windows, and she turned out the light to go to bed giving him leave to return home.

Trapping Lucifer destroyed Adamina. That fateful night months ago, Elizabeth reached for Roger’s power to help trap his brother in a cage made to contain Lucifer. At first, Roger hadn’t been so willing, the pain excruciating. Now, even if he were Uriel again, restored to his former Angelic glory, Roger would give that up for her too.

In those few moments when Roger’s magic was ripped from him, he saw her—the real her—radiating shadowy divinity.

Roger’s steps were light against the pavement, feeling self-righteous. Her magic ran deep, deeper than imagined, and he would be the one to unlock it for her. He would restore Elizabeth.

He chose his wife well, all those lifetimes ago. He didn’t know Elizabeth would turn into this. She was perfect for him.

Uriel destroyed the world she had been born into. A planet forged of evil and hate. He pictured Adamina as a young, nameless girl running from her mother’s guards. Roger was glad her mother died at his hand.

She belonged to him again. No one would stand in his way this time.

Roger smiled as he closed the door to the house. Void of furniture, the space felt open and freeing. Candlelight cast eerie shadows. He went to the fridge to slake his hunger. Fast food leftovers and bottles of soda sat beside the containers of blood he stole from the clinic where he worked. As a janitor, he had unlimited access to the blood and chemicals he would need for his work.

One way or another, he would raise the darkness. Roger grabbed some greasy leftover fast food from his fridge and scarfed it down. He tossed the empty container into an overflowing garbage can and made his way to the ritual room.

A circle of blood marked the linoleum floor. Inside the circle, a nine-pointed star littered with Angelic and Demonic symbols that took him months to paint perfectly.

He preserved its outline with brick dust and reapplied the blood. Black candles dripped as they burned themselves to hollow carcasses. He replaced them eight times already. On the ninth, he would begin his work.

He turned to face the window. On the wall, lit by moonlight, were countless images of her likeness. Candid photos of her at the coffee shop, the grocer, and the park papered the wall. Elizabeth smiling. Elizabeth crying. Elizabeth staring into the void.

He caressed one photograph depicting a faraway expression on her face. He wondered what she’d been thinking. He saw pain written on her face. He would take away the pain. He heard Kamiel speak of her blindness that day as he sipped at his bitter coffee only feet away, his back to them. They had no idea he was there.

He blended into crowds and vanished in empty rooms. Disappearing was a matter of a certain posture, a carefully aimed gaze, and minimized movement. Too much confidence got him noticed and not enough did the same, quite the balancing act. Invisibility was much easier with a magical glamour to conceal him, but there were ways to hide without magic. He wanted to let her know he was there for her. He had almost been discovered the night in the park, but he learned patience since parting ways with Lucifer.

His opportunity would come soon. He would summon the demon who would give him power. Then he would make her into a goddess of the Shadows. Adamina would rule the world that Lucifer once envisioned, and Roger would be at her side.

Roger was no name for a king. He would retain his former name. He would be King Uriel and she Queen Adamina of the Darkness. Together, they would create a new Hell.

He sensed he was being watched and looked towards the mirror. Just his imagination.

A long day ahead of him, Roger decided to turn in for the night. He turned off the lights and crawled into his sleeping bag in the corner. He fell asleep dreaming of her, her hair flowing in the shadowy breeze, her mysterious beauty glowing purple with sinister power. They would finally be together.

Roger devoured his microwave meal, not even caring how it tasted. He chased his meal with soda and let out a loud belch, leaving the remains of his meal in a pile on the floor with the others.

He fished in his pocket and placed a matted ball of blonde hair down in the centre of his nine-pointed star. Already in the centre were a picture of Elizabeth, a large mass of clay, the heart of a witch he killed on the night of a new moon, and a five-gallon bucket filled with human blood.

The floor-length mirror he used to communicate with Lucifer before Lucifer had been locked away in his prison stood propped against the wall overlooking the scene. The glass splotched with dirt and smeared with bloody handprints. The mirror witnessed every murder needed to get his powers back.

He replaced the candles for a ninth time and went to work. He used a large brush and dipped the brush into the bucket, retracing the circle in slick, red lines. The metallic tang hit the air and saliva coated his tongue in anticipation. When he was done with the nine-pointed star and circle, he painted a new larger circle around it.

He stripped down and tossed his clothing to the side near his sleeping bag, away from the ritual space. With the blood, he began to paint Enochian symbols all over his body—symbols of power and strength, symbols of darkness and Hell. God and his brothers abandoned him. Roger had never been close to the Goddess. He would have wings again. He would be whole again. Elizabeth would be his.

Roger crossed the room and slid the locks open to his interior room. He stepped into the small bedroom, closing the door shut behind him.

It’s unfortunate it had to be you. I’d prefer one of the others. You were always kind to me.

Muffled protest came from the bed. Roger pulled the gag out of his guest’s mouth.

Where is Chris?

He’s fine. He’s living his old life before he met you. I’ve given him something to forget you and done my best to erase you from the world. You made that easy. Seems you gave your restaurant away to that chef friend of yours and already erased most of your presence for me. Preparing to return home?

Raphael didn’t answer, only glared at Roger. Roger picked up a knife and a mason jar from the altar table at the opposite end of the room and returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

I need your power and some of that blood.

Raphael fought against the restraints tying him to the heavy bed frame bolted to the wall and floor.

Come on now. You’re not escaping. You may have powers, but they are limited to healing now that you’re mortal. You can make this easy, or I can make it more painful than it needs to be. Don’t make me hurt you, Raphael.

Raphael drew as far away from Roger as he could. Gabriel will find you and kill you.

He can’t hear your calls, Raphael. No one can. Roger pointed the knife up at the ceiling where a stream of sigils in blood covered the surface. Not even your Angelic soul can reach past the wards. Something I learned from Lucifer. Gabriel will be too busy to come looking for you soon, and everyone on Earth thinks you’re up there with him.

Roger’s shoulders slumped. I really am sorry, Raphi.

Raphael stared at the wall opposite Roger.

Roger nodded and reached over, slicing lengthwise down Raphael’s forearm. Roger caught the blood with the mason jar. Pouring out quicker than he expected, Roger hurried to grab eight more jars to fill with Raphael’s blood. Raphael healed so fast that Roger reopened the wound twice more to get enough blood.

Surrendering to his situation, Raphael barely made a noise, making Roger’s job easier. His brother slumped against the wall by the second last jar.

Roger carried each jar and placed it by a corresponding candle in the living room. He returned to check on Raphael after placed the last jar of blood. He was very pale and his breathing shallow.

Roger really was sad he had to do this to Raphael. Out of all the Angels, he was fondest of Raphael. Nine litres of blood—double the human amount—was perhaps even too much for someone like Raphael to recover from. It was a sacrifice that had to be made.

Roger closed the door and locked it.

From the circle on the floor, he picked up the block of clay and bucket of blood and poured them into the massive iron cauldron he set up in front of the mirror. Leaving the clay to soak, he concentrated on the first of his rituals.

The mirror shimmered and the flayed corpse demon appeared. Behind him were cages filled with souls and Roger heard the shriek of the harpy women, the guardians of the Underworld.

It is about to begin. The demon disappeared, the glass returning to its usual mirrored surface.

The distraction set, Roger went to work. As he walked widdershins about the circle, he summoned the watchers of the abyss. Those spirits that controlled the emptiness, eternal fall, isolation, and horrors. They answered, wailing into the space invisible and all-consuming, cloaking the room in darkness.

In his path lay a red-bladed knife. Roger bent, retrieved the knife, and took his position in the southern most section of the circle. With the knife, he carved over the symbols on his skin, mixing his own blood with that of those murdered. He formed the words carefully, alternating between languages when the Enochian couldn’t be adequately expressed by his mortal tongue. He wove Latin, Finnish, Enochian, Theban, Cajun, and English together to form his summoning spell.

Wisps of Raphael’s power snaked up from the jars of blood and into the symbols on his skin.

When he finished, the warmth of his blood dripping down his body, he called out her name. Loviatar. He threw the knife at the mirror and it embedded itself in the backing, causing the glass to splinter and crash into the cauldron and onto the floor.

There was a low rumbling. Smoke filled the room, followed by an icy chill. The warmth of his blood on his skin left him as it pulled out of his body to fill the space of the broken mirror. Raphael’s blood and power joined the growing mass in the mirror frame. He fell to his knees panting and trembling. The knife disappeared and the blood became glassy. A figure began to immerge, pressing against the surface of the liquid. The blood parted and she stepped out.

Her eyes were hollow shadows and her lips were stained black. Her skin was grey with the pallor of death and thin and wrinkled across her bones. She looked fragile. Her dress was gossamer, and there was a strange buzzing noise coming from underneath.

Loviatar examined the contents in the cauldron with mild curiosity and dipped a finger into the blood. She raised the finger to her lips and lapped up the red with a black, forked tongue.

Her eyes fell on Roger and she moved around the cauldron towards him.

You freed me? Her voice painful and sweet.

Cold daggers stabbed through his skull with every word she spoke. The chill crept down his spine and Roger had the distinct idea he was dying.

When she neared, Roger could see that the gossamer of her dress and the buzzing noise were one and the same, carrion flies. Their wings and black bodies rolled over one another and vibrated eagerly. From the smell, he guessed Loviatar had an eternal source of rotting flesh they could feast on.

Yes.

She lifted his face with a cold, clawed hand and scrutinized him.

You were Angel born. Now you are mortal. How did you summon me?

Roger struggling to breathe. He felt the sweet call of death with every breath and wanted to give in. He forced himself to focus on why he was here. With the death of nine witches. Their blood and magic, mixed with my brother’s, fueled the spell. I employed demons to distract Hades and her guards.

She released his head from her grasp and the call of death lessened.

What do you wish for in exchange? Loviatar walked the circle, inspecting the candles that offered the only light in the room.

I ask for powers. To be as strong as I once was. And I ask for life. To recreate her as my dark consort. She and I will rule this small mortal world, take over Hell in my brother’s absence, and bring back a dark this universe has forgotten since your absence. Roger pointed to the centre of the circle.

Loviatar reached down and plucked the picture from the centre. She stared at it with red, beady eyes. She made her way past the cauldron again, dropping the picture in and looked at herself in the blood-red mirror as she considered his request.

She returned to the centre and knelt, scooping up the witch’s heart in her hands. She inhaled its metallic, meaty scent and licked her lips. The heart was fresh. She transferred the heart to her right hand, enclosing it in her claws like a delicate cage. She plucked up the matt of hair with the fingernails of her left hand and rose to drop them into the cauldron.

She scooped a handful of the thick blood out of the cauldron, morphing it into a shiny red ball. She raised her other hand toward the mirror then slid it back toward Roger. The blood of the mirror poured toward the floor. She rolled the ball of witches’ blood off her hand to mix with Roger’s blood as it snaked across the floor back toward him.

Nine witches and a bit of mine, Loviatar hissed. She nicked her wrist with a clawed fingernail and black oozed, dripping a single drop into the mass of blood that pooled at her feet. She turned her back to Roger and leaned over the cauldron.

As the blood made its way back to Roger, it forced itself painfully into the cuts he carved. The icy pain made him scream out and crumple into a heap. His chest hurt and felt like a thousand shards of glass stabbed with every beat. His nerves were on fire and death called loudly.

Then it was gone. He rose, standing tall. The runes on his body caked over as black scabs.

Thank— Before Roger could finish expressing his appreciation, Loviatar disappeared and the room lightened. The abyss guardians left him, too. He raced over to the cauldron, knocking over one of the candles. As the candle fell, its flame sputtered out. The mass of blood inside the cauldron dead still. No…

No! Roger spun around to look at the circle he worked so hard to make. The candle flames burst and grew three feet tall, roaring with his rage. When he realized he caused the burst, the rage inside him ebbed slightly and the flames returned to normal.

He looked down at his hands. What else has the goddess given me? He held out his left hand and gently wrestled a coil of icy cold power out of his core. A shard of ice embedded itself in the wall opposite him. Emboldened, he began to tug at more powers. Flesh-eating disease coated his arm, then disappeared at will. The room temperature changed, grew humid, and a light rain fell inside the empty house for a few moments until he wished it away.

Fire, ice, causing and curing disease, atmokinesis. Four powers so far. Nine and a bit of mine.

Roger heard the squelch of blood and turned around. The surface of the cauldron rippled and he watched as a figure stretched upward. The blood faded away.

Elizabeth? Roger whispered, reaching a hand toward her.

When he touched her cold skin, black eyes slid open.

Hello, Uriel.

2

This was not how Elizabeth imagined her weekend would begin. She dodged a left hook from the front and a pool cue from behind. She watched as the pool cue took out the woman who tried to left hook her. As soon as the cue snapped, Elizabeth snatched the flying piece out of the air and kicked the rest of the pool cue out of the other attacker’s hands.

Elizabeth had gone to the bar in hopes of a relaxing drink and a night of dancing. The hope: a night out-of-character for her would get her out of this funk. Instead, she somehow ended up getting into a fight, again. She had no memory of how the fight started, but she sure as hell would finish it.

She landed a kick to the pool cue wielding assailant’s stomach and sent him flying backwards. No one else stepped forward. She grabbed her drink off the bar and downed the last of the scotch. Perturbed, she left out the back door, tipping the bartender a wad of cash to cover the damage and hopefully enough to keep quiet about the fight. The last thing she needed was to end up in jail because of a stupid bar fight she hadn’t even started. At least the money from her ex, Gabriel, went to good use.

It wasn’t her fault she had the skills to finish a fight. She blamed Roger and Gabriel and all those damned Angels. The Goddess and God, too. They haunted her, forged her into a warrior. They promised her the universe and abandoned her with nothing to show.

She was a pawn in their games. She realized that now. Whatever she felt towards any of them had been manipulation. Now, all she felt was anger.

The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her. She leaned against the brick, panting. The