Avenging Love: Trinitarian Knights Collection, #1

By Kevin M. Mansoor

Sometimes heroes aren't very heroic. . . Sometimes heroes fail. . . 

 

David had always fought to protect others, even before he knew who he was. He defended those that could not defend themselves. In the eternal battle between good and evil, he balanced the scales. He saved countless. . . but he couldn't save her. He failed the love of his life.

 

After three years drunk in an alley, he still refuses to listen to the truth his heart is trying to tell him. But when. . . 

 

the tequila no longer numbs his guilt,

 

can the mysterious two-thousand-year-old Emma, or the Archangel Michael, get David to wake up in time?

 

Join David and his battle companion Saint Bernard, Duke, as they embark on an epic tale of loss, guilt, and possible redemption. As the darkness that has settled on David's soul slowly lifts, a battle that he cannot win awaits. Can David and Duke avenge their loss?

 

To do so, the very gates of hell await.

 

Avenging Love is the first novel of the trilogy in the Trinitarian Knights Collection. Filled with fast-paced action sequences, a strong love story sub-theme, supporting characters that will have you cheering, and a pompous prideful Satan that may just have you rolling on the floor laughing, Avenging Love is a must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KJM Media and Publishing, LLC.
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215467008

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tequila splashed from the bottle and trickled down his hand onto the cobblestone pavement as David stumbled back into his crate in the dark side of the alley. He raised the bottle back to his lips and took a swig, feeling the warmth of the amber liquid as it flowed down his throat. His hand shook as he held the bottle before his eyes—two-thirds gone. David closed his eyes and savored another swig.

A nearby streetlight flickered as it greeted the approaching night. The light cast eerie shadows on one side of the alley, leaving the other in relative darkness. David preferred the dark side.

He fumbled with something in his pocket. Sarah! his yell bounced in echoes down the brick walls of his alley and rose to the open window of his nightly onlookers. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto his t-shirt while he waited for the numbness he yearned for as the tequila took its control. Years of accumulated broken bottles, a white painted cross, brick walls, putrid garbage, and dirty dumpsters blurred into one alcohol-induced spinning world as David tried to stand. Then, still swaying, he fell back once more into the familiar comfort of his wooden crate.

Sarah . . . His dead wife’s name left his lips as more of a muffled cry than a yell this time.

Among the scattered, lifeless remnants of garbage around him, David’s blurred vision caught the movement of a rat as it scurried along a piece of thin pallet wood lying near the far side of the alley. Iss my sword? That’sss not sssuposeded be here. Adrenaline powered him upright as he thought about his sword lying in the putrid garbage. He stabilized himself with one arm on the wall before staggering toward his sword. Bending down to pick it up, he tumbled face forward into a pile of broken glass—hundreds of shattered tequila bottles. Shards of glass tore into his face and left hand. David laid there stunned in a drunken stupor for a moment and then looked at his right hand holding his tequila. Blood trickled off his palm as the tears on his face blended with oozing blood on his cheek. He forced himself to focus his half-closed eyes. He stared at his precious tequila. Whew, I thought I’d dropped you. . .he thought. He took another swig.

He maneuvered onto his knees, barely noticing the blood and glass, sending shards right into his kneecaps. Then, he stood up again with his sword as support. Holding the sword in his left hand and trying to maintain his balance, he waved it around like a three-year-old with a plastic bat. Wrooong. Sssomething wrong. David cocked his head to one side and stared off into space. Finally, he switched the bottle of tequila and his sword, so the blade was in his right hand.

David stood straight up. He twirled the sword around with little effort. His movements were fluid and graceful, slicing and lunging with ease. He spun, feinted, and thrust. His nostrils flared, veins on his neck bulged, his face flushed. Nooooo! David threw his sword down the garbage-infested alley. It shattered into several pieces of wood fifty yards away when it hit a rusty steel door at the end of the alley. His shoulders slumped as the color left his face and his blank stare fell to the cobblestones. Not me. Not me, no more. David staggered back to his crate and collapsed into it. He traced the small white painted cross on the brick wall with his finger, tears gushing down his face. Sarah! David’s eyes closed as, once again, thoughts of his dead wife tore his soul open.

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Joe and his ten-year-old grandson, Tommy, looked out their window into the alley below and watched David. Joe placed his arm around Tommy’s shoulder.

Grandpa, is David ever going to be like the old David you told me about? Tommy said.

I hope so, Tommy. I really hope so.

But when Grandpa, when? We need him now, Grandpa.

Yes, we do, Joe muttered. But Tommy, he’s still there. A spark lit up Joe’s eyes. We saw it. It looked like he had his sword in his hand again. He came back to life. Tommy, he’s in there. I know it.

But Grandpa, it’s scary to leave our building. The bad people are everywhere.

It wasn’t always like that, Tommy. When David was with Sarah, before Sarah . . . well, you know. The streets stayed safe. The bad people didn’t want to be anywhere near this neighborhood. They were afraid of David and Sarah and stayed away. The two seemed to repel evil somehow.

But why did David change? He’s another drunk now. I’m not even afraid of him.

Careful, Tommy. No one in the neighborhood blames David for what’s happened. What David lost is far worse than our loss. He lost Sarah. I think his love for her differed from the love most people ever experience. When he lost her, he changed. It was a tragedy that affected the entire neighborhood. But David is still our hope. He is all. . .we have left . . . Joe’s voice softened. There aren’t many heroes left these days. David is our hope. He may be the last hero.

But how do we get him back? He needs to stop being a stupid drunk. Tommy said, as a few locks of Tommy’s dirty blond hair flopped over his right eye. The scattered freckles on both cheeks accented his soft, youthful appearance.

I don’t know, Tommy. Right now, he feels he needs that tequila. He once told me it was the taste that kept him alive because it was the taste that made him feel dead. I think David wants to be dead, but he won’t give Satan the satisfaction. Joe ran his hand through Tommy’s hair and then pulled him closer.

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H elp, someone help!

Jarred by screams coming from the end of his alley, David tried to focus through his blurred vision and his alcohol clouded mind. All he saw was a foggy haze.

Help!

As David’s eyes slowly cleared, he could make out what appeared to be two young gang members trying to take a woman’s purse. David struggled to his feet, supporting himself by leaning on the wall, still holding his precious bottle of tequila. He recognized the dark blue and gold colors and the hoodie sweatshirts that identified the kids as part of the Hoods gang.

Take her purse, you idiot, the taller one said. A coiled snake tattoo on his left cheek indicated he was the senior gang member.

She won’t let go.

David watched the older lady struggling to hold on to her purse while the punk tried to yank it away from her. Her frail frame was off-balance as she wrestled over her purse. David smirked and shook his head as he watched the tattooed one pull out a large hunting knife from the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.

With tequila coursing through his veins, David staggered toward the commotion, one wobbling step at a time with one hand on the rough brick wall supporting him as he went. An unbroken bottle went skittering across the ground as he stumbled over it. He only slightly noticed the rancid smell of decay and urine lost in his dull senses as he approached the scuffle.

The gang members looked in disbelief as David came toward them. His stubble-covered chin trickled blood, glass splinters stuck out from his cheek, and an old tequila bottle label was sticking on the side of his head in his hair. They looked at each other as he came forward with one hand on the wall and one hand clenching a tequila bottle. Let’s get out of here, the one punk said.

What are you crazy? Look at him. He’s about to pass out, the leader replied.

Do you know who that is? the guy without the tattoo asked.

Yeah, I know, it’s a stupid drunk. Scare him off.

This ain’t your fight, man! Go back to where you came from. The junior gang member turned toward David, lifting a knife as he did.

David stared into the eyes of the boy threatening him. Thisss my alley. David wobbled as he cocked back his right arm before noticing the tequila bottle he was still holding.

Despite being bloodshot from the alcohol, David focused the stare of his piercing blue eyes directly into the eyes of the kid. He knew he had penetrated the kid’s psyche. He watched the kid’s lip tremble and noticed the nervous glance the teenager shot back at the leader.

Get him, you idiot, the leader said.

On sheer instinct, David ducked beneath the blur of the knife as it came toward him. The blade came again, and he slipped out of the way. The knife went in a straight jab toward David’s gut. His left arm deflected the blow. David smiled as the boy’s mouth fell open with surprise. As the kid looked at David and shook his head, David planted his left fist on the side of the kid’s skull. The kid collapsed with an audible thud as he hit the cobblestone ground.

The other punk shoved the woman to the ground, yanking her purse from her. Then, brandishing his knife, he turned to face David. Come on, old man. Wanna you die?

David took a step toward but teetered. The gang member grinned. You can’t even walk. Go back to your bottle before I cut you open.

David took another step forward, and the kid lunged at him with his knife. David twisted to the side, avoiding the blade, and pushed the kid away with a hand still glistening with spilled tequila. He looked at the kid and shook his head in disgust. The kid came again with a broad sweep of his knife. David stepped out of the way and lifted his tequila bottle back. He glared at the kid and his tequila. You’re not worth it. His speech was now smooth and precise. He caught the punk in the gut with a left uppercut, lifting him three feet off the ground, then swung his foot around, taking the kid’s legs out from under him. The kid hit the pavement with another thud. Ssstupid punksss. His words slurred once again as the adrenaline from the fight dissipated from his body.

David picked up the lady’s purse and stumbled forward, his world once again spinning. He reached out a hand to help her up and handed her purse back. David staggered back to the nearest punk and took another swig from his bottle. He switched the tequila to his left hand and picked up the punk with his right arm with ease. He threw the kid about fifteen feet out of the alley. David turned toward the other kid to find him scrambling up to his feet. The kid shot out of the alley as if a wild animal was in pursuit. David turned and started staggering toward his crate.

David, thank you, David. The woman tried to get David’s attention. Despite David being a drunk for the last several years, all the neighborhood remembered the David they knew and loved.

David kept staggering. Always . . . right thing . . . no matter . . . cost . . . he said. He made it to his crate and collapsed into his spot. Lifting his tequila bottle, David downed one last long swig. He looked at the empty bottle and threw it hard into the brick wall on the other side of his alley. Shards of glass flew in all directions, landing in a pile with the skeletal remains of his previous hundreds of bottles.

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D avid, really? You still think you can play the hero like you used to.

David looked around for the phantom voice. The dim moonlight cascading down did little to illuminate the alley. The same alcoholic blur was all he saw. His tequila hand was empty; his other hand fumbled with something in his pocket.

You can’t even see me, can you? You have let your senses go. The demon sitting on a dumpster near David smiled. Eeewww, the great David! More like the fall of the great David. You’re just another pathetic human now, looking for strength inside a bottle.

Saraphiss? Is that you? Go play in your cesspool. Leave me alone.

Oh, sorry, David, is it nap time? I would hate to disturb your nap time, you miserable excuse for a knight. I remember when demons feared you. There was a time when you would have known I was coming before I even appeared. David, where is the challenge? Now I’m nothing more than a glorified babysitter.

Go away.

Or what, David? You can’t take me like those kids. You’re a drunk. The master still concerns himself with you, but he doesn’t understand you as I do. You’re another pitiful human drinking yourself straight to Hell, one bottle at a time. You’re no different from the rest these days.

Go away!

I wish I could. I wish I could go back in time to the days of the young Christians. Now those guys were serious fighters. My work was much more challenging and entertaining back then. I could throw Christians to hungry lions, and they would still hold on to their precious Jesus, all while being eaten alive. Their loyalty was sickening, but it was more fun than all the weak, faithless people that I deal with nowadays.

I retired, Saraphiss. Leave me alone.

Retired? Saraphiss laughed. Is that even allowed? You used to be something. I used to send a horde of demons against you and Sarah, and I knew they stood little chance. If they ever got the advantage, then that stupid dog of yours was always there. You were a David! And you were the best David I ever met. Second-century David was darn good, but I think you were better. Of course, all the other Davids died in battle like heroes. It looks like you will die in a bottle, like the coward you are.

David looked towards the end of his alley as he heard the familiar sound of Duke’s growl. He watched as his large, menacing St. Bernard approached.

Oh, look, David, your furry little buddy, has joined you, Saraphiss said.

The dog came forward, crouched down with a low growl emanating from behind his glistening teeth.

Well, David, this is where I will take my leave. It was easy to screw up your life, but that dog of yours is not so easy to deal with. The dog continued to approach, growling in stark contrast to its enormous, soft face.

David noticed the glimmer of a red flash. Then Duke came over and sat next to his crate. Well, I guess you scared Saraphiss away, David said as his hand rubbed Duke’s head.

David rested his head against the brick wall. He turned and looked at the painted white cross covering the bricks behind him. Tracing the lines with his finger, he broke into uncontrollable tears. Duke snuggled closer and curled up next to him.

Duke . . . Sarah . . . David said as he cried himself to sleep.

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David tried to shield his eyes as the sunlight pierced through the cracks between the wooden slats of his bedroom blinds. How come I never remember walking home . . . he thought. The light burned his eyes while his stench curled the hair in his nostrils. Duke forced his nose under the blankets to lick David’s face, leaving behind a sizable streak of drool. Pulling the blankets back above his head, David fought to get a few more minutes of darkness to hide from life, the pain, and Duke. Duke grabbed the blankets with his mouth and started pulling. Duke always won this game. The big dog tugged the blankets off David and started pushing him to the edge of the bed. David hit the floor with a thud.

David moaned as he rolled onto his back. That’s it, you stupid dog! David struggled to get up, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes. I am sick and tired of you pushing me from bed every morning. There is no reason to be up without Sarah . . .

Duke’s gigantic soft face stared back, glistening drool trailing onto the blankets. David stood, glaring at Duke. He took a step forward and then a step back. Oh, what’s the use? You’ll just win the fight, anyway. Duke yawned. David’s mind was fuzzy and throbbing, but he knew a wrestling match for blankets with a full-grown two-hundred-fifty-pound St Bernard would not end well. You’ve been fighting by my side for years. I know better. You were always on the front lines with us when Sarah and I needed you. But darn it, Duke, I don’t need you anymore. It’s over. It’s all over. David shook his head. I’m taking a shower. Just leave me alone.

Duke looked a little disappointed. He loved a good wrestle.

Steam filled the bathroom as David got into the shower. He winced as the almost scalding water hit him. I’m going straight to Hell. I might as well get used to the blistering heat . . . he thought. David leaned against the shower wall for support, letting the hot water run over his body. The outside of his body started relaxing as the warm water flowed over him; inside, his stomach started churning. His entire body ached from within as he felt a convulsion starting deep inside. Finally, with no food in his stomach, the dry heaves began ravaging his body as he slid down the shower wall to the floor.

On his hands and knees, he heaved while the convulsions wreaked havoc on his body for several minutes. Then he curled up into a ball and trembled from the pain. He stayed under the water as it faded from hot to warm and then cold. Then, he reached up and turned the water off, crawled out onto the bathroom floor, picked up a towel that looked like it could stand up on its own, and gave it a sniff. Not too bad . . . he thought as he wiped his face off. David dropped the towel on the floor, his eyes glued to the mirror in disbelief. Someone had written the letters G-Y-B-A-T-A-W in the steam on the glass. Got Your Back . . . How? No one knows that . . . Did I write those? He thought. He stood motionless, staring in disbelief at the private acronym that only he and Sarah shared.

Still trying to make sense of the letters in the mirror, David grabbed some clothes from the piles scattered on the floor and headed into the kitchen for some coffee. Overdue bills lay scattered across the counters. David still received royalty checks from his books, but it had been four years since he released one. Those checks were no longer covering the bills. Someday, that alley will be my home. Maybe it won’t be so bad . . . he thought. He fumbled around looking for some coffee and noticed Duke staring at him.

David looked at the dash of gray blending in on Duke’s muzzle, realizing he wasn’t the puppy he’d been six years ago. Duke barked as if in response to David’s thoughts. You’re thinner than you used to be, too. David reached down and scratched behind his ear. When did I last feed you? Duke stared over at his empty bowl. All right, I’ll get you some food in a minute. Maybe tomorrow morning, you can remember that I fed you and not push me from bed. The tension lines on David’s face softened. How many battles have we shared, Duke? How many times did you stand side by side with Sarah and me? Hundreds for sure, I would say.

Duke looked back over at his food bowl.

OK, you stupid dog! I’ll get you some food. David checked Duke’s food bin. Empty. Duke, you’re an exceptional fighter, a noble companion, and a magnificent dog, but our days together fighting are over. There is no point in caring. The fight is over. Satan beat us and knows it. It’s over, Duke. David got on his knees and hugged his faithful fighting companion, Duke, as the tears came back. It’s over, Duke. Without Sarah. . . all I need now is the tequila. David got back up. OK, food. David scoured the cupboards, looking for food for his dog.

Cheerios! That’ll work. David dumped the remains of the box into Duke’s bowl.

Cheerios rolled across the floor in several directions as they overflowed the bowl.

David poured some of the previous day’s cold coffee into a mug while Duke launched into his bowl. Then he scoured the cupboards again. There must be something in this house for me to eat. He opened the last cabinet with no luck. Glancing over at Duke and his Cheerios, he grabbed a bowl and poured what remained in the box. Three Cheerios came rolling out. David looked in the box and threw it across the room into the wall. He took a sip of coffee. Sorry, Duke. It looks like you’ll have to share.

The dog glared at him as David filled his bowl with Cheerios from Duke’s bowl. They glistened and dripped with Duke’s drool.

Noticing a tequila bottle on the counter with a tad left at the bottom, David poured the remaining bit onto his cereal. He poured his coffee in as well. Breakfast of champions, he said. They ate their breakfast in silence, and for a few brief moments, they both seemed to be content until David’s thoughts returned to the letters on the bathroom mirror.

How Duke? No one knows those letters except Sarah and me? David leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, and stared down at his empty bowl. Tears fell from his face into his bowl, mixing with the remaining drops of tequila. How? It makes no sense.

David got up and checked the tequila bottles scattered around the kitchen—empty. He headed back toward his bedroom; shoulders slumped, head down. If I’m out of tequila, the next best thing is a bed . . . he thought. As he left the kitchen, he noticed the digital calendar clock on the wall: June 22, 2009. David stopped and studied the clock for a moment. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his shoulders slumped deeper. I should have known—today is the anniversary. A smile made its way onto David’s face as he remembered June 22, 1986.

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They had been standing together on the sidewalk, holding hands in the chilly evening air. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance as the evening fog rolled in off the bay. A streetlight cast an orange glow into the mist as David stared into Sarah’s eyes. He reached up and ran his hand across her cheek.

Uh oh, are you getting all romantic with me, silly? Sarah said with a grin on her face.

Romantic? Me? No. I’m just checking to make sure you’re real.

Sarah’s grin spread into a full smile. You’re the sweetest, she said.

No, I just want to memorize your face. I want every nuance etched into my mind so that even when we part for a moment, I can still see every detail clearly. David said.

Sarah rested her head on his chest and pulled him close. I can hear your heart racing. She turned to look up at him.

My heart always races when you’re near. It has since the moment I saw you. David looked into her eyes as she released her hug. Sarah, may I kiss you? he asked.

Of course you can, Silly. She lost her eyes in his as he leaned in.

David pulled her tight. Their lips brushed against each other. The intimacy at that moment was almost unbearable for each as they breathed the same air. They moved their lips back and forth, brushing against each other. Then, as the anticipation peaked, their lips met in a moment neither of them could ever have imagined and that neither would ever forget. Neither had ever experienced a feeling like that kiss before, as their souls