Fallen (Guardian Trilogy Book 1)

by Laury Falter

  Text copyright ©2009 by Laury Falter

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author or the publisher.

  First Edition: April 2009

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Falter, Laury, 1972-

  Fallen: a novel / by Laury Falter – 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-615-29498-8

  For Babs, my twin sister, and her impassioned, unwavering enthusiasm as each succeeding chapter was written.

  And for Joyce Durham, whose passing inspired the writing of this novel.

  PREFACE

  Abaddon’s eyes met mine, and I turned to head down the dark street toward a quieter spot, a less public place. I wasn’t sure what Abaddon had in mind, but I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. I didn’t want anyone to accidentally find us or to valiantly step in, trying to be a hero.

  As I headed farther away from the commotion of Bourbon Street, into the darkness, I didn’t need to turn to make sure they were following me.

  I could feel them.

  As we got farther from safety, my radar grew more and more intense, as if it was sensing their anticipation of what was to come.

  I approached a dark alleyway and figured this would be as good a place as any to do it. Only the hazy illumination of a streetlight reached here, and no doors or windows could be seen, just the back sides of two buildings.

  An efficient place to die.

  It was here and now. I turned to face Abaddon, startled to find him leaning down, merely an inch away.

  CONTENTS

  1. ENCOUNTER

  2. SNAKE

  3. FIRST DAY

  4. ANSWERS

  5. MESSAGE

  6. THE GIFT

  7. DELIVERY

  8. PAST LIVES

  9. LEGENDARY STORIES

  10. SUBSTITUTE

  11. ADMISSION

  12. SECRET

  13. FALLEN ONES

  14. OUT OF HIDING

  15. FALLEN

  CHAPTER ONE: ENCOUNTER

  I was picked up my last day of school, in a U-Haul truck. Aunt Teresa was sitting in the driver’s seat with map in hand and piles of boxes stacked, haphazardly, across the back seat. She was smiling and waving at me through the window. I didn’t feel much like smiling back.

  “Can we have another expression?” she called out.

  I shrugged, as I slipped into the passenger’s seat. “What would you prefer?”

  “Boy, anything at this point. Your face has been frozen in a frown for the last week,” she complained, turning the key in the ignition. The truck shuddered violently and then rumbled to life.

  I glanced out at the sprawling Las Vegas desert, my face stiff and unaccommodating. No, there was no chance of anything other than a frown.

  “Think of this as an adventure,” she urged. “New Orleans is a fantastic city with lore, jazz, Creole and Cajun food, alligators, ghosts…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  “It will be,” she insisted.

  Aunt Teresa is a traveling photographer who would be spending less than an hour in New Orleans before leaving me and flying to Paris for a year-long, nomadic shoot. Because of Aunt Teresa’s opportunity, I was being banished to a city completely unknown to me and without a single familiar face.

  Aunt Teresa had pointed out, more times than I cared to count, that I shouldn’t be so uncomfortable with the idea, and to be truthful, she was right. She and I had changed addresses every three months since as far back as I could remember, so one more address change really shouldn’t make a difference.

  What didn’t thrill me was the realization that I’d be forced to live under one roof for the next twelve months. I was going to miss my wild, unpredictable, roaming lifestyle.

  Living in one place for an extended period of time…I couldn’t imagine a more dull existence.

  Worse, being eighteen and apparently incapable of taking care of myself, I was being forced to stay with her friend, Ezra Wood.

  The fact was, I really enjoyed living with Aunt Teresa. There were no annoying rules, no enforced bedtimes, no lights out and no antiquated…traditional…status quo…culturally-enforced family traditions.

  Unfortunately, I had the distinct feeling that Ezra Wood would not be so lenient.

  It took us a full day, plus five hours, to reach New Orleans proper. Thirty minutes later, we arrived downtown. Aunt Teresa turned onto Magazine Street and stopped in front of a purple and pink Victorian-style house.

  We found the ad together which boasted “charming, quaint, and under-valued.” That couldn’t have been further from the truth. The house had shingles torn from the roof, a yard full of weeds, and a porch which, judging by the number of broken branches and piles of leaves collected in the corners, hadn’t been swept in months, if not years.

  “I had a different image of it in my mind,” Aunt Teresa spoke my thoughts, as she peered warily at the neglected dwelling from under the truck visor.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m hardier than this.”

  Aunt Teresa tapped my knee excitedly. “That’s the spirit.

  It’s an adventure, remember?”

  “Right,” I mumbled.

  A beefy man, wearing a pink shirt and green plaid slacks,

  stepped out of a beaten up Chevy and shuffled toward us.

  “Ezra Wood, I presume?” I said, keeping my voice low since the truck windows were rolled down.

  “Not funny.” Aunt Teresa glowered back at me as she heaved open the truck door, ignoring its groaning hinges.

  I followed, reluctantly.

  “Mr. Wilkes, this is Maggie. She’ll be one of the tenants,” said Aunt Teresa, noticeably yanking me closer.

  He started to openly assess me.

  I’m what you would call a slim girl, and no more than five feet tall, with wavy chocolate hair dangling to my waist. My face alone, with my tiny, narrow nose and overly wide, brown eyes, which I always thought could rival the size of tea saucers, probably gave the impression I was innocent. I was once told I looked like a pixie only several times larger.

  Mr. Wilkes must not have found any glaring concerns, because he turned without any verbal acknowledgment and waddled toward the house. He stepped over a long-dead bush that covered half of the front steps, muttering in a thick, southern accent, “Nah, ya ain’t goin’ ta find a betta place than this.”

  “Okay,” Aunt Teresa’s voice sang out eagerly, and I knew immediately that she was ditching me. “I have to get to the airport,” she confirmed, already pulling out her cell phone to call a cab.

  “Aunt Teresa…already?” I sighed.

  “You’ll be fine. You’ve done this enough times. You don’t need my help.”

  That much was true.

  “Yes, I need a cab…” she said, into the phone.

  I glanced back at Mr. Wilkes, standing on the porch now, frowning. Apparently, he didn’t like to be delayed. I ignored him.

  Aunt Teresa closed her phone and loped toward me, beaming. “You’ll take care of the truck, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied, though not at all happy about it. “I always do.”

  “I know. You’re so good about it.” She gave me a firm hug and pulled away, still holding my shoulders. “You’re going to like it here. I can feel it in my bones.”

  I felt my face settle back into a frown, which she paid no atte
ntion to.

  “Now go see your new home.” She said this with far more enthusiasm than I felt.

  Grudgingly, I went to meet Mr. Wilkes at the front door where he was already slipping the key into the rusted lock. He had to shake the lock, jarringly, and rattle the door, harshly, against its hinges, not seeming to care in the least that his potential client was watching from behind him.

  I looked back over my shoulder where Aunt Teresa stood, grinning. She gave me an animated wave. I gave her a lackluster one back.

  “Yeah…” Mr. Wilkes mumbled, drawing my attention as he swung open the door. “Best place you kin find.”

  Inside was dank and musty. Clearly the house hadn’t been walked through in a very long time.

  “Watch ya step. Floorboards slope.”

  I nodded, realizing the one I was currently standing on didn’t slope but sagged.

  A small room off to the left, which I guess acted as the parlor, was mostly empty with the exception of a cobweb-encased poker next to the fireplace. The remaining rooms were much the same. No furniture, but lots of remnants of the other animals and insects who will be sharing my new home with me.

  Great.

  Throughout the tour, while I tested lights and turned on faucets, occasionally finding a short or a bad line that would sputter at me, Mr. Wilkes occasionally repeated the same phrase, nodding to himself, “Yea, best place ‘round hea.”

  Then, we reached the first bedroom, and I was sold. The room was fine enough. It was spacious with a walk-in closet, which I really had no use for, because clothes were the last thing on my mind. What caught my attention was that it boasted a full-sized balcony overlooking Magazine Street. Stepping through the doors, I stared off each side. Aunt Teresa was gone now, but oddly, the disenchanted, lost feeling I thought would wash over me never came. Instead, I stood on the balcony watching the street below, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was home.

  A single plastic chair had been tossed, by a hand or by the wind, up against the railing. Instantly, I wished I could upright the seat, settle in, and wait for the sunset – allowing myself to forget Mr. Wilkes’ tour and just handing him the first month’s rent right then. Prudence and logic fought my need for spontaneity and eventually won. However, I did linger on the balcony, as Mr. Wilkes disappeared inside.

  From somewhere in the distance I could hear Cajun music twanging and then the sudden burst of a foghorn. Across the street was another small house with a building in the back, both appearing vacant. From the remaining houses, down each side of the street, I could see residents sitting on their lawns, returning with groceries, or taking their dog for a walk.

  It was perfect.

  “Yeah comin?” Mr. Wilkes called out from inside the darkness of the house. “Need ta show ya the back.”

  It took a lot of self-control, but I finally coaxed my body to move and met Mr. Wilkes downstairs.

  I followed him to the kitchen where it was obvious from the number of paint peels that it, too, had been neglected. Yet, someone had taken the time to adhere a single strip of wallpaper as a border to the ceiling. It was yellow with tiny, white flowers, and I thought it looked very appropriate in the small room.

  “Appliances are a bit old,” admitted Mr. Wilkes. For proof he turned the knob to ignite one of the stove’s burners and a flame shot a foot above his head. Shocked, he stepped back, laughed to himself, and turned the knob off without another word about it.

  He opened a small door from the kitchen leading to the back where we found the yard overgrown but large, with a small, wooden shed in the corner. I immediately approached it, picking up the lock.

  Mr. Wilkes stepped up behind me, grunting, as he dug in his pockets for the key. Finding it, he handed it to me, and I inserted it. Unlike anything else in the house, this lock worked fluidly. I swiftly opened the door and found an empty, good-sized shed inside. Good enough for a motorcycle.

  “I’ll take it,” I said instantly.

  Mr. Wilkes nodded once, self-assured. “Knew ya would.” He then handed the rest of the house keys to me while quoting a price for the rent.

  It was slightly higher than what the ad had listed, but I didn’t mention it. Mr. Wilkes didn’t strike me as a man who would negotiate. I could walk away from the property, having plenty of money stuffed in the backpack slung over my shoulder, and find a far more luxurious house.

  But this place had already settled in me. I was home.

  I dug through my backpack and gave Mr. Wilkes the amount he quoted. Taking it, he gave me a serious gaze. “Same amount…every first of the month…no exceptions.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Hope not. Kin rent this place any time. Best place ‘round hea.”

  I had trouble keeping myself from laughing. I wasn’t sure if he seriously believed what he said or not and didn’t want to offend him either way. “I understand, sir.”

  He gave me one final, long stare, spun on his heel and marched back toward the street. At least he was gracious enough to help me unload the bed frame and move it into the upstairs bedroom…for fifty bucks. It was the only piece of furniture I owned as my frequent moves inhibited me from ever buying more. I had learned to live on very little.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Wilkes left. I heard his car engine turn on and saw it pass by a few seconds later from where I stood on the balcony.

  I pulled a piece of paper from my back pocket and looked at the directions. There was one stop I needed to make before returning the U-Haul truck.

  It took me an hour to get there since the house was on the outskirts of the city. I knew I’d reached it when I saw the broken, wooden sign hanging across the gate entrance that read Hicker Ranch. The property was thick with overgrown trees and boasted several decrepit buildings, but the main house wasn’t hard to find. Still, it was a challenge to reach, surrounded by weeds that reached my knees. I learned this after I jumped down from the cab. Watching my step as I walked closer to the house hidden in old oak trees, a frail woman in her seventies crossed the wide, sagging porch and stopped at the steps. In a scratchy voice, tarnished by years of liquor and cigarettes, she greeted me. “It’s around back in the barn.”

  With that, I made a sharp right and walked through the dead weeds of her property to find a dilapidated barn. The barn doors were unlocked but it took me a good amount of muscle to push them open.

  There, in the dusty shadows, I could see it.

  My Harley Davidson 883 Sportster. It was a beautiful mesh of silver chrome and black metal that could take me just about anywhere I wanted at speeds of up to 120 miles per hour if I chose. It didn’t look like much on the eBay ad and I didn’t know much about motorcycles to begin with even if it had. But, it took my breath away when I first saw it. Even though it was not the wisest purchase for someone who had never owned any mode of transportation before, that didn’t matter. It would be all mine.

  “You have the money?” The woman’s scraggy voice came up behind me.

  I nodded, without looking at her. Instead, I reached down into my backpack and pulled out four bills, one thousand dollars each.

  She gawked at me before I had a chance to explained, “You said over the phone you didn’t mind large bills.”

  “Huh,” was all she replied, mouth still agape, taking the money. I turned away and swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat; I felt like a queen on her throne. The woman dangled the keys toward me, though her expression appeared uncertain. “You sure you can handle this thing?”

  “My aunt’s ex-boyfriend taught me to ride,” I asserted. For proof, I took the keys and inserted them into the ignition with great confidence.

  “Hmmm.” She scratched her nose and leaned her head to one side. Her eyes narrowed at me and she said, “Not that I’m accusin’ you of anything but…where’d you get this kind of money?”

  I paused and it occurred to me that I would eventually need to have an explanation for how I made my income. It wasn’t as
if an elderly woman selling me a bike through eBay would be the only one to ever ask the question. I needed to have a story; one simple enough to prevent further questions but that adhered to my belief system of telling the truth. I certainly couldn’t tell the whole truth so I settled for telling just half my story.

  “I’m a messenger.”

  The woman snorted and chuckled under her breath. “Well…now ya’ll have a faster bike.”

  I grinned back, even while knowing that no bike could get me where I went to deliver messages.

  “Ya wanna take it for a test ride?” she offered.

  I turned the key and listened to the engine rumble to life – a heavy thud, thud, thud, thud.

  I felt exhilarated, a grin drawing up my cheeks.

  She handed me a black, shiny, perfectly new helmet which I strapped securely to my head.

  I circled her property a few times, getting a feel for how it handled and stopped outside the barn doors.

  Her eyebrows rose, questioning.

  Then, with a deep breath, I waved goodbye, shifted the bike into gear and pulled out onto the dirt road, heading back to load it on the U-Haul truck.

  The bike was mine.

  After returning the truck, I drove my motorcycle until just after sunset, unable to stop smiling for most of that time. I decided to find the house I’d rented, and after storing and locking my bike in the shed, I headed upstairs and swung open the French doors leading to the balcony. I took a seat at the edge in the plastic chair and propped my feet up on the rail, dozing while listening to the Cajun music filtering up from the bars.

  I had learned to sleep pretty much anywhere, but it surprised me when I woke up the next morning still in the chair. Lifting my head, I felt the kink in my neck from the night before, but the pain ebbed when I remembered I had a new motorcycle to ride.