Ange du Mal
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Ange du Mal
By Allister Crawley
Copyright 2016 Allister Crawley
Smashwords Edition
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To Kaye and Misha, without who there wouldn’t be a story.
Prologue:
Samael lay by Heaven’s edge, face crushed in by Michael’s foot. A very stylish sandal was the culprit. Samael wondered how long it would take to wash the blood from his brother’s footwear.
Michael towered over him. He didn't seem to be thinking of his shoes, unless that was what caused his tears. The artists, when they painted Samael's defeat, would always forget Michael’s remorse.
Samael wished they would remember.
“Son of a Gorgon. Hate to ruin a good tunic.” Samael coughed up gore. He strained to look at Michael. “Can’t say this is a very stylish downfall.”
“It does lack a certain flair.” Michael’s hair was the color of a scab. Like saffron threads, according to Islamic lore. Samael wished his brother would dye it. Red always clashed with Michael’s robes.
Funny, one of the last things Samael would notice was Michael’s unfortunate braid. Samael always said you should laugh at a tragedy, and if Michael’s updo was anything, it was certainly worthy of mourning.
Samael struggled to smile, which was difficult, considering his face looked like a land mine exploded somewhere north of his nose. “Perhaps you can make my end more iconic. Give the poets something to write about.”
“If that’s your last wish,” Michael said. “I could give you a dunce cap. Maybe make you a toga out of CAUTION tape?”
“Put that sword you're overcompensating with to use, then.”
Michael stepped back. “I was joking.”
Samael attempted to smirk with a broken mouth. “It’s my parting request, ginger.”
“You were always dramatic. Fine. But only so you’ll owe me.”
Michael drove his sword deep into his twin’s breast.
Samael screamed. He tried to do so in a manly fashion. There were a lot of female seraphim watching.
Michael dabbed his eyes. “You can still repent,” he murmured. “Father's forgiven you.”
“You and your daddy complex,” Samael said. He grabbed hold of Michael’s sword and buried it deeper into his chest. Samael nearly bit his tongue off to stay silent. Anything for style. “Either way, I win - your favorite shoes are ruined.”
“This is my best pair.” Michael withdrew his sword and knelt by his brother. He placed a hand on Samael’s charred wing. “What are we doing? There's no victory. You should know that.”
Samael struggled to reach the circlet at his brow. The Lapis Exillis – the bright morning star - shone from its center.
Samael offered it to Michael. “Of course. I wasn’t born last eon. Take it, will you? Something to remember me by. I’d give you a lock of my hair, but it’s all burnt off.”
Michael clasped the circlet. “I always hated this thing. Made you look like Eve during her princess phase.” He hurled it into the abyss. “Let’s forget this happened. We can go home, drink some Manna-hattans. We can walk away now – or in your case, crawl. I could even carry you.”
“Too late for cocktails. Take care of her, would you? I didn’t mean to screw her over so badly.”
Michael’s eyes turned hard. “Eve’s dead. And this wasn’t about humanity’s temptation. This was about your selfishness. Your pride. ”
Samael’s gaze strayed to space, from which a third of the stars had fallen. “Not this argument again. You’re right. This war was about more than the apes. It was about truth. But who's right? Father or I?”
Michael stood. “The answer is in the fields of the slain”
Samael ignored him. He dragged himself to the lip of the abyss.
“I can almost see her down there. Perhaps I’ll go fishing for souls.”
“Wait - no!” Michael boomed.
The archangel reached out to grasp only air. Samael had tossed himself off the cliff in a last ditch effort at a dramatic exit.
Michael cursed.
A breath – a crash – a last screw-you to a Heaven too small for the likes of the Devil:
"Better to reign in the wastes than serve an absent God."
Chapter 1
Rosanna peered at me. “You alright, mijita?”
“Huh?” I pried my gaze from a circling hawk, returning to the moment. “Sorry, I was out of it.”
Spacing out? Typical. That, or it could be heat-stroke. Hopefully the former. I settled into the stands of the crowded football game.
“I asked if you were okay.”
“Yeah,” I said, “It’s just the game. It’s like watching paint dry.”
My old friend from high school laughed. “This thing is about as entertaining as plucking my toes off to the beat of an ABBA song.” She scanned the field. “At least the players are hot.”
My eyes followed hers to Mo, who was going in for a touchdown. My brother nearly made it before he was tackled by an opposing player.
"Mo’s brain is a slab of steak," I said. "He used to put monarch butterflies in my sandwiches so I’d migrate to Mexico. They tasted like dirt.”
Rosanna laughed. “God, is it hot or what?” She pulled at the collar of her top.
I glanced at her lacy black ensemble. “It is, but you’re probably boiling.”
Rosanna pulled out her parasol. “The high price of being Robert Smith’s lovechild.”
“What’d I miss?” I looked up to see Divya carrying bottled waters from the concessions stand. Rosanna and I scooted over to make room for the final member of our high school trio.
“Mo falling flat on his ass,” I said.
Divya smiled. “He has a tendency to do that.” She doled out the waters. “Remember when he flipped the urinals upside down for his senior prank? Not only was that architecturally impossible, I'm surprised it didn’t go on his record."
I flinched. "Don't remind me."
The football game passed, and the monotony of orientation dragged on. It was three days before classes started at Hortense, a sleepy liberal arts college tucked into the south of Virginia, and the town had barely woken up. Night life was dead, only freshmen and athletes were here, and all there was to do were banal orientation games between different freshmen halls. If I had to play another name game, I’d skewer my heart with one of the dining hall sporks.
Our trio grabbed dinner that night on campus. We sat a stone’s throw away from the football team, attempting to eat rubbery chicken and rice that had been overcooked. Halfway through our meal, Mo swaggered over, still in his dirty uniform.
“Ladies,” Mo said, sitting down across from us. He focused specifically on Rosanna.
“Meathead,” I replied.
“See how Shannon treats me? Like an Outback Steakhouse entree,” he said, trying to garner sympathy from the others.
There was silence.
He flexed surreptitiously as he reached for my soda. After taking a slurp, he handed it back. “Fine, side with her. I’ll cry later. Before I write in my diary about bullying has taken its toll, I have news.”
“You’re actually going to pass your classes this semester?” Divya said.
Mo frowned. “Actually, I was going to invite you to a rager at the quarterback’s house. But you don’t want to hang out with me. Just like high school-”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “An actual party? Not one of your excuses to seduce cheerleaders over cheap beer?”
Mo nodded.
“We’re in,” Rosanna said. “I need a drink to get through orientation.”
Mo grinned. “Great. The house is behind the Golden Dragon - you know, that Chinese place. It starts at 9:00.” He paused. “Oh, and Shannon. Stay away from the punch. You can’t handle your alcohol.”
Irritation flared in my gut. “It runs in the family, Mr. Barfs-at-Weddings.”
Mo rubbed his stomach. “It’s the champagne. It doesn’t agree with my delicate constitution. Neither does your hatred.”
“Excuses,” I said.
“Whatever,” Mo said. “Peace out.”
“I give him until 10:00 until he pukes his guts out,” Rosanna said.
It took until 11:00.
I rubbed my brother’s back, consoling him as he dry heaved into the toilet.
“The other guys will think I’m a pussy,” Mo moaned. “Everything’s spinning. Make it stop.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be spinning if you hadn’t done a keg stand.”
He gazed up at the ceiling. “You’re the one that gets tipsy off juice.”
“That’s not true. Want me to get you a pillow or something?”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “And turn off the lights. I need to sleep.” He hauled himself into the tub.
I smiled at my twin. “Okay, whatever you need. I’ll be right back.”
I waded through throngs of dancers to the couch, retrieving a pillow and blanket for my disheveled brother. I tucked the pillow behind his head and sighed.
“What’s wrong, Shannikins?” Mo slurred. “You’ve been a pill lately.”
I leaned against the tub. “I keep having this feeling. Like deja vu. Do you ever feel like you're walking through life backwards, about to run straight into a wall?" I shook my head. "You know me, I usually have it together. I think it’s all the stress.”
“We’re all stressed. It’s college.” He attempted to pat my shoulder but ended up sprawled against the side of the tub. A bit of vomit clung to his lip. “You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll get through this.”
I smiled. “Thanks. Want to sleep?”
He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed.
I made my way back to the dance floor, leaving Mo in relative peace - or pieces. Rosanna danced, completely in her own world, and Divya grinded with an exchange student from our hall.
“Shannon,” Rosanna said, “is Mo okay?”
“Ask me when his hangover’s over.”
Someone tapped my shoulder. I recognized the linebacker - Baxter - that had held Mo upside down for his keg stand.
“Hey,” Baxter said, “sorry about your brother. I was the same way freshmen year. In over my head, trying to impress the team. He okay?”
I laughed it off. “Yeah, he’s fine. He’s a clown.”
Baxter smiled. “Want to dance?”
He was a tall, tan guy, maybe Filipino. Cute. “Sure."
Baxter slid his hands down my hips, and we danced, making small talk. Soon, we came to a lull in the music.
“Thirsty?” What a smile. He had teeth like white Chiclets.
“Sure,” I said.
He came back with two drinks. “Punch?” He slipped a silver flask out of his pocket. “I’ve got some vodka if you want to spice it up."
“Why not?” I took the punch, and clacked my cup against his. “Cheers!”
“To what?” Baxter said.
“Not effing up college.”
“That would be a miracle.” He downed his drink.
We danced. Rosanna found a questionable punk guy of her own. Divya and her partner joined us. Baxter mixed vodka into our drinks, and soon, we were all buzzed off the footballers’ concoction. It kind of tasted like the candy strawberries old people gave you.
“You look like a runner,” Baxter called over the beat.
I laughed. “I ran cross-country in high school.”
“Ah.” He smiled again, with the dental manual teeth. “That explains it.” He put his hands on my hips and whispered into my ear. “Hey, there are some sick trails out in the College Woods. Think you can outrun me?”
I was tipsy, though my brain didn’t want to admit it. “Outrunning you is no problem. The question is, when do you want to go?”
“Now.”
“Now?” I laughed, nervous, but buzzed.
“Yeah. It'd be easy to slip away.”
The thrill of a challenge shot through me. That or the fear of getting date raped. “I guess…” I said.
Baxter set down his red Solo cup. “Great. Meet me on the back porch of your dorm in twenty minutes. Which one is it?”
“Trothman Hall.”
“Right,” Baxter said.
I went to my room and changed into a running tank and black shorts. What I was doing was stupid, and I was slightly drunk, but Baxter had tapped into one of my secrets: I adored night-running. Late in northern Virginia, when my parents were asleep, I would slip out of my room, climb down the gutter, and go for midnight jogs. I'd bring my nature journals and record what I saw, an aspiring naturalist, catching fireflies and moths, listening to foxes yip. It was my high. My treasure. Sweat, darkness, and danger, only to be paid with bruises under my eyes and root-twisted ankles come morning.
I met Baxter under the porch lantern. Bugs buzzed around the electric light. He took my hand and led me to a gravel path that looped behind the dorms. We chatted as we walked, glancing up at the summer stars. The moon hung over our heads, its milky light illuminating the path. We came to a lake dappled with clouds.
“The path goes around the water,” Baxter said, squeezing my hand. “I'll go one way, you go the other. Whoever makes it back first wins.”
“Loser has to buy the winner a beer,” I said.
Baxter laughed. “Good by me.”
Chapter 2
I speared through the darkness, cricket-song in my ears. My legs beat a rhythm on the path as I settled into my stride.
I thought of the flurry of today. Things were shaping up much better than I’d imagined. That is, until classes hit. Then I might get my butt kicked by my biology major.
I shrugged off the thought, enjoying the thrum of the night. The woods were alive with sounds – leaves rustling in the breeze, bats clicking above. I came to a thick copse of trees that bordered the lake, losing sight of the water. Blackness threaded around me from the leaves’ shade. After minutes of running I found that I was off the trail.
I whipped out the light on my phone, but there was no trace of the beaten dirt. The tree trunks wove ribbons around me. I was in the midst of thick, twisting pine.
I walked cautiously forward, calling out for Baxter.
No reply.
I cursed my brick of a flip phone for not having GPS. I’d gotten lost before on runs, and sometimes it had taken hours to get home. But the College Woods were alien terrain, not the familiar forests of home, and I feared as I kept walking that I was stumbling deeper into the middle of nowhere. Hortense was surrounded by wilderness, near swampland that was uninhabitable, feeding into the James River. It would be easy to get lost.
My palms sweat.
> I called Rosanna. I got directed to voicemail. I tried Divya – same deal. Begrudging, I called Mo, only to find he too wouldn’t answer. Probably passed out in the tub. With no one else to call, I continued on, cursing myself for not bringing my flashlight. After a while, my phone battery died, and I was truly lost in the College Woods – if I was even still in them.
Ange du Mal Page 1
