by Lou Morgan
Rebellion
( Blood and Feathers - 2 )
Lou Morgan
"This is a war. THE war. There is no stopping; no getting out. You're in this - just like the rest of us - to the end."
Driven out of hell and with nothing to lose, the Fallen wage open warfare against the angels on the streets. And they're winning.
As the balance tips towards the darkness, Alice - barely recovered from her own ordeal in hell and struggling to start over - once again finds herself in the eye of the storm. But with the chaos spreading and the Archangel Michael determined to destroy Lucifer whatever the cost, is the price simply too high? And what sacrifices will Alice and the angels have to make in order to pay it?
The Fallen will rise. Trust will be betrayed. And all hell breaks loose...
Rebellion
Blood and Feathers - 2
by
Lou Morgan
To Jon.
For believing.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
– Shakespeare,Henry IV.2
CHAPTER ONE
Fire in the Hole
THE BRICK SAILED through the air, spinning end over end. It was almost graceful... until it smashed through the storefront. On the street outside, a shout went up as three men shoved their way to the front of the crowd, kicked out the remains of the window and stepped through the frame, raising their fists in triumph. There was another cheer, and one of them clambered onto the counter to wrench a television screen off the wall.
The pavements were littered with glass: broken windows, broken bottles, broken everything. People had gathered on the road in the fading light; they stood in knots around the shattered shops, some clutching boxes tightly to themselves, some staring blankly around them as though unsure how they had come to be there. A burning bin smouldered, filling the air with acrid smoke as it melted into the pavement. Distant sirens sounded, but never seemed to get any closer. The mob rampaged up and down the road, tearing boards from windows and cheering its own triumphs as it went.
So intent were the crowd on tearing the street apart, they didn’t notice the sudden chill in the May air. Few – if any – saw their breath curling up into the evening like clouds. Without knowing why, they paused, and parted... and a man stepped through the space.
He was dressed entirely in black: his boots, his jeans, his unseasonable coat were black. Even his hair was black... but around his wrist, clearly visible at the edge of his sleeve, was a bright white band, burned into his skin. The same mark was carried by the couple walking behind him: a young woman and a man with a burn-scarred face, laughing and nudging each other as they went.
The crowd broke apart, moving to let them pass, then reformed in their wake. They were like ghosts passing through, watching everyone and everything around them but watched by no-one. The man in the black coat smiled as he walked, and anyone on the street who had been watching would have seen that his smile was a little too wide; that he had too many teeth, and a look in his eyes that would cool blood.
But no-one was watching, and the Fallen moved through the riot leaving carnage in their wake.
They turned down a side-street, making their way to an open manhole. With only the briefest of glances behind them, one by one they clambered down the narrow ladder: the man in black first, then the man with the scarred face, and finally the woman. The sewer below was barely even damp: between the cold winter and the long dry spring, there was hardly enough water to wet the soles of their shoes. Stooping slightly in the confines of the tunnel, they walked in near-darkness, far beneath the chaos above.
The man in black came to a halt. There was someone else in the tunnel ahead: another man, leaning back against the curved wall with his arms folded across his chest. The white brand on his wrist shone in the gloom. “You took your time,” he said.
“It’s not like he’s going anywhere, is it?” The man in black indicated a circular grate set into the wall, perhaps six feet in diameter, chained to which was an angel.
His wrists and ankles were outstretched, shackled to the bars. His wings were forced between the bars of the grate, the grey feathers torn and stained with blood. He was stripped to the waist, and jagged cuts criss-crossed his torso, carved into his flesh. His head lolled forward; the water pooling at his feet ran scarlet.
The man in black stepped past the guard and leaned closer to the captive angel, staring at the shackled wrist closest to him. In the darkness, the sigil emblazoned upon it shone like fire, a pattern of sharp angles and lines – its edges blurred by dirt and blood, but clear enough. Shaking his head, he reached forward and grabbed a handful of the prisoner’s hair, cruelly twisting it; forcing his chin up. The angel’s eyes were swollen almost shut, his face puffy and soft from the beating he’d taken – but he was still able to part his split lips enough to smile... and to spit full in his captor’s face.
Disgusted – and not a little surprised – the man in black wrenched his hand away, letting his prisoner’s head drop. Wiping his face on one sleeve, he pulled something out of his coat and fumbled with it in the dark. The angel raised his head, the muscles of his neck standing out like cords with the effort, and blinked. “He’ll find you, Rimmon. You can run all you like, but he’ll find you.”
The man in black laughed. “We’re counting on it.” He gestured to the guard, who picked up a metal can, unscrewed the top and poured the contents over the captured angel’s head. The smell of petrol filled the sewer. Still the angel watched as Rimmon held up his lighter, popping the lid open.
“Now. You’re one of Michael’s boys, so I’m willing to bet this wouldn’t normally bother you. But you’re Earthbound, and – let’s face it – you’re not at your best, are you? So...” He tailed off, taking a step back. “Tell them we’re coming. If, of course, they find you in time...”
The lighter hit the floor and bounced.
The flint sparked... and suddenly fire was racing up the angel’s legs, across his torso and through the feathers of his broken wings, lashing itself to him more tightly than his chains.
Rimmon turned and walked away, the others falling into step behind him. As the Earthbound began to scream, a smile crept across the Fallen’s face...
CHAPTER TWO
New Girl
THE HALFWAY TO Heaven did not look like the most welcoming of places. To put it another way: from the outside, the Halfway to Heaven looked like a dive. Which it was. A dingy bar halfway down a street; a bar with gloomy windows and a rubbish-strewn alley alongside it, a swing board that hung, creaking, over the pavement, and a doorman with a black coat and an ID badge.
A doorman with a black coat and an ID badge, and wings.
The Halfway to Heaven was a dive, but it was the angels’ dive. It was the haunt of the angels serving out their exile – the ones who had been barred from heaven (albeit temporarily) for any number of crimes and for any given length of time. The Halfway was where they drowned their sorrows and traded their war stories. It was their sanctuary: it was where they felt safe – and more importantly, it was where news and gossip were spread. An Earthbound angel is still an angel... and angels talk.
And there had been much to talk about. At first, it had been rumours. Rumours of a half-born, the daughter of a lost angel and a former priest; a half-born who burned. Rumours that she was being protected by none other than Mallory – the closest thing to a leader that the Earthbounds had, and one who was never less than an irritation to their Descended-angel superiors. Rumours that the half-born was being prepared for hell.
For once, the rumours had been true.
All of them.
The half-born, Mallory, the battle at the gates of hell itself – where most of the Halfway’s regulars had joined the fight – a
nd the final, triumphant capture of Lucifer’s vacant body and the closure of hell. All of it was true.
Except... after a while, the triumphant capture of Lucifer’s body didn’t feel like such a triumph. After all, what good was his body without his mind? He was still free to hop from body to body, taking possession of his legion of Fallen angels as and when he pleased. Utterly unpredictable and completely unstoppable. And hell? Hell, it turned out, hadn’t been so much a prison for the Fallen as their stronghold, and its gates were built not to keep them in but to keep the angels out. Nothing remained of it but ash... and the Fallen had scattered to the winds. They could be anywhere.
They were everywhere.
Cut loose, they crawled the cities looking for trouble – and if they didn’t find any, they made it their business to start some. Anything to tip the balance ever further in their favour; to sway humanity towards them... and meanwhile, the angels’ celebration toasts turned to drowning their despair.
Not that it bothered the woman sitting at the bar, eating stale peanuts out of a bowl. Her hair fell across her face as she picked at them, only occasionally looking up to reach for the glass of water in front of her.
“She doesn’t belong here,” said the Earthbound at the other end of the bar, speaking to no-one in particular. He had built a little wall out of empty shot glasses in front of him and his speech was slurred, although it was only half past four in the afternoon.
The barman shushed him loudly. “Don’t you know who that is?”
“Half-born, slumming it with the Earthbounds?”
“It’s her.”
“Her?”
“Alice.”
“Alice?”
“Alice. That Alice.”
They turned to stare along the bar at her, one more fuzzily than the other. Alice glanced up from her peanuts and gave them a wave, and then went back to crunching her peanuts, as noisily as possible.
“That Alice? Fought-with-Lucifer Alice? Into-hell Alice?”
“That Alice.”
“I thought she’d be taller. And a redhead.”
There was an indignant snort from the other end of the bar; one the barman tried his best to ignore. Instead, he started to dismantle the wall of glasses. “Well, that’s her. And she’s good to drink in here as long as she wants. She’s one of us.”
“I don’t drink,” said Alice, sliding off her stool and brushing peanut skins from her hands. “And I’m not exactly one of you.”
“Don’t mind him, he’s...”
“I get it. He’s still adjusting – is that it? Not got used to having his wings clipped. I’m not the one he should be taking it out on, am I?” She smiled unhappily.
“It takes a while.”
“I said I get it.”
“I mean, you. You and Mallory and hell and Lucifer. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have Lucifer.”
“We don’t. Michael does. And what do you think he’s going to do with him?”
“End it. End the war.”
“Really?”
“You kill Lucifer, you end the war. Everyone knows that.”
“Huh. Know Michael well, do you?”
“Sure. Well... no. Not personally...”
“Huh.” Alice blinked at him. “I do.” She slid a couple of coins across the top of the bar. “For the peanuts. And this.” Her fingers closed around a slip of paper lying on the bar. Written untidily across it in green ink was a date.
A date, a time and a place... and the word “FALLEN.”
IT HAD BEEN six months. Six months since the angels besieged hell; six months since Alice, along with her mentor Mallory and friend Vin, had climbed back up to the world – cold and exhausted, but victorious. Moderately victorious, at least. Six months since she had defied the Archangel Michael, and six months since she had seen Gwyn, Gabriel’s favourite, stripped of his wings for betraying them all.
Six months since Michael had warned her that – sooner or later – he would come for her.
Six months since Mallory had left.
She still didn’t know how she felt about that.
Mallory had, at long last, been able to go home. It was what he wanted – what he needed – and Alice knew she should be happy for him. She wanted to be happy for him... But.
However hard she tried, however much she wanted... a part of her still felt the same. Like he had left her; they had all left her: with Mallory’s wings restored, he was able to go home, and Vin had wasted little time before disappearing back off to Hong Kong. And Alice had looked around at the ruins of her life and wondered what it had all been for, exactly. And every time she caught sight of the angelic sigil burned into her wrist, it reminded her of Michael, with his eyes full of spinning fire, and his warning that he would come, and she decided it might be best to just get on with things and keep her head down.
If they wanted her – any of them – they knew where to find her.
Her first problem had been finding somewhere to live. With Mallory gone, it seemed only logical that she should take over his home in the sacristy. It also seemed only logical that (given his somewhat laid-back approach to housekeeping) she should give it a thorough clean first. So she did. She scrubbed and polished and threw out a quite extraordinary number of empty bottles, which had been stashed everywhere from under the sink to inside the cold water tank. She washed the mould from the grout and shook the woodlice out of the sofa cushions – feeling only the faintest pang of guilt as she did so, given the number of times she’d woken up face to face with one of them – and she had a close encounter with a cockroach which made her entirely glad she was alone, because she screamed like a little girl. And flapped her hands. And screamed one more time before finally clamping an upturned bucket over the unfortunate creature and sitting on it, just for good measure.
But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn’t quite rid herself of the image of Lucifer’s eyes, watching her from a face that was not his own.
It was on the Day of the Cockroach that there was a knock at the door; quiet but firm, and Alice ignored it at first. It came again, and she ignored it again. The third time, the knocking grew more insistent, and although she’d planned to ignore it just the same, the sky outside the tiny windows darkened and a pile of Mallory’s old papers, stacked in a corner, rustled as though in a breeze. And while the sacristy was draughty, there were limits to what Alice was prepared to ignore.
“Alice,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “I’m at the door. Whether you invite me or not, I am coming in – so don’t you think we could start this on a more... civil footing?”
Alice opened the door.
On the other side was a neat man wearing a dark morning suit. His hair was cropped short and mottled with grey; his beard was clipped close to his chin. One hand was folded behind his back, while the other hung at his side, clutching the brim of a top hat.
“Going to a wedding?” Alice asked.
“Not exactly.” He frowned at her, and Alice was startled to see that his eyes were black – as though pupil and iris had merged into one. Still, they twinkled at her.
“So,” he said, turning the hat in his fingers, “will you invite me in, or must I invite myself?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I have what you might call... trust issues. Of course, you could help by telling me who you are. And what you want.”
“But of course – how rude of me. My name,” he said, shaking out his black wings, “is Adriel. And I’m here to offer you a job.”
Alice felt her jaw drop open and snapped it shut. “Adriel.”
“Yes. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”
“You could say that.” She hadn’t needed the name. Alice had spent enough time around angels to recognise him; the one who made them all twitchy. Black wings. Black eyes.
The Angel of Death.
“A job.”
“A job. Yes.”
“‘Job’ as in ‘mission’?”
“No. ‘Job’ as i
n ‘employment.’ Paid employment.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?” Adriel looked puzzled.
“You’re offering me a job. Why? You don’t know me.”
“I don’t need to. I was there, after all, in hell. I saw you, and what I saw impressed me.”
“That was kind of a one-off.”
“So I should hope. But you impressed me, and I find myself in need of a new member of staff. And I believe you are in need of a job, are you not?”
He wasn’t wrong. Alice’s own meagre funds hadn’t exactly gone far – however careful with them she was – and she was rapidly depleting Mallory’s emergency savings... which she had very nearly thrown away, hidden as they were inside an old pizza box. Along with a mummified slice of pizza. It was all well and good, this ‘living below the radar’ thing, but she still had to eat.
She sighed. Against her better judgement, she asked, “What kind of job?”
“One in a... sympathetic working environment.”
“Working for you.”
“Working for me.” He nodded. “Somewhere you needn’t worry about the... politics of your actions.” He tapped the cuff of his sleeve, where every angel’s sigil lay. He meant Michael, and his interest in her: of course he did. “So you know: anything you do while working for me will fall under my jurisdiction – not his.”
Alice weighed her options. Or attempted to. She didn’t have many options. She needed the money, and at least this way she didn’t have to worry about explaining to her boss why things around her had a tendency to catch fire.
“And what is it, exactly, that you do?” she asked.
Adriel simply turned his hat over in his hands and smiled. “If you’ll permit me, why don’t I just show you?”
“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Alice folded her arms across her chest and stared at the wide shop frontage: a large window partly obscured by curtains, and a tasteful sign above it.
