The Fallen, Book One: Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Dublin, Ireland – 22 years ago

When Peter Dalry stumbled out of the bar into the open night air he already knew he was being followed. If he were asked a few hours later what exactly followed him into the night and into the wolf’s mouth he would be unable to tell. Peter was milking a broken heart and that would put any man out of his wits. Still dressed in his wedding tuxedo, hair on end and one shoe missing he let the follower follow him.

He felt shadows all over him; tasting, licking, molesting him in ways he thought nothing ever would. In his drunken haze he pushed the slurred thoughts out of his head. Shadows didn’t taste, didn’t lick and didn’t molest people. They were shadows after all and what were shadows but what the human imagination makes of them?

Shadows are not real and they were not with him. He made the shadows, he made them into what he liked – he could make a dog with his hand against the building wall. He was the shadow.

And so, as he walked at 4:20 in the morning that fine Saturday which was to be the finest Saturday of his life and yet turned to be the worst he did not see that shadows indeed followed him. Those same shadows tasted, licked and molested his despair and rejoiced at the sight of the fallen human. For what could be sweeter than a human with loss of all hope?

By the time he finally spotted the parking lot fear had a firm grip on his heart and it thundered harshly against his chest. His heart said to stay and let himself die. Without Brianna, the love of his life, he didn’t want to live but his brain said otherwise. His brain, which controlled all function made his feet run, and run he did as fast as he could. Darkness swallowed the world around him and he felt himself loosing grip on reality.

Hissing sounds started to whisper against his ears and the night turned a blueish-black, the end was near. Ahead, amongst luxury vehicles sat his pale blue import. Waiting for him. Salvation was behind those aluminum doors. He raced to it, for inside, he thought, the darkness could not get him. His hand trembled, his feet stomped the pavement, he was almost there, his drunken state vanished, his life on the line. He was almost there and just as the tip of his fingers brushed ever so slightly the window pane the world was taken out from under his feet.

He stumbled into the ground, head hitting the pavement in a loud thump and physical pain came to accompany his emotional destruction. Quickly, he flipped himself on his back to look upon his assailant.

His eyed went wide as he saw a thick, black smoke shaped like a rodent’s mouth opened to devour him. Peter Dalry was about to die. Many things flashed his inner eye as he watched the smoky teeth lick themselves in anticipation. One last gasp, one last breath, one last wish.

“Help me, God.” He whispered.

Twenty-two years later, when Peter described his vision to his congregation which sat at the edge of their seat, listening intently to how God had changed Peter’s life he told them what he saw. What God showed him. By then, no one dared to call the story apocryphal.

From the death of that night an angel dressed in dark green robes leaped in front of him. She had flaming red hair that went down to her waist, it was loose and wild just like her. She leaped before the shadow, long Medieval sword at hand and thrust into it’s mouth .

Her eyes were powerful emeralds that illuminated as she finished her kill. They turned a crystallized mint green, the same as her sword. On her back were long, broken black wings spanning three meters to the right and three meters to the left. They shivered in delight as the shadowy rodent screamed. She had wings which expressed their jovial delight as s mile spread on her blithe face. She was enjoying the kill.

Her moves were swift, effortless, majestic as she battled the shadow. She was quicker, wiser and more agile than the beast. She was a bird woman – an angel sent to save him. He watched through half-closed lids as she destroyed the monster. The shadow gave one last shriek as the Angel-woman dexterously slayed it. It was done. She had been victorious.

The shadow’s carcass evaporated into the night. The moon, which had hid its glow from the monstrosity that her night could bring slowly showed her face, casting a faint light on the Angel-woman. The same, turned to look at Peter Dalry who hung on to consciousness with the faint strength of at least watching his rescuer for a few more moments.

She knelt before him looking over his state.

“It’s a rarity to be able to see what the world of spirits does hide.” She said. She had a thick voice, like it had spoken for hundreds of years and still strayed in the earth.

“What are you?” Peter whispered, his vision fading him as the seconds ticked.

“Another shadow, not so bad and yet not so good.”

“What is your name?”

“I’m known by many names. But you may know me as Marione.”

“Are you an angel?”

“What angels are and what demons be is not for me to answer. I’ll give you a word of advice and you’ll be the happier for it. Never depend on love so much that will drive you to this. We don’t deserve love and we are very lucky if we receive it. Truly receive it. So when fate spares your life and has something like me interfere then you have a purpose. A true purpose. You’re meant to live and I’d not forget it if I were you.”

“Thank you, Marione – Angel of God,” Peter’s last words as he fell into the unconscious and his mind made the moment grander than it truly was.

Marione however watched him for a moment, lighting a cigarette as he slowly closed his eyes.

“Angel, yes… of God… no. Not this lifetime.”

Atlanta, present day

His mother had named him Rafael because while in her womb a gypsy woman had come to her and told her that one day her son would be exalted; placed above others. His mother, being a deeply religious woman who lit candles by the feet of her wooden saints told herself that night that her son would be an angel. He would go out into the world and be admired, deem good and above all save others from their own perils.

She had no idea how close to reality he would get. Now, one hundred and sixty-one years later, Rafael Loyola, son of Don Fernando Antonio Loyola Acevedo was indeed an angel. In 1877 at age 29, when he had realized what type of creature he was he thought looking like 29 for the rest of the time seemed like a good deal. He didn’t even have to drink blood like all of the ghoul stories he heard in the dark corners of the streets of Santa Cruz. He didn’t feel like a monster yet the shadowy name followed him for the rest of his days… including today.

“Fight and fuck, Rafael. Fight & fuck.”

Marione had told him those words once a long time ago so very long ago that he hardly remembered what she looked like naked, under the moon. It was 1885, three years before he met his own Angel of Light. He had only touched Marione’s skin once but it felt like he was burned forever. Any man who touched her would burn forever. After she told him those words he never wanted to touch her again.

He wanted more than fighting and fucking. He wanted love, he wanted family but he also wanted life. He was a young, thorn man, but a man none the less.

Life was much more simple in Atlanta. He stared at the picture of his four sons. The life where a wild Rafael lay on the hay with a red-haired beauty on his arms was far away. Her words were distant and belonged to another life. He was a family man now.

His thoughts were startled as his own Angel of Light came down the stairs.

Shannon walked into his study and smiled at him, her golden long hair touching her elbows. She was dressed in her favorite hunting gear. All in white. Always all in white. She made no apologies for that.

“You look sexy,” Rafael told her, standing and going to her.

Shannon smiled at her husband, true to herself. She was gentle but deadly. “You always say that when I wear this,” her thick Atlanta accent was still as prominent as the day he met her in 1888.

“Do I?” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in. Her long hair caressing his fingers at her waist and he tenderly pulled it.

“You do,” she agreed, kissing him.

“We have to go – we’ll be late.”

Shannon chuckled at the irony of it, pulling out of his arms and walking to the corner of the study. Rafael’s study was as dark of him, silent mahogany starred at her from every corner. The place was full of books and ancient texts. To others that met the family they would explain that Rafael was a multi-linguist who enjoyed rare and unusual finds. To Shannon it meant that Rafael was almost as knowledgeable as Marione.

“Hey! I thought you were heading out.”

Shannon froze, dropping her hand from the statue of Venus that starred passively at her with a mocking grin.

“Ephraim, darling – I thought you were gone.” Shannon turned around and saw the look of relief flash before Rafael’s eyes.

Ephraim was as tall of his oldest brother and the most handsome of her four sons. His lanky body still screamed that he was only 21 but she could tell that of all of her boys he would personify Rafael the most. Even more than Nathan. Standing there side by side both men looking at her she gave them a bright smile.

“We like arriving to the Wilson’s parties fashionably late, no darling?”

Rafael cleared his throat and looked at his son. “Indeed. Have you studied much for that test?”

“Yeah. But we’re still getting a group together. Strength in numbers, you know.”

“I know,” Rafael briefly glanced at his wife. They had been together for so long that Shannon often could tell what he was thinking and always, always got his indirect short answers.

“Well you head out. Your father and I will be late tonight, don’t wait up.”

“I wont,” Ephraim conceded, giving his mother a goodbye kiss.

“And call Seth sometime tonight. We haven’t heard of him since he started dating that actress.”

Ephraim nodded, obediently and walked out.

Rafael turned to his wife. “I have the strangest feeling laying heavy on my heart.”

“Do you think one has died?”

Rafael said nothing as he closed the doors to his study, a dark shadow went over his face. “Could be.”

Shannon sighed, walking once more to the statue of Venus and picking her up. The action made the entire back wall of the large and luxurious study pull back and reveal a hidden doorway.

“If it’s true – they will be jovial tonight.” Rafael told her, opening the hidden door for her to enter. Always the gentleman.

By the time Rafael and Shannon Loyola reached the Atlanta downtown area both of their wings were spread out and reaching a combined length of 12 meters. If the people on the street were able to see them at all they would stop on their tracks, pull out their camera phones and begin sending it to the local news or TMZ.

The US government would label them as ‘classified’ and a sure Scully team would be on scene in less than an hour. But humanity could not see them for what they were. They could not see them at all. Those who would be able to get a glimpse at the world they lived in at night would often describe their sightings as visions from the all mighty.

The shadows squeaked in their places, watching the Fallen Angels walk silently, deadly, menacingly down the street. The night had the air of death in it – when nights were like this humans had an unfounded feeling that led them back inside. It was that feeling when stepping out into the night feels as if the air was harder to breath as if the moon and its earth were speaking an intimate conversation that humans are not allowed to hear. That is the night that was.

Shannon looked over at her husband of nearly 100 years and smiled. How many nights had they walked like this side by side armed and ready for battle? How many? Many would often call it dull (except Marione) or repetitive? But the truth was that when you found what you were born for – what your soul was born to do you would never find it dull or repetitive. The sadness of humanity is that in their short years they would never truly know their soul. For the soul is an endless story that writes and re-writes itself – like an artist looking for its muse painting over and over an already dried canvas.

No. Shannon was not bored; in fact she was still feeling very much alive. The fact was that the longer she lived the less she feared death but the more she feared loosing life. If it was her time to go would Rafael be able to bear it? Would her sons grow to love good women and marry and start families of their own? Rafael and she had waited so long for children, she feared her womb had been cursed and she would never be able to have them but then came Nathan and not shortly after that the other 3 followed. Why they came at the time they came she did not know. Marione often said that we are nothing to ask why it happens to us but to take it with a smile in case anyone is trying to hurt you- their plan would be futile.

So she did not ask but loved her family with all of her strength and that same strength she used it at night to protect humanity. Humanity that had never truly given her anything exceptional to speak of but would surely give her sons a wonderful life. So she protected it, in case the screaming girl she saved was to be the love of Oliver’s life or the mother to the woman that would change Seth’s philandering ways. Yes, she thought. Humanity was worth saving if not for the reassurance that one day her sons would know all their parents did for them.

“Shannon,” Rafael’s gentle and deep voice called to her. Her sharp eyes turned the direction he looked and she smiled. They were here. They were about. They were close.

Nephers could never truly hide their face. Their fractious nature was a shadow of the choice they had each made so long ago.

“Happy hunting, darling,” she told Rafael and they clinked their swords together, an act they had done since the first time they hunted together.

Allison Wyatt never walked the streets of Atlanta by herself. She also never walked them alone at 2am. The place was not as it used to be but she was fresh out of cash and fresh out of ideas. The night was different than those she had known before. A deep unnamed instinct told her to find her apartment and quickly. She kept feeling something was behind her but every time she looked behind there was nothing. She stayed close to lights, watching cars pass her and fighting the consuming desperate feeling to run, run like hell.

She stayed calm. She’d grown up on these streets, she’d known their pavement as a child and the fact that the streets were slick wet and the humidity trickling down her throat should’ve been a comfort. It should’ve been.

Her apartment was so close she could see the tall building behind some of the stores ahead. Tomorrow morning she would laugh it off with her sister on the phone. Girls like her were not afraid. Did not scare easily – most especially of shadows.

Her mind was settling a bit more when next to her something rather unexplained happened. Five very full and heavy silver trash cans picked themselves up from one corner of the street and splattered all over. As if something or someone had been thrown harshly against them. Allison gasped, screamed and ran all the way to her apartment.

In the morning, when she turned on the local news the unexplained phenomenon was suddenly less scary. There had been a minor earthquake in the Gulf and that affected a few states. Just a minor one. She called her sister and told her she felt the earthquake when it happened.

The dispersed cans were not a phenomenon and neither was the earthquake. What shadows do in the world above humans is as natural as the sun shinning. Holy battles have been fought and never been seen by human eyes but because of it places have burned, buildings destroyed, places drowned. No one told the humans not to built things in the way of Angels. No one. Yet they did. As humans advanced they saw that these natural things could be explained. A shifting in the earth’s plates as opposed to the Archangel Michael tossing General Khan into the Pacific Ocean. Things as such.

What Allison Wyatt didn’t know is that something rather sad had happened that night as she passed by the trash cans.

After over a hundred years of watching Rafael Ginorio kill Nephers right before Nephers’ eyes they had decided to call in the reserves and trap Rafael there. They didn’t count on Shannon being there, of course.

The battle lasted three hours. Three long hours. When Shannon was shot down Rafael watched his Angel fall from the sky. She looked majestic, dressed in white and her wings floating in the wind. Like a feather slowly dancing. Rafael screamed, tearing the head off the Nepher in his arms and flying as fast as he could with his injury to her. He caught her mid air, holding her close to him.

“No! Shannon!” He flew her to safety or as safe as he could and hid behind the old Distillery.

She was barely breathing, her clothing now in deep crimson red. Alabaster cheeks giving their last harmonious exalt.

“You must not die, my love. You must not. The boys need you.” She told him.

Rafael had never truly cried. Never. But it seemed that after so long holding back any tears of regret, sorrow, joy and solitude they came bursting forward. He sobbed over her body, staining himself with the ink of her life.

“Please, Shannon!”

Shannon had the clearest green eyes he had ever seen. They were mirrored in Oliver’s eyes. Oliver was so much like his mother. Both quiet, both composed and both so very smart.

Shannon’s eyes closed her hand dropping from his cheekbone. Rafael sat holding her and starring at her closed eyes. He could pretend she was asleep. He could pretend they were in their large warm bed and he was watching her sleep like he had done for some many years.

If Rafael had listened to his wife’s plea he would’ve gone home, wife at hand and mourned her. But Rafael thought that after one hundred years to learn to sleep without Shannon by his side would be asking him to stop breathing.

He knew what he had to do and after all if Rafael had indeed listened to his wife we would not have a story.

He took some blood from Shannon’s chest and some from his own gapping wound then mixed them in the palm of his hand and then drew a horizontal line over his brow.

His soul concentrated on finding her in the mists of time and space until in the distance of the foggy realm he found her. She was smoking a cigarette and watching another Fallen train.

“Take care of my sons.”

Rafael pulled back out of the realm and came back to the harsh reality. Shannon still in his arms there was blood every where including a near fatal wound on his side.

Well, he thought, might’ve as well go down fighting. He carefully placed Shannon on the floor watching her body begin the extraction process he had seen so often when a Fallen dies. Her body began to glow. He would not watch. He turned around, grabbed his axe and flew out into the night.

Tonight he ended this.