An Angel From Hell story
Chapter 5, Part 1
By Christopher Leeson
Driving fast along Federal Highway 80, Jezebel checked every car she passed, looking for a silver Subaru Forester. She was a hard woman, but the odds were beginning to worry. How many failures would the Father tolerate before she was back on the Lake of Fire track?
No, buck up, the Watcher told herself. She hadn't actually failed at anything. Not yet.
Frustrated, the fallen angel increased her already-law-breaking speed.
Then she heard the siren and saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. Too pressured to stop, she unwisely gunned the engine to outrun the patroller.
Two car chases in twenty-four hours! Once again the speed of her Toyota Corolla was disappointing her. An hour before, Jezebel had let another speed cop off lightly, with a mental command to go away and to stop making a pest of himself. Before he'd gone, she had thought to ask, “Wait, did you send my license number in already?” When he answered affirmatively, she decided to take precautions. At the next roadside gas station, Jezebel deftly removed a random motorist's license plates and affixed them to her own vehicle. This would, she wagered, afford her some needed anonymity. These were only humans, after all. It shouldn't be overly difficult to outsmart them.
The highway patrol car came up even beside her and the driver pointed to the shoulder. Jezebel pulled over, trying to decide whether or not this problem was serious enough to warrant a homicide.
The uniformed man who came out of his car flashed his light into her face. She couldn't take his measure through the glare. But her night-blindness drove home the fact that her power was fading yet again.
“It's not good manners to force law enforcement to chase you, Miss,” the state trooper told her.
She was already concentrating, attempting to fog the man's mind. The officer, however, seemed to shake off her effort. Frowning down at a hand-held device, he asked, “Why aren't your license plates registered for this make of car? Also, you don't look like a man named Maurice Linnsey.”
The girl shrugged. “A lot of women are given boy names. Modern parents are idiots.”
Supposing the under-dressed motorist was up to no good, he became wary. “Step out of the car, please, and show me your driver's license.”
Jezebel carefully emerged, her skin starting to prickle with goosebumps. Despite her best efforts to keep out of trouble, switching plates had only made things worse. Jezebel started to open her purse.
“Pour the contents out on the shoulder, under the headlights, please,” the man said, his right hand resting on his holster.
She remembered that the purloined Walther that was inside her bag. A policeman would probably ask about a permit. That's what they did in the movies, anyway. The girl was guessing that lame excuses wouldn't cut it, nor would a seduction attempt be useful. That left only violence.
Jezebel let the contents of her bag tumble out upon the concrete, weapon included. The sight of the formidable handgun startled the patrolman, a reaction that gave her the second of distraction she needed.
Two rapid blows had the officer down, all the fight knocked out of him. Jezebel swiftly added his Smith and Wesson 940 to her collection of firearms. Then she frisked the downed man while he still lay stunned, but didn't find his handcuffs or other restrains. Why was nothing ever simple on the planet Earth? How the angel wished that the trooper was a full-fledged Cabalist agent with a purple aura. Her license to kill would come in handy.
“I'd prefer to keep you alive,” the Watcher told the trooper, “but only if you don't make things difficult for me. I need your handcuffs, keys, and something to tie your legs with, too. Cooperate and you'll get home with no more than the few bruises you already have.”
Though shaken, the trooper's indignation blazed hot. “You crazy bitch! You don't realize how much trouble you're in!”
Jezebel wasn't afraid of very much, least of all bluster, but she wanted to avoid the inevitable all-points bulletin for committing homicide. So far, her face had been in the shadows, except for that brief flashlight glance at close range. Probably the police officer would only remember that she had been a knockout; without a real license number, there wouldn't be much evidence to track her with, nor any crime so serious that they would spend a lot of resources on it. Jezebel now cocked the Smith and Wesson. “I'm not a criminal, just a...lady who's tired of being pushed around. If you want me to be nice, you have to be nice right back at me. And stop trying to make out my face or else – Oh, hell, I might as well just show you what I'm talking about.”
She kicked him in the gonads.
With her victim assuming a fetal position, Jezebel adjudged that the demonstration had made its point. Just then, a stray car came their way, driving under fifty, as most people do when passing a flashing police car. The stranger wouldn't be able to the officer on the ground and the latter couldn't yell for help, since he was gasping for breath. The sedan simply moved past. A little ways beyond them, it picked up speed.
“If you don't want another toe in the crotch, tell me where your cuffs are,” she advised her prisoner.
“In the utility case, on the passenger side,” he groaned.
“Roll over on your face and spread your legs,” she said. When the officer complied, she opened the patrol-car passenger door, keeping the the gun ominously pointed. She plucked the case from the floor and found it unlocked. There were things inside she could use, including zip-strips and handcuffs.
“Stay the way you are,” the Watcher said, “but put your hands behind your back.” When the man had done this, Jezebel quickly figured out how to work the cuffs and secured her captive. Then the girl took the longest zip-strip available and fastened his ankles together. As a finishing touch, she took a loose handy-wipe from his car, stuffed it into his mouth, and held it in place by means of another long zip-strip.
She stepped back. It didn't look like a bad truss-up job, but as a precaution she turned off the police car lights, took the keys out of his ignition, locked all the doors, and then tossed the key chain into the nearby field.
“This should slow you up for a while. If I get into trouble over this, it will be because your bosses are too full of themselves to appreciate how lenient I've been.” She re-stuffed her purse, taking whatever seemed potentially useful from the officer's utility case.
Jezebel, seeing the distant lights of more cars approaching, hurried back to her own vehicle and pulled out. Having resumed an eastward trajectory, she came upon a highway patrol turnaround and it gave her an idea. Cutting the headlamps, she made the turnaround, and then clicked the lights on again. This way, she reasoned, when the trooper was rescued, he might send searchers in the wrong direction. The angel still wasn't sure how clever this generation of human beings might be, but over the last couple days it hadn't earned her respect.
No, buck up, the Watcher told herself. She hadn't actually failed at anything. Not yet.
Frustrated, the fallen angel increased her already-law-breaking speed.
Then she heard the siren and saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. Too pressured to stop, she unwisely gunned the engine to outrun the patroller.
Two car chases in twenty-four hours! Once again the speed of her Toyota Corolla was disappointing her. An hour before, Jezebel had let another speed cop off lightly, with a mental command to go away and to stop making a pest of himself. Before he'd gone, she had thought to ask, “Wait, did you send my license number in already?” When he answered affirmatively, she decided to take precautions. At the next roadside gas station, Jezebel deftly removed a random motorist's license plates and affixed them to her own vehicle. This would, she wagered, afford her some needed anonymity. These were only humans, after all. It shouldn't be overly difficult to outsmart them.
The highway patrol car came up even beside her and the driver pointed to the shoulder. Jezebel pulled over, trying to decide whether or not this problem was serious enough to warrant a homicide.
The uniformed man who came out of his car flashed his light into her face. She couldn't take his measure through the glare. But her night-blindness drove home the fact that her power was fading yet again.
“It's not good manners to force law enforcement to chase you, Miss,” the state trooper told her.
She was already concentrating, attempting to fog the man's mind. The officer, however, seemed to shake off her effort. Frowning down at a hand-held device, he asked, “Why aren't your license plates registered for this make of car? Also, you don't look like a man named Maurice Linnsey.”
The girl shrugged. “A lot of women are given boy names. Modern parents are idiots.”
Supposing the under-dressed motorist was up to no good, he became wary. “Step out of the car, please, and show me your driver's license.”
Jezebel carefully emerged, her skin starting to prickle with goosebumps. Despite her best efforts to keep out of trouble, switching plates had only made things worse. Jezebel started to open her purse.
“Pour the contents out on the shoulder, under the headlights, please,” the man said, his right hand resting on his holster.
She remembered that the purloined Walther that was inside her bag. A policeman would probably ask about a permit. That's what they did in the movies, anyway. The girl was guessing that lame excuses wouldn't cut it, nor would a seduction attempt be useful. That left only violence.
Jezebel let the contents of her bag tumble out upon the concrete, weapon included. The sight of the formidable handgun startled the patrolman, a reaction that gave her the second of distraction she needed.
Two rapid blows had the officer down, all the fight knocked out of him. Jezebel swiftly added his Smith and Wesson 940 to her collection of firearms. Then she frisked the downed man while he still lay stunned, but didn't find his handcuffs or other restrains. Why was nothing ever simple on the planet Earth? How the angel wished that the trooper was a full-fledged Cabalist agent with a purple aura. Her license to kill would come in handy.
“I'd prefer to keep you alive,” the Watcher told the trooper, “but only if you don't make things difficult for me. I need your handcuffs, keys, and something to tie your legs with, too. Cooperate and you'll get home with no more than the few bruises you already have.”
Though shaken, the trooper's indignation blazed hot. “You crazy bitch! You don't realize how much trouble you're in!”
Jezebel wasn't afraid of very much, least of all bluster, but she wanted to avoid the inevitable all-points bulletin for committing homicide. So far, her face had been in the shadows, except for that brief flashlight glance at close range. Probably the police officer would only remember that she had been a knockout; without a real license number, there wouldn't be much evidence to track her with, nor any crime so serious that they would spend a lot of resources on it. Jezebel now cocked the Smith and Wesson. “I'm not a criminal, just a...lady who's tired of being pushed around. If you want me to be nice, you have to be nice right back at me. And stop trying to make out my face or else – Oh, hell, I might as well just show you what I'm talking about.”
She kicked him in the gonads.
With her victim assuming a fetal position, Jezebel adjudged that the demonstration had made its point. Just then, a stray car came their way, driving under fifty, as most people do when passing a flashing police car. The stranger wouldn't be able to the officer on the ground and the latter couldn't yell for help, since he was gasping for breath. The sedan simply moved past. A little ways beyond them, it picked up speed.
“If you don't want another toe in the crotch, tell me where your cuffs are,” she advised her prisoner.
“In the utility case, on the passenger side,” he groaned.
“Roll over on your face and spread your legs,” she said. When the officer complied, she opened the patrol-car passenger door, keeping the the gun ominously pointed. She plucked the case from the floor and found it unlocked. There were things inside she could use, including zip-strips and handcuffs.
“Stay the way you are,” the Watcher said, “but put your hands behind your back.” When the man had done this, Jezebel quickly figured out how to work the cuffs and secured her captive. Then the girl took the longest zip-strip available and fastened his ankles together. As a finishing touch, she took a loose handy-wipe from his car, stuffed it into his mouth, and held it in place by means of another long zip-strip.
She stepped back. It didn't look like a bad truss-up job, but as a precaution she turned off the police car lights, took the keys out of his ignition, locked all the doors, and then tossed the key chain into the nearby field.
“This should slow you up for a while. If I get into trouble over this, it will be because your bosses are too full of themselves to appreciate how lenient I've been.” She re-stuffed her purse, taking whatever seemed potentially useful from the officer's utility case.
Jezebel, seeing the distant lights of more cars approaching, hurried back to her own vehicle and pulled out. Having resumed an eastward trajectory, she came upon a highway patrol turnaround and it gave her an idea. Cutting the headlamps, she made the turnaround, and then clicked the lights on again. This way, she reasoned, when the trooper was rescued, he might send searchers in the wrong direction. The angel still wasn't sure how clever this generation of human beings might be, but over the last couple days it hadn't earned her respect.
#
The Watcher didn't want to go far in the wrong direction. When she saw an exit sign marked Brady, she took it. Once out of sight of the highway, the young woman stopped to check her map.
The police encounter had been a near thing and she had made unforced mistakes. By making them, she had lost time and had made the present situation even messier. Among her problems was the ridiculous way that she was dressed. It made her stand out as something unforgettable.
Worse, even if Jezebel could find Holly, she lacked any certain means to rescue her. She had two guns, but the opposition would have many. She absolutely had to get her powers back to even the playing field, but there was only one way to do that.
The girl put her car into gear and drove through the town of Brady. It had a population of over three hundred according to the welcome sign, and she took note of a roadside tavern. Such a thing might have been a good place for a recharge, but Jezebel didn't want to in a population center, should the police start combing the area for a young blond in a short red dress. Suddenly, the angel noted directions to a highway rest stop. If people were parked there, it might serve her as a convenient place to acquire a change of clothes.
Jezebel reached the rest stop quickly, and could see that it was not only a auto rest stop, but also had a turn-off lane for overnighting trucks. She could make out several tractor-trailers lined up along a parking strip. She continued on into the car section, but found it empty. There would be no women's clothes to acquire, but she got an idea. Upon stopping, the first thing she did was to switch back the plates.
Then Jezebel drove back to the trunk area She could safely assume that there would be an assortment of men available, and she needed a man, the right kind of a man. But how could she arrange to interview the truckers in a non-suspicious way?
The Watcher parked close to the vehicles. At this hour, the tractors were all empty empty, the drivers no doubt being settled down in sleeping bags or fold-away cots inside their boxes. The casual approach she'd used to meet a male in Alliance wouldn't work here; this was neither the time nor place for subtlety.
She pressed the horn to start a series of irritating honks. After a couple minutes, sleepy men started lumbering out of their rigs.
“Stop honking, you idiot!” the closest one yelled at her headlights. She let the gaggle of truckers stomp even closer before she cut the noise and stepped outside, into the lights of her vehicle. From the way that the men's grumbling fell abruptly to silence, they must have been suitably impressed with her silhouette.
“Lady, what's wrong. Why all the racket?” one asked.
“I'm sorry I had to wake you all up, but this is an emergency.”
“What? A wardrobe crisis?” one guffawed.
That her clothes were being appreciated was a good sign. She smiled at the one who had spoken and he smiled back.
Someone else stepped up, a husky man of about forty, wearing an unclosed winter coat thrown over makeshift pajamas, these being comprised of a sweatshirt and jogging pants.
“I – I need a lift into North Platte,” the girl said. “My car has been making these terrible transmission noises; I'm afraid that I'll wreck it if I drive any farther. But it's important that I get into town by breakfast time.”
“What's so important?” a trucker asked.
“The reason is very personal,” she said coyly. “But, really, I can use some help.”
“Call a repair truck out of North Platte,” said the man with the jogging pants.
“I was hoping that there might be a mechanical genius among so many males in their prime.”
Another of the several truckers shook his bearded head. “Transmissions are serious jobs, Missy. You're going to need a regular shop for that kind of work.”
She felt a sensation that informed her that the men were reacting as wished. The tingle was making her goosed-bumped flesh feel warmer already. Encouraged, the Watcher stepped closer to the men, trying to sense which one was beaming those hot shots of unbridled lust at her flesh. “Can we talk about this inside one of your trucks?” she asked no one in particular. “My luggage got stolen in the last club parking lot I stopped at, and I'm freezing.”
“Turn on the heater,” said Jogging Pants. “That should be good for a few hours.” He then turned back toward his truck with indifference. That was one cold hombre, she observed. A family man?
She shifted her attention to the trucker wearing a Stetson-styled hat, the one that she suspected of being the randiest man there. He had wide sideburns and big arms, and presented a figure that seemed to suggest a fondness for beer and donuts. “Your companion is not very gentlemanly,” she said with a pout. “How would he like to have a daughter out all alone and half-dressed on a night like this one?” She now affected naivety. “I'm not use to planning my own trips. I make mistakes and so often have to depend upon the kindness of strangers.”
“What do you do?” the man with the Stetson asked.
Jezebel made a wry face. “It's not nice to ask a person questions like that before you've bought her a drink.”
“I mean, what's your job?”
“I sing with a band.”
“Yeah? What kind of songs?”
“Anything you want,” she promised, “for a thick blanket and something warm to drink. I was hoping that some generous person would let me sleep over inside one of these big, exciting trucks.” She surveyed the faces around her. “If someone is going toward North Platte in the morning, and wouldn't mind a little company, he could drop me off close to a fix-it garage.”
Most of the men seemed well-disposed to the proposition. “That sounds like an idea,” said the Stetson hat.
“Oh, I'm just full of good ideas,” agreed Jezebel.
The man held out his hand. She took it pleasantly.
Jetrel had lived among humans for centuries, and had spied upon them for millennia. Shortly after Creation, he had come to the conclusion that women could get away with delivering a great deal less than they seemed to be promising at the outset. It wasn't so important what Jezebel did over that hour, but how the trucker felt . And, clearly, he had a lot of pent-up lust to give away. Jezebel drank it in like a health tonic.
The police encounter had been a near thing and she had made unforced mistakes. By making them, she had lost time and had made the present situation even messier. Among her problems was the ridiculous way that she was dressed. It made her stand out as something unforgettable.
Worse, even if Jezebel could find Holly, she lacked any certain means to rescue her. She had two guns, but the opposition would have many. She absolutely had to get her powers back to even the playing field, but there was only one way to do that.
The girl put her car into gear and drove through the town of Brady. It had a population of over three hundred according to the welcome sign, and she took note of a roadside tavern. Such a thing might have been a good place for a recharge, but Jezebel didn't want to in a population center, should the police start combing the area for a young blond in a short red dress. Suddenly, the angel noted directions to a highway rest stop. If people were parked there, it might serve her as a convenient place to acquire a change of clothes.
Jezebel reached the rest stop quickly, and could see that it was not only a auto rest stop, but also had a turn-off lane for overnighting trucks. She could make out several tractor-trailers lined up along a parking strip. She continued on into the car section, but found it empty. There would be no women's clothes to acquire, but she got an idea. Upon stopping, the first thing she did was to switch back the plates.
Then Jezebel drove back to the trunk area She could safely assume that there would be an assortment of men available, and she needed a man, the right kind of a man. But how could she arrange to interview the truckers in a non-suspicious way?
The Watcher parked close to the vehicles. At this hour, the tractors were all empty empty, the drivers no doubt being settled down in sleeping bags or fold-away cots inside their boxes. The casual approach she'd used to meet a male in Alliance wouldn't work here; this was neither the time nor place for subtlety.
She pressed the horn to start a series of irritating honks. After a couple minutes, sleepy men started lumbering out of their rigs.
“Stop honking, you idiot!” the closest one yelled at her headlights. She let the gaggle of truckers stomp even closer before she cut the noise and stepped outside, into the lights of her vehicle. From the way that the men's grumbling fell abruptly to silence, they must have been suitably impressed with her silhouette.
“Lady, what's wrong. Why all the racket?” one asked.
“I'm sorry I had to wake you all up, but this is an emergency.”
“What? A wardrobe crisis?” one guffawed.
That her clothes were being appreciated was a good sign. She smiled at the one who had spoken and he smiled back.
Someone else stepped up, a husky man of about forty, wearing an unclosed winter coat thrown over makeshift pajamas, these being comprised of a sweatshirt and jogging pants.
“I – I need a lift into North Platte,” the girl said. “My car has been making these terrible transmission noises; I'm afraid that I'll wreck it if I drive any farther. But it's important that I get into town by breakfast time.”
“What's so important?” a trucker asked.
“The reason is very personal,” she said coyly. “But, really, I can use some help.”
“Call a repair truck out of North Platte,” said the man with the jogging pants.
“I was hoping that there might be a mechanical genius among so many males in their prime.”
Another of the several truckers shook his bearded head. “Transmissions are serious jobs, Missy. You're going to need a regular shop for that kind of work.”
She felt a sensation that informed her that the men were reacting as wished. The tingle was making her goosed-bumped flesh feel warmer already. Encouraged, the Watcher stepped closer to the men, trying to sense which one was beaming those hot shots of unbridled lust at her flesh. “Can we talk about this inside one of your trucks?” she asked no one in particular. “My luggage got stolen in the last club parking lot I stopped at, and I'm freezing.”
“Turn on the heater,” said Jogging Pants. “That should be good for a few hours.” He then turned back toward his truck with indifference. That was one cold hombre, she observed. A family man?
She shifted her attention to the trucker wearing a Stetson-styled hat, the one that she suspected of being the randiest man there. He had wide sideburns and big arms, and presented a figure that seemed to suggest a fondness for beer and donuts. “Your companion is not very gentlemanly,” she said with a pout. “How would he like to have a daughter out all alone and half-dressed on a night like this one?” She now affected naivety. “I'm not use to planning my own trips. I make mistakes and so often have to depend upon the kindness of strangers.”
“What do you do?” the man with the Stetson asked.
Jezebel made a wry face. “It's not nice to ask a person questions like that before you've bought her a drink.”
“I mean, what's your job?”
“I sing with a band.”
“Yeah? What kind of songs?”
“Anything you want,” she promised, “for a thick blanket and something warm to drink. I was hoping that some generous person would let me sleep over inside one of these big, exciting trucks.” She surveyed the faces around her. “If someone is going toward North Platte in the morning, and wouldn't mind a little company, he could drop me off close to a fix-it garage.”
Most of the men seemed well-disposed to the proposition. “That sounds like an idea,” said the Stetson hat.
“Oh, I'm just full of good ideas,” agreed Jezebel.
The man held out his hand. She took it pleasantly.
Jetrel had lived among humans for centuries, and had spied upon them for millennia. Shortly after Creation, he had come to the conclusion that women could get away with delivering a great deal less than they seemed to be promising at the outset. It wasn't so important what Jezebel did over that hour, but how the trucker felt . And, clearly, he had a lot of pent-up lust to give away. Jezebel drank it in like a health tonic.
#
When the man became too yawny to carry on with his petting and pawing, the Watcher used her revived mind-power to put him into a deep slumber. She also hypnotized her host to remember a wild and wicked night of action. Then the fallen angel stole silently from the truck and returned to her car. Though the air must have grown even colder by then, the breeze felt like room temperature as it brushed over her energized flesh.
Angels didn't come naturally with wings, but as mankind came to expect wings, they often assumed such a shape. What angels could do was teleport, a talent that the mortal mind had equated with flight. Fresh from her energy bath, Jezebel felt strong enough to give transposition a try. But she stayed just where she was. Maybe, the girl thought, a human body couldn't dematerialize, or it could be that it needed more power than Jezebel had stored away.
Angels didn't come naturally with wings, but as mankind came to expect wings, they often assumed such a shape. What angels could do was teleport, a talent that the mortal mind had equated with flight. Fresh from her energy bath, Jezebel felt strong enough to give transposition a try. But she stayed just where she was. Maybe, the girl thought, a human body couldn't dematerialize, or it could be that it needed more power than Jezebel had stored away.
It was something to experiment with later. But for now, having no other choice, the Watcher headed back to the town of Brady and from there took a secondary highway, L, to Gothenburg, where there was another entry ramp onto Federal Highway 80. Hopefully, if the handcuffed trooper had told his story by now, they would be looking for a Toyota at points east from where she actually was. Regardless, as long as she had a few angel powers, she didn't much fear encountering the eager beavers of the law.
Jezebel glanced at Jill's tiny wristwatch. How much time did Holly have before she would be sent like a bundle to the West Coast? Once the Cabal got her outside of Nebraska, her rescue would be immensely more difficult, and her present resources were few.
But, at some level, what bothered her seemed to be more than than the prospect of failure. Had the girl somehow gotten under her skin? Had she imperceptibly come to think of her as something like – a pet?
Jezebel glanced at Jill's tiny wristwatch. How much time did Holly have before she would be sent like a bundle to the West Coast? Once the Cabal got her outside of Nebraska, her rescue would be immensely more difficult, and her present resources were few.
But, at some level, what bothered her seemed to be more than than the prospect of failure. Had the girl somehow gotten under her skin? Had she imperceptibly come to think of her as something like – a pet?
Jezebel would have liked some help and wondered, briefly, whether she should pray. Being in a human body had many downsides, but, curious enough, the Father wanted mortals to pray. Maybe a prayer from her in this form would reach his ear. But she still had her pride. He who had created the angels had punished them severely for every disobedience, while at the same time pardoning his human creation with shocking ease. He simply held mortals to be superior to angels, and that wasn't right. If she sank to praying as a human for something that had been denied to angels, it would be like admitting that the angel kind was indeed an inferior breed. She felt certain that most of the rebel angels had rebelled because they had been confronted by that outrageous proposition.
#
Jezebel expected to reach Kearney well before her energy dwindled to usability. She had to go after Holly wherever she could find her well before dawn. There would be almost no chance for her to acquire some inconspicuous clothing, not unless she broke into a shop, and that would cause additional time to be lost.
Had Shekinah acted out of mere whimsy by hiding a red dress, with all its accessories, inside her luggage? Probably not; back when the archangel had still been a graybeard named Enoch he/she had displayed not the slightest nugget of playfulness. It had to be the Father himself who had put her up to it.
The Father, for certain, had a whimsical side to his nature. He had shown it to the world only two months earlier, when had taken the American election away from the Cabalists' choice for president and gave to his own Chosen One, a man who was as unlikely deliverer as Gideon had been in ages past, one who had never held elective or appointed office before. So what sort of whimsy did the red dress represent? It wasn't that the Father cared for immodest display nor, of course, for fornication. In spite of that, he had saddled her with a custom-made Jezebel spirit, one intended to incline her toward both?
Were his inexplicable actions merely a rebuke to Jetrel's pride? Was it a harsh payback for the Watchers' previous use of demons to steer people into perdition? Or did the Father wish her to give her no choice but to sin constantly, just so he could cast her into Hell? She shook her head. It had to be more than that. He didn't need any additional reasons to damn her. The very first prophecy in Scripture had been spoken to Satan by his Creator, promising that for what he had done in the Garden he would die. The sins of the other fallen angels had been of lesser degrees, but were still damning.
Had Shekinah acted out of mere whimsy by hiding a red dress, with all its accessories, inside her luggage? Probably not; back when the archangel had still been a graybeard named Enoch he/she had displayed not the slightest nugget of playfulness. It had to be the Father himself who had put her up to it.
The Father, for certain, had a whimsical side to his nature. He had shown it to the world only two months earlier, when had taken the American election away from the Cabalists' choice for president and gave to his own Chosen One, a man who was as unlikely deliverer as Gideon had been in ages past, one who had never held elective or appointed office before. So what sort of whimsy did the red dress represent? It wasn't that the Father cared for immodest display nor, of course, for fornication. In spite of that, he had saddled her with a custom-made Jezebel spirit, one intended to incline her toward both?
Were his inexplicable actions merely a rebuke to Jetrel's pride? Was it a harsh payback for the Watchers' previous use of demons to steer people into perdition? Or did the Father wish her to give her no choice but to sin constantly, just so he could cast her into Hell? She shook her head. It had to be more than that. He didn't need any additional reasons to damn her. The very first prophecy in Scripture had been spoken to Satan by his Creator, promising that for what he had done in the Garden he would die. The sins of the other fallen angels had been of lesser degrees, but were still damning.
Jezebel knew that even if she never sinned again, ever, she would still be doomed to the Lake of Fire. Everything that the Father did had a purpose, everything. This thing that concerned her also had a purpose. What was she not seeing? Was it possible that it was not she, but Jill Arendel who was the main principle in this mystery? Though the fallen angels held humans to be of no worth at all, the Father saw things differently. Still, how could the murdered adulteress be considered any sort of factor in this affair?
Suddenly Jezebel received a flash of recall, the tapping of a memory buried in Jill Arendel's physical brain that she had never tapped before.
The very idea of it!
“The worthless bitch!” the angel exclaimed out loud.
For the next twenty or so miles Jezebel tried to bury, to forget that recollection.
She couldn't.
To Be Continued in Chapter 5, Part 2
Suddenly Jezebel received a flash of recall, the tapping of a memory buried in Jill Arendel's physical brain that she had never tapped before.
The very idea of it!
“The worthless bitch!” the angel exclaimed out loud.
For the next twenty or so miles Jezebel tried to bury, to forget that recollection.
She couldn't.
To Be Continued in Chapter 5, Part 2
Well, this post is going up a few days later than I hoped, but when I should have been doing intense editing, I was dealing with the pain and inconvenience of a minor accident. Before I was anywhere near recovery, I got ill and was too uncomfortable and fatigued to do editorial work. Anyway, the section is up, though it was perhaps a little rushed. I plan to do a "final" recheck for typos in a few days.
ReplyDeleteI'm trying too keep character development subtle, but I like the way Jezebel is coming along. She's a supernatural creature, different from any I have tried to write about before. She's courageous, she's cunning, she's predisposed to violent solutions, and though she has immense knowledge, she is also beguilingly naive about the complexities of 21st Century Earth. Additionally, she seems to be charmingly adaptable.
Also, look for the next section of THE TREASURE OF EERIE, AZ in a couple weeks.