The Falling Star: Chapter 6, Part 1

Posted 01-07-18
Revised 02-08-21

 

 

An Angel From Hell story

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6, Part 1

The Watcher allowed the security man to prod her into the elevator and take her down to a  cellar level.  She was hoping that it was there that Pelosia Wittke was confined. 

The part of the floor the elevator opened upon looked something like the cell area of a county jail.  No surprise there.  Of what use was the Cabal to Satan, after all, if its main priorities were not captivity, trafficking, sexual exploitation, gulag imprisonment, blood sacrifice, and genocide?  Adam and Eve, with their taste for forbidden fruit, had left the whole human race vulnerable to the servants of Satan. Still,  it was hard for the Watcher to feel much sympathy for the sufferers of the Earth.  Why didn't they open their eyes and see what was  happening all around them?  

There were so many oppressed and so few oppressors.  They could have turned the tables on their poisoners, murderers and rapists in a single day.  As far as Jezebel was concerned, anyone who paid so little attention to what their leaders were actually doing to them, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, deserved exactly what they got.

At the moment, though, the girl in red was preoccupied with finding Holly – and she was nowhere to be seen.  Jezebel had to get the prisoner out of the place before her angel powers faded again.

The aura of the man beside her glowed a subdued purple, meaning that he wasn't a high demon, or even a significant Nephilim.  What he represented was amoral muscle, and that meant that she could, possibly, use him.  He wasn't leaving her with much of an opening, however, since he was a cold bastard.  She needed to change his attitude considerably, and so, to gain his attention, she neatly twisted out of his grip.  When he turned furiously and raised his fist to strike her, she captured his hard, brown eyes with her liquid blue ones.

“I'd rather not be locked up,” the blonde said.  “Can't we work this out?  Make some sort of trade?”

“No way, bitch,” he growled.  “You need somebody to vouch for you, or you're going to have a really bad time of it.”

The angel was trying hard to touch his mind.  “Why do I need anybody else when I have you?” she asked.  “I bet you want me.  Isn't it time you started taking what you want?  Why should those overpaid suits get everything that's worth having?” 

He continued to frown, but his expression showed interest.  She stopped backing away and allowed him to grip her shoulders.  “I bet you're just a huggable teddy bear when you want to be,” she said.  “What would you really like to be doing right now, big guy?”

The guard seemed to be thinking over that.  Then, almost before she expected it, he shifted one hand to clench her left breast.  He was showed no more respect for that part of her body than he would have to a foam rubber playground ball.  Nonetheless, Jezebel played along, giving vent to a simulated moan, and he seemed to like that.  

The security man transferred his left hand from her shoulder to her throat, while the other hand lingered where it was.  She didn't show fear, and actually smiled, conveying the idea that she liked it.  Holding her chin firmly, her assailant next covered her bow-shaped lips with his bristly ones.  Jezebel didn't think that the scent of his last meal smelled so great, but she felt his lust beginning to manifest, and she willingly drank it in.

The stronger the flow of sin-energy made her, the more firmly she drew him into her power.  His desire waxing, he inserted his right hand under her hemline, working his thick fingers inside her briefs.   He was doing it roughly, but Jezebel was already too empowered to be pained by that level of enthusiasm.  In fact, the feverish upswing of his emotional power was like a high-octane beverage, a bottomless glass of brandy.

Before Jezebel realized it, she was starting to feel wet.  Realizing that she was reacting like the village girls that Jetrel had fondled back in the olden days, she flashed with chagrin.  Besides that disturbing thought, however, she didn't mind partaking in the experience, so long as it empowered and amused her. 

The fallen angel threw her arms around her self-appointed lover's neck, choosing to let the thing that they were sharing race down the water-slide unrestrained.  At that point, the Monsatana employee reached even farther down, hooked her knee, and brought it up level with her waist.  Then he used his other hand to unzip his fly.

The Jezebel spirit within shouted, “Yes, go for it” but the girl's own mind said “No.”  The time and circumstances didn't feel right and pride held her back.  Jezebel pushed her groper away from her -- strongly, but not so strongly as to warn him as to how much she was actually in control.  Despite her tact, he looked startled at her refusal and flushed with anger. 

The angel again locked eyes on his furious stare, saying:  “I like you.  You want me.  You want me in a way that a knight wants a princess.  You know you're better than some rutting hog.  Any woman can see that you're smooth and smart, a real James Bond tybe deep inside.  You know how to make doing it better than just good.”  This technique of suggestion had worked well for Jetrel before the Flood, and there seemed no reason that it shouldn't work with an End-Times male also.

The guard looked bemused, but his expression had softened.  “I – I think I ought to take you out of here,” he remarked.  “You don't know what will happen if the bosses get their hands on you.”

“They play rough,” his fair companion nodded.  “When I was with that suit guy, we saw some men dragging a black-haired girl along.  She was really something, too good for those creeps.  My escort suggested that we should cut in on them.  Then I could do her first, while he enjoy the show.  And, after that, it would be a no-holds-barred threesome.”  She eyed him wickedly.  “That's how the big shots think.  But I bet she'd be a lot happier if it were me and you, instead of me and that trust-fund baby.”

He frowned.  “Someone said that she was something special.  That means she'll be under guard and we shouldn't get involved.”

Jezebel tossed her head.  “So, how do these watchdogs rate, to be having all the fun?  I think that if anyone got in our way, you could handle them just as easily as you handle me.” 

The guard seemed to be mentally fighting the plan, but Jezebel concentrated with even greater intensity, trying to overcome his resistance.  She was attempting to push her companion's consciousness into a dream state, in which even the nuttiest proposition would seem to have a logic of its own.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Where would they have taken her?”

His thoughtful expression put profound ridges into his thuggish face.  “They have a room upstairs.  It's sometimes used for prisoners that they don't want to make bloody right away.”

“Tell me where it is, in case we get separated.”

The guard described the route.  Now that Jezebel knew what she needed to know, she was left with the question as to what to do with her unsavory tag-along.  She could kill him outright with no questions asked, at least not by Heaven, but that would leave a telltale body.  Or, she could bespell him for a nap and then shove him into one of the holding cells.  

But Jezebel had a better idea; the guard could serve best in the role of a trained dog.  There might be security traps on the premise, things that he would know how to deactivate or avoid.  And, in case they met opposition, she could order him to fight for her, or simply take a bullet in her place.  But her mind-control talents while in this body were still of unknown quality.  It was very possible that, under stress, he might go rogue and revert to what he actually was, a violent enemy.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

They crossed into a lighted rectangle issuing from a half-open lighted doorway, behind which a masculine conversation was going on.  No one challenged them as they stepped softly through it.  Around the next corner were elevator doors, and her escort used a pass card to summon the car to their floor.  The two entered the cubical and went up a couple floors.

The door didn't open to a prison scene; far from it.  The carpeting and decorations were posh.  The level smelled of all the money and power that a backwater agricultural factory could muster.  “Is this where the suits hang out?” she asked her guide.

He nodded.  “For their work.  They have a fancy playrooms up on the top floor.”

“What do they play?”

“Maybe you'll find out, when I'm done with you!”

“Don't be in such a hurry,” Jezebel replied with a Mae West smirk.  “It's so obvious how you feel about me.  I'm a treasure that you don't want to lose.  And I like the blue-collar types, too.  My step-dad was a sewer cleaner.”

Farther along, the man drew up before what looked like an office door.  “This is it?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.  I don't have the key.”  She didn't like his expression.  It was as if he was getting an inkling of the fact that he was doing something crazy.

“Have you got a contingency, if the girl is guarded?” the Watcher asked.

“No,” he said uneasily, seeming to grow shakier by the second.

Now Jezebel whispered a firm command.  “Then draw your gun.  Make it look like I'm your prisoner.”  He did so.  “If the brunette's got guards,” she continued, “say that you found me tapping at the main entrance, asking about a girl with black hair.  Tell them that one of the big shots ordered you to put me in with her, since she and I are probably working together.”  

If the same wesen were keeping Holly company, the ghuls would recognize her -- if not by her clubbing outfit, at least by her scent.  That would make the cover story plausible.  If Jezebel kept control of her man, she could command him to hit the guards from the flank while their eyes were on her.  And she was reasonably certain that they would be. 

“No matter how many of them there are,” Jezebel continued, “we're not going to let them spoil our fun and games.  Start shooting when I tell you.  Ready, set...”  She knocked on the translucent glass panel before her.  Her guard's expression was pinched into something hard and grim.

“Who is it?” a male voice from inside demanded.

“Answer him,” the Watcher hissed.

“Brubaker,” the glamoured one replied.

“Whadaya want?”

“Got another prisoner.”

The door opened a crack.  Jezebel saw a uniformed man with a disarrayed crop of mousy-brown hair.  Despite his haircut, or lack of one, he had a military poise.  “What kind of prisoner?”

“Not my business,” Brubaker said.  “All I know was that she showed up asking about a black-haired girl.  The suit told me to pen her in with the one you've already got.”

The door gave back a little more and, and the room guard stuck out his head for a better look.  Then he opened the way.  “Who the hell is she?” the mousy man asked his compatriots behind him.  At the same time, the Watcher also checked the guards out, too.  They were another special security man and the two Syrian wesen, the latter pair looking as though they had just awakened from a couch nap.  But Jezebel was wide-awake; the sight of these Nephilim made her blood boil.

Then a slimmer figure came into view, exclaiming, “Jill!”  It was Holly.

The room guard stepped back, allowing Brubaker to usher Jezebel inside, nudging her bare back with his cold pistol.  The other men rose and came closer, wanting a better look.

“You!   You were supposed to be dead!” snarled Jezebel's rapist, a compact man with a sun-browned face and a short black beard.  He looked like a mean cuss, but she already knew that he was.

“Yeah,” she flung back.  “And the two rubes you left behind to murder me were supposed to come back alive, I bet.”

Her West Asian interrogator drew back.  “What are you?  One of those ultras?”

The Watcher lifted her chin with a sneer.  “I get a lot of that.  Do I look like an ultra?”

“Who can say?” interjected the second room guard, a burly black with a buzz cut and a blackjack.  “A lot o' those ultra women are bad kitties.”

“I'm sorry if I'm frightening you,” the angel said.  “But if you didn't want to see me again, you shouldn't have left a trail so clear that I couldn't have missed it if I'd been blindfolded.”

The rapist, emboldened by a flash of anger, seized her arm.  “I think your luck has just run out!”

Jezebel, while keeping one eye on him, met the eyes of the prisoner.  Holly looked fairly fit, considering.  “Pelosia, are you all right?”

She grimaced.  “Yeah, but they told me they sent two guys after you with guns.”

The Watcher gave back a grin.  “Too bad for those two.”

“I prayed for you,” declared Holly, “and I prayed for another rescue.  And now here you are!  Why don't more people know that these things really work?”

“You've been talking to the wrong people, I suppose.”

“Nobody's been rescued yet,” growled the head wesen, giving Jezebel a rough shake.  But he was still underestimating her, and she was ready to let him know it.  The blonde broke his hold and shoved him against two of the men behind him.  They were thrown into disarray, while their leader fell between their staggering bodies and struck his head on the edge of an end table. 

“Brubaker!” she yelled.

The enchanted thug, who still had his pistol out, now reacted by shooting the adversary nearest to him – the black security man.  The leather bludgeon that the latter held fell from his thick hand as he pitched into a tangle of legs.  That, and Brubaker's surprise betrayal, offered a couple seconds of distraction, which Jezebel used to bring her well-weighted handbag into play as a sap.  Her first target was the still-standing wesen, who had blundered closest to her when he'd reacted to the gunshot.  The force of the blow almost knocked him off his feet.

The girl would  have welcomed more help from Brubaker, but he didn't fire again.  The noise of his own blast had thrown him into confusion.  Left on her own, Jezebel kept swinging.

The Watcher was quicker than either, and even stronger.  She could take solid punches without much harm and then deal back harder ones.  But it was a kick to the midsection that temporarily took out the wesen.

The mousy-brown guy dodged out of the reach of Jezebel's blows and, in the clear, aimed for a clear shot.  Jezebel, with a leap and a roll, the Watcher came up behind Brubaker.  The room guard, supposing the latter to be a traitor, didn't hesitate to perforate his chest.  Jezebel, springing to her feet before the glamoured man could fall, took hold of Brubaker, held him up, and made him into a human shield with which to rush the shooter.  The latter put another slug into the wounded guard before the Watcher rammed the bleeding body into the gunman with force enough to throw him down on his back. 

The rapist, though dazed from having bumped his cranium, was back on his feet eager for revenge.  The angel ducked under his line of fire and launched herself.  The strength of her legs and the momentum of her hardened body delivered impact enough to spend him sprawling across the couch.  But already the other wesen was trying to get a bead on their single adversary.  From her hands and knees position, the warrior angel shifted with speed, pivoted on her hands, and brought her legs around.  She knocked the feet out from under the would-be assassin, whose gun went off aimed at the ceiling.

Jezebel had to get Holly out of there.  Three shots had already been sounded.  Even assuming the best acoustics, that had to have been enough to alert everyone in the building.  Eager to end the fight, Jezebel slammed a fist into the rapist, who was struggling to rise, and then sprang at the other wesen.  A few pummeling blows made the latter peaceful, but it was a hard kick to the skull that did the worthwhile harm.  She heard his neck snap. 

The pressure upon her being eased, Jezebel spun about, looking for the mousy guy, but he was still sprawled where he had fallen.  Holly was standing over him with the bottom of a shattered vase clenched in her hands.  The angel, noticing Holly's winter coat over the back of a nearby chair, threw it at her.  “We've got to get outside – quick.”

As the singer-turned-waitress hurriedly wrapped up, Jezebel was looking daggers at the rapist.  She had come prepared to kill him with torture, but the circumstances were not good for leisure-time activities.  So she bent over him, taking his head into her hands.  A strong, very quick twist produced another agreeable neck-breaking sound.  That he'd missed out on a few hours of torture was his bad luck; that length of time would be added on to an eternity of much worse punishment in Hell.  There would be no pity on him from his infernal boss; his work had fallen too short of even the most minimal expectations.

But the Watcher didn't dare to let grass grow under her feet.  She hooked the straps of her dropped purse from the carpet and shoved them into Holly's grasp.  “Hold on to that!” Jezebel exclaimed as she swiftly armed herself with a pair of automatics from the armory of the undone gunmen.

Just then, they heard an elevator bell ring.  “Follow me!” the angel shouted.  By the time they reached the nearest hall corner, the lift was disgorging three pistol-packing security men.  Jezebel started firing.  These contemporary weapons seemed primitive, compared to those crafted by the pre-Flood civilizations, but were good enough to bring the surprised hirelings down in a pile.  Not wanting to waste additional ammo, she swung toward Holly and shouted “Come on!”  

The pair dashed into the elevator and punched the down button.  Jezebel was hoping that most of the guards below would be elsewhere by now, hurrying up to the scene of battle by other routes.  They met just one man on the ground floor, apparently wanting to get into the elevator.  His gun came up at the sight of the girls, which gesture earned him a snap shot through the heart.  Then the escapees raced past the probable corpse, with Jezebel on the lookout for a fire exit.  They soon found what they sought and dodged outside, into the cold night. 

There were no hostiles in sight, but the security staff was active somewhere else, yelling up a storm.  The Cabal had been poorly served, Jezebel thought.  These security guys' handling of the emergency that she'd created had not been impressive.  She guessed that their drilling had been slack in the sleepy Nebraskan city.  Their job, after all, was gate-keeping and manhandling women and children.  Gangsters rarely made good soldiers. 

“There's an electric fence around the whole place!” Holly panted.  “How do we get through it?”

The Watcher's mind was racing.  “We'll make them open their gates for the firetrucks.”

“What firetrucks?”

“No questions.  Follow me.”

Jezebel needed something to burn.  Everything around them seemed to be made of concrete, masonry, or metal.  But while indoors, she had casually noticed a couple outlets serving a central heating system.  Chances were that the system would be fed by LP or natural gas.   A building of such size would need to have large tanks nearby.  In fact, another minute of searching proved her right on both counts.  Standing before them were multiple gas receptacles with just a mesh fence for protection.

Such tanks, Jetrel had observed as a ghostly witness, were engineered for safety.  Not even bullets could have set one of them ablaze.  But, fortunately, Jetrel had been one of those elite warrior angels empowered to call fire down from the sky.  The Watchers had used storms of brimstone to destroy many an ancient stronghold for refusal to worship them as gods.  But was the Father allowing her to retain that much destructive power in her fragile mortal form?

Jezebel wheeled toward Holly, “Get behind that buttress.  I'm going to make these babies blow!”

***** 

To Be Continued in Chapter 6, Part 2