The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5, Part 1

 

The Falling Star

 

Posted 11-10-17

Revised 02-08-21

 

 

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 her. How many failures would the Father tolerate before she was put back onto the Lake of Fire track?

Well, actually, she had never gotten off that track. There were rules for getting off of it, but she hadn't felt like obeying them.

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 new 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's names. Modern parents are idiots, you know.”

"Let's see you driver's license," was his comeback.

She hadn't gotten those effects that had been with Jill Arendel when she died. "I'm sorry. I left home with so much on my mind I didn't bring my license along. Would some other form of identification help?"

"Well, it can't possibly get you into more trouble than you're already in," he replied. “Step out of the car, please, and show me what identification you do have.”

No wonder human beings so hated bureaucracy! Jezebel carefully emerged. Despite her best efforts to keep out of trouble, switching plates had only made matters worse. She had to be more careful in the future. 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 felt the weight of the purloined Walther 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 giving him more lame excuses wouldn't cut it, nor would a seduction attempt be useful. That only left the violence option.

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 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 have 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 an all-points bulletin for 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 name or a real license number, she'd be hard to track. Also, with out giving the man any more bodily injury than she had already done, they probably wouldn't spend a lot of police resources on her.

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 going to do.”

She kicked him in the gonads, just hard enough to make her point.

With her victim assuming a fetal position, Jezebel adjudged that the lesson had been learned. Just then, a solitary car came their way, driving under fifty, as most people do when passing a flashing police car. The motorist wouldn't be able to see the officer on the ground behind the car and the latter couldn't yell for help, since he was gasping for breath. The sedan simply moved on 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.

Her movie-watching experience came into use again. “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 pointed at him. 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 handy-wipe from his car, stuffed it into his mouth, and held it in place by means of another long zip-strip.

Now Jezebel 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, your bosses had better not make a big deal over this, or else I'll give them back worse than what Ive given you.” She re-stuffed her purse, filling it with everything that looked potentially useful from the officer's utility case.

Jezebel, now seeing the distant lights of more cars approaching, hurried back to her own vehicle and pulled out. She resumed an eastward trajectory until she came upon a highway patrol turnaround. That 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 be sending search instructions 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  done much to earn 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, caused by unforced mistakes. These errors had cost her time and had made a messy situation even messier. Among her problems was the ridiculous way that she was dressed. If somebody saw her, they wouldn't be forgetting her.

Worse, even if Jezebel found 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 out 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 now took note of a roadside tavern. Such a place might give her a recharge, but Jezebel didn't want witnesses telling police about seeing 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 as a convenient place to acquire a change of clothes.

When Jezebel reached the rest stop she could see that it was not only an auto rest stop, but also had a turn-off lane for overnighting trucks. She could make out several tractor-trailers lined up. She continued on into the car section, but found it empty. There would be no women's clothes available, but she got an idea. Upon stopping, the first thing she did was to switch back the plates.

Then Jezebel drove back to the truck area, where she could safely assume that there would be an assortment of men available. She needed a man, the right kind of a man. But how could she arrange to make contact with the truckers in a non-suspicious way?

The Watcher parked close to the vehicles. At this hour, the tractors were all empty. The drivers were no doubt 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 with 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 close-up before she cut the noise and stepped outside, lit up by the lights of her own vehicle. From the way that the men's grumbling fell off, 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.

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 a sweatshirt and jogging pants.

“I – I need a lift into North Platte,” the girl said. “My car has been making these terrible grinding noises. I'm afraid that I'll wreck it if I drive any farther. But it's important that I get where I'm going by breakfast time.”

“What's so important?” a trucker asked.

“It's a personal reason,” 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 robust males in their prime.”

Another of the several truckers shook his bearded head. “It could be a transmission problem, and transmissions are serious jobs, Missy. You're going to need a check up at a regular shop for that kind of work.”

She felt a sensation, standing there under the gaze of the men. The tingle was making her goosed-bumped flesh feel warmer already. Encouraged, the Watcher stepped closer to the crowd, trying to sense which one was beaming the hottest 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 from the last club parking lot where I stopped, and I'm freezing.”

“Turn on the heater,” said Jogging Pants. “That should hold you for a few hours.” He then turned and walked back toward his truck. That was one cold hombre, she observed. A family man?

She shifted her attention to the trucker wearing a Stetson hat. He had wide sideburns and big arms, and presented a figure that seemed to suggest a fondness for beer and donuts. She suspected that he was the randiest man there. “Your companion is not very gentlemanly,” she told him with a pout. “How would he like to have a daughter out all alone and half-dressed on a night like this one?”

“You're a pretty one. 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.”

“I mean, what's your job?”

“I sing with a band.”

“Yeah? What kind of songs?”

“Anything you want,” she promised, “but first I need a thick blanket and something warm to drink. And is there anyone here so kind that he would let me into one of these big, exciting trucks. When I sleep, I like to stretch out.” 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. “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 cordially.

Jetrel had lived among humans for centuries, and had spied upon them for millennia. She had seen many times  how women could make men agreeable. At the touch of the hand, she could tell that the trucker had a lot of pent-up lust to give away. Jezebel was drinking it in like a health tonic. She already felt like she could lift him off the ground with one hand.

#

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 just the kind of action that he most wanted. 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 brushing over her energized flesh.

For now, having no other choice, the Watcher headed back through the tiny town of Brady, and from there took a secondary highway, L, to Gothenburg, where there would be found 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 wasn't going to be very afraid of new encounters with 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 parcel to the West Coast? Once the Cabal got her outside of Nebraska, her rescue would become immensely more difficult, and Jezebel’s present resources were few.

But, at some level, what bothered her most seemed to be something other than the mere prospect of failure.  She wanted to succeed before the girl was hurt. Why? Had Holly somehow gotten under her skin? Had she imperceptibly come around to thinking of the girl as something like – a pet?

#

Jezebel expected to reach Kearney well before her energy dwindled to inefficacy 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 he had taken the American election away from the Cabalists' choice for president and given it to his own Chosen One, a man who was as unlikely a deliverer as Gideon had been in ages past, one who had never held elective or appointive 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 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 finessed 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 lesser, but they were still damning.

Jezebel knew that even if she never sinned again, ever, she would still be doomed to the Lake of Fire. There was a way to escape that fate, but it would be a bitter shame to stoop so low. But everything that the Father did had a purpose, everything. What was she not seeing? Was it possible that not only she, but also Jill Arendel was a main principle in this mystery?  Though the fallen angels held humans to be of no worth at all, the Father saw things differently. In fact, that was the galling thing that had made Jetrel sin. Still, it didn’t seem possible that the murdered adulteress could be considered any sort of meaningful 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.

But she couldn't.


To Be Continued in Chapter 5, Part 2

The Falling Star: Chapt. 7, Part 1

The Falling Star: Chapt. 7, Part 1

Posted 03-07-18 

Revised 02-08-21
Revised 02-09-21

An Angel From Hell story

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 7, Part 1

 

 

The girl from Hollywood didn't have much more to say until the snow started falling.

“I enjoy snowy winters,” she remarked softly. “I used to walk in the park whenever the snow was falling. It was prettier than in summer.” She paused briefly, her face mirroring sadness. “I guess I wouldn't be allowed to do that anymore. Mom says there's been a lot of drug dealing and assaults happening in the park lately. That's crazy. We aren't even a big city.”

The Watcher had just turned on the windshield wipers. She said, “That's the sort of times we're living in.” Jezebel could have said much more, could have informed her about what was behind the chaos and, also, who was benefiting from it. But knowing more than she already did wouldn't have made the ex-singer feel any better.

In mid-afternoon, they hit Omaha proper. An exit and five minutes of weaving between apartment buildings took them into a basement garage beneath the low-rent complex where Jill Arendel lived.

Had lived.

Jezebel led her guest into the nearest elevator that took them to the third floor. She unlocked her apartment door and entered first. Holly followed carefully, avoiding the clutter on the floor.

“It sure is a mess,” the blonde admitted as she set a bag of groceries down upon the kitchen counter.

“Yeah,” the singer affirmed quietly.

Jezebel claimed a spot on the couch that was vacant of misplaced objects, magazines, and empty boxes. Holly crossed to the easy chair, from whose cushion she removed a week-old newspaper.

“I feel like crying,” the latter remarked.

The Watcher nodded. “Housekeeping and I aren't on a first name basis.”

“No, it's just that I can't stop thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how bad things have gotten in the last couple days. And I thought I'd hit bottom in Manville. My name and my job have been stolen. I don't know how I'm supposed to live, or where I'm supposed to go from here.”

“The last part is easy,” said the other woman. “We're supposed to go to a certain Holiday Inn room tomorrow.”

“I wish I could tell my mother that I'm all right.”

Jezebel shook her head. “Like we discussed before, that wouldn't be a good idea.”

“I could at least write her a letter. From a different state from where I'm living, I mean.”

“Think about it. You'd have to say that you're being impersonated. You'd probably want to warn her that she's being watched constantly. You'd also have to explain that you're a fugitive, that the police can't help you, and that you can probably never come home. If you just say nothing, she'll go on believing that you're making a success of yourself in Hollywood and enjoying the high life. The worst thing you could do to a mother's peace of mind would be to let her know that her child is sad, afraid, and broke.”

“Why can't this be fixed?”

“Because it can't be. The power against you is too great. You've already done the only thing you could have; you ran away.”

Holly's glance dropped to the carpet. “You never asked why I ran away.”

The Watcher tossed her shoulders. “It was Hollywood. I can think of a thousand good reasons to run away.”

“I wish I could tell you how awful things were.”

“Would you feel better talking about it?”

Holly sighed. “I don't know. Mostly, I've been trying to forget. Do we have anything else we can talk about?”

“We can talk about how great it’s going to be having bananas for supper. Or should I say dinner? In the farm country, dinner was the mid-day meal.”

The waitress regarded her. “You're a farm girl? That's nice. Did you have a horse?”

“Not really. There were lots of cats, though.”

The topic didn't inspire any more discussion; moreover, something else seemed to be on Holly's mind.

“Can we be friends, Jill? You're not an easy person to get to know, but I've been lousy at picking friends. The industry people I knew either wanted me to do bad things, or else they wanted to do bad things to me.”

The angel decided to humor her. “Sure, we're friends,” she said. But Jezebel was not in a good mood herself. Occupying Jill's apartment was making her more depressed by the moment.

“If it doesn't hurt too much, you can tell me whatever you want to,” she told Holly.

The girl looked unsure, reluctant to take the lid off a box of memories that contained so many horrifying objects.

She finally said, “I was supposed to kill a kidnapped baby at a party, and...drink its blood. They thought I should bite and chew, too, but that was optional. There was going to be maybe fifty people watching me do it. So many smiling faces; not one of them seemed surprised.

"Then I was supposed to smear the blood all over myself while they chanted. It was supposed to bring in a demon to possess me. Friends were saying that it was a good thing, that no star ever stayed on top for long without a demon keeping him or her great. They told me that all the best people had demons, including the queen and king of cool, Ceyonce and Lay-Z.” At that point, she choked.

Jezebel waited, expecting more.

“You aren't even horrified?” Holly asked.

The Watcher held her face steady. “There's nothing that can surprise me. I know the kind of people you're talking about.”

Holly's stare was incredulous. “When you talk that way, you sound like a spy character in some weird horror movie.”

The angel held Holly’s eyes with her own. “Where do you think the people who write those movies get their ideas? It's not like they have imagination. It's from the things they've seen and the things they've done.”

“Why doesn't someone tell the president?”

“The presidents have all known. Ngugi wa Nazizi, George W. Beans, Bill Skragg, and H.W. Beans all knew and didn't care. They actually hosted parties worse than the ones you were at. Take it from me.”

“The new one, too? Champion?”

“It's too soon to know. The worst people in this country hate him, though, so maybe that's a good sign.”

Holly shook her hanging head. “It's like I've ended up on an alien planet. Why would anyone want to go on living in a world like this?”

“Because the alternative is so much worse?” Jezebel suggested.

Holly sighed. “I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Is there any way out of this rabbit hole?”

“None that I know of.”

The brunette looked up. “Am I going to have to be alone from now on? Will I have to go into a witness protection program?”

“Maybe we'll find that out tomorrow.”

“Jill, if we're friends, please tell me who and what you are! You never seem afraid of anything, and you fight like a soldier. You frightened me at first, but you've been risking your life to get me out of trouble and I don't know why. I'd almost think that you're from the government, except you don't seem to trust the government.”

“I've had a selfish reason to help you. But, no, I'm not from the government. Not your government, at least.”

The girl in the chair met the angel's glance. “Are you a...Russian?”

Jezebel gave a weak smile. “No, but I can pull off a pretty good Russian impersonation. Do you want to see it?”

Holly seemed on the edge of crying in earnest.

“Look...Susan..., the angel said, “you're here because someone wants to help you. It's not that you deserve help. You made some bad choices and trusted some bad people. Despite all that, there's somebody who thinks you can amount to something, if you change your ways and figure out what's really important. If you do, he's going to keep on helping you.”

The looked girl looked askance. “Who? Is it somebody I've met?”

Jezebel looked away. “I'd rather not say.”

“Why?”

“If I started spilling secrets, you'd want to know more and then more. You'd keep us up all night. I'm not good at answering questions; it makes me cranky, and you don't want to see me cranky. Anyway, I used to think I could have it all, too, and it made a mess out of my life. I don't think that I'm the best person to set you right.”

“Right about what?”

“About the way the world really is.”

“Then who can set me right?”

“I hope we find that out tomorrow.”

#

The Holiday Inn was located at the western fringe of downtown. The note they'd found in Alliance hadn't given any special time of day, so the Watcher drove Holly to the address right after breakfast. She parked in the visitors' lot and led her ward through its glass doors.

Having reached the fourth floor, Jezebel tensed. She realized that if hostiles lay in wait, she'd be very vulnerable. She had gone to bed early the night before, even though it would have been wiser to have gone to a pick-up bar where she could have gotten recharged with lust-energy. She worried that she had experienced one of those emotional reactions that made human behavior so erratic. Even a young and vital mortal body like Jill Arendel's apparently had severe limits.

There was a sign down the hall from where the girls stood. It read, “Stairs.”

“Holly,” Jezebel told her ward, “hide behind that stairway door and wait for me to come back. I don't know who or what we'll find up here. We need to play it safe.”

“Will you be safe?”

“No, I won't be.” She handed the girl her purse. “Take this. If I don't get back in ten minutes, or if something happens that frightens you, head out of Omaha. Take the car. Maybe go into Iowa.”

“Then what?”

“Then you're on your own.”

Holly looked dismayed.

“If I'm able,” Jezebel promised, “I'll try to find you. I'm good at finding people. I have...connections.”

The Watcher then advanced down the hall like a stalking hunter. She arrived at a door displaying the number 432 and braced herself. In Jezebel's right coat pocket nestled her Walther; it was all she had to depend on. With her finger resting lightly on its trigger, she knocked.

 The door opened quickly, as if the person on the other side had been waiting for someone to arrive. A young woman was looking out at her, while over the girl's shoulder stood a middle-aged man wearing suspenders and a white shirt. No weapons were in view, nothing seemed materially threatening. But the sight of the girl took Jezebel aback! She glowed violet like a Nephilim, and possessed the face of a dead woman.

A particular dead woman.

Diana Spinster, Princess of Wales!

With speed, Jezebel shoved her welcomer into the room, twisted her bare right arm behind her back. Quick-drawing the pistol, she held aimed at the man's breast.

“Who are you?” the male asked, stepping back until his legs touched a still-unmade bed.

“I'm handing out the questions,” the angel said. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“My sister and I are vacationing?” he said cautiously. His accent was upper-South.  

“In Omaha in January? Yeah, I bet you're having a wonderful time. Did you know your that your 'sister’ isn't human? Or that's she's wearing the face of a deceased member of English royalty?”

“How can you see that?” the man asked with apparent amazement.

“You do the answering first. And be careful. I'm pretty good at picking out lies.”

The Southerner, looking perplexed, lifted his stare to the ceiling. Jezebel quickly glanced upward to see what he was looking at, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. The male's brows were tensed, as if listening to something. Then he began nodding, like one who was receiving instructions.

Jezebel took the risk of weakening her hold on the girl while she shut the hall door behind her and locked it. The Nephilim didn't make any break-away attempt.

“The truth is, we were waiting for someone to join us,” the man said. “Might that be you?”

The Watcher was reading the stranger as harmless, but wasn't willing to bet her life on that impression. She asked, “What's the matter? Don't you know whom you're expecting.”

“We were told to await the arrival of a young woman. But we weren't warned to expect anyone so...formidable.”

“Warned by whom?” Jezebel demanded, feeling as tense as a bow string.

“By one who wishes our visitor well,” the male answered.

“What's the name of this girl of yours?” she asked.

“Her name is Frances. Don't hurt her.”

Who was he kidding? Frances was the middle name of Diana Spinster. Jezebel knew that many Nephilim were shape-shifters, but why would this one wear a guise that millions could recognize on sight from television and tabloid covers?

“Listen, Bubba,” said Jezebel, “I'm not asking who this masquerading bimbo is; I want to know who's the girl you're waiting for.”

“We don't know. The message only told us that she needed help and refuge. Please – no shooting, no violence. The Lord wants me to be frank with you. Ask us anything; there is no danger or guile here.”

Jezebel frowned and said, “Okay, tell me your name, where do you come from? Prove that...Jesus...talks to the likes of you.”

The man took a second gander at the ceiling. “The young lady is asking for confirmation, Lord. What shall I tell her?” He again listened – or pretended to listen. A moment later, he looked at Jezebel and said, “The Lord speaks two names. I don't know what they mean.”

“What names?”

“Jezebel and Delilah.”

The angel blinked. Nobody on Earth, not even Holly, should have known those names. The easiest explanation was that he was telling the truth, but not everything added up. “Your so-called sister is descended from fallen angels. What kind of a mother does she have?”

He sighed, as if caught in a lie. “I am her guardian, not her brother. You are correct. She is a...Nephilim. Of her own free will, Frances has come out from a dark place. She seeks salvation. There is no reason to fear her.”

During this conversation, the angel had been looking through Frances' violet aura, but even as she looked its color changed to silver-white.

Jezebel shoved the girl away, but continued to hold the gun on both of them.

“She's able to change the color of her aura; what's going on?”

“What are you? Who are you?” the Nephilim suddenly asked.

“Shut up and answer my questions,” said the woman with the gun. The Watcher wasn't sure what to do. A silver-white aura signified divinity, a high degree of spiritual refinement. It betokened everything that a Nephilim shouldn't possess. She couldn't explain it, and things that she couldn't explain she was predisposed to think of as a trick. Experience had taught her that when in doubt, execute the enemies in front of you and make a fast getaway.

“I'm Orson Garland, reverend,” the man said. “From Arkansas. My church is small, but I have an Internet ministry as well. This lady with me is...”

The Nephilim clenched her guardian's sleeve. “No, Garland. She might be an enemy.”

He shook his head. “Open your heart, dear Frances. The Lord is with us. See our visitor through His eyes. Your insight may be able to confirm for us whether she's friend or foe.”

“Princess Di” still looking unsure, did as told. “Apparently you can see through the mask of grace that I've been wearing, the same way that you can see auras.  I've been living in America since 1997,” she said. 

The girl's accent had changed. Before, she had spoken with an Arkansas drawl; now she had the diction of an upper-class Londoner.

“You shouldn't have been able to see my aura or discern my real face,” Frances continued.

“Yeah, well, maybe grace isn't all it's cracked up to be,” replied the Watcher.

“Is your name Jezebel or Deliah?” asked the reverend.

Jazebel's answering tone was cold. “Jill will do. I didn't pick those names, and I don't care for either one of them.”

Orson Garland smiled. “Our names are usually bestowed by those who love us best. Was that not true in your case?” When the angel stayed silent, he said, “But we shall call you Jill, if you like. Why are you seeking refuge, child?”

Jezebel still couldn't make head or tail of things. Why would the Father put a Nephilim in her path, unless she was suppose to eliminate it? “I'm willing to hear you out,” she said, “because this setup seems just too crazy to be part of any Cabalist con job.”

Orson's brows went up. “The Cabal is involved? I did not realize that. This is very serious.”

“How much do you know about the Cabal?”

“What I know is little, but even that much is a terrible burden to hold. They work to prepare the world for the Anti-Christ. They seek to overthrow the righteous. They are deceivers. Every evil thing they call good, every good thing they call evil. They have already built camps in this country where the faithful of God will be put to death, and they have done it with the peoples' own tax money.”

“Yeah, that's the package,” Jezebel confirmed. “Listen, I can't stay here. This could too easily be a trap.” She noticed a hotel-provided Omaha Visitor's Guide next to the television set. Taking it in hand, the Watcher flipped through the pages, while still keeping one eye on the couple.

“There's a fast-food place called Culver's. It's an easy walk southwest of here. Give me a twenty minute's head start and then buy a lunch there. Sit at the most private table available. I'll join you when I decide it's safe, and then we'll talk things out. Don't bring any uncongenial friends along to murder me, because I'll know it if you do.”

Then she lowered her Walther, just a bit, and evacuated the room cautiously.

TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 7, Part 2