The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 1

THE WOUNDED WORLD

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

Originally written 2006

Revised Sept. 21, 2018
Revised April 26, 2020

A NOTE FROM CHRISTOPHER LEESON

I never enjoyed a comic-book series better than I did Malibu Comic's MANTRA, one of its Ultraverse titles. It ended in 1996 due to a series of bad business and creative decisions, first on the part of the management staff of Malibu Comics, and then by the leadership of Marvel Comics, which had only lately purchased it.

Mantra vanished along with the rest of the Ultraverse.  Out of all the darkness, there came a faint light five years later.  The stories of Aladdin started to appear, new tales of Mantra (published at Fictionmania.tv) which were professional in quality and presented a Mantra that ran true to the original. But Mantra's revival in fan-fiction was to be sadly brief. 

In all, Aladdin completed five stories inspired by Mantra's adventures. The last of them was Part I of a two part adventure called “The Wounded World.” It was intended to be concluded with a follow up, “The Twilight of the Gods.” Unfortunately, the pesky business of making a living foiled Aladdin's intention to bring out the latter story, at least to date. The text of “Twilight of the Gods” does exist, fortunately, as something between a rough draft and a very detailed outline. 

As an admirer of Aladdin's work, I made contact with the author. I must have made a pest of myself, urging Aladdin to, somehow, find time enough to finish the uncompleted novel. I was told that work has been keeping him pinned down. Nonetheless, he held out a hope that he could eventually go back to fan writing after retirement. Finally, I could wait no long and made the best of Ultraverse fan writers an offer. I would finish and revise “Twilight of the Gods” myself, if he pledged to give me as much editing and creative advice as he had time for. The last part was important; I wanted to turn out a finished product that held on to as much of Aladdin's original vision as possible. In exchange, we would be considered joint authors. It was an immense vote of confidence that Aladdin said "Yes." 

Consequently, I have started working on The Twilight of the Gods, based upon Aladdin's original work. It will be slow going, considering that I am currently working on the next "Eerie, AZ" novella, The Belle of Eerie, Arizona. The latter I hope to have ready for posting in about a year.

Okay, given that background, why, one might ask, am I offering what amounts to a third project, The Wounded World, starting today?

The reason is not so simple. Aladdin and I agree that readers would find Twilight of the Gods hard to understand if readers do not first get familiar with events of The Wounded World, which sets up the universe-shattering conflicts that Mantra struggles to resolve in The Twilight of the Gods. So, while I am putting most of my time into writing and editing the other two books, I'll also be doing some rather light editing on The Wounded World and posting it chapter by chapter into my personal TFTGS space.

The effort will take more than a year, but should leave me time enough to work on the other books also. Readers of TFTGS will be presented with a roughly 10-page chapter each month. My readers at TFTGS will already be familiar with this posting method.  Anyway, segmented adventures should be familiar enough to comic book fans.

As editor, I have made this pledge to Aladdin: That he will have approval rights over all modifications done to his original work. Incidentally, that is the best relationship that all authors and editors should seek to achieve. Too often, editorial ego gets in the way of smooth cooperation. Bad editing is more the rule than the exception. I will make it a priority to change that.

Now a word from Aladdin himself.

The Falling Star: Chapter 8, Part 1

The Falling Star, Chapter 8, Part 1

 

Posted 08-29-18

Revised 02-07-21

Revised 02-09-21

An Angel from Hell story

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 8, Part 1

 

Jezebel regarded the ex-princess dubiously. “The last time I looked, Britain was still broadcasting boring Star Trek: The New Generation reruns. What do you mean you destroyed it?”

Frances looked up, red-eyed. “My homeland was once the most powerful empire ever to exist on Earth. It defied both Napoleon and Hitler, even while standing alone. Today it reels, paralyzed. They're guilt-tripping over the very idea that they have a right to defend their own country and livelihoods.”

The Watcher shrugged. “That figures. If an Englishman isn't at your throat, he's on his knees. Get to the point.”

Frances drew back defensively. “It's not simple to explain.”

“If something's too silly to say, sing it,” suggested Jezebel.

Frances took a deep breath. “The Cabal took the throne of England with the reptilian Tudor dynasty in 1485. In the Sixteenth Century, when the Tudors couldn’t make the Church submit, they set up an English church full of reptilians that would be more pliant. Creating the Empire was all about falling in with the Cabal's plans

“At the end of the nineteenth century, the Cabal took over the Bank of England with the blessing of the government. From that point on, with state, church, and economy all firmly under Satan's servants, Britain became even more of a fortress for Cabalism.” The longer “Frances Dillon” spoke, Jezebel noticed, the less Arkansan she sounded.

“The purpose of the Empire was to destabilize the world with war and to take over its weakest nations. That culminated in Britain using every provocation it could think of to turn local disagreements into World War I and World War II."

“As I see it, Britain was left a dried up husk after those wars," observed the angel.

“Yes, Britain's Cabalist leaders had recklessly fouled their own nest and when their country was wrecked, the really important Cabalists put them with the small-fry leaders after that. The real moving force behind the Cabal has always been the central banks, which have more recently been joined by the international corporations. Those people simply took advantage of the inroads that their agents had made inside America during the two world wars and started using American money and blood to serve their ends."

“Old news. What do you mean that you destroyed Britain?”

With a wince, the ex-princess continued. “After Britain was reduced to a military and economic shell, the Cabal decided against investing in the cost of renovating and decided to take away its empire and leave it poor. They mentally filed it with unimportant minor nations. That meant that their people and resources would be exploited, but its leadership would no longer factor in the struggle for world power."

Jezebel sighed. “For such a little lady, you sure can be long-winded.”

Though exasperated, Frances went on: “I've already told you how the Cabal trained me from childhood to be the “People's Princess. It was all a fraud; I was sold for public consumption like a patent medicine. Everything you saw or heard about me was a hoax and a fraud. There wasn't even any dispute between me and the Royals. We stage-managed that so I would look strong and heroic. I was actually too terrified to antagonize them in any way.”

"So, you actually had no problem with the Royals?”

"No, I did. But all the publicity was a sham. The real issues that existed between me and the Royals never came to the people's ear. I was supposed to be idolized. I was supposed to be a goddess-heroine for a country that the Cabal had already drained of religious faith and moral fiber. But I wasn't really that kind of person and I grew more miserable the longer it went on.”

The Watcher grunted. “Frankly, I never understood what anybody ever saw in you. There are plenty of worthless celebrities on this planet, but you were near the top of the list for losers. But, mehh, is it your fault that Great Britain could be satisfied with a tacky Plastic Princess? They got what they deserved.”

Amazingly, Frances did not flare. “Even I couldn't stand myself. I know I’m not the lovable type. I wasn't even a good person. But I finally started to hate myself. And even more, I hated the people.”

"Because they were idiots?”

Frances grimaced. “The common man is so sheep-like. Why is it so hard for him to understand what the intended fate of sheep has to be? I was pulling the wool over the eyes of millions. I wanted so much to fail. I wanted the English to see through me, to expose me and disgrace me, make me useless to the Cabal. Then I hoped I could just retreat into private life and do something that was right for me for a change. Fergie was able to do that.”

"Fergie. Yeah, there used to be a Fergie, wasn't there? If you ask me, Andrew should have married that racy actress Koo Stark, instead. If a duchess looks great on a pinup poster, what more does she need?"

Frances was frowning as the bad memories returned. "When Fergie served her purpose, they cast her off. The prince was happy enough to go back to the kind games that he loved best, like the ones they play on Epstein Island.”

Jezebel was trying to sort this out. “So the idea was to start the British thinking of you like a sister or daughter, only to have you suddenly be killed, publicly and brutally. I suppose the idea was to make the whole population feel like they had just lost a family member.”  

“Yes,” Miss Dillon said. "Demonic entities can infect emotional wounds like bacteria. The Cabal has an open channel to the Dark World. The Second Heaven wanted to numb the entire population with despair and apathy, to make them forget about unimportant things like freedom."

"Well, they went for Brexit, so maybe there's still hope for them."

"Yes, I pray that you're right."

For the moment, none of this mattered much to Jezebel. Her concern was whether she should turn Holly over to some unknown Southern preacher and the woman who, by her own confession, had ruined Western civilization.

"Why do I always have to be the one to decide these things?” Jezebel asked herself. She glanced up at the ceiling. "Why don't you ever talk to me?” she mentally demanded.

Another thought came to her then, a powerful one that seemed to override her own: “Why don't you ever talk to me?”

Jezebel blinked. Had she said that to herself, or was someone else speaking to her?

The angel shook her head and stood up. “Unless somebody can tell me why I should believe a thing that you two are saying, I'm out of here.”

Reverend Garland opened his lips but, something drew his glance upward. He was now gawping, like he'd done at the hotel. Ten seconds later, the cleric shifted his glance and met the Watcher's stare.

"Yeah, what?” Jezebel asked irritably.

"The Lord says that you should.... I don't understand it. Maybe His request will make sense to you.”

"What request?” she grunted.

"He says that you should take off your coat.”

Her coat?
 
Almost by its own volition, Jezebel right hand disengaged the coat zipper. She bemusedly hung the quilted garment over the back of her chair. A few seconds later, the Watcher saw Holly approaching between the tables – wary and sober.

When she could see France’s face, she paused in mid-step. Apparently, the singer, too, could see “Miss Dillion's” true appearance.

"This is Holly,” the Watcher told the seated pair. Then, to the celebrity, she said, “This is Reverend Orson Garland. And this lady calls herself Frances Dillon. She teaches school and destroys civilizations.”

The Hollywood refugee forced a smile and nodded. “P-Pleased to meet you...ma'am.”

"Won't you take the chair next to Miss Jill?” suggested Orson.

Holly sat down at Jezebel's right.

"We're also very pleased to meet you,” the minister added.

The waitress smiled tentatively, while her eyes addressed silent questions to her traveling companion.

"I can't make a lot of sense of it all,” whispered the latter. “They say they've been sent to help. I don't know if I trust them, but I don't know that I shouldn't, either.”

"Well, okay,” said the singing sensation. “Fill me in on what you've been talking about, please.”

For the next few minutes, with Orson doing most of the talking, the three briefed Holly. She was being invited to settle in a town called Jasper, where the couple would do all they could to help her live safely under a new identity.

"This is heavy. What do you think, Jill?” the younger woman asked.

Jezebel addressed Orson, “You sort of fit in with what I should have expected. God decides to place a lost soul into the care of a simple parson. No big surprises there. But why would he send a high-profile Nephilim along with you?”

Reverend Garland shook his head. “I'm not sure. It may be because Sister Frances has experienced some of the same mistreatment that Holly has. They may be able to comfort each other. Or perhaps the Lord thought that having a lady with us would reassure our young friend. And there's also the chance that God might wish to bring Frances out of the shadows and have her become more active in comfort-giving. The reaping of souls during the End Times shall require the work of many willing harvesters.”

"What about you, Holly?” Jezebel asked. “Would you ever feel at ease around a royal princess who happens to be a half-human ex-Cabal agent? The reformation rate among their upper crust has never been very impressive.”

The minister, wincing, looked back at the other restaurant diners. He was worried that someone might have overheard these frank words.

The Princess of Wales raised her chin. “Orson tells you true. I've been hiding since 1997. I've received mercy, but I haven't been doing very much to deserve it. I want to change that part of my journey. I don't know why, Holly, but it seems that your fate is important to the Lord. I think that helping you is the best way to make myself right with Him.”

"I don't know about that," Holly replied. "All I’ve ever tried to do is make myself rich and be famous. If there is really a God, I don't know why he'd bother sending an angel to help someone like me."

"An angel?" asked Frances.

The former star nodded. "A girl I didn't know led me out of a mansion full of child-murderers and cannibals. Then she suddenly appeared, days later, on a bus-seat behind me. She told me that the town that we happened to be in just then would be a good place for me to hide. The next thing I knew, she was gone again."
 
"I could tell a few amazing stories, too," the English girl said with a troubled smile.

Holly glanced to Jezebel. "Do you believe all this religious stuff, Jill?”

The latter shook her head. “I’m only doing what I've been told to do. But I truly believe that the supernatural is real. Science, on the other hand, not so much.”

Holly looked uneasy. “Who's telling you what to do?”

"The good guys – I think.”

The ex-star, ex-waitress digested these scraps of information briefly before asking, “If I went with them, could you come with us?”

The angel was now looking glum. "I really would like to have some quiet time, Holly. But I'm pretty sure that vacation leave is not in the cards for me.”

"You only came into my cafe two days ago, Jill, but it feels like it's been much longer. I'd hate to think that I won't be seeing you again. I've never met anyone like you. You're a frightening person, but at the same time you make me feel safe.”

"It's nice you should say that. But I'm just a pawn, an interchangeable part. When one task ends for me, another begins. There's a war going on and I'm expected to fight in it. Tomorrow, the battle will be somewhere else. But if I can’t be taking care of you from here on, you have to work extra hard to take care of yourself. I'm going to be very angry if you get yourself damned after all I've gone through to save you."

"Well, I'm going to do my best to not get you angry."

Jezebel nodded. "And I promise you this, Holly: I'm going to be looking in on you, and that won't be too far into the future. If you're doing all right, you might not even know that I've been there. That's for the best. Trouble rides around on my shoulder and I want the soft and breakable people like you to kept clear of it.

"But if I find that you're not in a good place, I don't know what else I could possibly do except kill anyone who's done you wrong.” Pointedly, Jezebel challenged the glances of the pair from Arkansas. “And I'll do the same with anyone who I find out helped them do it.” Reverend Garland appeared grave, but not frightened.

The princess then leaned forward. “She'll be all right, Miss Jill. If she's not, and if I'm to blame, go ahead and kill me.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN Chapter 8, Part 2

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5, Part 2

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Posted 04-21-18  

Chapter 5, Part 2

December 17, 1871, Continued


Myra, seated uncomfortably on a crate, was glowering down Riley Canyon Road.  Behind her, George continued chopping wood, using rapid, powerful blows.  Myra didn't want to be anywhere near the neighbor boy, but she had received her orders and the spell held her fast.  The slaves in the South must have felt more free than she did.  They, at least, could run away.

The young workman finally paused to catch his breath.  Though Myra faced away from him, he started talking.  “The stage that brought you into town in must have been the same one that got robbed right afterwards, when it moved up into the Gap.  Ain't that right?” he asked.

The receipt of another prying question made the girl scowl.  She hadn't worked out every detail of her made-up story, but had to bluff through.  She met him eye to eye, and said, “Yes.”

He shook his head.  “It must have been awful, to hear about your cousin dying on the day you came in.”

She shrugged.  “Well, I've heard better news.”

“I've been wondering.  Where did that new riding horse over yonder come from?”

Another hard question.  “I don't know.”

“Didn't your aunt buy him?”

Myra pondered.  She couldn't tell George the same story that she'd already spun for the gang.  “It wandered in by itself.  It was trying to get at the hay when Irene and me came from in from town.”

“Does you aunt recognize the critter?”

“She never saw it before.  The saddle neither.”

“If it was saddled, it must have strayed away from its rider.  Do you think it could have been Myron's horse?  It might easily have walked a couple miles from the Gap.”

“I haven't thought about that.”

George glanced at the animal in the corral.  “It's a fair-looking cayuse.  It'ld be nice if you and your aunt can hold on to it.  I don't know about Mrs. Fanning, but you ride as smart as an Injun.  How did you learn?”

Myra didn't like the way he'd asked that.  He had the eyes of a hunter tracking a coyote.  “We kept horses back home,” she answered.

He suddenly changed the subject.  “I've been wondering.  If the stage men saw Myron shot, and if he was dead, what happened to him afterwards?  Your aunt didn't mention that there'll be any funeral.”

She tossed a hand into the air.  “Search me.  The bandits must have hidden the body.”

“Could be.  But you don't seem too broken up about your cousin not getting a proper burial.”

Myra changed her tone.  “I – I feel sorry for Aunt Irene.  But I never met Thorn.  He never did so much as send us a card back East.”

“If you didn't really know Myron, when did you find out that he wanted people to call him Thorn?  I've never heard your aunt speak that name in front of me.”

Damn him!  “That – That's the name the judge and the deputy were using when they came to talk yesterday.”

“Judge Humphreys was out here?  Why so?”

Blast it!  Did he have to haggle over every word?

“The judge knows Aunt Irene.  He wanted to let her know that Th – Myron was suspected of robbery, and also to express his sympathies.”

“Was he already sure that Myron was dead, even with no body?”

“The stage people's message said that he was shot bad.  The sheriff sent somebody up to look around, but there was no sign of anything.  So everyone just assumes.  If he wasn't fit to ride off, he must have died and his body was hidden.”

George's brows knitted.  “It seems kind of odd that those outlaws rode out for three days, but then came back to Myron's house for no reason.  Or was there a reason?”

Myra thought quickly.  “They knew Myron lived close-in to the Gap, but that wasn't why they came.  They needed some pack horses to carry off the gold that they'd hidden before.”

“So, if they only came for horses, why did they need to take you back up there with them?”

Myra was again tempted to tell George to go to hell, but held herself in check.  “A couple hours before they showed up, I'd gone to the Gap with that Deputy Grant, to search around.  We found the gold and then Grant hid it in a different place, so the robbers wouldn't be able to find it if they happened to sneak back.  But by the time we left the canyon, the gang was already hiding up there, watching us head out.  They must have followed us, out of sight, and saw where I stopped at.  Then they barged in after dark to make me show them where the box was.”

“I thought you said they just came to steal a couple horses.”

“They did steal horses!” she replied sharply.  “They would have come to get horses no matter what.  It's just that they had two reasons to come.”

“What I can't get is why the deputy seemed to be so all-fired sure that the chest was hidden up there in the first place, if nobody told him.”

“Ask him.”

George wasn't put off.  “Another thing makes me wonder.  Why on earth did you need to ride up to the Gap with the deputy?  I figure he already knew where Stagecoach Gap was.”

Myra glanced away again.  “No reason.  I just asked if I could go along, for the adventure.  Buried treasure; that's exciting.”

“That gets back to the main question.  How did anyone know there was buried gold?”

The girl's fists were clenched; her nosy neighbor was just begging for a slam to the jaw.  Carefully, she said, “Nobody knew anything, but they suspected.  The law in town knows how strong and heavy those stage company boxes are, and how the drivers don't carry the key with them.  The deputy and the judge were talking about how the outlaws might have needed to hide the gold close by, so they could come back later, with tools and pack horses.”   Then she added, “Also, one of them said that a lot of stage robbers did that sort of thing.”

“I see.  But how did the deputy find the chest so quickly?  Wasn't it buried?”

Myra stood up to storm away, but couldn't move her feet.  Sitting down again, Myra finally replied, “Sure, it was buried under a pile of rocks.  But the stupid outlaws left a corner of the box still showing.”

The youth again shook his head.  “They surely do sound stupid.”

“I met them.  Believe me, they're as dumb as they come.  Why are you so interested?”

George shrugged.  “There's not much excitement around Eerie.  Anyhow, a little conversation might help us get acquainted.  I already know you've got spirit.  My oldest sister would still be shaking like a leaf if she'd been put through all that you were.  If you think I’m asking too many questions, you can get even by asking me anything you want to.”

She sniffed.  “Why should I be interested in anything that concerns you, Mr. Severin?”

“No reason; we're just passing time.”

“It seems like time isn't passing half so quickly as I'd like it to.”

“Whenever I'm busy, it just flies by.  Did your aunt ever write and mention that she had someone helping her work the farm?”

“She never wrote.”  Damn; that didn't sound likely.  “Almost never.  Just a card now and then, like at Christmas. She never said much more than 'I hope you've been well,' or 'Merry Christmas.'”

George nodded and resumed chopping for a few minutes.  Then he took another break, drew a sip from his canteen, and said, “You mentioned you're from back East.  Whereabouts?”

She raised her chin.  “My aunt told me that I had to...that I should...chat with you, as annoying as you are.  But she didn't say that I had to answer a thousand snoopy questions.”

The youth leaned the ax against the stack of cord wood.  “Why not let a person know a little something about yourself?  Are you some kind of outlaw on the dodge?”

Myra felt a jolt, then quickly forced a laugh.  “Do I look like an outlaw?”

“No, but... ” he paused.  “No, you surely do not.  By the way, why is it that you don't want to go with me to the Christmas dance next week?  Do you have a fella already?”

“Stop the questions!”

“Okay, no more questions.  What would you prefer to talk about?”

“I don't want to talk at all.”

George sat down on the woodpile.  “So, you're a girl who doesn't like to talk too much?  I didn't know that kind existed.”  He grinned broadly.  “Finding a sensible gal is like finding buried treasure.  I definitely want to get to know you better, Miss Myra.”

“I've only known you for four days and I already know everything I want to.  It's as plain as the sun in the sky that you can't stop jabbering like a parrot.”

“People say I grow on them.”

“Yeah, like a wart!”

He chuckled.  “Yessirree, you're a girl full of ginger.  I like that.”

“Maybe so, but you bore me to tears!"

This reply only added to his mirth.  “If you really don't like me being around, you can tell your aunt that you want to do all the chores by yourself.  Is that what you're aiming for, Miss Back-East Girl?”

Myra frowned.  “I can learn farming easily enough if I want to.  For all I care, you can go off and annoy someone else.”

He gazed at the cut wood he was seated upon.  “The chopping you did earlier seems decent.  You're already used to doing certain chores, ain't you?”

She stood up again, rested her hands on her hips, and faced him boldly.  “Certain chores yes, some chores no.  When are you going to stop jawing and start earning your pay?”

“I'm not getting paid in coin.  Chatting with the pretty new girl in town is my pay; I said that straight-out to your aunt.”

“Hah!  My aunt thinks I'm a kid.  She's got no call to be deciding who my friends are going to be.”

“Don't you care for your aunt?  I like her just fine.”

“You aren't the one she's always bossing around.”

“Of course I am.  She pays me to do things for her.”

“If you think she's so nice, you should take her to the Christmas dance.  Lord knows that no other man is going to ask her.”

George made a click at the side of his mouth.  “She's got a few years on me.  I want to spend time with the calibre of gal that I could get serious about.”

“That sure ain't my kind of...gal.”

“I hope that won't always be true.  There's precious few young ladies of the right sort out here.  The two of us are about the same age, I reckon we go to the same church, and neither of us is seeing anybody.  Maybe we're neighbors because Providence is working its magic.” 

She suddenly looked like a volcano ready to blow.

He smiled again, in a way to let her know that he'd only been funning.

Myra, still holding in her temper, said, “Providence is like a mule, if you ask me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because a mule is stupid and stubborn, and all it's good for is kicking a man in the teeth when he least expects it!”

“You sound like you've been kicked lately.  What happened?”

She gave that a second's thought, then answered carefully.  “I lost both parents, or maybe you didn't get the news.”

The youth look abashed.  “Pardon, Miss Myra.  I plum forgot.”

“If that's the case, you should be working on your memory, and also working on that wood pile.  If you don't, there's no reason you should be keeping me out in the wind jawing with you.”

George seemed to accept that observation and set to work in earnest.

#

About an hour later, the light was failing and the air was getting colder.  George went to put away the ax for the night.  At the same time, Molly O'Toole got back into her carriage and set out for town, while Mrs. Fanning stood waving goodbye from the front door.   Suddenly, Irene started toward the wood pile.  At first sight of George, she called him over to speak, but Myra didn't wait to listen.  She no longer felt compelled to stay put, and so went back to the house.  About five minutes later, she heard the farm boy riding off.  Her aunt joined her indoors a minute later.

“Did you and George have a good talk?”

“No, we didn't.  I don't care much for the fellow, but you told me I had to keep him company!”

“I suppose I did.  Anyway, did you two discuss the Christmas party?”

“He talked about a lot of things.  He almost talked my ears off.”

“Young men often jabber when they happen to like a girl.”

“I know what boys do!  And I especially know George Severin.  If he hadn't been around so much when I lived here, I probably wouldn't have headed out as soon as I did.”

“You didn't like any of my helpers.”

“Good riddance to the lot of them!”

Irene changed the topic.  “I asked George if he'd be willing to clean the hog pen as soon as he has time.  If you don't care for having him hereabouts, would you be willing to take on that job yourself?”

The girl looked fit to be tied.  “Hell, no!  That work is too hard for...”

“For a girl?”

“I'm not a girl.  The work is too hard, period.  But what does it matter what I want?  Go ahead and bust my back.  You'll get me crippled.”

“You're so dramatic about everything!” Irene stated in exasperation.  “Girls clean pig pens, and do even harder chores.  I need help to work this piece of land.  Whatever you do on this farm helps us make a living.  George is at least willing to pitch in while he earns a wage.  We could save a parcel of money if you would do more of the things that I've been asking him to do.”

Myra looked away, annoyed.

“By the way, Molly suggested that I should make it clearer when I'm...I'm telling you something that is really necessary.”

The girl turned.  “When you're giving me an order, you mean.”

“That's not the way I'd like to put it.  But this is my idea.  For now, when I making a statement and call you 'my girl,' it means that I'm telling you something important and I want you to do what I say.”

“You're always bossing me around.  You're not either one of my parents.”

Irene shook her head.  “I loved your folks, too, Myra.  What happened to them wasn't anyone's fault.  Or are you only using them as an excuse to avoid necessary work?”

“I just want to have some time to do the things that I want to do."

“I don't like ordering you about like a servant, not at all.  What would you prefer?  To run off again and become a girl outlaw?”

“What's wrong with trying to better myself?”

“Better yourself with stolen money?  Look what it's cost you already?  Would you ever have robbed people if you knew that it might get you turned into a young lady?”

The girl threw up her hands.  “My only mistake was coming home to the craziest town in the world.  I don't see why a person should be criticized just for taking care of himself, as long as he doesn't get caught.”

“But you did get caught – caught by a strange fate that you truly did bring upon yourself.  Every time you look into the mirror from now on, think about how different your life could have turned out if you'd only worked a little harder at being honest.”

Myra swung away again, her arms crossed.

Irene sighed.  “You certainly don't seem in any mood to talk sense.  Now, listen, my girl.  Change out of your nice clothes, and take care that you don't dirty or tear them!”

The girl felt this new form of command taking a grip upon her.  Angry, with teeth clenched, Myra scooped up her pile of cast-off everyday clothing and stomped into the pantry, preferring to change out of sight.

Irene then went to finish supper.  This new quarrel had gotten her thinking.  Myra didn't like farm work, no more than Myron had.  Would the girl take to household tasks any better?  She considered asking Myra for help with the evening’s meal.  Then she shook her head.  That would probably be pushing things too quickly.  Patience would be needed.  If Molly knew about these things from experience, Myra should eventually start looking at life the way that most young ladies did.  It might be wisest to nudge her in the right direction bit by bit, trying not to force things too insistently, especially when she was in a mood to get her back up.


December 18, 1871

The next morning, George Severin returned for a full day's labor, already game to take on the pig sty.  Irene appreciated that her youthful neighbor was able to give her so much of his time  It would have been different, probably, if he hadn't had four younger brothers and sisters at home, all old enough to take over the chores while he was away.  The youth deployed the manure cart in a convenient spot before entering the pen carrying the farm's four-tined manure fork.  He had worn his wet-weather boots; the mess at his feet was gummy; the exacting task required a strong back.

Mrs. Fanning's niece had slipped away the instant that she'd seen the young man coming in.  The girl's aloofness disappointed her aunt; one thing that hadn't changed from when Myra had been Myron was the way that she still wore a chip on her shoulder.  Locals generally liked George and he wasn't known to misbehave – other than by pulling a few pranks.  Myron, she was aware, hadn't found it easy to make friends – at least not nearly as easy as he made enemies.  He had often complained that no one liked him, and that had probably been one reason why he had left home at just sixteen.

Irene was starting the noonday meal when someone rode in through the gate.  Through the window, she recognized the same big man who had been helping Paul Grant.  The deputy and two others, including this one, had, finding her tied up in the kitchen, cut her loose.   The two posse men had spoken with some sort of Scandinavian accent.  Her visitor was large, broad-shouldered, and very strong-looking.  She recalled that his eyes had been the color of shadowy ice.

The townsman was getting down from his horse when the farm woman stepped out to meet him.

“Is there any news about the outlaws?” she asked.

“Some gude news,” he replied with a single, exaggerated nod.  “That pack horse of deirs must have bolted loose when dey vere running and vee found it vit lots of gold in da saddle bags.   Paul kept after da bandits vith two of da men, but he sent my brother and me back to town with the gold.  They're slippery as seals, deese outlaws, and dey yoost may git avay.”

“If they do, I hope they never come back to Eerie!”

“How is Myra doing?” the Scandinavian asked.

“She's doing well.  She's a brave girl.”  Irene then frowned perplexedly.  “Excuse me.  I can't seem to recall your name.” 

“Tor,” he said with a good-natured grin.  “Tor Johannson.”

“You're from... Norway?”

“Sveden!  I come over vith my brothers during da var and right off we got drafted into da army.  After a lot of bad things, it vas over, and ve vent gold-seeking.  Ve came down to Eerie dis year.  Ve've been finding gold enough to pay for our beer and beans, but not much more!”

“You speak very good English.  Gracious!  I don't think I could learn Swedish in a hundred years.”

“Tank you, Mrs. Fanning.  You are very kind.”

“Did you come to tell us about the robbers?”

“Yes, and no.  It's a funny ting.  Out hunting outlaws, I kept tinking that it vas too bad dat you and me didn't get to speak a little more.  I t’ought you vere... a handsome woman.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“I am very sad dat your nephew was killed.”

Irene regarded Tor.  Obviously, the deputy had not shared the whole story with him. 

“Paul said dat the boy was shot by da outlaws,” he continued.  “He said dey hid his body somevhere.”  Then the man winced.  “I am sorry.  I shouldn't be talking about anyting so awful.”

“Yes, it's very hard.”

“Vhat I came for vas to ask if you vhould let me take you to da Christmas dance next veek.  Please forgive me if you are already planning to go vith someone else.”

This surprised the widow.  She had almost no social life in Eerie and, when she thought back, she realized that she had kept making excuses to avoid socializing, until the local men had stopped asking her. 

“No, I haven't been going to the Christmas parties.  I haven't been invited in a long time.”

“Dat is a shame!  A lady like you!”

“I don't wish to be rude, Mr. Johannson, but there are bad stories about gold miners.  Do we have any mutual friends who...who could vouch for your good character?  Other than Deputy Grant, I mean?”

“Vell, I go to Styron's hardware store.  Dey know me at da Lone Star Saloon, and at da Eerie Saloon.”  He looked abashed.  “I know dat deese do not sound like very gude places to a church lady like yourself.  I yoost to go to church a lot in Sveden, but not so much in America.  Ve've spent a lot of our Sundays up in da hills.”

“Myra has said that you fought bravely to rescue her.  I'm very grateful.”

“I did vhat I had to.  I'm sorry you don't troost prospectors, but I von't be one for long, I tink.  Paul says dat da sheriff is tinking about hiring a new deputy...   Say, Paul mentioned you  know Molly O'Toole.  I know Molly, too, and her husband, Shamus.  I think they vill tell you dat I am a gude person.”

She smiled, liking the way that Tor Johannson pronounced his long 'O's', as when he said O'Toole.  “I was planning to take my niece to the Christmas party,” she said, not entirely truthfully.  “We might meet one another there on the dance floor.”

He returned the smile.  “Yes, it is very possible that ve may.  I von't be vith anyone else.”

“I'm quite sure that I won't be either.”  She made a daring decision.  “Mr. Johannson, I am forgetting my manners.  Myra and I owe you so much.  Won’t you stay and join us for dinner?”

He beamed.  “I vould be very pleased.”

Irene led him inside and showed him to a chair.  “The table will be set in about an hour,” she said.

He nodded thoughtfully.  “Vell, dat is a good long vhile to be joost sitting around.  Vhould you mind if I helped out vith da farm chores till den?”

“Oh, Mr. Johannson.  That's not at all necessary!  You have done so much already.  But if you really want to, maybe George, the boy outside, will have some suggestions.”

He excused himself and exited.  Irene went outdoors at the same time, around to the west side of the house, where Myra was doing the laundry.  The homemaker had earlier decided to test Myra's willingness to be helpful.  The girl had been predictably resistant to her suggestion, but Irene had ordered her to stop complaining and try to do the wash as best she could.  At the very least, Mrs. Fanning hoped, having some busy task to perform would take the edge off her brooding.

She now addressed the girl.  “Myra, I've decided that it would be a good idea for us to attend the dance.  I'll drive us to it in our buggy.  George will also be coming, with his family, I suppose.  You won't have to speak to him there if you don't wish to.”

The girl stopped scrubbing.  “What do you want to go to that dance for?” she demanded.  “You'll only be a wallflower, and I'll be miserable.”

“I'll fare all well enough.  This is a chance for both of us to make new friends.  Anyway, I might even find someone willing to dance with me once or twice.”

Myra frowned.  “Who are you talking about?”  Then she remembered the man who had ridden up.  “You're planning to see that foreigner, aren't you?” she accused.

“He's Swedish.  Anyway, he helped you, didn't he?  Wasn't he a good and brave man?” 

Her niece, looking peevish, said nothing.

“Please answer, my girl, wasn’t he?”

“I got no complaints,” Myra felt obliged to reply.  “But it sure was irritating, listening to him mispronounce everything, all time.”  

Irene was not really listening.  She was considering Myra's hair, liking the way that Molly had arranged it.  It had looked even nicer before her niece had slept on it.  Mrs. Fanning then, on impulse, reached back and touched the tight bun that she had been wearing ever since her widowing.  The style had grown to be so much a part of her sense of being that she hadn't even considered changing it.  But now, for some reason, it no longer seemed that tomorrow always had to be exactly like the day before yesterday.

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said absently.  “Mr. Johannson will be joining us.  I'll call when things are ready.”

Myra was left where she stood, feeling infuriated.  ‘Aunt Irene’s acting like a gooney bird,’ the maiden thought.  'And I’m gonna have to go to that tomfool dance and be a public spectacle, if she gets her way!’  It was at moments like this one that she almost wished that that dumb yak Ike Bartram had shot her dead.

Almost.


The End.

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