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  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2014 Rebecca L. Frencl

  Ascent of the Fallen

  By,

  Rebecca L. Frencl

  Dedicated to

  The angels among us.

  The first responders who leap into danger to pull us out.

  Particularly, this is for my brother and my sister-in-law.

  They are among the bravest and the finest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The buzzing whir of the stylus filled Rue’s ears. He felt the burning nip of the needles as they dug and dragged in his flesh, inch by inch creating and crafting the artwork he’d commissioned. That bite of pain still felt odd. He’d cut his hand the day before and had watched, fascinated, as the blood dropped and pooled like ruby tears that glittered in the sun. He’d remembered to staunch the blood only after a woman passerby by had shrieked at the wound.

  He sighed carefully, more to keep the artist from making a mistake, than from any pain. “You ok?” Joss, the tattoo artist, asked, lifting the stylus from Rue’s flesh.

  “I’m good.” His voice was low, quiet. The spoken word felt unnatural even now – weeks later. Words seem to sit on his tongue, heavy and clumsy. After a second, Joss bent his head and the buzzing whir began again sending sharp little twinges to dance up Rue’s spine.

  It didn’t hurt. It reminded him. Reminded him he was alive. Reminded him why he was here. Pain and penance, grief and redemption all seemed to meet here in the parlor as a reminder of his lost world was slowly etched into skin.

  Later, when he shrugged his cotton shirt over the raw skin he saw the humans, Joss included, wince. “Don’t that hurt, man?” One of the Spider Den’s regulars, Locust, his own arm bare to the artist’s needle, shuddered.

  Rue shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he murmured and left the shop. Cold winter wind slapped him in the face. They knew nothing of pain. He squinted against the icy sleet soaking through his thin shirt. No, they knew nothing of pain, but, as he smiled at the storm, he knew that he did.

  * * * *

  “Dude,” Herm shook his head, “he’s a piece of work.”

  Joss nodded from his station, head bowed as he sanitized his tools. “You don’t know the half,” he muttered, peeling off his gloves.

  “Seriously,” Herm bent his head over Locust’s arm trailing another long lock of hair on the busty mermaid he concentrated on meticulously carving, “does he ever say anything?”

  “Not much.” Joss shrugged. “Hasn’t said much beyond what he wanted the first day.”

  “Paid cash,” Locust nodded. Joss remembered – he’d been there that first day too. “How’s he have the scratch if he can’t afford no coat?”

  “Speaking of scratch,” Herm grumbled.

  Locust rolled his buggy brown eyes, but he bumped his hips up to snag his wallet from his back pocket. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He peeled four twenties away from a wad of receipts and papers. The cash disappeared in Herm’s large paw.

  “Winter storm that day, too.” Herm’s tongue peeked out from between his teeth as he hunched over, piecing in the more minute details of the mermaid’s winsome face. He paused from time to time to peer at the picture of Marita, Locust’s fiancee.

  Joss looked out at the slushy mess slapping against the shop’s windows. “Didn’t wear a coat then either.”

  “Seriously, what’s his deal, Joss man?” Locust swung his head around to keep the artist in his sights.

  Joss dropped to a chair leaned back, tossed his heavy dreads over the back of the seat. He rubbed without thought at the rosary tattoo scrolling down his left wrist and over the back of his hand. “Don’t know,” he said at last. He looked once more at the wind-lashed street. “The man doesn’t say much.”

  Locust grunted and turned back to watch Herm work. Joss noticed Marita’s face starting to take shape. He closed his eyes. Working on Rue’s art always exhausted him. He’d started telling Herm that Rue had to be his last client of his day. His mind moved away from the Spider Den’s tattooed regular, Locust—to wonder about Rue out on the streets. Who was the guy? Where did he go? Joss flexed his cramped hands, the biggest question of all circling his tired brain. Why did the guy want angel wings tattooed on his back?

  * * * *

  So, this was sleet? Rue tipped his head toward the grim gray skies. Nasty pellets of ice slapped his cheeks, chin and eyes. He’d heard of sleet, watched the humans scurry from building to car and back again to stay out of it. Yet, the sharp little nips of ice invigorated him.

  He shrugged. The freezing wet cloth clung to the work Joss had just finished on his back. He’d seen, in the angled mirror held by the artist, the clear outline of his wings. They would begin working on the individual feathers the next time. He rolled his shoulder blades feeling phantom muscles ripple. Soon. He permitted himself a small smile. Soon.

  He bent his head like the rest of the lunchtime commuters around him, hunching his shoulders against the gale force wind whipping off the lake. The sleet soothed the lingering sting on his back. Physical pain was still such a unique experience. He had dealt out hundreds of thousands of punishments over the centuries, yet he’d felt no pain. It added a new dimension, didn’t it?

  Part of the problem too, he rolled his eyes heavenward. A large cold drop splattered on his forehead to roll cold and wet down his nose. Thanks, Gabe. Gritting his teeth, he continued his walk.

  Compassion.

  He snorted, watching a pickpocket dip a hand in a woman’s swinging purse. The woman’s bright red wallet disappeared into the boy’s shirt. The latte-sipping businesswoman didn’t notice. She chattered away on her cellphone as she strode by without a glance at the bum huddled on the ground near her impressive three inch heels, his inked sign running in the weather. She’d notice her wallet missing the next time she reached in to pay for a pricey coffee.

  Rue worked a hand into his wet denim pocket. Change rattled at the bum’s feet. Compassion. He frowned. For whom?

  * * * *

  Serafina watched the man in short sleeves and soggy gym shoes drop change at Mackey’s feet. No coat, no hat, sleet freezing onto the ends of his dark blonde curling hair, but he’d given Mackey money. He’d given Mackey money when the well-heeled businessmen and women strode by, not even seeing the old man.

  Swinging on her coat, she grabbed the Styrofoam cup of coffee she’d poured and ducked out into the cold jogging across Michigan to Mackey’s side. She handed the old man the steaming cup. His teeth chattered on the lip as he took his first sip. “Did you see that, Fina?” he gestured with the cup his wide eyes followed the man fading away in the gray sleety day.

  “I did, Mackey.” She slipped a hand under the old man’s elbow. “Come on, come wash up and warm up in the shop. Dan will take you over to Saint Mary’s.”

  He wheezed as he got to his feet, following her across Michigan Avenue to her little shop tucked in among the Spider’s Den tattoo parlor, one of Columbia’s bookstores and the Artist’s Café. “It’s Tuesday, ain’t it?” Mackey’s voice creaked and he took another sip of hot coffee. At her nod,
he smacked his lips. “They got meatloaf on Tuesdays at St. Mary’s.” He rubbed a dirty hand over his belly. “I always like a good meatloaf.”

  Dan’s music choice of Metallica sounded sharply at odds with the careful displays of vintage gowns, hand bags and jewelry at Serafina’s Treasure Trove Boutique.

  “Through there, Mackey.” She directed the man toward the tidy staff washroom. Even though at this time “staff” meant just her and her cousin.

  “More strays, Fina?” Dan asked from his perch on the ladder where he was stringing tiny drop lights over her jewelry cases. The pinpoint lighting would shimmer over the jewels—both glass and real—like starlight.

  “Could you take Mackey over to St. Mary’s?”

  He grunted in assent and screwed in the last tiny bulb. “Good to go here, Fina.” He gestured to the switch. “I’ll go trip the breaker. You hit the lights.”

  He bounced down the ladder and bounded into the back room. Serafina shook her head. He never walked. He was like Tigger from the Disney channel—why walk when you could bound? “All right, hit it!” he called, and she swept her hand over the switches.

  Lights danced and twinkled around the ceiling and the tiny pendant lights over her glass jewelry cases made the necklaces and earrings shimmer. “Perfect,” she whispered. “Just perfect.” It was all coming together. She’d taken a risk and had dragged Dan in with her, much to his parents’ dismay. She was thankful her young cousin was willing to spend so much of his off time between and after classes helping her set up and run the shop.

  Dan’s arm banded around her shoulders, his pointy chin settling on her head. She could feel his grin. “Looks great, cuz.”

  She squeezed his wrist. “Nice work, Danny. Thanks again.” She felt him shrug as he turned away.

  “What’re family for?” He pounded on the staff bathroom door. “Come on, Mackey! Let’s get a move on. You don’t want them runnin’ out of meatloaf, do you?”

  As if on cue, the door opened. Mackey’s white hair was a messy halo around his head. He’d scrubbed until his cheeks glowed pink. “I love a good meatloaf,” he assured Dan. “My Mary made the best meatloaf.” He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Make you cock up your toes and die it was so good.” He blinked and looked around the shop as if seeing it for the first time. When he smiled, Serafina saw a full set of beautiful teeth. “Why, Fina, it’s so pretty in here.” He looked into one of the jewelry cases. “Why, if my Mary was alive and I still had the money my no good nephew stole from me, I’d sure as certain buy her something pretty from you.” He tapped over an antique pearl necklace and earrings that shimmered in the new lighting. “They look just like angel tears,” he murmured.

  Serafina smiled. They were her favorites right now. She’d snapped them up, last time she’d been in L. A. Jane Russell’s estate had been selling off some items and she’d bid on a blind lot and gotten lucky.

  Dan bundled Mackey into the back room and out toward his hand-me-down Nissan. “Come on, Mackey, let’s go. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  The old man chuckled, his grating wheeze made Serafina smile. “Oh, Fina,” he called as he left, “that man, the one who gave me the money, I just remembered I seen him before.”

  Dan rolled his eyes behind the old man, keys dancing in his fingers. “Really, where?” she asked, ignoring her cousin.

  He gestured to the right. “From the Den. Seen him a few times.” He rolled his eyes. “Must be getting some extra fancy work done.”

  “Mackey,” irritation tinged Dan’s tone. “Hot date. Remember?”

  “Keep your pants on,” Mackey cackled at his own joke, but followed him out the back door.

  Serafina pressed fingers to her forehead and wandered over to snap off the radio Dan had left blaring. A nasty little headache had started up again behind her right eye. Dan and his music. She shook her head. She looked over her shoulder at the darkening window behind her. The sleet had turned to rain, a cold winter rain that slid like tears down the large plate glass window. She was sure the weather wasn’t helping her head, either.

  She flipped the closed sign and dropped the blinds. It was miserable enough and late enough. No one would wander in now. She’d go upstairs, kick off her shoes and have a cup of tea. After another moment of admiration, she flipped off her sparkling lights. And maybe an Advil. Her head gave one more sharp pound. Make that three Advil.

  She wandered the perimeter one more time, checking all the doors and windows. Dan had a slight tendency to open windows and not tell her. She remembered with a shake of her aching head, the one time he’d left her office window open and she’d needed to replace her computer after a particularly nasty rain storm.

  Her headache gave another throb, and for a second Fina thought her eyesight grayed out. Another head shake sent a spear of pain so severe she lowered herself to the bottom step and just sat there for a moment or two, motionless. How much of this was in her head?

  A few deep breaths, in and out. Memories of her childhood bubbled to the surface. Her mother had always been “ill.” She remembered her mother fluttering around the house, dressed in a fluffy blue robe for most of Fina’s childhood, claiming some indisposition or another. Her father had only rolled his eyes at the shelf full of pills and vitamins over her mother’s dresser. She outlived him. An untimely heart attack had carried him off when Fina had been fourteen.

  She remembered being alone with her mother, then. The sole recipient of the deep sighs, the tantrums, tears, the guilt trips that she swore went from the moon and back. She’d fled to a college dorm in Beloit as soon as she’d been able, coming home only when she hadn’t been able to find somewhere else to hide. She’d crashed at Dan’s house for several Christmases until she’d had the money to move into her own apartment, reasoning with her mother that they all went to Aunt Sarah’s for Christmas anyway….

  The pain faded and with a shaky little laugh she pushed to her feet. “Who knew that hypochondria could be inherited?” A tiny thread of fear wiggled through her. It was just a headache. Right? A migraine. Those were pretty horrible, she’d heard, and she’d certainly been under enough stress with fixing up the shop to bring on migraines.

  After unlocking her cozy apartment above the store, she flopped on the couch, one arm draped over her eyes, as if with sheer will she could make the migraine disappear. If it happened again, she resolved, she’d go see a doctor. Once was a fluke. Right?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You’ve been here how long and you’ve yet to find shelter?”

  Rue turned toward the tart inquiry. Michael stood, framed in the street light, rain sheeting off the long trench coat, his wraparound black sunglasses out of place just south of midnight. “I thought you were supposed to keep your distance?” Rue pressed his back in the corner between the building and the dumpster. An overhanging fire escape protected him from most of the elements. A long stream of cold water ran steadily from above. He shifted his foot away from it.

  Michael shrugged and took a seat beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments, the street light shining wetly in the alley’s shadows. Rue felt irritation build, a slow burn beginning in his stomach to rise like gorge at the back of his throat. He couldn’t take Michael’s inhuman patience any longer. “Say what you’ve come to say and have done.” His voice sounded like a low growl to his own ears. He pressed against the wall the rough brick scraped through his thin shirt. Pain blossomed, reminding him.

  “How does it feel?” Michael asked without turning.

  No need for clarification. He had been one of them for long enough. Long enough to know how much that one question cost. He shook his head, water flying from the ends of his hair. “I don’t know if it’s something I can explain to you.” He flexed his hands, the long scab on the left one pulling open. Blood, black in the shifting light, welled and dripped.

  Michael reached out touching his fingers to the wound. A tiny light, bright white, traced the cut. Rue felt a sharp burning and the ragged hurt dre
w together, the skin knitting tightly and leaving no trace. “How did it feel?”

  He straightened his fingers one by one, searching for the right words. Words Michael would understand. “It burned,” he finally decided. Michael knew about burning even though he had never felt the touch of flame.

  “And this?” Michael held a hand out. Freezing run-off poured over his fingers.

  “Cold,” Rue told him. “If you were human you’d get frostbite.”

  Michael turned toward him. He tipped down the sunglasses, his shimmering silver eyes glowing in the dark night. “Ruvan, you are human.”

  Rue huddled in on himself. As if Michael’s words were a reminder, the wind seemed to tear through him with more of a vengeance. A bone chilling river of water snaked across the alley to soak into his jeans. “Don’t call me that anymore.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

  Michael, those unearthly eyes unmoved, turned his face to the sky. The vault of the heavens remained dark. Neither the stars nor the moon dared show their faces in this weather. “I wondered how you were faring down here.” His voice throbbed, making Rue’s bones vibrate. “Sim doesn’t think you’ll make it.”

  He shrugged. “It remains to be seen.”

  “Are you any closer?” The words thrummed in Rue’s ribcage. Light shimmered behind the sunglasses.

  He darted a look down the empty alleyway. “Feel compassion for these fools?” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m even here.” He gestured toward the bridge where he’d given money to the homeless man. “They ignore one another. They hurt one another. They treat their old and infirm worse than the dirt beneath their shoes.” He felt his face twist into a snarl. “I should have been thanked for my zeal, not punished.” Bitterness swelled.

  Michael, his perfect features composed, sighed and rose to his feet. “That zeal and that attitude is what got you here in the first place.”

  “I am—“ he choked, correcting himself. “I was the one who accounted their evil deeds at the gates of Hell itself!” He flailed one hand out, the gesture encompassing the whole of humanity. “I saw the worst of them.” He glared up at Michael. “And the numbers? By the seventh heaven –” his voice dropped to an anguished groan “ –the sheer numbers. How could I believe anything other than wicked in this world?”