I realized this blog has been a whole lot about the process of writing fiction and not too much to prove I actually know how to do it. So here’s a sneak peek at my novel currently being shopped to publishers by my agent, an urban fantasy/romance called, as of now, ‘Strange as Angels.’ I hope some of you will let me know what you think.
Have a great holiday weekend!
* * * * * * *
Chapter One – The First Trial
Tristram walked fast across the wet grass of the cemetery, his long black coat flapping slightly in the evening breeze. He could smell brimstone. The gateway was open. He was late.
Peter and his clerk were already in place. His latest clerk’s small, dove-gray wings fluttered slightly in agitation as she placed the great golden book on the sepulcher. The book was a prop for the benefit of the contested soul; those who would try the mortal man’s case knew every detail of their arguments by heart. Peter fixed Tristram with a glare as he approached, but the angel champion who would face Hell on the mortal’s behalf just smiled. He looked around the deserted graveyard, peering deep into the shadows, and the clerk bristled slightly – as if she hadn’t checked for witnesses herself. Tristram smiled at her as well, and she frowned.
He threw off his coat with a flourish, and the younger seraph gasped, then blushed, embarrassed to find herself impressed. He spread his golden wings to their full massive span for a moment, letting the stiff feathers rustle in the breeze. The wings were a prop, too, really, but somewhat more important. Tristram was among the most ancient of the seraphim of Light and had passed most of his immortal life on Earth. But his wings were still pure gold.
The ground rumbled beneath them, and a crack appeared – the accuser was making his entrance. The small black demon who would act as his clerk crawled out of the hole like an insect, dragging his chains and iron chests behind him. But the accuser rose in one smooth motion, his dark red torso bare to the waist, his black wings folded tight against his back. These wings could only be unfurled in hell. He nodded his horned head to Peter, and Peter nodded back. For Tristram, he had fanged smile. Tristram rustled his own wings once more, smiling back before folding them. The accuser would play the opposite to both Peter and the angel champion at the trial. He would argue the suit of his dark master before the Judge. And if it came to battle, he would fight.
None of them saw the approach of the Judge. One moment the angels and demons and Peter were alone under the mossy oaks; the next the Judge was among them. He smiled and embraced Peter before He took His place behind the sepulcher, and the accuser and his clerk both looked away, unable to look upon His smile. Peter’s clerk’s head was bent respectfully, but her smile was bright. Tristram bowed as well, his own heart feeling lighter. The Judge was an inexplicable presence to him, beyond his immortal ken. Dressed simply as a human just like Tristram was himself, with a human’s tender flesh, He was still the most beautiful object in all of Creation, the purest perfection of spirit.
The contested soul came wandering toward them through the mist, still dressed in the pajamas he had died in moments before a thousand miles away. “Where am I?” he was saying to no one in particular – he hadn’t seen them yet. “Am I dreaming?” The accuser made a small movement as if to move into the dead mortal’s line of vision first, and Tristram frowned, leaning forward, his wings flexing in threat. Then the soul saw the face of the Judge. “My Lord!” He fell to his knees in the grass, and Tristram stifled a yawn. Just as he had suspected when he was summoned. The trial was another waste of time.
“Come,” Peter said kindly, raising the soul to his feet. “Come and stand with me.”
The trial was so familiar, Tristram barely listened. This man had never been so bad even before his conversion. A miser for most of his life, he had turned to the Light barely days before when most of his great wealth had been lost. He had given what was left to a cause he had ignored for years in spite of the gnawing belief he was needed. It was this long-ignored guilt that the accuser, predictably, chose as his best weapon. This soul had barely pondered his conversion, he insisted; he had acted on instinct in a time of need. So much the better, Peter argued, that his instinct should be for the Light. Yea, perhaps, the accuser countered, but would not his gift have been more precious if he had given it when he still had so much to lose? He had given all he had, Peter pointed out, and the Judge smiled. The amount meant nothing, nor indeed even the gift itself. The belief in his salvation was what must save him; this was the promise of the Word.
“And so he is saved,” the Judge agreed. He opened His arms, and the soul ran to Him, embracing Him the same way Peter had. “Come,” the Judge said, hugging him tight. “I have a place for you.”
A wave of hatred like the breath of a furnace swept across the clearing from the accuser, turning the grass to ash. The soul felt nothing as he walked away beside the Judge, but Tristram stepped forward anyway, spreading his wings. The accuser took a step backward, but he smiled. “Good night, Tristram,” he said. “See you soon.” He sank back into the crack he had come out of, and his clerk scrambled after him, rattling his chains.
Tristram sighed when he was gone. “Disappointed?” Peter said with a smile. “Did you want to fight?”
“It would make a nice change.” The angel smiled back to show he was joking, but only for a moment. “Sometimes it all feels so pointless . . . cruel, even.”
“Cruel to whom?” Peter asked, watching him, his warm, brown eyes amused. “The soul suffers little fear – you see to that. And the relief of forgiveness far outweighs it, don’t you think?” The clerk was making a job of putting away her golden book and pretending not to listen.
“Of course.” The seraph shrugged back into his coat as his wings were drawn back into his body, the illusion of humanity falling over him again like dust. “I didn’t mean the mortal.”
“Then whom?” Peter asked. The clerk’s blue eyes widened in shock. She saw Tristram notice and blushed, turning quickly away. Peter’s smile broadened. “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Him.” The Judge’s Rock spared a grudging glance for the crack in the earth, a barely visible shudder of revulsion passing over him.
“He can’t win,” Tristram said. For thousands of mortal years, he had performed this same mission, keeping himself perfect and aloof. He was the sword of the Word, the defender of His chosen ones in this world between worlds. But never once had he been called upon to actually fight the fallen angel who accused them of their sins. Most souls weren’t even contested; most passed on one way or the other without ever seeing Tristram or this cemetery grove. “Unless a soul is lost already and given to him outright, the Word is already against him. And the Judge will never rule against the Word.”
“The Judge is the Word made flesh,” Peter reminded him. “He may rule as He sees fit.”
“But He won’t.” After more than two thousand years watching the Judge rule on the fate of a few million souls, Tristram felt certain on this point. Peter didn’t bother to dispute him, only smiled and shrugged, spreading his calloused brown hands. “So the accuser is called here, over and over and over again to make his arguments, always knowing he will fail.”
Peter mused for a moment. “That doesn’t bother me so much,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But he is not my brother.” Tristram scowled, and Peter put a hand on his arm. “It is only right that you should pity him,” he said. “You are a creature of the Light.”
“I never said I pitied him,” Tristram said, sounding defensive even to himself.
“Perhaps his frustration is part of his punishment,” Peter suggested.
“Maybe so.” Tristram thought of the earthly apartment where he waited to be called to his mission, the cold, gray concrete floors and walls of glass that looked down on an ugly mortal city. “But is it part of mine?”
“You are not being punished,” Peter said. “You are most beloved of the Light, one of the greatest soldiers in Michael’s legion. Your task is a great honor.”
“So I’ve been told, “ Tristram said, feeling a shiver of guilt. His charge was sacred; the will of the Light was perfection. Who was he, even a seraph, to question it? “But why must I be stuck here?”
Peter laughed. “You’re asking me?” He clapped a hand to Tristram’s shoulder, and his clerk smiled as well, meeting Tristram’s eyes with her own. “To tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered that myself. Why not let you fly back off to the lands of Light until you’re needed?” The clerk gave Tristram another shy smile before she turned away. “Do you want to know what I think?” Peter said. “I think he wants you to like us.”
“I do like you,” Tristram said. “Why would you think–?”
“Not me, personally,” Peter cut him off. “Mortals. I believe the Light has left you to live among mortals so that you can learn to like them.”
“I like mortals perfectly well,” Tristram protested, stung. “I see the good in them. I see their value to the Light.” The accuser was the one who had hated humanity and hated the Light for loving them.
“Their value,” Peter repeated, shaking his head now. “Yes, Tristram, you value humans. You love them, just as you are charged to do. It is in your nature.” His eyes were shrewd. “But I don’t believe you think about them much.”
“What else do I have to think about?” Tristram countered with a grin, but actually, he knew Peter was right. He had never been one to follow after human beings, intervening in their living affairs by what poor means he could. It seemed pointless, a sentimental game. Every act undertaken on the earthly plane sapped an angel’s strength. To touch humanity, to walk in the footsteps of mortals, to feel human emotion – all of these things were allowed. But they stole bits of a seraphim’s divinity, tarnished the angel’s wings. He could live as a man if he wished, so long as he was true to his mission. But he would feel himself less of an angel. He was the final defender of every human being, the one who would fight Hell itself for the immortal soul of any one of them the Light might choose at his or her hour of need. Surely his power ought to be reserved for that, not wasted helping their frail, mortal bodies get across the street. “No,” he admitted. “I guess I don’t think about them much.”
“Maybe you should,” Peter said.
Tristram smiled. “Good night, Peter.”
“Good night, Tristram.” The Judge’s Rock embraced him, and for a moment, he felt the warmth of that great heart. “Until we meet again.”
Snow started falling as he walked back through the cemetery, headed home. He turned up the collar on his overcoat by habit, another little detail learned over the millennia to blend in among mortals, pretending to feel the cold. What would it be like to not have to pretend any more? He remembered the Realms of Light as vividly as if he had only left that moment; he knew his place was there. He knew that someday he would return. But it was not for him to question where the Light had need of him.
The rusted iron gates were in sight when he saw a figure moving toward him, swathed in black. For a moment, he tensed, the figure’s size and swaddling making him think the accuser must have left behind an imp. But she didn’t scuttle; she walked with purpose, fighting the icy wind. He faded back into the shadows to watch her pass, catching a glimpse of white skin and green eyes under the brim of the black hat and over the black folds of her scarf. She didn’t see him.
He had already turned to walk away when it suddenly occurred to him. What if Peter was right? Deciding in an instant, he followed her.
She was kneeling on the cold, bare earth of a fresh grave. He took a position out of sight, his footfalls silent. She had unwrapped the scarf from her face; it trailed on the ground, too long for her. She reached into the pocket of her baggy black coat and took out a black candle in a glass holder painted with an icon of the Judge. Tristram suppressed a smile. If the ritual would comfort her, who was he to mock her?
She set the candle in front of the headstone and lit it with a wooden match. Tristram bowed his head, expecting her to pray.
But she didn’t. When he opened his eyes, she was taking something else from her pocket – a bottle of whiskey. She uncapped it, drank deeply, then set it down next to the candle, wiping her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. She took a folded letter from her other pocket and kissed it, holding it against her lips for a long time. Then she soaked it with whiskey, spilling some on her coat in the process. She was shaking, he realized, shaking and silently crying.
She lit the letter on the candle’s flame and dropped it on the ground. Watching it burn, she did pray, her hands clasped like a child’s under her chin. Tristram was touched; he whispered his own prayer on her behalf. Grant her comfort, he prayed. Show her the way. As one of Your seraphim, I ask it.
When the letter was consumed, she blew out the candle and stood up. She stamped out the last glowing ember of her little burnt offering and wrapped the scarf around her face again – it was snowing harder now. She tucked the candle and the bottle back into her pockets and started back down the path toward the gates.
Tristram turned away, sad for her but satisfied that he had seen and done enough. He did feel for her, poor creature – her grief and her faith had touched him deeply. Then a snippet of song came back to him on the wind – she was singing, her voice too soft for any other mortal to have heard her, almost tuneless, ragged but sweet.
“. . . . can my baby be? The Lord took him away from me . . .”
He turned back toward the path, but she was gone.
He stretched out his hand toward the headstone, summoning the scattered ashes of the letter. They rushed back to him, their nature changing as if time were running backward, drawing back together and turning from black to white, every stroke of the closely-written text intact. He read what she had written quickly, and every word dug into his heart. Her pain was raw and brutal as a death wound. He knew the greatest works of art human passion could inspire. He had wept at the beauty of Mozart’s Requiem at its very first performance. He had visited Michelangelo and seen his own angelic body breathed to life in stone. But nothing had touched him the way this human’s letter did, this outpouring of love and rage. She had lost her husband . . . but what was that to him? Every bone in this field had once been beloved by someone, every human suffered grief. Why should hers hurt him so?
For two more nights, he came back to the graveyard and watched her as she repeated her ritual, and every night he read her letters after she was gone. Each one was different, each one drawing him deeper and deeper into her shattered heart. She meant them to be ‘therapy,’ a way to exorcise her pain, but it wasn’t working. With every word she wrote, she seemed more desperate, more lost.
For the first time, Tristram felt the impulse that had struck so many others of his kind – infected, he had said before, like it was a sickness. He felt a physical need to help this human, to comfort her, not at the hour of her death, but now, in her messy, painful, broken life. Somehow, he knew he was supposed to help, that the Light Itself asked him to do it.
“No accidents,” he mumbled to himself on the third night, letting the last letter crumble back to ash. He had not found her by chance. Fearless and resolved, he crouched over the grave. Spreading his wings behind him like a shield, he plunged his hand into the dirt, digging, grasping, breaking through the coffin, calling what he wanted upwards through the earth until his hand closed around it. Howling once in agony, he fell on his face, his wings shuddering, shriveling, fading away.
The imp had only come to steal baubles, the little remembrances the mortal scum would leave behind for their dead. He watched the angel’s agony with glee, hardly believing his luck. As soon as he was sure what had been done, he scuttled quickly toward the gateway, biting his own fist to hold back his laughter until he was safely in hell.
end of chapter 1
