Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (24 page)

I hope she does show up, because now I’m the angry angel, and from here on out, this is gonna be my nightmare. I’ve past pissed and I’m ready to rain down punishment. I really don’t care who gets wet.

They didn’t want me in life, they don’t want me up in Heaven. The two of them want me to—“You want me to burn it down?” I yell up into the nothingness. “Okay, I’ll do your dirty work, ya lazy—” And I spread my wings to full width, checking. Little bright bitch didn’t break them this time. And I remember the two of them, running out the exit in the arena. “Keep running, because when I’m through. . .”

And I know I’m talking to myself more than anyone . . . or anything else. I’m threatening the dark inside the dream to make myself feel better. But I got nowhere else for the rage to roost.

Father
. . . I think that’s my inner voice. I have no idea why, but it seems like the right thing to say. “And if I find one fucked-up feather on him, I swear to you. . . Because I’m coming to collect him . . . and I’m bringing fire and fury with me!”

“Father. . .”

And there’s that critical little voice in my head—been gone for a long time—reminding me that I left the only guy that’s helped me to fend for himself in the fray. Not like that was my plan.

The fact is, I didn’t have a plan after we got up there. Bust down the door, crack beaks, next. Seemed like as good a plan as any. To tell you the truth, I was surprised we got that far.

“Father. . .”

And I get it. Annoying. “Yeah, Father,” I mutter. I’m talking to myself, because there is no one else here. “I got it.”

It feels like I’m back in my own fall, because the light is getting brighter.
If it’s her, I’m—

I wake up to the brightest, whitest angel I’ve seen so far, and she’s shining and standing over me and—“Son of a bitch!” I grab her by the throat and my talons pop out before I know it. And I’m just about to slice her face off with my other set of claws, because I don’t care which one of the two of them this is, one of these bright bitches must pay! And she’s choking and—

“Father,” the bright little shit manages to gasp out a coo in a voice I . . . I recognize.

“Jake, don’t!” and it’s another voice I can’t quite place, but know I should be able to, and my confusion is just getting worse. I want . . . no, I
need
to sink my sins into someone and draw blood for what I’ve been through, but—

“Jump, stop!” I recognize that voice, but that’s just impossible. I left him back in the arena.

“Father?” I say. And I stand up fast, trying to get my bearings and I frown and screech loudly, because my side and chest are on fire and dripping with . . . molasses again. And this is just another cruel dream. I turn and try to figure it out before this one boils me. And there’s the father, and the church, and the hole in the roof and. . . Who is struggling in my grip? And I look at my fist and it’s—it’s too bright. And I know it’s that little bitch, Rain, but it’s not.

I can barely see her through the flickering bright light, and it’s . . . it’s—“Amy?” I say.

Nothing in me wants to let go of her, but I have to drop her and her light flickers a little, but then turns back to bright and I close my eyes and I can hear her squawking softly on the floor, and then she’s clucking and coughing, trying to stand up.

I can barely see, but she has pure white wings and white feathers all over her and they are like . . . plastic coated scales—smooth and hard. And a little gray angel limps over to help her get to her feet and I recognize this one right away.

“Holy shit,” I say. “Kelly?” And now I know I’m dreaming because that’s just impossible.

The little gray angel is hurt bad. Doesn’t take an angel medic to call that one. She’s limping and holding her chest with one arm, but instinctively helping her chick up with what little she’s got left. And my mind races to figure out what this new dream is trying to tell me.

“Leave her alone,” Kelly says. “What’s
wrong
with you? You could have killed her!”

And the rage is hard to beat back. “Killed
her
?” I say. “That little—” And I look down at my chest, oozing black molasses like a sap tree. “She almost killed me . . . twice!”

And it’s gotta be some messed-up trick, but there they are, my angel and my sweet salvation—Amy and Kelly-girl. And I look at Father Benito and he’s just finishing a pull on his flask. And I give him a what-the-fuck look.

“I realize,” he says. “I’m still trying to. . .” And he takes another pull.

“I thought I took that from you,” I say.

He shrugs. “All that. . .” he says, “I don’t think I would have made it out without—”

“Just how
did
you get out of there?” I ask him.

And then there’s a voice from above me, “I’ll tell you how that miserable cocksucker got here.”

As shot as my nerves are at this point, before I know it, I jump into the air. And I flap through the pain from the holes in my side and back, and I’m airborne. I fly into the heavy wooden beams, high above the pews in the church.

And a little deep-gray angel hops from beam to beam, trying to get away from me. I crash into a couple of the beams, swiping my talons at her, but she finds a tight little spot where the big timbers meet the steep angle of the roof. And she’s jammed in there—perched and cawing—laughing at me.

Then I try to swing my wings at her but they just gouge the already damaged roof. Once I slow down, I realize who it is. “Mercedes?” I say. Because that’s who I left in the arena, cawing and slashing at her father’s soul with her talons. But this cackling, cawing, devious little angel isn’t—she’s more like a copy or something. It still looks like Mercedes—rage-red hair and a little skinny from all the drugs and partying.

“That’s
not
my name,” she says. “You—”

“What is it now, then?” I say. And I cluck out a little laugh. “Tesla?”
 

“Hey, fuck you . . .
Jump
,” the little gray angel says. “You killed me—you’re an asshole.”

“Really? Still?” I say to her. “After what he—”

“I named her,” and Father Benito has found his benevolent big-boy voice. I can smell the difference. “On the ride back, I named her Fury. Her name is Fury. Now, let her alone. We have real work to do.”

And the father sounds like a referee. I guess he’s got the colors for it. So that’s how he got out. I must have had that figured right. Only angels are allowed in and out of Purgatory. And if you aren’t one, you better be on one.

“Cocksucker and his beads,” the aptly named Fury says. “I shoulda tore you in half. You wait until I get these off, old man.”

“Yes, you could have,” the father says to her. “I’m grateful you didn’t.” Then he raises his flask at her. “Blessed art thou amongst women.”

And when I look closer at her, I can see the father’s black and red Rosary beads and silver crucifix, hanging around little Miss Fury’s fine feathered neck. And I caw out a laugh at her. Then I look back at the father and wink. “Look at you, Father, all blaspheming and bronc busting.”

He smiles a little back at me. And the father has finally found his faith. Might not be the one he set out to, but faith it is. I can smell that on him, too. His spine seems a lot stronger for the revelation.

“Fuck the both of you,” Fury says. “Like, I wouldn’t even be here, if it wasn’t for you.”

I flap down and land with a thud in the middle of the center aisle to the pulpit at the front of the big church. I'm still groggy from the dream. “That must have been some ride,” I say to the father.

“She’s . . . spirited,” he says. And he takes another little pull from his flask. Only now there’s no trembling at all. And he looks at the other side of the church, toward Amy and Kelly. “But we have others to tend.”

And now the father has a newfound faith and a fresh flock to fret over. And isn’t that just the very definition of a priest? He’s had a big day. Hell, we all have. And I gotta get on this, because I’m about to take an ass-whipping. “Kelly?” I say, as I walk toward the both of them. She’s got her back to me and I look at her wounds.
How did she get so. . .?

Then I figure it out. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what,” she spins around and screeches at me, “almost killing our daughter? Jesus, what is wrong with you? You could have. . .” And she turns back to Amy or Rain or whoever that is.

I think about protesting, before I figure that’s probably not the best move. But I don’t think I was any closer to killing that bright little angel than Rain was to letting me.

It’s the least of my worries now, because despite sucking angel shit at defending myself against my little baby—the brightest, and apparently baddest, angel in Heaven—I can see by the deep punctures and scratches beneath her mother’s back and leg feathers, that I put a serious hurt on Kelly. She’s the gray angel I maimed so I could forge my way into Purgatory.

It might not be the best time for a family counseling session, because Amy . . . Rain . . . is confused, like she just snapped out of a coma and everyone is telling her she’s a god.

That’s what the father tells me he made her in his book. But right now, she’s back to being a thirteen-year-old kid, trying to figure out why her father was choking her.
Dammit
. . . The shit I gotta repent for is piling up.

Only, she’s a thirteen-year-old kid who just happens to be the brightest, whitest, most powerful angel from Heaven. She’s also back to shining sunstar bright.

And I’m squinting, trying to get a look at Kelly’s wounds. Because however intoxicated on revenge and vengeance I was when I gave them to her, now I’m like a dumb drunk, waking up after his first blackout, realizing he beat the shit out of his wife.
I’m an asshole.

It’s a strange feeling—according to the father’s book, I’m just a little love child of wrath and evil. And I’m supposed to be hip-deep in the guts of humanity by now.

I’m squinting too much to worry about that, though. The bright sun off of Rain is just blinding. “Jesus, Rain,” I say. For better or badder, that’s her new name now. But she’s just so . . . bright. “I just wanted to—”

“Leave her alone,” Kelly says. “Haven’t you done enough? Always about what you want, isn’t it? Never even consider what anyone else needs, do you?”

And Kelly isn’t doing so well or else that tongue lashing would’ve lasted longer. She kinda peters out before she really gets it going.

I look back at Rain. “Jesus, what did they do to you?” There’s gotta be some reason she would attack her own father.

“Jesus is right,” Fury caws down at us. She’s still content to watch from the rafters. “She’s like, burning my eyes. I need some sunglasses.”

And the words barely leave her lips before the father and I are staring at each other like a couple of cavemen who touched the flame and realized, fire—hot. “Ain’t that a bitch,” I say.

He looks at me and then at Kelly and Rain and he squints. To Seattle citizens, used to living in half dark most of the year, using sunglasses is about as obvious as . . . well, healing an angel with molasses.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

And little miss “Cancun,” perched in the rafters, is pleased with herself. “Yeah, who fucking knew, right,” Fury says, “not you two dumbshits.”

She’s a malcontent after my own heart. I get the rage. Considering the blood on the street below her molesting daddy’s penthouse is probably still wet, she’s being rather civilized. Because looking at Rain and feeling my guilt grow while the father walks over and tries to figure out how to patch up my handiwork on Kelly. . . If it was me, I’d swoop down from the top of the church and claw the living shit out of the lot of us . . . on principle alone.

Principle?
Who am I kidding? Whatever upside-down code of conduct I might have had before I died, flew out the attic with Kelly and Amy’s souls. But now that they are back. . . Did they ever leave? Doesn’t matter, because it feels like I got a little good trying to claw its way back into my life.

Hope I survive that.

Father Benito’s serious voice cuts my soul-searching short, “She needs blood.”

He’s right, because Kelly has slumped down hard next to Rain on the floor. Her armored feathers have lost their shining gray tone and they are going limp. Impending death doesn’t look any better on an angel. Dying as an angel?
How many levels of Hell are there?
I think.

And despite this reunion, nothing is getting any better. I killed my baby in life and I’m gonna be responsible for killing Kelly after, because she’s got ten leaking holes and we are running out of time.

I hang my head a little. This is my Hell. “How long?” I ask.

The father is busy dabbing Kelly’s wounds with towels, but he knows what I’m saying. “A day and a half . . . maybe two,” he replies.

“Shit,” I say.

Two days to finish off humanity or it is Purgatory for everyone . . . forever. But whatever tiny amount of time the zoo animals have left to enjoy the smell of their own shit, Kelly has less.

“Angel blood,” I mumble, because we won’t be replacing Kelly’s bright, rosy-red liquid with molasses. That would be too simple, now, wouldn’t it? “Where the hell. . .?” My first thought is Rain.

“Good luck fucking finding that,” says Fury. “I hope she dies. Then you’ll know how it feels.”

The father and I look up at her and—we don’t really smile, but it’s like figuring out the answer to a tough crossword—the “ah-ha” must be written all over our faces.

God-dog or not, the father’s got the same self-satisfied look on his face as I do. Not that I have much luck with it, but sometimes it’s just better to keep your mouth shut.

“Oh,
fuck
no,” Fury says. “I just got my wings. The blood—that shit kills, and I’m not . . . what makes you think . . . and my mother. You can suck each other’s dicks on that.”

The father and I scrunch up our faces at the thought. I tore up the kid’s mom, threw
her
out a window, then put her through Purgatory. She’s probably still fucked up about getting revenge on her father. But with Kelly bleeding out on the floor of the church, I couldn’t care less about the little spoiled-spoon’s losses. She’s giving up the blood if I have to gut her to get it.