Page 1 of Descent of Angels

ONE

DYLAN

I snuggled deeper under the covers, enjoying the soothing, gentle patter of the rain on the roof, but not relishing the thought of getting up and going out into it to complete my chores. My alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but I knew it was only a matter of a few minutes before it would. I tried to find the will to drag myself out of bed and face the day, but the emptiness that stretched ahead of me, and indeed, my own existence, made me not want to bother. Another day of chores and drudgery weighed on my mind, and even though I’d just woken up, I suddenly felt exhausted. As my alarm sounded, I swung my legs slowly around to the edge of the bed, reaching out to turn it off as I pushed the warm covers away.

As I stood up, stretching my arms with a yawn, I caught sight of myself in the old mirror that hung on the opposite wall. My dull brown hair was a ratty mess, despite me braiding it the night before, there were dark circles under my lifeless, dirt-colored eyes, and my skin seemed pale, even with the long-term tan of someone who spent a good deal of their time working outside in the sun. I reached down and pulled the long, white cotton nightdress over my head, folded it, and slipped it under my pillow. Old fashioned and definitely unattractive, my nightwear had once belonged to my mother—another insistence of my father attempting to protect my virtue, not that revealing my body would be a temptation to any man. I had developed curves as a young teen, much to my father’s disgust, and he had kept me on a strict diet ever since. Soft curves had given way to visible ribs, sharp hip bones, and hollows. When I was fifteen, a teacher had commented on my weight to my father, concerned I was developing an eating disorder. My father had gone into one of his rages at this jab at his parenting skills, and I had never returned to school. He’d put me to work full time on the farm instead. I’d missed the lessons and the books my father had said were written by the devil himself and the chatter of the other students. I hadn’t had any friends, I wasn’t allowed to communicate with those who might lead me into sin, and I’d endured many lectures growing up about the sinners in my school who would lead me straight to Hell, so I’d kept to myself, but I’d enjoyed listening to their conversations as I lingered silently in the background, pretending I was one of them.

That was eight years ago, and I’d gotten used to the solitude. I no longer had soft curves, but toned muscle from the constant labor, and although there were no people to talk to, I found that chickens and pigs were incredible listeners—only in the mornings while my father slept though. God knew what the punishment would be if he caught me conversing with animals. He would probably decide I was a witch and they were my familiars. I shuddered at the thought, my fingertips passing gently over the few purplish bruises that marred the skin of my arms and legs. The largest one, which was on my leg, was from the gate that had swung around and hit me yesterday while I was feeding Bertie in his stall. The others... well...

I avoided meeting my own eyes in the mirror and reached for the jeans and flannel shirt I’d been wearing the day before. They were a little grubby, but nothing the chickens and pigs would judge me for. I dressed quickly, dragging a brush through my hair before pulling into a braid again. Even styled like this, the end hung just above my ass. Cutting it would make it so easy to manage, but my father had rather strong views on women’s appearances, and he believed cutting one’s hair was a sign of vanity in a woman. It had taken long enough to persuade him that wearing jeans to do chores around the farm would not compromise my honor, but it would let me get the work done faster. It had felt like an amazing victory until he’d gotten rid of the last farmhand, chasing him off our land with a shotgun because he’d apparently checked out my ass. My workload had increased, but it was still so much easier than having to do my chores in long skirts.

I bent down and quickly made my bed. Untidiness was a sign of succumbing to the sin of sloth, and our house was to be kept immaculate at all times. As an ex-marine, Jackson Harvey was a stickler for order, and he performed regular inspections. I ventured out into the hallway, tiptoeing past the closed door, and the loud snores I heard reassured me he had passed out in bed rather than downstairs on the sofa. It always made the house chores harder when I had to do them around him. I moved silently downstairs, wrinkling my nose at the stench of beer and cigarette smoke that filled the living room. My father was a strong, moral man, but beer and cheap whiskey was his one vice. God forgave him this one weakness though. He understood what my father had to deal with, first with my whore of a mother and now me.

An ache filled my chest at the thought of my mother. I struggled to recall her face clearly now. I lost her when I was twelve. I say lost, but she left me behind. I guessed living with my father had been too much for her, because one night she just got up and left—gone off with one of her men, my father had said bitterly. Good riddance. Full of the devil. A whore who spread her legs for any man who came along.

I couldn’t remember if she’d been full of the devil. I remembered that when we were out together on the farm, away from him, she’d been full of life and laughter. She’d taught me about the animals and crops, shown me where to find mushrooms in the woods, and how to add herbs to our meals to make normal food taste amazing. She’d taught me to ride, hunt, and fish, and she’d taught me how to act like a good moral woman. She’d taught me to be silent unless spoken to, to keep my eyes down, follow instructions immediately, and how to anticipate my father’s needs so he didn’t need to ask. She also taught me to hide in my room when he drank and not to come out, no matter what I’d heard.

I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood and pushed the thought of her out of my mind. Those thoughts only led to sitting in my father’s bedroom when he was passed out with the barrel of one of his guns slid between my lips and my finger on the trigger. I hadn’t pulled it yet, but I recognized the spiral that I knew would one day lead to me finally squeezing it that final millimeter.

I forced my mind to go blank and bustled about the room, emptying ashtrays and taking all the bottles outside to the trash. After a quick sweep, dust, and wipe down of the coffee table, the room was back to normal. Luckily, we didn’t own much furniture. Possessions were not godly, my father often said. The living room only contained one battered leather sofa, a coffee table, a standing lamp, and a wide screen TV for the sports matches he liked to watch. I had asked my mother once if God had meant for people to live in prison cells, and she had laughed and replied that at least it made it easier to clean.

I pushed open the window to air the place out and switched on the coffee machine. He wouldn’t be down for hours, but it meant I could have a cup when I got back from the farm chores. After putting in a load of laundry, I was finally free to step outside into the fresh air. The sun was just rising, and there was still a chill in the air, but summer was arriving, and I knew it would be a warm day once the rain stopped. I took a few deep breaths and smiled as the air seemed to sweep through my body, filling it with lightness. Stepping outside of the house always had that effect on me. I slipped my feet into the rubber boots I’d left on the veranda and headed down the steps to the farmyard.

The house stood on a small hill and was located on over a hundred acres that had belonged to his family for four generations. I could see all of my father’s land as I looked around. I was reminded daily of his disappointment that I hadn’t been a son, and my mother had never fallen pregnant after they’d had me.

Most of the land was put aside for grazing for our horses, cattle, and sheep, and some was rented out to neighbors. To the west were a few acres of forest where the pigs loved to root around with a river nearby. There was also a large vegetable garden and fruit orchard to the west of the house—my own personal haven. The chicken coop was placed on the other side of the house in an attempt to keep them from eating my cabbage, but the little suckers seemed to head straight for them every damn morning.

That was where I headed now, ducking into one of the storage sheds to collect a bucket of feed on the way. As I came back out of the shed, I was greeted by an excited yelp, a wet tongue, and a flurry of fur. I leaned against the doorframe for stability, laughing as my collie, Jess, gave me an excited greeting.

“Hey, girl, good morning to you too. Let me just sort the ladies out, and then I’ll get your breakfast.” I bent down and ran my hand over her smooth black and white head, and she rolled onto her back for a tummy rub. I obliged, of course, and then straightened and headed for the chicken coop with Jess at my heels. She’d grown up around the chickens and knew not to chase them. Instead, she sat patiently by the door as I opened it and was greeted by squawks and feathers as they all came rushing out into the open air.

“Morning, ladies,” I called, stepping back as they surrounded the bucket. “Breakfast is served. What are you having today, Lady Gray? Right, pancakes and syrup it is.” I took a handful of feed and scattered it on the ground around my feet. “Mrs. Do-Winky, what about you? Muffins again? Well, I suppose if it makes you happy...” I chattered away, scattering the feed, and when my ladies were busy pecking away, I headed into the coop to collect the eggs.

With a flock of about twenty-five, we had plenty of eggs for our own needs and enough to sell at the farmers’ market on Saturday. I had to go along because it was too much for my father to do alone. He sorted the meat, and I did the rest, loading and unloading the wagon and setting up all the fruit, veggies, and eggs. A lot of the meat from our cows and pigs went to companies that supplied grocery shops, but we kept enough for ourselves and the market stall.

The first half of Saturday was my favorite part of the week—driving into town, past the houses and shops, seeing all the people, and listening to all the gossip and chatter. On those days, my dad was in his element, shouting out over the crowd to get people to the market stall. He loved to chat and flatter his customers, and we always sold out. He was usually in a good mood by then and often treated me to pie or pizza at the diner. The second half of Saturday wasn’t so great. He would head to the bar with his friends from church, and I would have to wait in the truck until he left, usually at closing time, in order to drive him home. I was not allowed in the bar, and it was pretty boring. I usually napped or brought some mending to work on until the light failed, and then I waited to see what kind of mood he was in when he came out.

This morning, there were twenty-three eggs in the basket when I left the coop. I looked up into the sky. The rain had finally stopped, and I could see patches of blue. I pushed the wet locks of hair out of my face and carried the basket to the kitchen, leaving it in the huge larder cupboard with the rest of the stores. The coffee was ready, so I made myself a cup, adding cream but no sugar. My father thought sugar was another vice that would lead to sin through greed. I turned on the radio, keeping the volume low so as not to wake him. The song gave way to a crackling voice, bringing more updates on the war. I thought it was a war, anyway. I was not sure what you would call it. A few months ago, something happened, and suddenly, everything I’d read about in the Bible was here on Earth. Angels and demons were real and living among us, and the gates of Hell had opened or something, meaning millions had swarmed up from Hell and onto Earth. Some victory had been achieved, and things had settled, but now we all knew, and there were stories being told in the market square about demonic creatures hunting down humans.

My father and his friends had been elated, and his rants and sermons had increased in number and in length over the last several weeks. Now was the time to pray and beg for forgiveness, he’d insisted. Now was the time to appeal to God to remove my sins and to protect me from the evil that was coming for my soul. In the first couple of weeks, he’d made me pray at his feet, kneeling for several hours every evening after dinner as I recited prayers over and over again, but thankfully it had worn off, and now I was sent to my room to pray so he could drink and watch sports in peace. I did as he told me, kneeling on the rug at the side of my bed and praying for deliverance. Even though I hadn’t seen a demon or an angel in person, I’d seen them on the news. The gracious Hosts of Heaven delivering us from evil.

I’d stared at the screen as the camera panned across them as they stood guard in one city. There were ranks of men and women in gold and silver armor, with wings of varying shades of white and gray folded neatly behind them. They stared straight ahead, always on alert and unmoving, until given a command, and then they’d all moved as one. It had been impressive. The strength of Heaven, my father said. They had certainly looked strong. I observed the muscular bodies of the male angels, noticing the curve of their muscles, their flat stomachs, and their broad shoulders. I felt a tremor run through me and warmth spread deep inside. My father hadn’t noticed, he was too busy ranting about how they would bring the end of the world and burn sinners like me.

I’d burned that night remembering their hard, powerful bodies, their piercing golden eyes, and their strong hands. I’d moved my hands over my body, imagining their touch. My skin had tingled under my touch, my nipples hardening as my fingertips traced circles around them. I knew about sex—I couldn’t go to high school and not know about it. My father thought I knew nothing of the birds and the bees, and I was happy to keep him in the dark. I’d spent most of my lunch hours in the library, voraciously reading romance novels hidden inside theology covers, just in case.

That night, I’d imagined myself as one of the heroines with an angel wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close so I could feel him against me. My breath had come faster as I thought about his lips on mine and his hands slipping under my nightdress. Heat bloomed between my legs as I slid my palm up my thigh and brushed the cotton of my underwear. The ache had deepened, and I froze, breathing hard, my fingers millimeters away. I swallowed hard and pulled my hands out, linking my fingers together. I couldn’t. I’d tried before, but my father’s voice swarmed through my head.Jezebel. Whore. Witch. Bitch of Satan.

“What is this?” His voice suddenly sounded in the kitchen, bringing me back to the present, and I looked up from my coffee cup in shock, finding my father in the doorway.

“I’m just—”

“Just sitting on your fat ass like the slothful freeloader you are. Get up, girl. I don’t feed you and put a roof over your head for free. You need to pay your way.” He stumbled into the kitchen, squinting in the brightness of the daylight that streamed through the large window.

I jumped up from my seat and headed to the back door.

“Dylan?”

I froze, my hand on the doorknob, then turned around. He was standing by the table with my coffee cup in his hand.

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