Fallen

Text copyright ©2009 by Laury Falter

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author or the publisher.

First Edition: April 2009

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Falter, Laury, 1972-

Fallen: a novel / by Laury Falter – 1
^st
ed.

ISBN
978-0-615-29498-8

For Babs, my twin sister, and her impassioned, unwavering enthusiasm as each succeeding chapter was written.

And for Joyce Durham, whose passing inspired the writing of this novel.

Abaddon’s eyes met mine
,
and I turned to head down the dark street
toward
a quieter spot, a less public place. I wasn’t sure what Abaddon had in mind
,
but I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. I didn’t want anyone
to accidentally find
us
or
to
valiantly
step in
, trying to be a
hero.

As I headed farther away from the commotion of Bourbon Street
,
into
the darkness, I didn’t need to turn to make sure they were following me.

I could feel them.

As we got farther from safety, my radar grew more and more intense, as if it was sensing their anticipation of what was to come.

I
approached
a dark alleyway and figured this would be as good a place as any to do it. Only the hazy illumination of
a
streetlight reached here
,
and no doors or windows could be seen, just the back sides of two buildings.

An efficient place to die.

It was here
and now
.
I turned to face Abaddon
,
startled to find
him leaning down,
merely
an inch away.

I was picked up my last day of school
,
in a
U-Haul
truck.
Aunt Teresa
was sitting
in the driver’s seat
with
map in hand and
piles of boxes stacked
,
h
aphazardly
,
across the back seat. She was smiling and waving at me through the window
.
I didn’t feel
much
like smiling back.

“
Can
we have another expression?” she called out.

I shrugged
,
as I slipped
into
the passenger’s seat. “What would you prefer?”

“Boy, anything at this point. Your face has been frozen in a frown for the last week,” she complained, turning the key in the ignition. The truck shuddered violently and then rumbled to life.

I glanced out at the
sprawling
Las Vegas
desert
, my face stiff and unaccommodating
.
No, there was no chance of anything
other
than a frown.

“
Think of this as an adventure
,” she
urged
. “New Orleans is a
fantastic
city
with l
ore
,
j
azz
,
C
reole
and
C
ajun
f
ood
,
a
lligators
,
g
hosts
…
”

I rolled my eyes
. “
Right.
I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“It will be,” she insisted.

Aunt Teresa
is
a
traveling
photographer
who would
be spending less than an hour in New Orleans before
leaving me
and flying
to Paris for a year-long, nomadic shoot.
Because of
Aunt Teresa
’s
opportunity
,
I was being banished to a city
completely unknown to me and
without a single familiar face.

Aunt Teresa
had pointed out
,
more times than I
cared to
count
,
that
I shouldn’t be so uncomfortable with the idea
,
and to be truthful, she was right
. She and I had changed addresses every three months since as far back as I could remember
,
so one more address change
really
shouldn’t make a difference
.

What didn’t thrill me was the realization
that
I’d be forced to live under
one
roof for the next twelve months.
I
was going to
miss my
wild
, unpredictable, roaming lifestyle.

Living in one place for an extended period of time…
I couldn’t imagine a more dull existence.

Worse, b
eing
eighteen
and
apparently
incapable of
taking care of myself
,
I was
being forced
to
stay
with
her friend,
Ezra Wood.

The fact was
,
I really enjoyed living with
Aunt Teresa
. There
were
no annoying rules
,
no enforced bedtimes
,
no
lights out
and
no
antiquated
…
traditional
…
status quo
…
cultura
lly-enforced
family traditions.

Unfortunately,
I had the distinct feeling that Ezra
Wood
would not be so lenient.

It took us a full day
,
plus
five hours
,
to reach New Orleans proper.
T
hirty minutes later, we
arrived
downtown
.
Aunt Teresa
turned
onto
Magazine Street
and stopped
in front of a purple and pink Victorian
-style house
.

We found the ad together which
boasted
“charming, quaint, and und
er-valued.” That couldn’
t have been fu
rther from the truth
. The house had shingles torn from the roof, a yard full of weeds, and a porch which, judging
by
the number of
broken
branches and
pile
s
of leaves
collected in
the
corners
, hadn’t been swept in months, if not years.

“I had a different image of it
in my mind
,”
Aunt Teresa
spoke my thoughts,
as she peered
warily at
the
neglected
dwelling
from
under the truck visor.

“I’ll be fine. I’m hardier than this.”

Aunt Teresa
tapped my knee ex
citedly. “That’s the spirit.

It’s
an adventure, remember?”

“Right,” I
mumbled
.

A
beefy man
,
wearing
a pink shirt and green
plaid
slacks
,

s
tepped out of a beaten up Chevy
and
shuffled
toward
us
.

“Ezra Wood, I presume?”
I said, keeping my voice low since
the truck windows were rolled down.

“Not funny.”
Aunt Teresa
glowered back at me as she heaved open the truck door, ignoring its groaning hinges.

I followed, reluctantly.

“
Mr. Wilkes, this is Maggie. She’ll be one of the tenants,” said
Aunt Teresa
, noticeably yanking me closer.

He
started to openly
assess me
.

I
’m
what you would call a slim girl
, and
no
more
than five feet
tall
,
with wavy chocolate hair dangling to my waist. My face alone
,
with my tiny, narrow nose and overly wide
,
brown eyes
,
which
I always thought could rival the size of tea saucers
,
probably gave the impression I was innocent
.
I was once told I looked like a pixie
only
several times larger.

Mr. Wilkes
must not have
found
any
glaring concerns
,
because he turned without
any
verbal acknowledg
ment
and
waddled
toward
the house
.
He
stepped over a long-dead bush
that
covered
half of the front steps,
muttering in a thick, southern accent,
“Nah, ya ain’t goin
’
ta find a betta place than this.”

“Okay,”
Aunt Teresa
’s voice sang out
eagerly
,
and I knew immediately that she was ditching me. “I have to get to the airport,” she confirmed, already
pulling out
her cell phone to call a cab.

“
Aunt Teresa
…
already?
” I sighed.

“You’ll be fine. You’ve done this enough times. You don’t need my help.”

That much was true.

“Yes, I need a cab…” she said
,
into
the phone.

I glanced back at Mr. Wilkes
,
standing on the porch now, frowning.
A
pparently
,
he
didn’t like to be delayed. I ignored him.

Aunt Teresa
cl
osed her phone and
l
oped
toward
me
,
beaming.
“You’ll take care of the truck, right?”