Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (23 page)

“There is so much incest in the Bible,” the father says. “How do you think he. . .” And then he looks up above the center of the arena, gazes at Life. He shakes his head. “There’s ten billion of us. She went from two to ten-
billion
? You have to suspend the rules in order to do that.”

And there’s that angry little demon, buried inside him, popping its head out. He’s got an axe of his own to grind and swing.

By now, the gallery is going wild, cawing and clucking, and cooing and screeching in a roar of disapproval that shakes the whole hall. And the mountain trembles beneath the hall so hard that I look up to make sure the roof’s not coming down. And I never noticed it, but the roof is transparent from the inside, and I can see the dark night of space, sprinkled with bright stars.

When I look back, little Mercedes’s soul is busy going nuts, like someone’s pit bull trying to clamp its jaws on a poodle at the State’s dog dump. And she’s fighting against the two guardians, holding her back. And she’s yelling and screaming and spitting at her father’s soul like a rabid dog. She should probably be careful about that, because this isn’t just about him.

And Frank’s soul has just had its world turned upside down. Couple a days ago, depending on how long his fall was, he was probably out on his yacht in the San Juan Islands, assfucking a couple of his secretaries. Now, writhing in pain as the two guardian angels sink their foot talons into his back and buttocks, I can’t help thinking,
Not so funny when it’s your ass getting fucked, is it?

And the Queen of Hearts pauses, and she hovers in the center of the light. Her transparent wings are fluttering and flapping gently, and I’m so excited to see Frank judged that I forget to look at her tits. Okay, I glanced. Fuck off.

Then she waves her hands in circles toward each section in the gallery grandstands. It reminds me of an executioner whipping up the crowd, letting the accused feel what’s coming, before he lops off someone’s head.

If it was torture I might know where that thought came from, but I have no idea where the images of beheadings are coming from.

Yet this spectacle seems to be serving double duty, because now she’s got the crowd hushed down to feather-fall silence in anticipation. She’s a showman, no doubt about that. Come to think of it, they both are. And this is—son of a bitch, it’s no different!

Since the dawn of time, the rich and powerful have known, that if you want to distract the masses so you can get away with some nefarious shit, bread and circuses, baby—nothing better. Bleeding, branding, and brutalizing souls is no different—great entertainment for the feathered followers.

So what in Heaven or Hell do “mommy” and “daddy” have up their sleeves?

— XLIII —

I GOT NO more time to figure it out, because it looks like it is time for the Dark Angel of Light to take over center stage in the arena. “Dal”—acronyming the Devil. How fucked up is that?

And he moves right up to the edge of the big cone of light, circling and snapping at Frank’s writhing soul. But now, the angry Dal is a true dark angel. His huge red feathers spike from his wings like jagged machetes and they glisten black oil that drips down onto his body feathers. And when he flaps his wings, the scraping metal sends sparks flying and his wings ignite and spit flames up in the air above him. And there’s no horns or tails or red scales on him, just the deep, seductive fire of Heaven’s blackest heart.

And everyone knows Frank is fucked. It’s just a matter of how bad it’s going to be, because he looks to be the main event. By the way she’s snarling and screaming, they could probably let Mercedes tear his soul apart and call it justice. Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna happen, though. Probably have to earn your talons before you get to go ripping souls apart in the arena. In fact, the way she’s yelling at Frank. . . She doesn’t forgive and forget pretty soon and she’ll have a molten tramp stamp like her mommy, faster than she can say, “Who brought the lube?”

And here he goes—the Dark Angel of Light, working the crowd into a bloodthirsty rage with the Word. And he is growling pretty loudly when he starts his speech, “Defile not ye yourselves in any of these things! . . . For in all these the nations are defiled which were cast out before you! . . . And their land is defiled.” And he points down at Frank. “And behold, their defiled land does vomit out her children!”

And the whole message is coming out like one big fire-and-brimstone browbeating. “Stay in line, shut your mouth, and do what you’re told.”

Intimidation or elimination. Unbridled authority. It’s the same everywhere.

I look down at the top of Father Benito’s head, still peeking out from under my wing. Bet he wishes I let him keep his flask. Trying to get a good look at the literal interpretation of the Word, he’s shaking like a leaf. Guess I might as well educate myself while Dal is putting the fear in everyone’s feathers. “And where’s that from?” I ask the father.

He shakes his head. “He’s paraphrasing, but that . . . It’s Leviticus . . . eighteen, I think. But he’s not supposed to be reading it.”

And the crowd is really whipped into a flock of blood-boiling birds. And I’m staring and the father is gawking, because it looks like this thing could go all “Hitchcock” any second. And I wonder what a kamikaze stampede of crazed angels would look like.

Three white, black and gray feather-sparkling dove-angels spring from their perches and they start circling, flying around the edge of the huge hall in perfect “V” formation. And the crowd goes wild for it. Nothing like a flyover at half-time.

And then the doves twist and turn and dart and flare their way around the edge of the arena in a crazy display of flying skills that reminds me of the little gray-girl I had to beat up to get up here.

And the Dark Angel of Light is just fueling the fire. He’s got one arm stretched way above his head, and his long index finger is extended straight up, and his wings are on fire and he’s got them spread out wide. He keeps the tempo up, yelling at the crowd, “And ye shall not commit any of these
abominations!
Within your own
nation!
”

And the whole thing is just an awesome sight—total Supersport spectacle. I’m actually screeching right along with the crowd in the gallery.

And the Dark Angel is smiling, and here comes the big finale. “Nor with any
stranger
that sojourneth among yooouuuuu!
”

And then light explodes from everywhere like fireworks. And I squint my eyes shut and when I open them back up, I’m still clucking a little chuckle, but when I scan the great hall, the flying angels are nowhere to be found. And everything is silent . . . and a million fallen and faithful angels are staring at the Dark Angel of Light. And I look and he is stone-still in the center of the big jeweled arena, with his long finger pointed . . . right at me.

— XLIV —

I LOOK RIGHT into Dal’s eyes and he smiles. “Shit. . .” I mutter. Because really, what else is there to say?

Then I look up, and about a hundred feet above the center of the arena is the brightest, whitest ball of piercing light that I’ve ever seen. And the light it casts looks like a giant disco ball at an angel-rave, glistening and shining mirrors of illumination into every crevice of the huge Hallowed Hall. And if Father Benito’s got his own book figured right . . . I know who it is.

I raise my head at her and screech out a war cry. And my feathers tighten over my entire body and all of my talons pop out. I shove the father away from me, and then I spread my wings wide and scrape my wing feathers together in a loud squeal of steel, and I yell at the little ball of bright bitch, “Rain!” She’s who I came for.
Hounding me through the end, my ass.

I jump up and leave the father rolling on the ground in a circle of confused and back-fluttering angels—the six just landed dove-angels that were flying around the arena. I’m pretty sure they were supposed to snatch me up and haul me up front. Not happening.

It only takes a couple of flaps before I’m up to full speed, pumping hard, headed right at Rain. I can feel my rage boiling for blood and without even thinking, I tuck my wings and spin as I’m flying and I shoot pinfeathers at her. No idea how many, but it’s a lot. I’ll give her the big quills later. I don’t wanna kill her just yet. Right now, I’m more interested in giving Rain some pain.

But she flits like a hummingbird and “fairies” herself out of the way. Then a bunch of urgent screeching yells come from the grandstands. Cries spike from behind her, as my feathers fly past and find their way through angels in the crowd. No telling which kind they pierce. And judgment night at the arena has just become an audience participation, contact sport. Because . . . doves and ravens, if you’re gonna gawk at the hawks, better watch out for a rogue feather or five.

And I bank a tight turn, trying to catch up with Rain. As I do, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of several angels fluttering and flapping like I’ve seen wounded ducks flail for altitude after they’ve been shot. And the harder they flap, the slower they fall. But fall they do, splashing down hard on the diamond and ruby-studded floor of the arena.

Death doesn’t look like the movies, especially when its angels caw and cluck and screech, and pour blood on the gem-studded floor. And I don’t need my boozing
Bible
translator to know what they’re yelling. Every last one of them is calling for their great mother—the Chosen One—to save them.

But self-preservation goes all the way to the top, probably stronger all the way up there, because when I glance back over my shoulder, the Dark Angel of Light and the Queen of Hearts—the Chosen One, herself—are both high-tailing their tail-feathers toward the exit at the side of the arena . . . together. And they got half a dozen golden bodyguard angels around them by the time they disappear out some kind of twisting door. It looks more like a portal, because it seals up behind them all by itself.

When the faithful see that, the hall erupts and the entire gallery of angels takes flight. And they are cawing and clawing for altitude in a big tornado of talons and feathers, headed straight up. Apparently the roof is the followers’ exit, because it opens up a huge hole to the deep dark of the star-studded space. Then a million faithful and faithless angels stampede from the Arena of Reckoning and the Hallowed Hall of the Word. They leave the Great Mountain of the Eternities behind.

When I look back for the father, he’s running toward the center of the arena, at Mercedes and Frank. No idea what he thinks he’s gonna do for them, because Mercedes is loose now, already transformed into a deep gray angel with dark armored feathers. And she’s busy ripping the living shit out of her father’s soul and chunks of it fly from her talons, and the chunks are writhing in agony.

Revenge or forgiveness—burger or salad? Sometimes it’s just better to eat what you want and deal with the consequences of the calories later. Frank’s not resurrecting from that mess. Not today, not tomorrow, not as anything a man will recognize anyway, because for some reason, I don’t think souls die. That would just be too easy.

Anyway, no matter how many chunks Mercedes rips him into, they all keep moving, trying to get back to each other. And when they do, they catch fire and melt and mold back together, then they go wiggling for another chunk. Trust me, it’s just nasty.

And I would love to join her down there—my thirst for revenge on that bastard is bone-dry again—but like I said, choices. “Rain, I’m gonna gut you!” I screech up at her.

When I finally catch up to the shining little whelp, Rain is as bright as ever. I can barely look at her. If this angel is a her, because I haven’t actually gotten a good look at the bitch. I’m blinded and sunburned every time I get close.

Whatever it is—she, he, or a he-she, hermaphrodite bitchboy—I don’t give a shit. I slam into her. At least I think it’s her, but as it happens—a split second before I was gonna sink my foot talons knee-deep in her ass—I crash into a huge pillar, and chunks of granite and gemstone fly off of it. And then I’m spinning out of control.

When I come out of the spin, I shake my head, flare my wings, and bank hard to follow the little shit and—sure the light’s blinding, but it’s nothing compared to the flash of stars in my head when Rain rams into me going at. . . The Chosen One herself only knows how fast this little bitch can burn through the atmosphere. Because now we’re through the roof of the great hall. And she is screeching at me and her wings are hammering me, and her talons are deep in my side and back.

I’m pissed, but the rage doesn’t seem to be helping me fight her off. I screech back at her, “I’m gonna tear your wings off! Get off me, bitch.”

It’s the truth, if I could just get a hold of her. And I may be blinded, but I still got my wings and I flap them hard, fighting against her and we both spin and flap, and flail and screech at each other, and I can tell that we are both falling . . . again. And I’m getting tired of this shit. Another fall? I swear if she fucks up my wing this time. . .

For some reason I don’t think she’s trying to kill me. That’s not good news for her, because as soon as I get the chance, I’m—

Then she screeches something at me that catches me a little off guard, “You have to go back!”

“Go back?” I screech back at her. “Sure, as soon as I kill you!” And I fight hard to break free, but she’s determined. I’ll give her that.

We keep at it for a few more seconds and then I feel it—we fall back down the same hole I snuck up here through. And she’s sending me back down, plummeting toward the planet. Back to Earth, back to the garden, back to the destiny I was sent down to fulfill . . . back to the rain drizzling, foggy reality of the end of humanity.

— XLV —

AND I’M IN another fucked-up dream. Aren’t they all? I don’t seem to have the ones with the puppies and perfume. In fact, the reality of life itself seems to be just some angry angel’s nightmare.

I can smell the molasses pretty thick though, and I’m waiting for her to appear again—chastise the shit out of me for breaking up their little bloodsport game in the Arena of Reckoning.