FALLEN ANGEL: REDEMPTION
Copyright Š 2014 Sean P. Martin All rights reserved. ISBN: ISBN-13: LCCN:
This book is dedicated to all the men and women who work to keep the children of our world safe from exploitation and abuse.
DISCLAIMER This book is a work of fiction. Names, dates, places, historical events, pretty much everything contained herein, are fictitious or have been used fictitiously. Any significant similarity to actual people or places is pure coincidence.
This book would not have been possible without the support of my family, friends, and you, the reader. I hope you enjoy reading about Cassiel’s adventures as much as I enjoy chronicling them. Cassiel’s cover image was originally created by ink.black.sky, using images courtesy of mousiestock.deviantart.com and antiretrovirus.deviantart.com. The background cover image came from somadjinn.deviantart.com I thank these people and those like them willing to share their hard work and creativity with those of us who are artistically challenged.
1 I woke up. And as I had done every morning for the last four years, I stared at the face of the angel sleeping beside me. Her name was Angela, she was the grown-up daughter of my first love and my mentor, and she had rescued me from the depression which had threatened to claim me four years earlier. You kind of open yourself up for that when you’ve killed a serial killer, first letting him murder an innocent man, and then gone on something of a killing spree yourself, taking down a group of human trafficking pedophiles. Not all at once, of course. That would be... extreme, even for someone as driven as me. The whole process took about a year. It scarred me to a much greater degree than I would’ve thought possible. But two good things had come out of it – my beautiful wife Angela, and, more recently, our daughter, Genevieve.
“Oof.” Genevieve had decided to wake daddy up in the best way she knew – by launching herself into the air and onto my genitals. “Get up daddy,” she squealed. “Get up.” I did as I was told. I had learned that with threeyear-olds it was often easier than arguing. This whole parenting thing was taking some getting used to. I really appreciated everything my first wife, Elspeth, had done in raising our son. Before I had to dismember him. Long story. Anyway, I duly followed Genevieve downstairs, trying to avoid standing on all the small, sharp, plastic toys that never managed to stay put away. I envied Angela her ability to sleep through Genevieve’s enthusiasm. “Look, daddy. Look.” The thing at which she was pointing was huge – easily five feet from floor to top. Or is it hoof to ears? Or hands? Whatever the unit of measurement, it was big. And black. And breathing. And swishing its tail while flicking its ears. And in my house. There was only one person who would do something like this. “Demid! Get your big black butt out here!” Chuckling, my ‘best’ friend, Demid E’mon stepped forward from the alcove in which he had hidden. His hair was done in corn braids, and with his goatee, he looked more like a rapper than a Fallen
Demon. Which was probably the idea. One never knew with him. “Just what every girl wants, isn’t it, Cassiel?” Demid asked in his high-pitched voice. “Her very own pony.” “Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “But not when she lives in a house with no yard. Not when her parents are getting ready to take her on an overseas holiday for a month, and most definitely not when her father hates ponies!” “Oh, do you? I forgot.” His grin told me that he hadn’t. Sometimes I don’t know why he and I have become, and remained, such good friends. We had both gone through some serious trials in the last few years, but we’d come through the other side with only minimal scarring. “Can I keep him daddy? Can I?” Genevieve had completely ignored the adult conversation that was going on, and had gone straight for the animal. She had an amazing affinity for them. Even when they were injured or otherwise upset, she was able to calm them down with a few murmured words and a touch. Sometimes, just by talking to them. Her mother and I thought this was her Gift – the special ability that all Fallen (Angels and Demons) and their offspring have.
The pony had lowered his head, and was nuzzling Genevieve’s palm. It grieved me to do it, but I was going to have to be strong. “I hate you,” I whispered to Demid. “Ah, Genevieve - ” “ – of course you may.” That was Angela, completing my sentence in the worst way imaginable. Then she once again proved that I was right to love her. “But he will have to live at Uncle Demid’s.” The look on Demid’s face was priceless. But he knew when he’d been bested, and he accepted his defeat gracefully. “Of course,” he told Genevieve. “I hadn’t gotten around to telling you that, but, yes, as your mother said, he will have to live with me. Don’t worry,” he continued as Genevieve’s face fell. “You’ll be able to come visit him and ride him whenever you like.” That mollified her somewhat. Even at the tender age of three, she often showed an understanding of things far beyond her years. I guess she had what people call an ‘old soul’. “Okay. More presents?” “Of course, sweetie.” Angela took her by the hand and allowed herself to be led into the living room. All the furniture in it came from low-end department stores, with the difference between that price and what I would have paid donated to the homeless. It was one of
the ways Angela had helped me to become a better man. She had shown me that small gestures were just as meaningful as larger ones, and were most times less taxing on the person doing the giving. For her birthday this year, as on every other birthday, Christmas, Easter, Winter Solstice, Summer Solstice and any other ‘special’ day, my little girl was spoiled rotten. We tried to go easy on the gifts, not wanting to raise a spoiled brat, but Demid and her Godparents, Gene and Marie Travelli, didn’t see things that way. “We just saw it and fell in love,” Marie would often tell us. “It’s perfect for her, wouldn’t you agree.” And I would agree, and so would Angela, because whatever it was really would be perfect for Genevieve. And that was how she ended up with enough girly crap to fill two rooms in our three-bedroomed house. And that gosh darned pony. I was really going to have to think hard to outdo Demid on that one. Special events at our place usually lasted the whole day, and this one was no exception. At the end of it all, when Demid had finally left, taking his equine friend with him, and Gene and Marie had gone on their merry way (after leaving us heaping plates of food), and Genevieve had crashed out on the sofa, Angela and I were finally able to relax.
“Another one over,” Angela said, pouring us both glasses of sparkling grape juice. “Yep,” I agreed. I slipped off my shoes and swung my feet up onto the footrest. Angela put down her glass and began to rub my feet. “Ooh, that’s it,” I told her. “But I should warn you, if you keep that up, it could lead to… other things.” She smiled, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my brain and… lower parts of my anatomy. We abandoned the grape juice, I carried Genevieve up to bed and tucked her in, and then I disrobed at lightning speed and joined my wife in bed. If I’d known it would be our last birthday together as a family, I don’t think I would’ve done a single thing differently.