Lyda Morehouse - Archangel 02 - Fallen Host, ebooks [ENG]
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FALLEN HOST
BOOK 2 OF THE ARCHANGEL SERIES
LYDA MOREHOUSE
[v0.9 Scanned & Spellchecked by the_usual from dt. Messiah Node and Apocalypse Array coming soon]
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 1 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 2 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 3 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 4 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 5 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 6 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 7 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 8 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 9 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 10 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 11 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 12 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 13 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 14 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 15 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 16 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 17 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 18 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 19 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 20 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 21 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 22 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 23 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 24 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 25 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 26 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 27 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 28 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 29 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 30 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 31 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 32 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 33 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 34 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 35 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 36 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 37 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 38 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 39 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 40 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 41 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 42 MAI/PAGE, THE SYNTHESIS
CHAPTER 43 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 44 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 45 PAGE/MAI, THE SYNTHESIS
CHAPTER 46 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 47 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 48 PAGE/MAI, THE SYNTHESIS
CHAPTER 49 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 50 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 51 PAGE, THE DISUNION
CHAPTER 52 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 53 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 54 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 55 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 56 EMMALINE, THE INQUISITOR
CHAPTER 57 PAGE, THE INTELLIGENCE
CHAPTER 58 MORNINGSTAR, THE ADVERSARY
EPILOGUE
MOUSE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For Shawn, my soul
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I simply must thank my editor, Laura Anne Gilman, who believed I had a second book in me; my
agent, Jim Frenkel, and his trusty crüe, Tracy Berg and Jesse Vogel, who made the deal; and my writers
groups—Karma Weasels, Wyrd-smiths, and the Fierce Wild Women—who nurtured the beast (and
me). In particular, I need to single out those who volunteered to read the manuscript in its final hour:
Kelly David McCullough, Naomi Kritzer, Shawn Rounds, Terry Garey, Bob Subiaga Jr., and Paula
Fleming.
To Shawn Rounds goes all my love and appreciation for the many "there, there's." I thank
Jonathan Sharpe for the carrot of "Soul Calibur" to keep me on the writing stick. To Shannon Drew,
whose insanity kept me sane at my day job, I just have to say, "Wow, what's with your hair?" I also send
love to Emmett Christian Sutliff, who was delivered nearly same time on the same day as this manuscript.
And to my biggest fans, Mort and Rita Morehouse, whom I owed a better acknowledgment: "I love you,
and thanks for all the fish" (not to mention the dim shablows).
PROLOGUE Page, the Intelligence
I never sleep. Like the dolphin and the spiny anteater, I don't experience REM. Unlike the
dreamless mammals, I'm a construct. I am a living program inside a vast network of electronic impulses
known as the LINK. In that data-stream, I've uncovered the meaning of another kind of dreaming—that
of a fond hope or aspiration, a yearning, a desire, or a passion. This much I have. When I dream, I
dream of Mecca.
CHAPTER 1 Morningstar, the Adversary
Once a millennium on the first Jewish Sabbath morning after Epiphany during Ramadan, our two
warring sides have agreed to parlay. This time, because of my slight advantage on the field, I chose the
venue.
I picked a table by the window in a bustling greasy spoon called "The Y'all Eat In," full of the
smells of frying chicken, pancakes, bacon, and grits. Grease so permeated the place that even the
forgotten Christmas tinsel had become a matted tangle of silver and gold. A short jump off a dusty
Mississippi electric truckway, the Y'all was the most exciting thing happening in a town so small the locals
joked it wasn't visible via GPS. Most of the truckers in the restaurant seemed like the kind who'd voted
for ultraconservative presidential candidate Etienne Letourneau, even after he had been exposed as an
electronic hoax, because, in their pea-sized and malicious minds, anything was better than voting for a
Jew. I turned a few heads when I walked in with my long hair back in a ponytail, but I was white and
male and clearly passing through.
Gabriel would hate this place; it was perfect.
I watched the waitress pour coffee into cups up and down the counter. Live, human service was
a fascinating phenomenon. It happened in two places—among the very rich in fancy, overpriced watering
holes, and here, at the butt-end of the universe. The middle class had to content themselves with
LINKing their orders to the chef and serving themselves. Posh restaurants employed humans to provide
a sense of genteelness, luxury. Here, at the other end of the spectrum, it was a necessity. Not everyone
here was LINKed.
All commerce, entertainment, politics, and community happened on the LINK. Any citizen over
the age of majority—fifteen—had their nexus activated and could participate in the virtual life of the
LINK. But, like any rule, this one had exceptions.
A surprising number of people weren't citizens. To be a citizen in the world today you had to
belong to a recognized religion. A massively destructive bomb called the Medusa had been dropped in
the last war. The bomb's nanobots changed—and continued to change—whatever they touched into
glass. Hundreds of cities around the world were now empty, crystallized, permanent graveyards. Faced
with this graphic display of science out of control, world leaders decided they'd had enough. There was a
huge backlash against scientists. Religion, in particular the fundamentalist and orthodox varieties,
experienced a renaissance. At first, it was merely hip to be fanatic, but it quickly became the law. Now, if
a person didn't at least nominally belong to a religion, they were criminals, outcasts. Some people were
just plain stubborn and refused to pretend to be something they weren't. Some got kicked out. Being
excommunicated in this day and age had a whole new meaning.
Each country, of course, dealt with its religions in its own way. What was unacceptable here in
America, might be perfectly fine in another country. For instance, in some places, like Saudi Arabia, the
Koran was the literal law of the land. Other countries continued to have secular law and encouraged
religiousness by controlling access to the LINK.
And, of course, there was an underclass. The nexus, which housed the nanotech that built the
LINK inside the human brain, was implanted at birth when the skull was malleable. Implanted, naturally,
by experts—meaning expensive doctor-technicians or licensed midwives. Thus, millions of babies never
got the nexus. For people like that, there was the option of implantation later in life, and/or the stigma of
external hardware.
I imagined the truckers here fell into that category. I suspected many of these workers had gotten
their connection late in life, from their employers, and thus had a sort of "company town" interface in their
heads—that is to say, only what the bossman felt it necessary to provide.
The door chimes jingled, breaking my reverie. A man, or more correctly, the figure of a man
walked through the door, bringing with him a dusty blast of January air. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to
say that every head turned to watch him enter. Conversations dropped to a murmur; forks rested uneasily
against plates, like weapons at the ready. I could almost feel the anger in their stares.
The Mississippi heat brought a sheen of sweat to his deep mahogany skin. He wore a
multicolored orange, yellow, and brown robe, like those favored by immigrants from Somalia or Ethiopia.
On top of a shaved head perched a boxy hat. He would look fabulous, I imagined, if he were waltzing
into the Met for an African art show. Here, he pushed all the bigots' buttons—he was a rumble ready to
happen.
Probably the thing that saved him from being killed instantly was his sheer physical
impressiveness. He stood well over six feet and had the presence and width of a linebacker. He was,
after all, an archangel. Many mortals, even the brutish ones, caught a glimmer of that.
He nodded in my direction, and I lifted a hand to offer him the seat across from me. I'd already
ordered for him. A plate of bacon and grits cooled in front of the empty chair. He looked around the
room as if hoping for another option. Then he sighed, moving to join me. A sneer marred his face, as he
slumped into the chair.
"Morningstar," he said. A barely civil greeting, especially considering we used to be brothers.
Worse, he spoke so softly that I could hardly hear him. Few knew it, but I was deaf in one ear. Just
before I fell, the blast from Gabriel's trumpet destroyed my hearing. Thus, I kept my right side turned
ever so slightly to him, lest he know the victory he'd won.
"Well met, Gabriel," I said brightly. "Or do you prefer Jibril these days?"
He grimaced, and, as he did, a flicker of light glinted off the data chip he had imbedded in his
forehead. It was a holographic tattoo—an earthly representation of the words I had seen written between
his eyes in Heaven: "There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the Prophet of Allah."
"You're looking good," I offered. "The role of field-commander suits you."
"It's temporary," he said, crossing his bulky arms in front of his chest defensively.
He looked so grumpy; I couldn't help but poke him. Some would say it was my nature. "You can
only hope so, since all those storybooks of yours say Michael is the one to defeat me in the end. Without
him, I wonder how things will play out?"
Jibril grunted. For the patron saint of communication, he was awfully taciturn. Still, I could
understand that he didn't want to talk about it. Michael, God's right hand, had gone missing from Heaven
eight months ago. A rumor came to me, whispered on the wings of the Fallen, that Michael had come
here, to earth, in the shell of a homeless preacher. I hadn't yet been able to suss out what Michael was up
to, but I strongly suspected that there was a woman and possibly a child involved.
"Have some food," I offered, picking up a piece of bacon from my mostly empty plate and
crunching it. I knew full well that Jibril kept
halal.
Jibril rolled his eyes at me, but he took a bite of the grits. A waitress appeared beside the table. I
noticed the waitress checking him out. She narrowed her eyes at me, and flicked them back over to him,
perhaps trying to decide if Jibril was my lover. I laughed lightly at the thought, and leaned back in my
chair. She gave me the dirtiest look. Jibril was oblivious to our exchange. She had to clear her throat
before he noticed her.
"Finally showed up, eh? Can I get you anything else, sugar?"
Her smile was all for him, as was the tilt of her hips. When he finally realized her flirtation, he
blushed—a slight darkening of his cheeks. "Just a cup of coffee, black, thanks."
Once she moved off, I said, "You could be a real lady killer, Gabe. Like Michael was. Maybe I
should tell Raphael that he might be next in charge, eh?"
Jibril shook his head, sending the boxlike hat bouncing. "You think you have some kind of
advantage in Michael's absence, don't you, Morningstar? But who's to say that Michael's return to earth
wasn't all part of the plan?"
That thought chilled me, but, with my usual grace and style, I hid it well. My hands only trembled
a tiny bit when I picked up the fork to chase the remains of the runny eggs around my plate. I hated when
they mentioned "the plan." Predestination was one of the reasons I stayed away from Hell and spent as
much of my time here, among the chaos of flesh.
"Maybe it's time for the final showdown," Jibril added quietly.
I nearly choked on the water I was sipping. "You can't be serious. Is it time for a new religion
already?" I pointed to the holographic tattoo between Jibril's eyes with the lip of my water glass. "Not
satisfied with that last prophet after all?"
Jibril grunted, and chewed his grits.
I shook my head. "Are you telling me that Mother intends to pull the plug on the whole thing?
She's finally giving up on Her pet project?" I set my glass down between us. "You know that's what it
would mean, right? If what you're saying is true … no more flesh. But then, why should I give a rip? I've
never much cared for these creatures of clay."
"It would also mean your redemption," Jibril said quietly.
When Allah banished me for not making obeisance to His toy of clay, I begged for respite on the
final day. I could still hear the response:
Surely you are of the respited ones.
Yes, Allah had said, I
would be redeemed. My heart pounded in my ear. To return to Heaven … the thought made the water
evaporate from my throat.
"Allah the All-Merciful," I whispered.
My relationship with Heaven was a complicated one. As an archangel, I supposed I could return
at any time. But, let's just say that when I left, I changed the nature of things, including myself. When any
angel goes to Heaven, they are no longer separate creatures from God. They become God; their
individuality is wiped clean.
In Heaven, spirit is immutable.
But then there's the small matter of my rebellion. Perhaps my Maker always intended me to be a
bad seed. Maybe, out of spite, He sprinkled just a touch of willfulness and a dash of chaos into the fire of
my spirit. I suppose it was possible that God just didn't have the recipe down yet, since I was the
firstborn. Could my freewill be a mistake, an accident, or the unforeseen combination of two ingredients
thrown together by an inexperienced God? I wondered if God might have been testing the blueprint for
mortals. I laughed at that thought. After what happened with me, you'd think He'd have thrown away the
mold.
I have always wondered if God was surprised the day I tore Heaven in half—when I made a
place in the celestial realm that belonged to myself alone.
Then again, perhaps it was all predetermined, since almost as soon as I tore Heaven in two, God
retook control. He co-opted Hell as a place to send the souls of those mortals that didn't pass muster on
whatever sick little experiment He was running down here on earth. Myself, I avoided Hell whenever I
could. Despite what Milton had said, I was a servant there as much as I was on any celestial plane.
Besides, Hell was not a pretty place. Here my spirit ached to be reunited with God. In Hell, that pain was
ten thousand times greater.
Plus, once I was in Hell, God could choose to keep me there. Like all the angels, I came and
went from His realm at His pleasure.
A couple of truckers were eyeing Jibril. He was oblivious to them as well. It would never occur
to Jibril that his skin color might make someone upset. He, like Father, supposedly loved everyone. I
shook my head: nasty creatures, these mortals. I never understood why God didn't give up on them long
ago. This place, this wretched experiment, was clearly a failure.
Yet God had managed to care about these clay creatures through much worse times. I couldn't
believe He'd finally grown bored. "The last battle? So soon? What's the catch?"
"No catch," Jibril said.
"You know, after we passed the two-thousand mark, I really thought He'd given up on all this
'End of Days' hoopla."
"Me, too," Jibril muttered, and I caught a glimpse of something—sadness?—in his eye.
"You don't want to give it up?" I asked.
He wiped the sweat off his face with a napkin. "Who would? It's been a good run."
I raised an eyebrow. Of course, Jibril felt that way; he was on God's side. Still, I wasn't
convinced. You never knew with God—mysterious ways and all that. This could all just be some kind of
big tease to trick me into to doing something for Him, something dirty that He didn't want His archangels
sullied by. "I thought there were supposed to be signs," I said. "Plagues, drought, famine … all that kind
of Biblical stuff."
"Maybe we lied."
My smile twitched into a sour sneer before I could recover it. "Lies? That's my purview."
"Here," he said, pointing down at the table, though I knew he meant more than just the café. "We
can say what we want."
It was true. Here on earth, freewill reigned supreme. The apple had been eaten, as it were. For
Jibril and I to come to earth, we had to change our nature. We clothed our pure spirit with the trappings
of flesh, and with flesh came freewill. Though God never missed His mark, we were like an arrow shot
into the water—much more likely to go astray once we passed the barrier into chaos.
Jibril picked up a piece of toast and spread jam on it with a butter knife. "Maybe, Dark Prince,
you should ready an army." He pointed the tip of the knife at me. "One, this time, that knows how to
fight."
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