Evocation of the Fallen excerpt

Apologies for the long silence. I see it’s been much longer than I had believed. I’ve been struggling and haven’t been up to sharing much here. Felt like I had nothing to say; however, I recently took a look at an older project of mine and felt the strong desire to share my initial draft in progress.

Here it is:

Evocation of the Fallen

Dizzy and half-starved, Aidan jostled the tweed-coated elderly gentleman exiting the bookstore to his right. He muttered a swift apology as the man adjusted his grip on a butcher paper and twine-wrapped package and went on his way.

 Aidan had fully intended to continue shambling down Stone Creek’s downtown district in search of a dimly-lit watering hole. The miasma of delicious aromas the October wind carried out of the bookstore in the old man’s wake, however, gave him pause.

He smelled parchment, vellum, a hint of papyrus, onion skin paper, and a myriad of other antique book and paper fragrances— all these, familiar to him from his years with the scholars of his kind. Underlying this subtle blend was the aroma of freshly-pressed coffee and a muskier hint of leather and sandalwood. 

A black filigree bracket displayed a weathered wooden sign with the words “Zeph’s Apocrypha” stenciled on in gold leaf. The shop’s undoubtedly-historical facade of gleaming, black-lacquered wood and small rectangular glass panes framed a most intriguing collection on display.

There was a set of hand-painted angel oracle cards; rare first editions of obscure translations of sacred texts from many of the world’s religions including copies of the Rigveda and the Odu Ifa; collections of poetry by Rumi, Omar Khayaam, and Thich Nhat Hahn; and illustrated editions of St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul and John Milton’s Paradise Lost (the latter featuring full-color prints of watercolor paintings by none other than William Blake). 

Small stone gargoyles like the ones at Notre Dame kept watch over the display alongside Biblically-accurate quartz Cherubim with their four interlocking wings covered in wide-open eyes. They even had lion bodies and oxen feet.

Aidan hadn’t meant to tarry, but before he knew it, he was opening the door to the bookshop. The daintiest of silver bells (which he hadn’t noticed when he and the old man collided) announced his arrival. A tall, lean man whom he guessed was the proprietor looked up from an antique register and smiled.

Somehow, the shopkeeper (Zeph?) dazzled him even more than the assortment of items in the window display. A mane of leonine golden curls descended to his shoulders. In spite of his plain white t-shirt, stretched taut across a broad chest, there was something sophisticated about him. His rich, amber eyes appeared to be taking stock of Aidan, as well, and Aidan immediately took a mental inventory of his present appearance. 

He’d had to leave his last address without giving notice or having time to pack, and it definitely showed. Aidan had left the west coast with the handful of cash in his wallet and the clothes on his back– a torn Steel Panther concert tee, ripped jeans, and ragged flip flops. Neither he nor his clothes had been washed during the week-long bus trip that had brought him here. Flying posed too great a risk, however, so he’d had no other choice. 

Aidan flushed. He wasn’t in any shape to peruse priceless books or entertain flirtations. And yet, it would be foolish to ignore the opportunity. The attention might even do his spirits some good. 

“Welcome to Zeph’s Apocrypha,” the shopkeeper said, his voice like honey wine and summer sunlight. “I’m Zephaniah Waits the Third. Anything I can help you find?” 

Again, Aidan blushed. He dragged a shaking hand through his greasy mahogany locks. Something sparked in him, in spite of his fatigue and hunger. Yes, there was something he could ask that would surely provoke conversation. “Do you have any texts that mention the fallen angel Focalor?”

 It was risky making such a memorable impression upon anyone in town when he meant to blend in and, eventually, disappear. Rolling into town in California-weather clothes in the middle of a midwest autumn wasn’t helping, either, for that matter. And yet, he couldn’t help hoping Zephaniah would remember him.

Judging by the gleam in Zeph’s eyes, he definitely had his attention. “Hm, the name doesn’t ring a bell, but I do have a translated copy of the Greater Compendium of Fallen Angels by V. Loke. It’s a questionable source in a sense since historians can’t seem to verify the identity of the author. It may even have been pieced together from fragments by many scholars.  The mysterious, genderless pen name could have been added later when it was first published in the 17th century. So there’s a potential for plagiarism, and minor details may be inaccurate. Nonetheless, it’s a good place to start. The contemporary translator sometimes suggests secondary sources to consult.”

“Wow, that sounds great, actually.”

“Right this way,” Zeph indicated, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing toward the back of the store. 

Apparently Zeph was the source of the leather and sandalwood scent. Soap? Cologne? Aftershave? Whatever it was, it had Aidan fairly drooling, as did the sight of Zeph’s khaki cargo pants from the back. He was pretty toned for a bookstore owner and almost Aidan’s height of 6’7.’’ Not bulky like he lifted regularly, but streamlined, sculpted. 

Zeph glanced back at Aidan over his shoulder, tossing an amused smirk his way. Had he felt Aidan’s eyes on his ass?

Then they were standing before a wooden lectern that came up to Aidan’s waist. A large, thick book lay open upon its surface. The left page bore a full-color photograph of the original manuscript, complete with Latin calligraphy and hand-painted illustrations. English translations appeared on the right. The illustrations from the original text fascinated Aidan. Some of the beings depicted looked more like animals than former angels. 

“Fortunately the translation comes with an index. Otherwise we’d be here all night!” Zeph smiled, gently turning to the back of the book.      

A sly smile flitted across Aidan’s face at the thought of spending the night with Zeph. Luckily, it went unnoticed. And anyway, he had no business spending more than a few pleasurable hours with anyone. Attachments were dangerous. 

“Focalor, you said?” 

Aidan nodded.

“Here we are. See for yourself. ‘With broad, outstretched Gryphon wings and all the might of a Duke of Hell, Focalor delivers death by sea, drowning his victims and crushing the ships of war in thunderous waves. 30 legions of demons answer to his summons. His is the power over water and wind alike. Once summoned and bent to your will, he shall not strike out against you, or those you keep in your protection. One thousand years from the cursed hour he fell from grace, he hopes to return to the Seventh Circle of Heaven.’”

Aidan leaned in to get a better look at the text. Sure enough. There was an illustration next to the entry, too, of a man with what looked like massive eagle wings. As Zeph had said, there was even a postscript to the entry that named an alternate source. 

Zeph frowned. “Evocation of the Fallen by Orium Beardsley. That one I don’t have. I don’t really stock anything designed for ritual practice. But if you’re interested, I could order you a copy.”

Aidan glanced over at Zeph. It was only then that he noticed how close they were, Aidan at the left side of the lectern and Zeph beside him on the right. Both men were hunched forward, the better to examine the book. As their eyes met, Aidan heard Zeph’s breath hitch and noticed his pupils dilating by the tiniest fraction. 

Without any conscious intent, Aidan licked his lips. Zeph followed the movement with his eyes then glanced back up at Aidan’s eyes, his gaze soft and hazy. 

Then the bell on the door jingled, and the moment was over.

Aidan expected Zeph to hastily back away from him and reassemble his professional facade. Instead, he winked at Aidan (winked!) and spoke to the newcomer over his shoulder.

“Hi, Elara.”

The young woman framed within the doorway replied, “Hey, Zeph” with a warm smile that lit up her whole face. Was she pining after the bookseller, too? She looked a bit young for him, but you never knew. And who was Aidan to judge? 

She tossed her impressive waist-length curls over her shoulder with practiced finesse and eased her battered brown leather messenger bag onto the counter by the register. Her hair reminded Aidan of the ocean. The colors alternated between a perfect aqua blue, kelp green, the indigo of twilight descending on the waves, the tawny gold of sand, and every shade in between. 

“By the way, Boss, Nora and I completed cataloging inventory online yesterday.”

Zeph smirked. “When you weren’t canoodling?”

Elara scoffed. “I will have you know, good sir, neither of us would ever canoodle at our place of business. We exchanged the occasional sultry glance. Surely enough erotic tension crackled in the air that I feared for the sanctity of the more fire-and-brimstone Christian theology. But there was no canoodling. Speaking of which, though, Zeph, who is this?” she asked, literally batting her eyelashes and smiling fiendishly. 

“I’m Aidan. New in town. Probably not staying long.” The sound of his real name tumbling from his lips unbidden shocked him to his core, but he still had enough presence of mind to note Zeph’s crestfallen expression at this announcement. 

“That’s a shame,” Zeph said. “You seem a rare sort, with complex taste in reading materials. I was looking forward to a challenging research project of some kind. It’s not every day I get a beachcomber seemingly fresh off the bus asking about fallen angels.”

Aidan’s jaw dropped. “How did you…”

“I studied literature and library sciences in Florida. You look like you just washed up, with your tan and your unseasonable clothing. I’m ashamed to admit I got mine from a salon. It’s my one concession to vanity. But I swear the tanning beds help with my moods, especially once the weather turns chill. Speaking of which, can I get you a cup of coffee? Now that Elara’s here, we could sneak off to the break room, and you could warm up a bit. My laptop is in there. We could continue our research on this Focalor?” 

Much though he’d been enjoying their flirtations, the keenness of Zeph’s interest gave Aidan pause. He wasn’t used to strangers expressing kindness so openly. What was Zeph really after, apart from the obvious? 

“I still have to find a place to crash tonight and grab a shower. Maybe I should head out and come back some other time. Anyway, I’m pretty beat. I never could fall asleep properly on the road, and it was a long trip. But thank you for the offer.”

“The Danson Inn has rooms to rent at a reasonable rate. They’re fairly close by, too.”

“That sounds great. I’ll look them up.”

“I could give you a lift, otherwise?”

“That’s quite alright. I can manage.”

“Oh, and there’s a wonderful thrift store a few doors down from us, if you’re in need of warmer clothing, for while you’re here. Stitches in Time.”

“Thanks,” Aidan muttered on his way out of the shop. Before the door closed behind him, he heard Elara mutter, “Rude much?” Maybe he had been a bit hasty in his retreat, but something about Zeph’s intensity scared him a little. 

A one nighter might be out of the question if he planned on maintaining even a shred of anonymity in this town. It was a shame, too. For all his peculiar curiosity about Aidan, Zeph definitely looked like a good time waiting to happen. He had to work out. No bookseller had any business looking that lean and solid. 

Aidan, on the other hand, stayed slim by virtue of not always being able to feed himself. Hunger ate away at his muscle mass. Maybe he’d stick around long enough to find a way to make some money–enough to get him through the winter. Staying in any one town too long wasn’t safe, though. He’d definitely outstayed his welcome in California, but damn if he didn’t miss it. He chafed his bare arms with his hands for warmth as he continued down Chestnut Road, coming at last to Stitch in Time.  

The male mannequin in the display window wore what looked to be a hooded, berber-lined red plaid flannel shirt and tan corduroy trucker jacket with relaxed medium wash bootcut jeans. Not exactly Zeph’s usual style, but it looked really warm. Potentially expensive, depending on how deep their after-market discounts dropped, but there didn’t seem any harm in just taking a peek. Maybe he could find an inexpensive thermal shirt to wear under his tee. 

The variety of clothing inside the store, however, really caught him by surprise. Hanging on a discard rack by the fitting rooms, he saw a gorgeous, full-length, long-sleeve, gray crushed-velvet coat with a sheen to it like moonlight. “That’s the one,” he said to himself, wondering if his paltry remaining cash could stretch to cover it. So much for trying to blend in! But it would keep him warm without coating him in butch plaid. The crushed velvet felt so soft and so warm against his fingertips. He shrugged it off the hanger and slipped it on. Perfect fit, but no price tag?

“Excuse me?” he asked the bespectacled shopkeeper. “How much for this coat?”

She smiled kindly. “You’re not from around here, are you? It just came in today. Like you, it would appear.” There was more than a hint of Mrs. Claus to her appearance, from her snow-white curls to her square wire-framed gold glasses and fuzzy pink cashmere sweater. “My last customer tried it on, but it was too broad across the shoulders for her, and the sleeves hung too low. It’s a men’s coat, though the style might be a bit unisex.”

“I really love it. How much does it cost?”

She squinted as though making some kind of calculation, a small smile flitting across her face. “How does $10 sound? And I think you need some new shoes. Your toes must be freezing! I have some lovely charcoal leather boots that might fit you. They’re sort of a cross between cowboy boots and biker boots. The original retailer called them “range boots.” They overstocked, and I got the remainder.” 

Aidan knew he was getting the bargain of a lifetime, even if the coat had been used. It was definitely high quality. The material might not hold up to a full-blown midwestern winter, but he’d probably be gone by then, anyway. Maybe he’d head south. The important thing was to just keep moving.

About an hour later, he’d walked out wearing the coat and the new boots and carrying a small bag with a couple of choice vintage t-shirts and the thermal he’d envisioned, for layering underneath. The shopkeeper– Angelique, as he learned– claimed to have found a grab bag of vintage tees in his size, in the back, priced at just $5. Aidan suspected she’d put them together out of charity. Ordinarily, he’d be too proud to accept, but he couldn’t say no to her. She was entirely too kind and sincere. Her warm hazel eyes didn’t hold a single scrap of pity. She’d even offered him a job if he found himself sticking around. 

He still had enough for at least a cheap meal and bad coffee, and one night at a motel, assuming he didn’t put the motel on a credit card. Not that his credit was any good, but his half-sister Charmeine had him listed as an authorized user on one of her accounts and paid the balance off periodically. The locations of the charges gave her an idea of where he was when he “forgot” to check in. Not that he didn’t love her, but he didn’t want her to worry. There wasn’t much he could say about how he was really doing that would put her mind at ease, either. 

Still, it felt good knowing there was someone out there who knew him for who and what he really was. When they spoke over the phone, he felt solid, grounded– really there in a way he usually didn’t. Drifting from town to town, on the run, he felt immaterial. It was for the best, though. The moment he let his guard down and put down roots, he’d be that much easier to find. An immaterial man, after all, would be pretty damned hard to kill. 

Lost in such troubling thoughts, he failed to notice the eagle soaring high overhead until a single feather fell from the sky and landed before him. The sight stopped him cold. He eyed it as though expecting it to weaponize itself and attack. 

“Could be a coincidence,” he muttered. But he didn’t really believe that. Surreptitiously scanning the faces of all those around him, he picked it up and pocketed it. If it was what he suspected it might be, it could come in handy later for tracking.