Night Before Doomsday

I had intended to post a most romantic true life love story today. John Macrae-Hall of the 145th Squadron of the Royal Air Force gave me permission to post the story of how he met Babs, his wife in 1955. BUT I had to type the story (which I will do) and time ran away from me---again.



SO I am posting an excerpt from a companion novella to my WIP.




I, Azazel, of the Order of Grigori, am fallen.
I am not evil.
Look for me. Sitting at the bar beside you. You will know me by my long, fair hair and charismatic smile. My countenance hints at mystery.
My art is, and has always been, the science of seduction.


Saturday morning, seven o’clock, I woke up horny with no remedy in the house but relief was only a phone call away. By ten, I'd gotten laid, kissed sweet Maggie goodbye and stood gazing out the glass wall overlooking the neon splendor of Las Vegas. My white-on-white home built on a hill outside the city was angular, ultra-modern but the furnishings antique.


Young on the outside, old on the inside—like me.


I’d lived in this neoteric garden long enough to imitate the livestock. Sin City suited me. Normally, I'm an easy-going, cheerful even loving fellow. At the moment, however, absolutely nothing suited me. I wished I’d asked Maggie to stay instead of hurrying her on her way. If this ungodly restlessness survived a day in bed with Maggie, I’d require the help of my old friend Bombay Sterling, grinning at me from the liquor cabinet. Another of their habits I'd adopted—
when memories came creeping back. I was wondering if I wanted a martini or a gin-and-tonic when a sharp pain cramped my hand into a fist. Never one for profanity, I exhaled an archaic curse, opened my hand and forgot all about Bombay, Maggie and the heebie-jeebies.


The symbol in my palm bulged blood-red.... as it had on the day my punishment began. The strange figure had been the subject of many short discussions with mortals who asked if it was a birthmark. I'd nod, smile and change the subject. If only they knew....


At creation, each angel was given an individual sigil. For millennia my heavenly tattoo had been merely a silvery-white scar in my right palm, a sad reminder of what I’d given up. Another razor of pain sliced along the ulner nerve to my elbow, sending a thousand bells ringing in my ears as my vibration soared from the slower corporeal hum to the high pitch of pure Spirit. My hand paled to transparent. Any moment, my mortal pretense would dissolve. Then what?
Poof...gone...MIA angel?


Something was desperately wrong and I feared I knew what it was, at long last, Retribution coming to call.