Fall: The Last Testament of Lucifer Morningstar by David Scott Hay

Author:David Scott Hay [Hay, David Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Horror
Goodreads: 11948262
Publisher: Arson Books
Published: 2011-06-13T07:00:00+00:00

∞ ∞ ∞

The pungent aroma of rotting wood, mixed with that of lilacs, grew so thick that Maggie had to hold her handkerchief to her face for a moment. Long enough for a few of the Fallen to file past. Some faces leaked secret smiles; some filed past with damp cheeks. Others still walked past and touched the body. More than a few, though, eyed Lucifer with suspicion.

One remarked to Duma, “So, Little Rebel, will you become the Sixth or Seventh?”

“You should have Fallen…”

“But he did bring the rebellion home, did he not?”

Duma sat silently, his face twitching with recognition at some of the faces, blank at others, all the while lightly scratching a shingle. One held his gaze.

A one-eyed Host angel.

“Man, and I thought I smelled bad,” Honeybone said.

Just then the distant sound of an engine reached Maggie’s ears. At the front gate was a beat-up pickup. She nudged Honeybone, who in turn shrugged. “I thought everyone who was anyone was here.”

She looked at Lucifer, who followed her gaze. He nodded to her. “Don’t stray too far.”

Maggie stepped into the cabin and returned a moment later with a shotgun. She cradled it in the crook of her right arm, and headed for the gate.

Honeybone followed. “I bet those birds don’t take too kindly to that boomstick of yours.”

“It’s not for anything with a beak, if you know what I mean.”

The man at the gate had hopped up on the hood of his truck and sat idly kicking his legs. Next to him was a well-used rucksack. When Maggie and Honeybone got to the gate, he slid off and smiled. “Hello.”

“This is private property,” Maggie said.

“So I’ve read,” he said, indicating the weathered signs on the gate.

He was a tall, lean man dressed in cowboy casual, a sports jacket over an open collar denim shirt. His blue jeans were faded and almost too comfortable looking, with a few threadbare spots around the pockets and knees. The cuffs of the jeans were pulled down over snakeskin boots which were caked with mud and straw. A simple brown leather belt circled his waist like a flat snake.

His face was gaunt and clean shaven, but not without humor. He smiled, and deep lines formed from the corner of his eyes. His hair was graying and slicked back into a ponytail, which revealed itself when he retrieved his bag from the truck.

“I’d be a little slower with your movements, fellow,” Maggie said, almost casually pumping the shotgun. She reminded him of one or two characters that inhabited her novel from time to time.

“I understand,” he said, slowly reaching into his sack. He produced a plain looking envelope and handed it to Maggie with two fingers. “Open it.”

She did. And pulled out a linen invitation with simple gold script:

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