Celestial Illusions

The first 3 chapters of my book, and I'm looking for comments. = )

  

Prologue

 

"Sir…" A trembling messenger called, his voice bouncing from the doorway of embers, bouncing off the walls until the word fell on pale ears. Cold eyes shifted toward the petrified messenger, ready to accuse or cause pause. The demon messenger- though his body merely a wisp of smoke with empty eye sockets- turned away, trying to avoid the endless gaze. His line of sight fell comfortably to the charred ground. There had been a lot of prompting from the higher officials just to push him into the room, and the messenger still wasn't sure that it wouldn't have been easier to just jump into the River of Flames instead of facing the Master.

"Yes?" The low, menacing word came from the figure with the cold eyes; authority radiating from the being in Hell's heart. The wisp floated in place, unable to speak, stunned by how the words just rolled off the master's tongue without even a hint of hesitation. The Master, perched on his giant onyx throne, seemed to just stop everything around them, the enchanting voice even freezing the flickering torches.

"It's… it is about to begin, sir. Her time of death is growing near," the specter said quickly, trying to spit the message out before he completely froze in fear. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep his eyes on the ground.

"All is according to plan. Send Buzzbee to retrieve her." The wisp nodded at the command, and left the room. The strange eyes watched the door for a long and hushed moment, before a sinister smile curled on the corpse white flesh of the figure.

"Soon, I will have my revenge. Soon, they will be bowing down to me, worshipping me." He savored the words like a fine wine, savoring every syllable like a separate, exotic flavor. Finally, he couldn't help but release the maniacal laugh that had been building up in his chest. Flames licked the throne like eager servants, feeding off of his drastic thoughts; his radical dreams and plans...

 

"They will worship me, the almighty Lucifer."

 

Michael

 

If an artist were to paint Michael, he would have to take great care to make every inch of the muscular figure faultless. Michael was about six feet tall, with skin the color of the regal moon, and hair like a gilded waterfall tied back into a simple ponytail. Michael's eyes were an attractive azure that melted fears and eased one into a comforted state. His lips curved ever so slightly up at the edges, as if frozen into a playful smile. Wings white as snow matched the ivory suit which covered his powerful frame.  A small lavender shirt was revealed between the lapels of his ivory jacket, which sported glittering golden buttons. Also, hidden underneath his jacket, was a silver pistol; Michael’s weapon of choice.

The cherry wood cane in his hands announced his presence by clicking on the cloud-formed cobblestones. It attracted Peter's eyes, which were closely followed by Peter’s cringe. Michael was, in every last overdone detail, the most annoying thing to ever cross one's sight. Or at least Peter believed. Peter watched as Michael passed the giant gates with leisure, stepping onto the balcony. The area was quite simple compared to the rest of Heaven, with only basic cloud cobblestones beneath his feet, Peter's desk to his right, and the gates behind him.

Peter was sick of seeing the gates. Michael would be too if he had to sit at that desk for at least two thousand human years. Heck, he'd hate the doggone desk after two thousand human years. Michael flashed a mischievous smile, one just looking for trouble, and sauntered over to Peter's desk. There was nothing in the universe better than teasing Peter; Peter just made it such a joy. It's probably the reason Peter's was chosen to man the gates… besides that he actually believed logic was sensible, and was able to keep account of all souls that have ever entered the Heavens.

"Hellooo Peter." Michael said in a harmonic tone.

"I have a mind to tell you to leave, but I have a job for you." Peter stated, a practiced and perfected British accent staining his speech. His tone was sharp in an attempt to ruin the mood. Michael raised an eyebrow; Peter wasn't usually this agitated. He usually at least waited until the first attempt at irritation…

"A job, eh?" Michael asked, deciding to focus on Peter's request.

"I received an order to get you to bring back a girl named Juliet Vanessa Livre," Peter stated, as if he had something better to do. Michael knew he didn't, for after all, Peter just sat there for all of the day. As Michael leaned on his cane, he considered the odd request from the Big Guy. There was something extremely unusual about it…

"Why can't Azriel do it?" Michael asked, finally putting his finger on the issue that incurred his curiosity.

"Why can't you just take the job and not ask stupid questions?" Peter shot at him, sounding a bit on the edge, but that was always putting it mildly when it came to Peter.

"He is the… what do mortals call him? The Grim Reaper? Yeah, he is the Grim Reaper, after all."

"That title is unsuitable for Azriel. He, like most of the other angels, wastes his time enjoying himself." Peter mumbled, absentmindedly twirling a black fountain pen. Michael, seeing the flying drops of ink that were not noticed by Peter, moved out of the way. He couldn't risk getting his suit dirty. It wasn't as if he could just 'magic' it clean… well he could but- Michael noticed Peter was staring at him and so he decided to say something intelligent. What were they talking about? Oh, right.

"Just because Azriel's a party go-er that doesn't mean he's any less the angel of death." Michael pointed out.

"How is it modern American mortals say 'I don't care'?"

"Whatever."

"Alright. Whatever then."

"You didn't answer my question. I'm not leaving until you do."

"Fine. Lucy has a keen eye on her. Isn’t that reason enough?"

"Whoa! When did you start calling him 'Lucy'? I thought I was the only one who called the devil-"

"Michael, hush. I whatever what I call him." Peter growled, dropping his pen. Ink splattered all over the floor, but it wasn't long before the cloud absorbed it. Michael picked it up for Peter, since it was a great inconvenience for Peter to get out of his chair. Peter hated having to climb back up.

"You don't use 'whatever' in that context." Michael casually told him, handing the pen to him. It was becoming overwhelmingly obvious that Peter was not cut out for Modern English. Michael wasn't even sure why he tried to teach him.

"Michael?" Ah, now Peter was using that tone that showed he was trying to control his anger...

"Yes?" Michael asked, the melodic twists in his voice again.

"LEAVE!!!"

"Ok, ok, you don't need to get angry." Michael turned, and snapped his fingers. A giant, magnificent marble staircase began to gracefully twirl down past the clouds and towards Earth. It looked like it was heading into a misty void, since it had to have a long reach to cross the gap between Heaven and Earth, and it continued with no end in sight. The staircase was beautiful; a chaotic cut of abstract art, each step with gilded edges, and constantly changing as if to decide how many steps it should have. It was a hazard to walk on at the moment, despite the fact the steps led the only path to Earth. But really, that was no problem when you have wings.

"Good luck." Peter muttered, allowing himself a rare moment of concern. Word was that Lucy was sending his best warrior. Michael just laughed.

"Luck is for ninnies. I make my own fate. Don't give me that look Peter; I have one of my own." Michael said. Peter obviously didn't like having a 'rare moment of concern' stuffed back in his face. It was amusing though, seeing Peter’s face twisted like he ate a lemon.

"I will report this if you don't leave in five min-" Peter looked up from his desk with a furious gaze and finally realized Michael wasn't even there. Mumbling angrily, he looked back down and continued his work.

 

Land of Milk, Honey, and Government Conspiracies

 

            Earth is the most desirable place for any angel to wish to go. It is a place for strange occurrences, a place where a young guardian angel can prove himself, and a place for all to enjoy the fairy-tale quality sewn in the lives of these mortals. It ranked higher than all the soap operas. Yes, even the Mexican ones.

            He waited patiently for the arrival of his charge on a bench that sat right in front of the Livre Mansion. Large newspaper pages were turned by gentle hands as he searched for any clue of where and when the staircase had led him this time.

            Above the advertisements and the news of the latest celebrity scandal was just what he was looking for. It was written in small, black professional letters and numbers; 'Dallas Press, October 27, 2008'.

            October, eh? Month of ghosts and ghouls, of babies dressed like pumpkins, and all the sweets a child could dream of. Good month to die, he figured, if the was such a thing. He looked up from the paper to study his surroundings. The street was quaint, with few cars passing by. Most of the homes here were upper-class with award winning yards, but there was little life in the area. It was as if nature silenced the street for the dreadful event to come.

            Whether that was true or not, he was given a chance to enjoy the fall breezes and study the brightly colored leaves, something he didn't get to do very often. He hoped she wasn't in a hurry to die.

Meanwhile

 

            Vanessa was never fond of being late. There was no such thing as 'fashionably late' in her mind, something she learned from her parents. Her mother was a vain woman who believed that first impressions were the most important part of any relationship, and her father was a business man who stated that punctuality was the most important part of business success. They drilled it into her very DNA.

            Of course, it was only because of her DNA that she was even going to this stupid party. Vanessa growled to herself as she tore through beautiful spring outfits, just like her mother had asked, but she couldn't find anything that was made for fall. She had destroyed her room with a tornado of clothes, and had yet to find a nice simple dress that she wouldn't freeze to death wearing.

            The red digital alarm clock screamed '9:59'. Her mom had told her to be there at ten.

"God, why do you do this to me?" Vanessa growled under her breath, giving up on finding something with a designer label and grabbing a blue cotton sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans. It just had to be today! She usually had a habit of waking up at six every morning, no matter what hour she went to bed. However, this morning she rolled out of bed at 9:30. If luck was a person, Vanessa would kill her.

            She woke with the worse headache of her life; and the fact that she rolled to the floor didn't help the matter. When she had pushed herself off the floor and saw the straight, refined numbers on her clock, her heart nearly stopped. She flew to the bathroom like superwoman and brushed her teeth with ridiculous force. As she ran to the closet to grab her clothes, a young black cottonmouth slithered from a quiet corner in her room. Its sleep had been disturbed by the stress and energy in the air, and so it had to find a new place to rest.

            It slithered into her boot, liking the warm, cozy feeling in the soft confines of the tough leather, and quickly returned to its slumber there. Lady Luck turned her eyes away, probably because Vanessa wanted to take a rifle to her, and allowed the dangerous event to go unnoticed. Vanessa barely managed to slip into her jeans when she rushed to grab her purse and the present from the bed. She nearly crushed the delicate pink ribbon when she stuffed the silver box under her arm.

            It took a couple seconds for Vanessa to grab her boots and fly down the wooden stairs, but it was enough to shake up the poor snake. All it wanted was a nap. Was life so cruel as to deny it that luxury? Vanessa slid onto the turquoise couch to pull her boots on, almost tripping over the glass coffee table in her rush. She never liked the stupid thing, even though her mother insisted on it since it was the only table they could find that matched the modern décor. Vanessa honestly wanted to get rid of the décor altogether.

            Something not inherited from her mother was a sense of color-coding and fashion. She hated the concept, and would sacrifice her looks and décor for time and more useful things. Her mother, Victoria Annalise Livre, the richest woman in town, would never even consider that kind of insult to the 'family name'. That's why Vanessa was terrified of showing up at her Great Aunt Mary's birthday party late. Victoria was a real dragon when it came to 'insulting the family name in the most treasonous of all ways'. Vanessa had honestly no idea what that meant, beside that it involved a lot of yelling and getting grounded.

            One thing that Vanessa hated with a bitter passion was being grounded. That's probably the reason that she didn't look in the boot when she jerked it on. Needless to say, the snake was not happy with being disrupted, crushed, and now having to smell Vanessa's foot. It retaliated in the only way that it knew.

            It bit her.

Reviews

[deeps]

I really enjoyed this. I really did
Eveyrthing held toegther and it flowed great.
The characters and plot had meaning.
Most stories i have read don't do
anything for me. I thought this was wonderful.