Angelfire

“You smell that?” Jameson sniffed at the horse manure, giving Morgan a twinkling side eye, Morgan knew there was no way of disarming the loaded question, he was probably going to follow it up with some kind of defecation humor. In the vacuum he opted for his usual response; a grunt and a look that read: I am not amused.

“That is the smell of an honest day’s labor, Pop used to say. My pop would have me out here dungin out the stalls, no end. Mares are the worst, shitting all over the place, even on their own food, but the stallions, well, for some reason they were smarter, they would pick a corner; all civilized like.”

Intrigued, Morgan ignored the profanity, and rallied to the unusual insight into the gunslinger’s convoluted Texan-roots. “I did not know you had a barn,” he rumbled glancing around the open center, arched high ceilings, and mingled scent of chickens, and hay. The pungent scent of horse manure was only combatted by the aroma of leather emanating from the tack room.

“Every true Texan has a barn, or knows someone who does.” Jameson replied, with a wry smile, “Pop worked for a rancher during the lean times, and he would always take me along with him. I learned to pull a pistol in a barn a lot bigger than this, the rancher was ‘comfortable,’ Pop would say. That barn was my castle, me, buck, rooster, and slick were always throwing the bales down from the hay loft taking turns jumping down onto em; must have been a twenty-foot drop to the top of dem-bales,” he drawled, dimples appearing as he reminisced.

“Wasn’t your father some kind of trick shooter?” Morgan recalled, as he scanned the barn’s interior, eyes sharp for the corners and hidden spots which could conceal enemies.

“Bone-fide,” he drawled, pulling a six-shooter from among the myriad of guns and gizmo’s, putting it into an effortless spin then holstering the rig, all in one smooth motion. “When he was on-form; otherwise,” he clicked his tongue and let the sound hang. “Pop had a phrase for every occasion, wisdom from a no-account drunk. But when he was sober, he could shoot a tick off a deer at hundred paces."

“One day when he caught us at it in the barn, I was sure he was gonna beat me bloody, but he just sat there watching, his hat tipped back, like a man who was enjoying the laughter and play of four idiots. We were so surprised he wasn’t mad, we all got back to playing just the same, up the ladder, over the edge, out to the top of the stacked-up bales with the ease and assurance of youth. He let that go on for a spell, then, as I was just about to jump for the third or fourth time, he pulls his pistol and lets off a round. I froze up, mid-jump, instead of landing on the top of the bales I fell to the side-like. Worst straw burn ya ever saw. He gave me a minute to recover and stop whimpering. I figured he would be mad, cuss or hit me, like he did when he was drunk. He was smiling though, just nodded his head and passed me his kerchief. Bastard was proud, and, weird as it sounds, it made feel proud. You know what he said? ‘If you got to be dumb, better be tough,’. Funny how you remember shit like that…”

Bella

Three sweeps of the property from the air had Bella more nervous than she would have been if she had fought a half dozen demons, to her mind, there was a safety in repetitious combat, this silence was new; new is always bad. The barn was the only building left, the surrounding farmland was a mixture of burnt corn, rubble from the old farmhouse, and wreckage of vehicles incinerated by sulfur-smelling flames, hot enough to melt the bones to ash and render the gold ring on the farmer’s hand into a formless puddle of gold. Normal house fires burn at about 1,100 degrees, but gold melted at 2,000 Bella knew at once that this fire was unnatural. Sulphur put her in mind of demons.

The Angel folded white wings neatly onto her back and recalled the spirit of her halo, still scouring the land for demonic activity. The wisp of light settled onto his usual place surmounting her head and resumed watching her back. She knelt next to the farmer, offering last rights, then she concentrated on a recent joyous memory and called forth the magic, as the harmony flowed through her she briefly relived the solemnity of watching her friend Gala hug her father after a long departure, the joy and love at their reunion (which she had made possible) burned incandescent from her memory as the cost of the magic was spent.

A small tear fell, though she knew not from what, as the memory had faded. The magical harmony infused the light of her halo which shone bright across the courtyard, dispelling supernatural shadows, elemental veils, and illuminated two souls which incandesced suddenly into wispy light. She extended her hand drawing the two souls closer. She could see them now, as they had been in life, a strong-jawed farmer, with stout arms and shoulders slumped with time and labor, and his wife, a remarkably beautiful woman whom the years seemed not to touch, she was lithe and spry looking a decade younger, though Bella knew that both were of an age.

“It is time to go beyond,” she indicated, as her halo began to get brighter, drawing them onto their eternal rest, “but before you go, please, show me what you saw.” The rush of their memories flooded her as the two moved into the light, memories holding both insight, and terror. Bella ran from the remains of the gutted farmhouse, strewn as if from a blast. As the light of the halo bathed the barn, she spotted an invisible girl, small and slight semi-transparent in the middle of the barn. So intent was the girl, she did not notice the angel’s approach.

Bella could see the girl was feeding on Jameson’s emotions, Morgan always serene, emotions a calm water, was implacable for a creature such as this, but Jameson, had a world of suppressed emotion, always roiling beneath the surface. Passions were always driving him to sex, danger, and thrill. For this girl he was a wellspring of nourishment, she would elicit the rage, sadness, and anger, turning him (quite literally) into a timebomb.

Unlike in the movies, not all supernatural creatures can, or need to be, fought. This being was known as a Fury, technically an adfectophage (emotion eater), an eternal elemental, even if you managed to kill one, it would only reform in a few days, immature and starving; as this one was. A mature Fury is a vengeful creature who preys upon the guilty. But newborn Furies, not unlike newborn children, know only hunger and pain and will eat anyone. This was the case here, the Fury resembled a twelve-year-old girl with gaunt eyes, sallow cheeks, and looked thoroughly malnourished.

Morgan, preoccupied with Jameson, had not realized that the attack had already begun. Bella cast about looking for something, anything to use to help. She spotted the wreck of the piano in the debris field a short distance from the house, smoldering from the recent fire.

Furies have cousins, a being called a Muse, which was also an adfectophage but inspired as it fed, killing very slowly over years. Forming a sort of symbiotic relationship with people like Mozart benefitted in music, but who always died young.

This type of Fury was called an Alecto (those of the endless anger) who causes her victims to combust while living through their most anger and rage filled moments; Jameson had many.

“I loved that man, it was the booze I hated. You knew it was coming, hell, my mama used to buy the shit for him, a bottle of rye for his birthday; just knowing what he would do. But he was real sweet when he received it, kissing on her, telling her that nobody knows him like she did. Pulling her up the stairs, hell, I almost get it. But then it would be a few days later, something would go wrong, he would miss a shot, or get heckled about being a cheater and that bottle would make its way back onto his lips. Then he’d look for anything,” Jameson’s look soured like milk and the anger followed just behind. “You can always tell the Texans, can’t tell em much, but you can always tell em,” He drawled in an affected voice that sounded mean, “then the signature sound of the clinking of the belt, the whip of that fucking leather as cleared the beltloops, every Texas kid knows that sound.”

Morgan looked up sharply at the change in Jameson stopping his ceaseless search. “Easy friend,” he said, low and calm, sensing the danger now but not understanding the source, “it will be alright,” He said the last in the same way you would soothe a friendly dog which suddenly snarled at you.

Bella touched the soft charred wood of the burnt piano, which flecked off in small black pieces, searching her memories for something powerful enough to make this piano play again, any alternative to the one she wanted to keep, it would hurt her to lose this one. At least she could live it again, for the briefest moment, it would live one last time within her breast, then she would not even remember what she had lost. That was how it was for angels, the good stuff from your life, spent in service.

She was thirteen-years-old again and her twin sister, Charisma, was, recovering from the rape, her finger nails chewed back, her once lustrous golden hair, tangled and unkempt. She came out of the room to the sound, bud dump, buh dum, bud dum; buh dum, buh dum, buh dum, buh dum, buh dum, bad um, ba daaaaa. The theme from the Pink Panther sang once more across the yard, infusing the air with all of the emotion and magic of Charisma’s first giggle, the first moment of joy after an eternity of darkness.

The magic burned like fire as Bella laughed, and her gut wrenched, she laughed as the tears ran down and the flames leapt up and the burning piano, held together by the harmony of the angel’s magic began to sing out one last time.

The Fury, sensing the feast, rushed to glut on it; Angels are beings of emotion too. The Fury, ate it all, her precious memory, then lay down to rest. Bella felt only the remaining anguish in the wake of the forgotten memory. She took a dram of comfort in as the tiny, disheveled girl, began to sleep. She reminded Bella of her of her sister for some reason.

Inside the barn Bella watched as Jameson stood, shoulders slumped, and Morgan placed a compassionate hand on his shoulder while the cowboy collected himself both unaware that danger had passed.

“What was it?” Morgan asked in the transport later, “some kind of adfectophage?”

“Fury,” she said, nodding to the cage they would keep her in until she was old enough to not kill indiscriminately “some asshole hunters who didn’t bother to figure out what they were attacking,” she said, suffering the discord of the profanity. Morgan put a hand on her shoulder as he had for Jameson.

“Good thing she has you,” he replied making her dimples reappear as she looked watery eyes on him.

“You are a good man,” she said, gaining a little harmony from his smile.