Frozen Embers by D. S. Novis (room on the broom read aloud txt) 📖

Title and Preface

Frozen Embers

 

 

By Daniel Novis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preface

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The world of pure spirits stretches between the divine nature and the world of human beings; because divine wisdom has ordained that the higher should look after the lower, angels execute the divine plan for human salvation: they are our guardians, who free us when hindered and help to bring us home."

 

- St. Thomas Aquinas

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unknown to the world of men exists a secret battle between earthbound Angels and Demons; a bloody and violent war that has been raging since man was young; hidden in plain sight. A war between good and evil itself over the souls of all men, both sides bound by a set of rules known as the Immortal Laws. This is the story of a yet unknown Immortal, who through strange circumstances and misfortune was lost into the Mortal world.

 

 

 

 

This is the first tale of Gabriel Hawks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heist

1

Heist

 

 

 

    Gabriel lay in his bed, flicking a small black torch on and off, watching the shadows dance high up on his wall as he did so. He wondered idly what passersby in the London streets below would make of the strange window with the flashing curtains. He had a comical vision play in his mind of a retired spy in a hotel next to his frantically trying to decipher the mysterious code made by the strange window with the flashing curtains.

Gabriel put the torch in his bedside cabinet and rolled over, making himself comfortable. His legs twitched and squirmed with excitement. Gabriel always felt excitement as he was going to bed. He did not feel excitement in the up-and-coming day that lay in wait after his sleep, no, it was the sleep itself  that excited Gabriel. Or, to be more accurate, the dream in the sleep. For the most part, ninety percent of the time, Gabriel's dreams were just like anybody else's; normal, bland and instantly forgettable. And yet, in that one time out of a hundred, his dreams were something very different. He had a feeling tonight was going to be one of  those nights. He locked his eyes shut like a child waiting for Santa Clause and allowed his dreams to envelope him.

 

 

*

 

Michael sat in the rear of a speeding pitch black van staring unseeingly at the Remington Model 1100 shotgun in his hand. He could feel the sweat building up underneath his plain black Italian gloves. The van's wheels squealed in protest as the driver zigzagged his way through London's early morning congestion. The pulse in Michael's ears was deafening; a rapid, thunderous beat of a drum, almost tribal sounding. His heart felt like it was trying to escape his rib cage; an enclosed tiger hurling itself at its container in a bid for freedom. The other five men Michael was sitting with jerked sideways in synchronization as the van went flying over yet another speed bump but due to his bulky size Michael stayed where he sat.  

Get a hold of yourself! Michael yelled to himself in his mind. Stop being so nervous! You’ve gone over this plan a thousand times since you first had the idea.

Michael thought retrospectively about his idea; the leech on his brain. He thought about how once the idea had rooted to his brain, once it had been planted there, there was nothing he could do to stop it. It had grown and it had flourished until it was an all consuming parasite. A parasite that had overtaken Michael's very soul.  

Where does an idea come from? Michael pondered. This question came as a surprise to Michael. He was strangely proud at how deep it sounded. He repeated the question to himself again. He doubted he had ever before been referred to as philosophical, or wise, or profound or any such alike synonym. He doubted he'd even been called bright by a single person in his whole life.

Yet, there he sat, squashed into the back of a van, pondering an answer to his deepest ever question, where does an idea come from? His reason for pondering was that of this, this idea did not feel like his own. It had come from his brain and it had manifested in his thoughts, and yet, it felt strangely foreign. Like looking down at a transplanted leg, knowing that it was in your use but created by someone else. Sure Michael was capable of evil, he doubted there was a commandment he hadn't broken. But all of his crimes were done impulsively and he was sure nothing had ever sprung into his psyche like this plan, with this much… sin. There really was no other word for it.

It felt more like someone else had placed the plan there, like planting a seed in his head, without his permission or knowhow. Then slowly, insidiously, over time it had enveloped him. Now, that small idea was all he was. It was all he saw, all he heard and all he breathed. Now, that small idea was about to become a very big reality.

Once again, like an incessant woodpecker on the side of his temple, Michael’s nerves demanded his attention.

What about all the stuff I ain’t got control over? He asked in his mind again for the thousandth time like a jammed record player. There’s so much of this that will be left to chance.

Michael shook his head aggressively, as if by doing this it would shake away the negative thoughts that were invading his mind - or indeed the metaphorical woodpecker. This is a good plan. I chose my team well. They’ll do whatever it takes for the job to get done. They understood when they agreed to this that there’s no room for failure... I think they are actually more scared of me than the police at this point.

The edges of Michael’s mouth twitched malevolently at this thought and his mind flickered back to the previous night. He recalled with vivid detail the image of himself hovering over a body, bloody baseball bat in hand, as he watched the life drain out of the dirty, filthy snitch’s face.

I had to do it, Michael told himself in a matter of fact way. I had to make an example of what happens to anyone who tries to double cross me. Okay maybe I didn’t have to go as far as I did but I got the point across didn’t I?

Remembering the sense of power he'd felt the night before seemed to give Michael a re-boost of courage.

This will go as smooth as silk.

The van came to a sharp stop. Michael jumped up to his feet immediately but was forced to hunch a little because he was taller than the innards of the van. He grabbed a balaclava from a small pile that lay in the middle of the van and pulled it over his face. His team followed suit and then stopped to face Michael. Michael looked at the five pairs of eyes that were staring back at him.

“Right everyone knows their jobs.” Michael said, his deep, gruff voice ringing through the metallic walls of the van. “This is it. This single job will make us infamous, rich and legends in our own lifetimes. People will write stories about this. This will be our permanent and immovable finger to the Feds. The Coppers. The pigs.” He said the last word through gritted teeth. Several masked heads nodded their agreement and one man chuckled devilishly.

Michael pulled off the glove from his right hand to reveal a golden wrist watch. He read the time.

“Not long now. I’m just waiting to hear my man’s in position.” He said as he peered through the curtains of the van.

He could see the front of the building from where they were parked. Concrete steps ran up to the entrance to the building; a big revolving door which seemed too modern when compared to its older surroundings of brick wall. Michael read the big bold letters that were draped above the revolving door.

‘TOWN STREET BANK’.

 

*

 

Gabriel woke with a start.  Panting fast, he sat upright in his bed. He wiped the sweat beads from his forehead and thought about the dream he’d been having. He had dreamt he was a man named Michael who was being driven to rob a bank. The dream had left Gabriel shaken. Gabriel leaned over to his bedside table and took a sip from the glass of water he kept there.

It was only when he’d awoke that he had realized he was not Michael, and obviously wasn’t about to rob a bank. Gabriel had felt like he actually was this Michael. Gabriel had seen through Michael's eyes, spoken through his mouth and even thought as though he really was the thief. Gabriel sometimes had this experience with his dreams. He called them Identity dreams because he would completely change identities during the night, forgetting he was ever himself he would live, with vivid clarity, a snippet of someone else's life.  However on the rare occasions it had happened before Gabriel had found it fun. He had taken on the identity of everyday people like milkmen, postmen and barmen. He had never had a bank robber before.

The image of the lifeless snitch Michael had hovered over flashed vividly in Gabriel’s mind. This image made his skin crawl.

Gabriel was a skinny fifteen year old boy. He was short in height, and shorter even more so in temper. He could not stand bullies. Gabriel was never bullied himself but he had witnessed bullying with fellow school children time and time again. For some inexplicable reason Gabriel had never been able to turn away, never been able to not intervene. Since as long as he could remember he'd always had this yearning to protect people and this usually involved putting himself in harm's way to do so. No matter how big the bully or how many there were of them he had to step in. It was right. It was somehow his duty. This meant that in the few short months he had been going to ‘Fairway Academy’ he had tallied up more classroom, hallway and playground brawls than anyone else in his year. It was the same story, no matter which academy he was sent to. As he got an inch taller, the bullies seemed to sprout up twice as high and hit three times as hard. He was shipped from school to school every year or so for fighting.

But Gabriel had never kicked anyone whilst they were down. Michael was three times the size of the snitch he’d beaten up and yet he still brought a bat to the fight. Coward.

Fight him knuckle to knuckle, face to face. He hated people like Michael, a big man picking on all the smaller people. It’s pathetic. A familiar anger built up inside of Gabriel. He breathed out slowly.

Then he realized what he was doing. He was judging the fighting preferences of a figment of his imagination. This is crazy, he thought, it was just a dream. I can't affect what I dream so I shouldn’t let it affect