Writing Excercise - Even Angels Will Fall, Pt. 1

Back home in England, this kind of thing just didn't happen. Back there, children were children. Women were women, men were men. Back home in England, men were men, and they were never rather unattractive demons that had a nasty habit of vomiting flaming ectoplasm all around the place from several orifices at the one time. 

Back home in England, small women in corsets were not the ones left to defend their living rooms from the aforementioned demons.

"That's horrible," Lilith said. "But it doesn't frighten me."


The ectoplasm-spewing paused for a moment, before the flailing of limbs and violent fluid eruption continued all about the place.


"They just don't make demons properly anymore, do they, Doctor?" She mumbled. She didn't talk too often, not to anyone outside her large black cat. In response to her question, the animal meowed.


Picking up a dining chair and the old and worn brandy bottle from whence the demon had inexplicably come (she didn't accept alcohol from her friends often, and had made the mistake of accepting this one). Pointing the chair at the monster, she said, "Go on. Back in the bottle, you old thing."


Pathetically, the demon spewed up a bit more and flailed weakly.


"Now, if you please."


The creature disappeared back into the bottle, along with its excretions, and Lilith corked it up. "Goodness gracious," she said. "That was a little too much."


Sitting down, the nineteen-year-old continued on her cup of tea. She crossed her ankles and patted down her black skirt. Lilith was a very well-dressed woman, for the 1880s. Being that she sat in her living room in the twenty-first century, she was a little out-of-place.


She wore a dark blue dress, neck-to-ankle, with tight sleeves, a tight waist and a bustled skirt. Her large grey eyes sat on her pale face like, surprisingly, eyes would do on a face. She had lips of a cherry colour, as helpless heroines are bound to do. In fact, that's really what she looked like. A helpless, hapless, weeping heroine, a love interest to be saved from a tower by a prince, to be laid asleep for a hundred years and woken up in a more-than-questionable manner. But that was far from the truth. Yes, she was four foot and nine inches tall, built about as strong as a day-old sparrow, and had the horrible habit of getting herself into trouble. She did have the tendancy to weep a lot, and had an odd weakness for those tall, dark, handsome and fanged, but despite her weepy and submissive behaviour on occasion, she was, by no means or terms, helpless. While her comrades often rushed into things, headlong and sword-upheld, Lilith simply walked straight on through and asked the leader of that particular group if they would kindly stop pillaging everything. Whilst they wept about the fact they were trapped in a cage suspended several feet above starving sharks, Lilith was in the background, helpfully noticing the fact that the door was unlocked, and a platform was in easy reach.


A "woman of action"? Not really. "Level-headed"? No. "Sensible"? Probably not - there's not much sense in things when you're dealing with the world, particularly when dealing with the average American. Really, all that Lilith was could be summed up in the word, "unfazed". She truly did not seem to be frightened of very much. Except for bathing tubs. Lilith did not like bathing tubs. That was a story, she had decided, was unfit for any place in time.


Standing up, she went to her kitchen. Her long, black hair fell in gentle and tousseled curls at about breast-level, and continued on down to her hips. She wore it with a fringe cut just above her eyes, framing her heart-shaped and pale face. With a sigh, she started to wash the dishes - while she might not be afraid of much, Lilith did not go out much, either.

"How did I know I'd find you here?" said a voice behind her. "You're her, aren't you? That witch."


"....I prefer the term 'telekenetic physicist'," she said, with barely a pause in her washing. She was, of course, refering to her other talent, the "last resort" from being frightening levels of helpful. Lilith could manipulate the laws of physics - reaching back through time and space, often with hilarious or cynical results. (As the man who overcharged her at the farmer's market learned the hard way. As it turns out, he hadn't worn pants that day - although he and his wife distinctly remember him doing so. However, "but I remember putting them on, officer" isn't exactly the best defense.)

"Whatever it is you call yourself," the male voice hissed. "I have travelled here from across the country to find you."

"Oh, have you? Good, because if you had travelled here from across the country and found that you'd left your pancreas behind, that would be unfortunate." Lilith always gained a sharp tongue from a spot of demon-fighting so early in the morning. She turned around.


The man was tall, and lanky. He was a vampire, she could see that much. A young one, probably. His muscles were sinewy, like wire, under his clothing, and he was quivering slightlly. His hair was a honey blonde colour, and his eyes were a dark red. His fangs were definitely not making an effort to be hidden, and the two, long, slender teeth reached his jaw. "They say your blood is magic." His words were barely there.


"Yes, I'm sure They do. They say a lot of things like that."


"They say you can save my sister."


".....I suppose you had better sit down, then. Chair's behind you, I'll get you a cup of t-" By the looks of him, tea was not going to cut it. "...whiskey. I'll get you a bottle of whiskey. It's five o'clock somewhere, I suppose."






After a while, he started to talk. The man said his name was Haunter. After being told that this was a ridiculous notion, and if his parents had named him that, they should be shot, he confessed that it was, in fact, Sam. She conceeded that this was perfectly acceptable, and that he shouldn't really try to "spook it up" for vampiric points (since it was cliche, and really, only got you laughed at).


Sam was from Chicago. He had more-or-less walked half the way to Oregon through the South, and hitched the rest of his ride from LA. He had come searching for the answers to the rumours, told to him by his female Sire.


"She said that your blood could cure anything. Everything. She said that you were magic."


"Well, magic is just science, so yes, I suppose so." She shrugged, pouring him some more whiskey. "Go on."


Sam swallowed heavily. "My sister is very ill. She is only really my half-sister - her father was a vampire, and mine was human."


"How long ago were you turned, Mister Sam?" she said with a concerned tone as she got up to fetch the kettle.


"Nearly a year ago."


"Yes, it shows through. What is wrong with your sister?"


"It's her genes. My mother always said that because of her father's weak genes, that's what made her sick. She's very frail. Has good days and bad days."


"I'm guessing her father was a Russian or east European vampire. They don't blend well with humans. Alright, I might be able to intervine, but for now, you go upstairs. Follow the cat, he'll take you to a room."


"Miss Lilith?"


"Yes, Sam?"


"They say even angels will fall for you. Why is that?"


"....I don't know, Sam. Off to sleep. You're overtired."






Even angels will fall for you, Lilith.


The words hung in her mind like...well, like a thought she didn't want to have. Thoughts you don't want to have are always the ones you have the most.


Why had this newcoming vampire repeated those words to her? She hadn't heard those words in a long, long time.


Summer starlight caught in her dark hair like a halo. The moon was low in the dark sky, and it was full, like a reflective ball in full exposure to sunlight in space is wont to be. Lilith was in her adopted father's rose garden, holding a flower by the thorned stem. Not clutching it to her bosom while she stared, forlorned, at the moon, though. She was looking at the ducks in the pond that had taken advantage of being forgotten about. 

Behind her, the dark shape of a man stood behind her. "Lilith," he spoke breathlessly. "I thought you would be here."

"No, I do not care much for Marcus' masquerades." It was always too obvious who she was, with her small size.


"You're sixteen now, Lilith," he murmured. "Have you thought much about marriage?"


"Marriage?" She paused, taken a little aback. "No. No, I suppose I haven't."


"That's good." he stepped up beside her, lighting his cigarette. "I don't suppose you would consider marrying me?"


Lilith was a little stunned. She gazed up at him. "Azrael..." She murmured. "...no. I shall not consider you. You are not of me. You are not of any of my world."


The demon's red eyes became glassy. "Of course not. Even angels will fall for you, Lilith."


She had tried to forget about that. A demon like Azrael, no matter how handsome or upper-class in Hell's circles, should not be proposing to young girls. That was decidedly true. Her friend Loki had nearly succeeded in taking the demon's eyes out. While that hadn't worked, the bullet holes he'd added had done enough to stop the advances for a while.


Things had been getting...strange lately. Getting up and going to the window, she stared out at the January snow. Things were changing. She could feel the unrest, somewhere in the fabric of reality. Something was pulling to pieces, and starting to unravel.


That was all very well and good, she supposed. She would have to send Sam on his way with a vial of blood when he woke up, before she went out and found what was causing this problem. But before saving the world (again), Lilith resolved, she wanted a bath.


[NOTE: Tell me what you think of part one, and if you like it, guys, I'll keep writing it. x3]