In honor of NaNoWriMo, I have decided to post an excerpt from my first NaNoWriMo novel… in fact, my first ever novel. Keep in mind the “It Doesn’t Have to be Good” portion of my NaNoWriMo post.
“The battle raged on and on for hours, and the losses on either side were incredible. Chance himself seemed to dance through each encounter unscathed, rending with his knife, blasting with the shotgun, sometimes squatting in the mud behind his companions to reload the Remington. Abaddon watched him with a growing fury, this insignificant mortal who had been the source of so much frustration, and who now presumed to fight alongside angels in this final battle. The sheer nerve of his presumption angered Abaddon, but worse… if this man somehow lived, he would walk away with the prize that Abaddon could not have for his own. And so, as he cut down lesser angels with his sword, moving through the throngs like a black scythe, he knew that he must do the next best thing to killing Rachel herself, who was at the moment out of reach. The upstart must not be allowed to live.
Abaddon regretted now his failure to capture Rachel’s body at least, for although her heart belonged to this hairy savage, her life had value to his enemies. What a pretty picture it would have made, him presiding over the battle from his stone throne, with Rachel bound and wallowing in the mud beside it. How the sight of his own sword at the woman’s throat would have cut the heart of the mortal man before him now. It would have drained the strength from the man’s spirit and his body.
Nothing for it now but to do the best he could. He would enjoy killing the young man, and regretted that he would have to dispatch him in a relatively quick manner. Not nearly as satisfying as the agonizingly slow death he would have experienced had the bargain been kept and Abaddon’s supremacy on earth assured, but it would have to suffice.
Exhausted by the work of several hours of fighting, Chance stumbled in the mud and fell to his knees in a puddle of water that was penetratingly cold. He planted the knife, now sticky with gore, into the ground and heaved himself up to his feet. When he looked up, it was into a pair of intense green eyes set in a face wearing a grimly amused smile. Chance recoiled, raised the shotgun, and fired twice, the force of each blast taking him back a step. The man before him still stood, looking down at his midsection thoughtfully. The deformed slugs fell away from him, not even having penetrated the black shirt he wore. The man looked up, and chuckled. The two of them resided in a circle of calm within the frenetic battle around them. Chance’s numb mind worked to come up with the identity of the being he faced, and slowly, painfully, the answer came. Abaddon. A fallen angel. The arm holding the shotgun slowly sank.
“Oh, shit,” Chance said, as Abaddon raised his darkly shining blade, and swung.
The pain was terrible, a searing hurt that went from his belly all the way to his backbone. He looked down and saw the raw cords of what must have been guts in his hands. It was all covered in a mess of blood and bile and shit; the reek was terrible. The first thing he felt was intense shock, followed by a feeling of intense panic. He knew he couldn’t do anything, though… just stare at the terrific wound and gape and gasp. His body started shaking, and after what felt like an hour, his knees hit the spongy wet earth beneath him with a squelching sound. The meaning of what he had seen sank in. He realized he was dying. After he had admitted that, it suddenly didn’t feel like such a big deal. He toppled over onto his side and smelled the clean smells of green grass and wet soil, and they made him happy. The pain was starting to fade away now, and he could feel the blood pouring out of his body, gathering in from the fingers and the lips and the toes and flowing out of the hole in his stomach. He felt very cold, but as feeling started to leave his hands and feet and face, He was gripped by an intense feeling of peace and contentment. He felt a warmth start in his chest and spread slowly outward, like butterfly wings. Or maybe like angel wings. He smiled at that thought, and closed his eyes.
Abaddon knelt, and wiped the mortal’s blood from his blade with his own cloak. It gleamed brilliant red in the nightmarish light of the storm. His lips stretched in a smile, and he felt his hatred fade a little as he watched the expansions of the man’s chest come more slowly, and more shallowly, with every breath. He would exist in a world of pain for now, and would die. There was no saving him, even if anyone had noticed his fall, which they did not appear to. Some allies, Abaddon thought mockingly. Some friends.
He stood, and turned to seek his next foe. What he found was the fearsome sight of the Archangel Michael bearing down on him, heavily muscled torso now visible through the few remaining shreds of the white fabric he had worn. One shoulder strap from the armor harness dangled where it had been shorn, but no marks were visible on his skin. He raised the shining angelic blade in challenge.
Abaddon planted the tip of his sword in the wet ground, and waited with a casual air as a dozen and more of his minions sprang forward unbidden to protect their master. Michael heaved mightily with his sword, cleaving a path through the crowd of demons that only grew thicker in response, creatures seeming to spring up from nowhere to fight in Abaddon’s defense. Michael screamed aloud as one arm was clawed down to the whiteness of bone. Abaddon laughed aloud at his cries.
Abaddon was still laughing when Lord Michael’s blade plunged through the monster before him and ripped it in half. They now faced each other alone, and Abaddon’s light blade sang through the air after being freed from the wet soil, and it cut a glittering arc toward Michael’s throat.
The swing was deflected by the angel’s already injured arm, which absorbed the strength of the blow. Michael’s hand fell into the mud at their feet, and now disconnected from the power that maintained it, it dissapated into component molecules, to become part of the soil, the air, and the water.
Abaddon the Destroyer was still looking at the dissolving limb when Lord Michael’s sword took his head from his shoulders. As his body slowly collapsed to the ground, Lord Michael, Prince of Seraphim, felt claws burning into his back, and was overtaken by minions of Hell.”
AllisonDrennan.com 