A Gothic Fantasy Romance Novel

Saints Angels: Chapter 1

The Markets of Eden

Excerpt from the Book of Saints: Michael 45:9
“And the Light gave its favor to the Faithful,
and the Faithful built their Thrones of Gold.
In the shadow of their crowns,
mercy learned the sound of their cries.”

Dearest Saint Michael,
If the rumors are true and you still walk among us, may you hear me. Let the Light shine upon me and my family, that we might be drenched in its wholeness. They say you can forgive any sin, if the soul is pure—or if the coin is good enough. And let the Saints be my witness, I do not ask for greatness, only mercy.
The Market comes tonight. I’ll bring everything I have left to prove my devotion.
— Follower of the Light

The mysterious Market of Eden, shrouded in midnight shadows and the scent of exotic spices, only appeared in hidden places, much like the rare moon-bloom flowers that unfurl their petals only under the cloak of night. Tonight, it hid itself in a long-forgotten orphanage. Its courtyard tangled with thorny weeds and wild creepers. Ancient stone walls, softened by patches of moss, lay half-concealed by a sprawl of twisted tree limbs. At its center, candles were burning, and paper lanterns hung from gnarled vines, floating high above the stage and casting dim pools of light on the faces of the gathered crowd.

Faint light glinted off the black chrome of my motorcycle as I pulled it to the side just outside the courtyard gates, a dark reflection of the life I’d carved for myself here. This ride was no ordinary machine; it was a gleaming beast of impossible design, a fusion of brass and steel that roared like a living thing. Its elongated frame stretched like a serpent, adorned with intricate Victorian filigree and riveted panels that reflected the ghostly glow of gas lamps and moonlight. The wheels, monstrous in their size, devoured the space with predatory grace, while the engine, a marvel of steam and unseen forces, pulsed with a rhythm that seemed almost sentient. It was not merely a bike, but a statement—of power, of progress, and of extraordinary.

It purred when I killed the engine, still hungry, still alive. I didn’t bother taking the keys—no one would dare touch it. The etched decal of thorny vines intertwined with a cross and sword was clearly visible on the sleek metal.

The family crest.

A silent warning to anyone who knew better, and that just happened to be everyone.

As I moved toward the gate, my shadow flickered in the dim light, catching my eye. For a moment, the shadow seemed unnaturally long. It wavered as though it wanted to crawl free. I stomped my boot on the cracked stone floor, and it stilled, settling like a scolded dog.

Without looking back, I stepped through the rusted gate while removing my leather gloves and began patting the pockets of my long coat until I found the cigar I’d saved for tonight—a Gurkha Royal Courtesan. I always needed one when I visited the Markets. Excessive, indulgent, the kind of comfort you reach for when you’ve got nothing else would do.

I briefly considered adding a woman to my arm later tonight, but I remembered I wasn’t in the mood for company.

I barely tolerated myself.

The scratch of a match and the smell of sulfur accompanied my steps into the yard. Smoke curled around me as I lit the cigar and savored a slow drag, my focus narrowing on the Market before me.

Tonight, the crowd, a hundred or more mortals, jostled together: a motley collection of sickly peasants, stuffy politicians, unsuccessful businessmen, fallen socialites- the moneyed and the desperate. Each drawn here by whispers of the Saints’ blessing. None of them noticed me as I strode among them, stepping over thick roots and large cracks in the stone floor. My eyes scanned the faces, my ears tuned to the murmurs of whispered prayers and pleas, noticing that none were meant for me. I did this more out of habit, than concern. I suppose some habits never truly disappear.

Some monsters don’t either.

Most attendees huddled near stalls; their gazes fixed on the cloaked vendors offering their wares. With trembling hands, almost everyone bypassed the other displayed relics, drawn instead to the shimmering vials each vendor had.

Halo.

The blessed liquid glowed faintly, enticingly, promising salvation. Coins exchanged hands with reverence, and in return, these mortals received a taste of grace cradled in glass.

The air in the courtyard was noticeably warmer than it should have been, and I felt a bead of sweat dripping between my shoulder blades.

You wanted this, and it came. The Market thrives because of you. My darker voice whispered its praise from the back of my mind. I scoffed at myself—so why does it smell like it’s decaying?

I took another drag, letting the smoke curl lazily into the heavy atmosphere. To anyone watching, I appeared calm, controlled. But no one watched me here. They never did, not in this place. It was easier for them to forget who made this possible.

“Have you come to partake, or merely to watch, Saint Michael?”

The voice was smooth—too smooth—and unmistakable. I turned to find Cassius standing beside me, his form cast in shadow but perfectly composed. Cassius’s brown hair was neatly swept back, his suit tailored and sharp. He looked every bit the dignified overseer, a model of perfection amidst the reverent hoard.

I blew out a line of smoke and nodded toward a line of mortals waiting for their first, second, maybe even third taste of Halo.

“Do you enjoy all this, Cassius?” I asked, ignoring his question. He knew I wasn’t here for anything the Market offered.

Cassius’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Enjoy is such a common term. I see it, just as you do, as a service. A gift, really. Eden gives our followers relief, a taste of what they’ve lost.” He looked at the crowd, his eyes glinting. “And they are so grateful, aren’t they?”

My jaw clenched as I watched a frail man approach one of the stalls, his hands trembling as he held out coins. The vendor took them without a word, exchanging the money for a vial of liquid so delicate it couldn’t withstand light. The man’s expression softened, as if his salvation had been sealed in that glass. Which it was. I could feel the release of his sins washing over him already—a wave of hot air hitting my face, thick with the residue of guilt being burned away. It made my skin crawl, the sensation both familiar and wrong, as if I’d stepped too close to a fire meant to purify someone else.

“Something is off… isn’t it?” I pressed, eyeing the shadows that oozed from everywhere. Shadows that, at one point, had become normal. “What are we missing, Cassius?”

Cassius turned, his gaze piercing. “Must we go through this again? They have hope, which means we have hope, brother. Isn’t that enough?”

I couldn’t answer that, so I let the silence speak for itself. The truth in that question stirred uncomfortably close to the surface— a truth I wasn’t yet ready to face.

Soft music drifted over the darkness. The strings of a harp, played with skilled fingers, gave the atmosphere an ethereal allure. Saint Cecilia, wearing a pure white flowing gown and white glasses, sat behind a large golden harp in the distance. Surrounded by a circle of candles and admiring mortals, her eyes closed as she gave herself to her music. Her beauty and innocence hung around her like a true halo, though to me it felt more like an aura of ignorance.

She could be in a room full of demons and wouldn’t know the difference. As the Saint of music and poetry, she had a one-track mind that never seemed to come down to earth to join the rest of us. It was the sole reason her music could transport a soul from hell to heaven, she gave it everything she had. All the time.

I watched her and felt nothing but the ache of distance. Once I’d known that kind of purity. Once.

On the other side of her, Saint Sabastian and Saint Agatha both listen to her play with their eyes also closed to the scene around them.

Mortals adored her. Saints adored her. Maybe the Light still did. She played as if the world hadn’t already fallen to pieces.

“If you aren’t partaking in the festivities, why do you come?” Cassius mused.

My gaze moved back to the crowd.

“Just here to observe.”

“Ah,” he murmured, his soft voice carrying a hint of amusement. “The protective observer. How very noble.”

Cassius inclined his head toward another woman.

“Look at them,” he said, his tone almost affectionate. “They come to us broken, Michael. Desperate for something beyond themselves. And we give them Halo. Isn’t that… generous?”

The patron Saint of Fortune’s words hung in the air, sweet but unsettling, and I felt something tighten in my chest. I wanted to say no, to tell him that this wasn’t generosity—it was indulgence, a twisted blessing that took more than it gave.

But instead, I only watched as the woman he had indicated stumbled closer, clutching a vial of Halo as if her life depended on it. Her hair was damp with sweat; her hollowed cheeks streaked with tears. The dark rings under eyes indicated she most likely hadn’t slept well in a very long time. She stopped in front of me, her breath hitched as her eyes met mine. For a moment, I thought she might drop to her knees in devotion. Instead, her frail fingers scraped against the leather of my jacket as she grabbed my leather sleeve.

“Saint Michael,” she rasped, her voice thin and cracked. “Please… my son. He’s… dying. The doctors, they can’t help him. I saved enough for this—” She held up the vial, its glow reflecting in her tear-filled eyes. “But… it’s not enough. Please!”

My muscles tensed, the weight of her desperation pressing against me like a physical thing. I wanted to tell her yes. To pretend the old magic still obeyed me. Instead, I said what was true. “I don’t do miracles, sweetheart.” while pulling my arm away. The words tasted bitter, wrong even as I said them.

You can’t do miracles, is what you should have said. My thoughts, from the back row, offered more unwanted advice, and I could almost feel their presence.

I looked down at the woman, her shoulders shaking as she clutched the vial to her chest, her hope shattering into a silent sob. This wasn’t the first request for a miracle I’d received but the requests seemed to be getting more uncommon. The pang of guilt that had at one time tugged at my chest, seemed to be a little less noticeable.

Before she could respond, a faint shift in the shadows jerked my attention away.

Then I saw her.

A vendor without a hood, pale blond hair gleaming against the dark.  She appeared to be untouched by the gloom that clung to the other hooded venders like a second skin. She shown like a beacon in a place like this. Her blond hair caught the lantern light as she arranged vials of healing potions with quiet precision, her movements reverent rather than hurried. Something about her calm presence stood out, like a single light note in a dissonant chord. It might have been the fact that she didn’t carry any vials of Halo at her table, only colored vials of potions meant for real healing.

No vender would waste the chance of performing this duty for the Saints. Curiosity peeked.

Despite her bright aura, I could tell she was sick—her energy flickered faintly, like a candle fighting to stay alight—and she was trying her best not to show it. The effort in her movements, the slight strain in her posture, her body betrayed her.

No healing vials for yourself, sweetheart?

She must have sensed my gaze on her, because she quickly whipped her eyes towards me, and for a fleeting moment, time paused.

Who was she? Why was someone like her here, so exposed, in a place that thrived on shadows? But before I could approach, the crowd shifted, what seemed like a sea of mortals cutting my line of sight, and when I looked again, she had disappeared. Our moment lost.

Before I could make a move to follow her- the sky split open.

A white fire tore across the sky, stealing my attention, caught all the Saints’ attention. Each Saint looked toward the sky as a comet-like ball left the heavens and headed straight for land.  

The mortals began whispering about shooting stars, making wishes they’d never see granted.

Before the fireball could hit the ground, a boom of adrenaline thundered in my chest, startling me into action as I dropped my cigar. I snapped my jaw shut, throwing a quick glance at the others. Even Cecilia had stopped her music, curiously looking up—no doubt already planning to write sonnets about the descent later this evening.

If there was a later.

A chilling feeling began borrowing and settling into my bones. Even the shadows recoiled, shrinking into the cracks and crevices as if trying to escape the celestial light. My own shadow quivered beneath me, curling inward like a frightened animal.

Cassius turned to me, his expression tight. “That’s no ordinary meteor,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

“No,” I agreed, my voice low. “That’s an angel.”

An angel had just left Heaven to walk among us, and someone, if not everyone, was going to pay the price.
Ronald.

To be continued in next chapter… New Chapters released weekly.

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