The Fallen: Genesis by Tillie Cole

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

THE FALLEN: GENESIS is the prequel to the Deadly Virtues series. I think it’s best to read this one before any others because really, this is the basis for the entire series.

At the request of the author, Tillie Cole, I’ll be extremely vague about the plot and it’s characters. I will say that there’s seven main characters that we’ll eventually get books for, hopefully: Gabriel and Michael (blood brothers), Raphael, Selaphiel, Barachiel, Jegudiel and Uriel. They’re all named after the fallen angels from the Bible and they’re all forced to live through some horrendous circumstances together.

This will be short but here are a few impressions:

1. It. Is. Heartbreaking.
2. There’s several themes that are woven into the storyline that are incredibly disturbing but I think those themes are important because they make us want to root for the “bad guys.”
3. It’s SO freakin’ DARK!
4. How will Ms. Cole incorporate a romantic aspect into the plot? Oh my goodness, I cannot wait to read the next book!!!
5. Eeeek!!!

I apologize, this isn’t the most eloquent review and it may seem that this book is all doom and gloom but as a huge fan of Tillie Cole, I’m confident that we’ll get a fabulous HEA in the end! If you enjoy dark and angsty romance, I recommend you scoop up this book. Told entirely from Gabriel’s POV with an ending that will leave you on the edge of your seat. I voluntarily read and reviewed this book.

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Joseph watched helplessly as James moved from his place against the far wall toward a boy on a chair on the opposite side of the room. A boy who had slim knives embedded in his arms and legs—a human pin cushion.

Joseph shivered as he recalled his brother’s expression a moment ago as he’d sat and stared at the knives he had sliced into the boy’s flesh. James, the sadistic voyeur of his own work. Joseph’s nervous eyes landed on his brother’s target. The boy was bound with ropes, and a washcloth was stuffed into his mouth,silencing his cries.

Luke.

Fear flooded Joseph’s body. Luke, the boy who had been intent on bullying James since the age of eight. The boy who would spit at James’s feet when they walked by. The boy who call him weird, a goth, a psychopath who rarely spoke. His taunts were endless. Joseph didn’t think the verbal bullets had ever hit their target . . . until he’d found a pad of paper hidden underneath James’s bed. A pad of paper showing in graphic detail what James wanted to do to Luke.

Tie him up.

Cut his flesh.

Exsanguinate his body.

Then drink the blood down.

“They’re just fantasy, right?” Joseph asked James when he returned from detention. Joseph held up the drawings. Page after page of pain and despair and cruelty.

James walked slowly to Joseph and ran his hand down the open page of the pad, delicately running his fingertip over the pencil image of Luke’s slit throat. “It’s a promise,” James said, with no shame in his voice. “Each page is what will happen to Luke.” James finally met his older brother’s eyes. “I’m just waiting for the perfect time.”

From that day on Joseph made sure Luke never got too close to James, for fear of what his younger brother would do. Because Joseph believed every word his brother had said.

The truth was, Joseph knew that someday, if he wasn’t stopped, James would do something so terrible he wouldn’t be able to come back from it.

And Joseph had no idea how to cure James. He didn’t know how to heal his little brother of the wretchedness that had lodged itself into his soul. He prayed for a miracle he knew would never come.

Joseph’s heart pounded as James held up another knife. His brother’s torso was bare, the scars from his frequent self-mutilation clear to see, white roads of flesh mapping the veins that ran under his skin. Veins that carried the blood James so desperately craved; nightly, once safe in their room, he would slice them open and lick the falling drops as they ran in crimson rivulets down his arms.

Joseph thrashed on the bed, fighting the binds James must have placed him in while he slept. “James, listen to me,” Joseph said as he helplessly watched his brother slowly push his blade into Luke’s shoulder. Luke’s chair almost fell as he screamed into the washcloth, the fabric absorbing his cry. But James didn’t even flinch. Joseph’s stomach clenched when the blood started to pour from Luke’s shoulder as James carefully extracted the blade.

Eleven. That’s all James was. Eleven years old, yet thought only of blood . . . worse, even . . . thought only about the consumption of blood.