by Carla Rehse
The Accidental Gatekeeper
By
Carla Rehse
Copyright © 2021 by Carla Rehse
Cover designed by Damonza
Edited by Jay Lewis Allchin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except brief passages quoted in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s wild imagination, and any resemblance to an actual person, place, or event is purely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have been completed without the encouragement of and handholding by my writing group and beta readers. Angie Sandro, Christine Berman, Diana Robicheaux, Don “McWild” McFatridge, Michelle Hauck, Candy Kostel, and David Witt, the next bottle of virtual wine is on me!
I also would like to thank Kat Enright for the first editorial pass on The Accidental Gatekeeper and Jay Lewis Allchin for the second and third pass, the constant encouragement, and the subtle butt-kicking when I slack off, and never complaining about my continuous lack of mastery of the evil comma. At least not complaining out loud.
Dedication
To Chad and Casey Rehse. Thanks for always being there.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S THANKS
Mama’s Five-Minute Microwave Chocolate Chip Cookies* [for Gatekeepers on the run]
ABOUT CARLA REHSE
ALSO BY CARLA REHSE
The Accidental Archivist Book II of The Accidental Midlife Trilogy
Chapter One
ONE
When all the good choices have disappeared faster than kids at chore time
If eighteen was the age of exciting self-discovery, then forty-five was the weary age of having zero shits left to give.
What did it matter if my husband of twenty years was rotting in federal jail? And that our chiropractic clinic had gone belly up, leaving me jobless? Or that my friends had turned from “we’ll help hide a body” to “we’ve got your back until the reporters hit our lawn?” I also didn’t care that the DEA had frozen our joint bank accounts and seized our assets. I never liked that house anyway.
Homeless. Jobless. Friendless.
Add in a pickup truck, beer, and an old dog and it would be the most pathetic country song played on the tiniest fiddle ever. I gritted my teeth as the wipers shrieked across the windshield. Nothing like driving through a late-October downpour to add to your misery, and the constantly patched roads in this part of Central Texas didn’t handle rain well.
My phone rang with its cheerful tone that I kept forgetting to change. Sadie’s name lit up on the display, and I almost knocked it off the dashboard holder while hitting the speaker button. “Sadie? Is everything okay? How’s Laney?” I really hoped the trembling in my voice wasn’t audible. My daughter hadn’t spoken to me in two months, refusing to answer my calls or respond to my texts. Her girlfriend had even gone so far as to block me on her social media.
“Mom? Where are you? God, this connection sucks.” Her voice had a recognizable anxious edge to it. I wanted to ask if she was taking her meds, but at twenty-one Sadie hated coddling. “Someone needs to talk to you.”
“What?” I eased onto the shoulder of the road, then placed the truck into park. “Who?”
“Mrs. Collins? Uh, Everly Collins? This is Sam Duncan, your husband’s attorney? We really must discuss your husband’s case.”
I glanced at the clock on my dash: 10:33 p.m. Duncan was raking in some serious OT. “What the hell are you doing with my daughter?”
“Mrs. Collins?” He lowered his voice. “I know you’ve been advised not to speak with me. But you really need to before certain other people do. We can meet anywhere you want.”
“Listen to me, you scum licker. Tell my husband and his thug buddies to leave my kid out of their mess. I’m not afraid of their flaccid threats and won’t be intimidated.” I slapped at the phone to turn it off, sending it careening to the passenger floorboard, out of reach and therefore away from temptation.
I didn’t have the money to replace the stupid thing, but the desire to take out my frustration on the helpless and innocent electronic device was strong.
Part of me wanted to turn the vehicle around, race to Sadie’s apartment in Austin, and kick the crap out of that attorney. But I knew the truth. Sadie had taken her dad’s side and was angry I’d snitched on him. She would do whatever she could to get him out of trouble. What was a little money laundering for drug dealers, after all? She might have my dark hair and eyes, but unfortunately, she inherited her father’s defective moral compass.
A lesson for all the kiddies: choose the sperm donor for your progeny well.
Exhaustion, physical and mental, hit me, increasing the stabbing pain behind my left eye that’d been plaguing me for days. How did this become my life? Why did I always get myself in such horrible messes?
For all my trash-talking, I was worried about the drug dealers my husband had brought into our lives. The Feds were worried about them as well, ’cause nothing hurt a case more than the star witness contracting a bad case of a bullet to the head. Not that I trusted the law to keep Sadie or me safe. I needed to find us a sanctuary.
With few good options left, I guided the truck back onto the deserted highway. I hydroplaned in a pool of water and fought the steering wheel as stomach acid burned my throat. Sanctuary … Such a simple word for such a complex mess.
My mother’s house would be safe, but it was … complicated.
I didn’t have a problem with her, but at eighteen I’d stormed away from my hometown of Crossing Shadows, Texas, in a raging hissy fit. I hoped the town would accept me back now, but I had my doubts. And I wasn’t referring to the townspeople. Sitting at the edge of a Hell’s Gate made the town’s magical border fussier than a pearl-clutching old biddy at a church function.
The on-its-last-tire Chevy truck my neighbor sold me let out another squeal-clunk-clunk sound that could be heard over the screeching of the half-dry rotted windshield wipers. The stupid vehicle had acted okay when I left Houston five hours ago, heading northwest to Central Texas. But as soon as I hit the Bryan-College Station area, it began acting crazier than a drunk raccoon stuck in a greased garbage can. Maybe the Aggies had cursed me for all the snide football jokes I’d told over the years. If you believed in the hexing sorta thing. And you should.
Sparse traffic on this lonely stretch of Highway 190 helped, since I was driving at a near crawl to keep from hydroplaning again. The rain had become a downpour, turning visibility to almost nothing. I trusted the tires on this bucket of rust as much as I trusted a good-lo
oking preacher. Or the good-looking son of a preacher man, to tell the story truthfully. And great, now I’ll have that song stuck in my head for days.
In the daylight, I’d be able to see the rolling, limestone hills of the northwestern edge of Texas hill country. Late summer wildflowers would still be around to add splashes of color and a nose-tickling sweetness to the air. This was prairie grass and cedar scrubland and not the Big City coastal life I’d grown accustomed to. Which place did I prefer? Well, the jury was still out on that one.
The truck gave out the shrillest squeal yet before the engine cut out. Of course it would die deader than late summer roadkill, ’cause that was how my life rolled right now. Three miles from my hometown. Late in the evening during a thunderstorm. Freaking fantastic. Whatever I did to offend Karma, well, she was paying me back in spades.
With no headlights—or streetlights—in the area, I coasted to what I hoped was the shoulder of the road. On a positive note, traffic remained non-existent ’cause only fools or the truly desperate would be out in this weather. Color me both. Everything I owned rode in the back of the truck in old plastic storage containers. There was zero chance that any of the containers had watertight seals, but I’d deal with that tomorrow. Tonight, I had to try to get into town for Sadie’s sake.
With a flashlight in hand and my backpack slung over my shoulder, I jumped out of the truck and managed not to land in a mud puddle large enough to swallow a gator. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, so perhaps my luck had finally turned.
Time was ticking, so I hustled until I reached the jagged edge stones lining both sides of the highway that denoted the town’s barrier. The back of my neck crawled as the shadow veil hid me from view while doing nothing to block the rain. But it had to be a good sign, even though all I could see in front of me was open road. If the magic accepted me inside, the town would materialize. If not, I’d resort to Plan B. Or, maybe I should call it Plan BD, as it was beyond desperate.
The wind and rain picked up, soaking my jeans and thin jacket that was definitely water-resistant but not waterproof. Stick lightning lit up the night sky, then thunder rumbled overhead. My skin tingled, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the weather, nerves, or the magic floating in the air. And Saints alive, I’d forgotten how great free-flowing magic felt. Kinda like eating a hot, buttery piece of fresh bread after years of keto dieting.
I dropped the backpack to the ground and stood at attention like the ghost hunter I used to be. A life I barely remembered and never wanted to return to.
“Crossing Shadows, Everly Ivona Collins … uh, Popa, requests permission to enter.” I shoved my damp bangs off my face. Add recently cutting my long hair into layers on the lengthy list of consistently bad decisions I’d made over my lifetime.
Someone would be on guard at the border. Probably a pair of junior angels and a lower-level demon. They’d notify the Celestial Council, while the almost sentient magical boundary deliberated my request. It shouldn’t take long. Any second the dark highway in front of me would light up and the town would appear. And, yes, I realized the irony of seeking safety in a town crowded with demonic forces. But needs must.
So, any second now, Crossing Shadows would appear in all its non-glory.
I should have a reply at any moment …
Any ol’ time …
Nothing happened.
Acid burned through my stomach. I picked a lousy time to forget my acid reflux medication. I cleared my throat, grimacing at the taste of bile in my mouth. “Crossing Shadows and the Celestial Council, I request entry. As a direct decedent of Ladislaus Popa, I have the right to safety and succor. As a Popa, I demand your assistance as decreed by the Celestial Edict of 891!”
The rain continued to pour. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, painfully aware of my underwear sticking to me. I scrubbed my face, which just smeared rainwater into my eyes. This was a stupendously bad decision.
I should just find some job that would pay enough for me to rent a crappy apartment in one of the dead-end towns littered across Texas. I didn’t need much, as material things never mattered. The reporters and Feds would eventually stop looking for me. If I tried hard enough, I’d convince Sadie to hide with me. Then I wouldn’t have to explain to her about my past. And the truth about my hometown she’d never seen. The drug dealers? Well, at least it was Texas with its open carry laws and every pawnshop selling handguns.
Anger flooded through me as I clenched my hands into fists. Life wasn’t fair. I knew that. But damn, why couldn’t I catch just one small break? I was a Popa, a descendant of one of the three Marked families. I belonged inside Crossing Shadows, as did Sadie. If not by current deeds, then by Celestial promises to my blood. So, Plan BD it was.
A fun fact about the entry to Crossing Shadows: it sits on an ancient crossroads. Though the State of Texas wasn’t that old, the crossroads were perpetually etched into the very rock I stood on. I might be one-hundred-percent human, but the ancient marking on my ancestors gave me the ability to spot magic, if not the capacity to use it. The marking also helped those with my blood to fight monsters that regular humans discounted as fantasy. Protecting humanity was our Heaven-appointed purpose, after all.
Which was no mean feat as, beyond chopping off their heads, few things killed any of the Hellblood-tainted creatures. Sunlight didn’t cause a vampire to explode. Silver didn’t cause a deadly reaction in Shifters. Sure, salt caused all manners of malevolent spirits to dissipate, though only for a short time. So yeah, they were harder to kill than a cockroach infestation. But angel-blessed iron? It hurt the Hellblood, causing wounds that healed as slowly as on a human.
I slowly withdrew a simple blessed-iron dagger from my boot. Gran gifted it to me on my seventh birthday. It didn’t gleam in the moonlight or shine in the darkness like some melodramatic movie crap, but every otherworldly creature watching me would spot it easily. And I knew they were watching. My bones ached from the feel of their eyes. I might be out of practice living this life, but my innate abilities remained.
“Fine. You don’t wanna answer? I’ll knock another way.”
My left knee complained loudly as I knelt in the exact middle of the road. I dragged the tip of the knife slowly across my palm, ripping the skin easily with the razor-sharp blade that never dulled. The rain washed away my splattering blood, but it didn’t matter. The sacrifice had been made.
Otherworld law required a Crossroads Demon to appear once blood spilled. Whether the demon would grant me a wish was another thing entirely. But I gambled my literal soul that it wouldn’t matter. Heaven was tetchy about Hell taking one of its play toys. No matter how closely the Marked dealt with demons, we were created to do the angels’ bidding. And neither side ever let us forget that.
The edge stones began to pulse with a soft light. I re-sheathed the dagger, then pushed myself to my feet, though several body parts argued against it. Relief made my knees weak as I stumbled to the border. Once I settled things here, I’d get Sadie. How, I hadn’t quite figured out yet, since she knew nothing about my previous life. At her birth, Mama warned me there’d be a price to pay if I didn’t bring her up among the Marked. Apparently, that bill had finally come due.
As soon as I neared the edge stones, static electricity caused my hair to stand on end and a flash of bright yellow light enveloped me. I paused to suss out the situation.
A shock of pain hit.
Then I was flying through the air.
TWO
Home-not-so-sweet-home
Flashes of glowing orange and dazzling white light flared around me.
I froze mid-air, with my arms and legs splayed out like a falling, upside-down cat. My only moveable muscle seemed to be my heart as it soccer-kicked my ribs. Unless lungs were considered a muscle. Were they? No, the diaphragm was the breathing muscle. Maybe. Unlike normal people who scream when scared, my brain spat out random questions and facts as if it had taken a break to play a quick game of Trivia.
&nbs
p; My eyes also had movement, though I nearly popped them out trying to focus on the two figures that materialized on either side of me. While I wouldn’t complain about not splatting to the ground, having a demon and an angel show up while immobilized wasn’t ideal. I wouldn’t consider floating horizontal while rain poured over me with no way to cover my head a picnic either. And don’t even get me started on the indignity of this situation.
I didn’t recognize the demon, but unmistakable orange Hellfire blazed in her eyes. She drew a finger across my bleeding palm then sucked on her finger lollipop-style. My stomach roiled as I futilely tried to move. Few creatures enjoyed blood more than a Crossroads Demon.
The angel, I knew. Sebastian. Captain of the Seraph Guard and highest-ranking angel in this area. Dollars to donuts he was the one who turned me into an Everly-sicle instead of the demon. At least Sebastian emitted a soft glow so I could see what they were up to. He’d never been overly pleasant to me, but I didn’t consider him any bigger of a tool than the rest of his brethren I’d met. Everyone knew the Hell’s Gate gig was not considered a glamorous job upstairs, no matter how vital a role it played in keeping the demonic forces corralled. Angels had their pride, so some prickliness should be expected.
The fact that both otherworldly beings used anti-rain spells while leaving me unprotected in the downpour was a soggy reminder of one of the reasons I left so long ago. Though, in fairness, humans were more than capable of being complete assholes too.
Sebastian ignored me and faced the demon. “Crossroads Demon Nea. You shouldn’t be here.”
The demon wore a bright-orange Alexander McQueen minidress I’d seen in Vogue last week, which complemented her glowing, saffron eyes. “Seraph Sebastian. This human offered blood. She’s mine.”
Sebastian straightened the sleeves of his dark-purple velvet coat to reveal fussy white lace cuffs. His long dark hair curled past his shoulders. He always did prefer to dress like a coked-out 1980s glam rocker mixed with a heaping dash of a drunk 1780s pirate. “Ms. Popa is Marked. That trumps whatever ill-conceived and reckless actions she may have undertaken. Leave this area.”
