Embers

by Daniela Elana

  embers

  DANIELA ELANA

  EMBERS

  Copyright © 2019

  Daniela Elana

  Cover design © 2019 by Hampton Lamoureux TS95 Studios

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author and copyright owners.

  The Characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to an actual persons or events is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-7321695-4-8

  Printed and Bound in the United States of America

  First Printing July 2019

  https://danielaelana.wordpress.com

  Matthew 24:3-14 New International Version (NIV)

  3 As Jesus was sitting on the Mount of Olives, the disciples came to him privately. “Tell us,” they said, “when will this happen, and what will be the sign of your coming and of the end of the age?”

  4 Jesus answered: “Watch out that no one deceives you. 5 For many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am the Messiah,’ and will deceive many.6 You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. 7 Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. 8 All these are the beginning of birth pains.

  9 “Then you will be handed over to be persecuted and put to death, and you will be hated by all nations because of me. 10 At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other, 11 and many false prophets will appear and deceive many people. 12 Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, 13 but the one who stands firm to the end will be saved. 14 And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  nightmares

  Tuesdays were slow. The cadence of pouring rain coupled with the buzz of a coffee grinder eased my nerves while I studied my philosophy textbook.

  “Patricia,” a deep male voice said. My boss’s spicy scent pulled my attention away from the text to meet his warm brown eyes. Even after three years of changing my name from Maricel to Patricia, being referred to by my alias, bothered me. Although on legal documentation, I was still Maricel, everyone in Dallas knew me as Patricia. All mail went to my P.O. Box.

  “Yes,” I said, pushing my glasses up my nose. I’d only worked here for two weeks. It was rare seeing my boss around. Nor had we spoken since the interview. Whenever I did see him, he always wore a freshly ironed polo with khakis and appeared even-tempered. Judging by the wrinkles that showed under his round eyes, when he smiled, I’d place him in his mid-thirties.

  “You dropped this,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. His hand brushed mine. A warm electric current rippled through his fingertips, straight to my face.

  “Thank you, Dr. Richmond,” I said. He returned a broad grin and smoothed back his thick, ash brown hair.

  “Anytime, and you can call me Mason, see you around, Patricia,” he said, leaving. I unfolded it. To my dismay, it was a page torn out of my notebook. On the back, were doodles, I smiled to myself and folded it back up.

  * * *

  Around nine at night, I got home and undid my ponytail. Setting down a bag of Chinese takeout on the pine wood coffee table, I flipped on the television, strolled to the kitchen to wash my hands. Minutes later, I returned with an ice-cold glass of root beer and settled onto the recliner.

  The news ticker scrolled across the screen. It informed of more details of the government shutdown, updates on flooding in the Midwest due to what scientist called Climate Change, the U.N. holding Israel accountable for war crimes against humanity, Iran’s refusal to give up their nuclear weapons, an 8.0 earthquake had devastated South America and more racial tension after a new case of an officer’s acquittal. These stories would’ve seemed alarming over a decade ago, yet so much turmoil now seemed normal.

  “What appears to be four ufos, flew over the Frank Crowley courts building last week. Some believe it’s aliens while others aren’t convinced, pointing to the possibility the strange sighting was nothing more than fighter aircraft flares, much like the 1997 Phoenix lights.”

  I clicked off the television, worsening my pounding headache, and I rushed to the medicine cabinet, shuffling through pill bottles until I poured out an aspirin.

  News of this sort never failed to resurrect the memories of what I had learned when I was with Azazel. Although I was free from becoming his wife, he and Lovell would still rise to power. So far, I had seen nothing out of the ordinary, and I hoped it stayed that way. At one point, I doubted all they had threatened. No peace treaty had been signed, no extraterrestrials had been present with us. It seemed as if they were bluffing.

  My first month in Dallas, all I owned were the clothes on my back. I wandered from shelter to shelter until a caseworker I had assigned to me from a program I entered helped me land a custodial job at a hospital.

  After graduating from that job, I worked as a pharmacy technician trainee and waitressed. I earned enough money to attend community college and rent an apartment, re-teaching myself how to drive. All the skills Azazel transferred were useless after we lost our psychic connection.

  There was this unrelenting paranoia burning within me Azazel would return. Sometimes when I went to the grocery store, a random shopper would belt out threats in Aramaic linked to the Lemurian Order. Or while working at night, I’d witness women who resembled my dead sisters from Lemuria roam the halls with sinister grins-my main reasons for quitting both jobs once I was hired at the bookstore. So far, no paranormal activity had occurred at my current position.

  Clutching my temples, I counted backward in an attempt to calm my shallow breathing. It was the only method that eased my anxiety, besides praying. The high staccato of the doorbell caught me off guard. Nobody ever stopped by unless it was a telemarketer or Jehovah’s Witness. But it was too late for either, so whoever had the wrong address.

  I lingered to the door, opening it to see a little girl in a white dress. She smiled and dangled a red basket off her tiny arm. Halloween was two months away, so it was too early for costumes. What type of parents would allow their child to run around this time of night like that? Squatting to her level, I figured I’d see if she were lost.

  “What brings you here tonight, sweetie? Shouldn’t you be with your parents?” I asked, terrible at speaking to children. She stuffed her thumb in her small mouth.

  “Can I come in?” she asked in a soft, high-pitched tone, sucking in her lips and widening her already large green eyes. Although I hated the idea, I couldn’t leave a little girl alone this time a night. Further parting the door with a creek, I sighed.

  “Come—” I stopped in midsentence. To her right, a large brown dog, with shaggy fur and bloodshot eyes, now sat. The pooch hadn’t been present just seconds before. “Who’s this?” I asked. The creature’s pointed teeth curved into a grin.

  “Buddy, he doesn’t bite.” She smiled, looking up at me. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, leaving only the whites of her eyes visible. When they returned, they were an obsidian shade.

  “What’s the matter, Maricel? Won’t you let us in?” Her voice dropped several octaves, no longer sounding like a child. The gruff of a disgruntled devil replaced the sweet tone. She bent her head back, so far it cracked.

  I stepped back, closing the door. The dog caught it with its meaty paw, using it as a tool to invite himself inside. To force the door shut, I leaned against it, but the pooch pushed it aside
. The door smashed me against the wall. Sore from the collision, I used the wall to rise. The beast and little girl now stood at the foot of a closed door. The girl stalked closer.

  “Stay back!” I shouted. She snatched my neck, tightening her grip. Her hands felt as rough as sandpaper—thick like a burly man, suffocating me. “The Lemurian will rise!” she hollered with a violent convulsion, morphing into a sizeable feathered creature with flared talons.

  “Jesus, help me!” I choked, passing out.

  * * *

  I awoke in the center of the living room floor with my glasses beside me. Keeping up with them was a real pain. Ever since I’d gazed into the eyes of the crystal skull, my eyesight had never been the same. Although I could see without glasses, it was harder for me to read signs far away while driving. My spectacles, along with my hair trimmed to mid waist rather than lower waist also gave me enough of a different look, keeping anyone from recognizing me.

  Looking to my left, I noticed couches flipped over, vases shattered, and the coffee table split in half. With a sigh at the mess these demons had made, I pulled myself up, grabbing a bat and looked under furniture, opening closets, finding nothing. So, I put on the first clothes I saw smelled clean and rushed out the door. Today, I didn’t have time to read the bible like I tried to do daily. If God were to use me; I needed to get acquainted with His word.

  * * *

  I power walked inside the bookstore clutching a handful of textbooks to my chest. My shift didn’t start for another hour, which gave me time to study while sipping my ritualistic glass of coffee. As I scattered my books across the tabletop and fixed my attention on my finance notes, Mason took a seat across from me.

  “I see this is your safe haven,” he said. His eyes burrowed into mine, and I pushed my glasses up my nose, mustering a nervous smile.

  “I guess, you could say so,” I said, standing to order my coffee.

  “I’ll take care of that,” he said, placing his hand over mine. My body grew tense from the accidental skin contact.

  “It’s fine, you don’t even know what I order—”

  “Let me see, one caramel mocha macchiato...” He smiled, the dimples of his face showing.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just an observation.”

  “So, you’ve been studying me,” I said. Mason shook his head

  “No. what makes you think that?” His eyebrows rose. When I saw his cheerful smile vanish, I searched for an excuse to have said such a thing.

  “I was kidding. I’m a creature of habit.”

  “I picked up on that, I see you like to carry a bible?” His eyes moved to my unzipped backpack, where my King James 1611 Bible branched out.

  “Yes, it calms me.”

  “I find reading the Bible therapeutic, as well. Speaking of which, that’s an interesting version, you got there. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen it before.”

  “It’s a King James 1611 Bible combined with a Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance.”

  “Are you a collector of different translations and versions of the Bible or attending seminary school?”

  “No, I just prefer this version, and I do enjoy studying theology.”

  “That’s amazing you choose to devote your time to knowing scripture. I’m into end-times prophecies, myself.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “It can’t get any more interesting than that.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You know, I lead up a bible study on Wednesday nights. There’s one tonight, actually and you should come. It starts at nine,” he said. I didn’t enjoy attending church, the word itself gave me chills.

  Even after being handed a task by God, I tried many times to seek Him with the help of a religious figure, first through Mass and talking to a priest during confession, yet no closure. Then, I took a more protestant approach. The subjects most congregations preached, regardless of denomination, didn’t have the slightest thing to do with my God-given mission. When I tried asking several pastors for guidance on how to fight the oncoming apocalypse against the Watchers, they suggested I seek psychiatric help. I preferred to learn from God myself, finding the more I read my bible and prayed, the closer to Him I felt.

  “I’ll have to check my schedule since I’m scheduled to close on Wednesdays,” I said.

  “I’ll help you close and take you there,” he said. His persistence vexed me. With him being my boss, the last thing I needed was to lose my job.

  “Sure,” I said, hoping he’d get off my back.

  “Great.” He got up and headed to order my cup of coffee.

  As I waited for him, I typed his name into Facebook, and his profile came up. His profile contained various pictures of him with church members, beaming. My heart thumped faster as I scrolled through photographs of him at services, outreaches, even preaching.

  “For you,” he said, holding out my drink. The name Patricia was written in whipped cream on the top. I closed the laptop, hoping he hadn’t seen what I was doing.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” he said, glancing at his Rolex watch. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, heading over to talk to other employees.

  “Sounds good,” I said, shutting my book and putting my head down on the table.

  * * *

  A quarter till five in the evening as I stood on the ladder, placing books on the New Release section the thud of boots treading across the carpeted floor caused me to freeze. From my periphery, I glimpsed a man with a slinky build in his late-twenties standing beside the edge of the ladder. I peered down at him. He donned black from head to toe with a long trench coat and cargo pants.

  “Can I help you?” I turned to peer down at him.

  He hung his head, giving me a full view of his raven loose curls. The man fiddled with his thumbs. Then, he spared a glance. His sloe eyes met mine as he held a solemn stare for several seconds, and his mouth parted before reverting his gaze to the oak wood bookshelves behind me.

  “I need a book on demonology,” he said in a low tone.

  “Let’s try the new age/occult section, there should be plenty over there,” I said, and he trailed behind me keeping a striking distance between us.

  I skimmed the shelves in a rush to locate something. After my stay in Mu, I hated touching or being around anything occultic. I’d have to remember to pray for his soul later.

  He backed away from me and wheezed. I turned, locking eyes with him just as he sprayed chunks of vomit inches from my feet. I glared at him while his eyes dilated at me.

  “Never m-mind—” he sputtered, sprinting away and leaving me standing next to a pile of puke. He bumped into a few customers shopping as he ran out of the store. Shoppers turned. A coworker shouted at the man, but he pushed him aside, rushing through the parking lot.

  * * *

  After the strange turn of events, at last, the shift had come to an end. Mason waited for me at the exit with his usual upturned face. I tried to muster something resembling a smile, although inside I was raging like a piranha, ready to prey on my next kill.

  “Are you excited?” Mason asked while pulling the door open for me.

  “Hardly, some man puked in the occult section,” I said, walking past him.

  “I heard about the incident. I’m sorry that happened to you.” He locked up the store.

  “Jeffery wasn’t busy and offered to clean it up for me.”

  “Jeffery is always reliable. I really appreciate his work ethic. Try to relax, Patricia,” he said. I sighed, wishing I could track down the guy and strangle him for spreading his germs. The last thing I needed was to fall ill with my rent payment coming up and no health insurance coverage.

  As we walked, the sensation of something large and feathery colliding with my shoe, halted me. My gaze drifted to a dead robin, I covered my mouth. At least a dozen others sprinkled the parking lot.

  “Look, at all these dead
birds! What do you think could’ve caused this?” I said.

  “Perhaps, something is in the air,” he replied, keeping his hands in his jean pockets.

  “Death.”

  “No, silly, it’s probably the result of air pollution. You need to think more positive,” Mason said. I turned away from him with a sigh.

  “It still doesn’t change the fact the end is near,” I muttered to myself.

  “What did you say?” he said as we approached his jeep and he opened the door for me. I bit my lower lip.

  “Nothing, it was a joke,” I said. A smile stretched across Mason’s face, although I could tell he wasn’t amused.

  * * *

  He drove for twenty-minutes, discussing work with me before we arrived at a mini-mansion in South Lake Dallas. The jeep turned onto a broad winding pathway.

  “You’ve got a lovely home,” I said.

  “It’s been in my family for several generations.” He got out and opened the door for me. I strolled with him past the grove of oak trees lining the sandstone walkway.

  “I’d imagine with a home of this size your family enjoys it.”

  “Family?”

  “You strike me as the family type of guy.”

  “My church is my family.” Mason turned away. Then he pivoted around eyeing me. “How about you?” he asked. “Do you have any family?”

  “I’m a family of one,” I said. He didn’t answer, continuing to walk. We came to the door, and a man who looked around the age of sixty answered the door.

  “Hello, Dr. Richmond,” he said.

  “Hans, this is Maricel,” he said to him. The man beamed and shook my hand and held the door for me. I stepped in marveling the black marble inlay of the foyer. Around the corner, I caught a whiff of pizza and spotted four other guests, lounging in the drawing-room. There were one man and three women. Each member appeared to be in their twenties or thirties. One of the women walked over.

  “You must be Patricia, I’m Caroline Walter. Mason told us he was bringing a friend. Do you mind if I call you Patty?” she said. Although I wasn’t fond of the title, I nodded. “Great, have some pizza. We just started. There’re some cans of pop too,” she said. More people stood up, introducing themselves.