by Lori Adams
He smiles casually and sidles up to the blond guy. Just as he starts to speak, the blond guy whips around and smashes him to the ground with a single backhand blow. I gasp and startle the nurse and cop.
The grungy guy shakes his head and struggles to his elbows but the blond guy beats him down again. Then he slams a foot into the guy’s throat and holds him in place. The blond guy is coiled and ready, palming something strapped to his hip. And then he slowly lifts his head and looks at me. His beautiful eyes have hardened into iridescent marbles and seem to glow. His fragile beauty is razor sharp, a feral mask of determination. This realization sets both of my heartbeats drumming furiously in my chest. He seems to be waiting for me—almost daring me—to do something. I am in shock and can only blink and stare.
The grungy guy grimaces in anticipation of the next attack. When it doesn’t come, he peeks at the blond guy and then tracks his attention to me. Our eyes lock, and a ribbon of coldness flutters through me. He has solid black eyes.
“Hey! What’s going on?” The grungy guy struggles under the foot, his eyes cutting back and forth between his attacker and me. The blond guy ignores him, keeping his focus on me, waiting. He seems worried about something. The grungy guy points at me and says, “You can’t blame me for that! I didn’t know!” He is more terrified of me and less about the beating. To shut him up, the blond guy grinds his foot deeper into the guy’s neck, who gurgles and writhes in pain.
I can’t take it anymore! This huge guy stomping on this defenseless kid!
“Stop it!” I yell, and scare the bejesus out of the nurse. The cop with the clipboard stands abruptly like he might say something. Sheriff White marches over and asks if I’m causing trouble. His tone suggests that he wouldn’t be surprised.
Everyone is staring, expecting me to explain myself, but words are jammed in my throat. I don’t know what to think, let alone say.
And then I get it. No one else can see the guys fighting just twenty feet away.
Please no, not another hallucination.
I squeeze my eyes, take a deep breath, and repeat the mantra in my head. Since the night I defended myself against Psycho Steve, I’ve had strange visions. Strange like seeing my dead mom standing in the kitchen.
When I open my eyes again, I stare at the two guys. Blue and red lights flash against their faces but if I focus and squint, I think I can see right through—
“Miss St. James!” Sheriff White yells, and I jump.
“Uh—”
“It’s okay,” the nurse says, coming to my rescue before I humiliate myself further. “You bothered by the sight of blood, hon? It’s just a small cut. I’ll be fine. But my husband will be so worried. My phone is in my purse so …” She smiles reassuringly.
The two guys are suspended in action—eyes on me, foot on throat, fists cocked and ready like vicious cartoon characters. They look so real that I make a quick decision; after I get the purse, I am going to march over and demand to know what’s going on.
So I backpedal and snatch the purse from the front seat. When I turn around the guys are gone, and I hear devilish laughter.
Chapter 2
Michael
Just outside of Haven Hurst, the warm evening air above a Victorian farmhouse moved in a gentle clockwise swirl and hummed with an aquamarine heartbeat. Hovering inside the energy force was the spirit form of Michael Patronus, guardian angel, first class. He was clad in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. With his arms out to his sides, razor-sharp fetching angled up and out of Michael’s forearms and kept him aloft. This set of wings was his defensive pair, great for short distances, not to mention decapitating demons, reapers, or soul seekers in a single swipe. The larger gossamer wings seen in religious paintings or on statues were cumbersome and noisy. They were used for long hauls or formal ceremonies like graduation and stuff. Since guardians were designated to watch over smaller regions these days, Michael rarely used his gossamer wings. Besides, he preferred the new and improved fetching, like most young guardians. The elders could keep their gossamer. Fetching was faster and more precise. Deadlier.
They could also slice open your thighs if you weren’t paying attention. It wouldn’t be deadly to an angel but the clean up was a hassle.
Michael took care alighting on the lawn. He waited for the faint clicking sound as the wings retracted and disappeared before lowering his arms. His kaleidoscope eyes powered down until they eventually settled into their normal human color of pale blue. The transformation from spirit form back to human form was complete, yet Michael was anything but relieved.
He scrubbed a hand through his blond hair, exasperated. He couldn’t believe what happened tonight. It went beyond his imagination, which could go pretty far. It was saying something.
Who was that girl? How did she see him in spirit form? And why didn’t she say anything to the others?
This wasn’t exactly something he was trained to deal with. No one ever warned him about hot human girls who could see him in spirit form. No, not just hot but sexy as hell and— Wait, what?
Sexy? Where in the hell did that come from?
Michael shook his head and scoffed. It was the first time he’d ever described a human in those terms. He wasn’t even supposed to think in those terms. Something strange was going on and he decided to choose his words carefully when explaining to his family.
They were all angels of one variety or another, living and working in Haven Hurst as normal humans. Hiding this from them was not an option. But how much he should tell them was debatable.
Michael mounted the porch steps, flung open the front door, and marched down the hall to the kitchen. His two younger brothers, Raph and Gabe, were as he’d left them when he received the “call” for help, sitting around the large butcher-block island. As pure angels, they were Born of Light, not blood. To appear as a real human family, they were originated in Estonia, where they shared a Nordic influence of blond hair and blue eyes. But they were graced with distinctly different personalities.
Gabe, the youngest at sixteen, had his nose buried in an 1893 first edition of Spiritual Philosophy by Allan Kardec. It was not homework, although the boys attended Haven Hurst High as a formality to blend in with humans. Gabe was the brainiac bent on reading every book written by prominent humans. He was nearly finished with the 1800s.
Seventeen-year-old Raph was shoveling blueberry pie into his face with one hand and levitating a glass of milk with the other. He rotated his finger like a wand and stirred the milk until the chocolate was mixed to his liking. Eating and levitating objects, preferably at the same time, were his favorite hobbies.
Because spiritual entities were sensitive to auras, Michael’s brothers immediately sensed his agitation. The glass of chocolate milk dropped into Raph’s hand.
“Man, what yanked your light?”
Michael tapped his heart. “Electric shock. Right here.”
“You were electrocuted?” Gabe lowered his book and sat up with interest.
“Hot damn! Hook me up!” Raph laughed.
Michael rolled his eyes and opened the fridge. He tried to appear unaffected about the incident by pouring a glass of juice and downing it. Then he started again.
“It wasn’t electrocution, exactly. It was more like … well, like a soft spark. Almost ignorable. Then it exploded like a bomb.” And almost took my freakin’ breath away.
He paused again, distracted by the memory of the girl’s long tan legs in faded cutoffs.
“Ahem.” Michael snapped out of it and cleared his throat. “It started drumming like a … like a … second heartbeat.” He admitted this reluctantly but withheld a more important issue about the girl because, frankly, it had scared the shit out of him.
Besides, he must have been wrong. Must have imagined the whole thing. Right? It was impossible; she was impossible.
Gabe thumped his book shut like a judge’s gavel calling order. He liked facts and simplicity. He began his cross-examination with a sharp tone. “Mi
chael, clearly something has upset you. You’re neither easily rattled nor prone to exaggerations. If you’re this upset, you have our rapt attention. Now—”
“Rapt attention?” Raph snorted out a laugh. “You have our rapt attention? Are you serious, man? Why can’t you talk like a normal teenager?”
“Speak,” Gabe corrected him with a smirk. “Speak like a normal— Ow!” Raph had levitated the book and thrown it against Gabe’s head. Gabe snatched the book from the air. “We’re not normal teenagers, Raph! And you, first and foremost, should expend more energy trying to fit in than looking for ways to irritate me!”
“But it’s so easy!” Raph laughed.
Gabe lifted his chin indignantly and turned to Michael. “Aside from this alleged second heartbeat, what else happened? Did you lose a soul?”
Michael scoffed. It was an absurd question. He had a perfect saved-soul record of 2,133 and 0. Highest for a first-class guardian. He’d never even come close to losing a soul. The nurse at the accident had reacted quickly enough to avoid a head-on when the truck driver dozed off. Michael was called by The Council of Guardians to stand guard only to ensure she wouldn’t slip into a coma, making her easy prey for that low-life, ambulance-chasing soul seeker Degan.
After giving Gabe a Like hell I lost a soul look, Michael continued. “This second heartbeat was connected to a girl. She showed up at the accident and she … well, she looked right at me.”
He couldn’t believe he just said that. It sounded like adolescent babbling from a recently earthbound angel, not a seasoned guardian who knew better. And Michael knew better, which made him almost doubt himself for the first time. Almost.
“Impossible,” Gabe said.
“Were you in spirit form?” Raph asked.
“Of course.”
“Impossible,” Gabe repeated. “She wasn’t looking at you. She was looking through you, like they all do. You know that better than—”
“She spoke to me!” Michael blurted out.
The boys look at each other. “I know, I know,” Michael grumbled. “Impossible. But she did. I was in full spirit form when this girl showed up. I didn’t realize the pain was radiating from her until she stepped closer. That’s when it spiked like an electric impulse. The second heartbeat started, and then she looked at me and asked if I was okay.”
“What is she?” Raph asked. His curiosity finally turned serious.
“Human. I’m sure. She had a perfect human aura but …”
“But what?” Gabe pushed.
“I don’t know. I’d never felt so much emanating from a single person. Everything was jammed up and overlapped and convoluted. I couldn’t separate them—love, hate, fear, determination, desperation, pain. All colored and muted—”
“What colors?” Gabe’s eyebrows scrunched together with concern. Human auras were rather simplistic in nature. Anything out of the ordinary was a curious thing, especially to anyone in the spirit realm.
“Blacks, reds, greens, blues …” Michael’s voice trailed off and his eyes drifted with remembrance. He could see the girl’s uncommon aura as though she were standing in front of him. He could feel her concern for him radiating like a lighthouse. Her spirit had been open, needing something from him. And then Degan showed up, and Michael’s temper flared, and her spirit closed like a slammed door. Only the second heartbeat had kept them connected. When he’d been forced to disappear with Degan, the heartbeat faded and the emptiness Michael felt had been nearly unbearable.
That’s what bothered him the most.
“You sensed she needed special protection?” Gabe asked.
Michael lowered his eyes and worked to mask the myriad of emotions flowing through him. The last thing he wanted to reveal was the rush of feelings he’d felt for this girl. Guardians have a natural instinct to protect humans at all costs but Michael’s instinct had gone well beyond the boundaries designated as special protection, well beyond the boundaries of his vows as a guardian. Nothing like this had ever happened before and it had thrown him off his game.
It wasn’t easy to conceal his emotions from his brothers because he wasn’t supposed to. They worked as a team and shared everything. If his brothers suspected that he had developed the skill to hide his emotions, they were obligated to report him to The Council. Michael would be placed under watch for signs of weakness and betrayal. Now more than ever, Michael didn’t want to invite problems. He had been working too hard to perfect his guardian gifts for the Winter Trials—that once-in-a-lifetime chance to join the special legion of warriors known as Halos of the Son. They were the elite team, the highest in ability, respect, and rank—second only to archangels. Just receiving an invitation to be considered for the trials was rare, and Michael was not about to do anything to interfere with his chances.
“Is there something more?” Gabe asked suspiciously.
Michael’s jaw muscle flexed violently as he contemplated options. He should explain about the girl seeing both him and Degan, something he didn’t know was possible. Oftentimes humans think or imagine they see angels in their natural form. Doubtful. More likely, they feel an angel’s presence, or maybe even sense a spirit walker helping lost souls. It would be a similar sensation. But even then humans would explain it away as something else, never realizing the close proximity in which they all existed.
Some humans can see ghosts, but no normal human should ever see soul seekers like Degan. As pathetic as they are, they belong to the lower spirit realm. Humans can’t see them; it just didn’t happen. And certainly not someone as young and innocent as this girl. If she was as innocent as Michael had first assumed.
“Should you report her to The Council?” Gabe demanded.
Michael’s reputation was beyond reproach, his loyalty measured alongside his namesake, the Archangel Michael; but his silence was making his youngest brother uncomfortable.
“Just ask Dad,” Raph piped in, losing interest and rising from his chair. As usual, he was barefoot, shirtless, and wearing faded jeans low on his lean hips. He stretched, cracked his back, and ended with a hearty burp. “I’m telling you, Dad’ll know what to do. Messengers live for this stuff.”
As a third-level messenger for the Council of Guardians, Dimitri Patronus regulated and watched over guardians but also reported on any unusual humans they might encounter. This girl more than qualified.
Still, Michael couldn’t give up her secrets. He gave a mental shake to cast off loose emotions but alleviated nothing. Something had shifted inside him, and he regretted telling his brothers anything.
“I’ll wait,” he announced with the familiar authority returning to his voice. “I didn’t recognize her as a local so maybe she was passing through. Besides, I didn’t get a sense that she was harmful to anyone. But if she sees any of us in spirit form again, we’ll tell Dad. And as far as I know, this girl doesn’t need any special protection from anyone.”
Chapter 3
Dante
Hell smelled.
If nobody ever told you evil had an odor, Dante Dannoso could. He had been in Hell for seven centuries and knew firsthand.
Imagine sinners that reeked like roadkill mixed with an ample dose of demon blood smoked to perfection. That was Hell. And it smelled.
Dante learned to ignore it, to distance himself from his surroundings because he didn’t really belong there. Okay, maybe he did now, but not in the beginning. Who knew dying for love sent you straight to Hell?
It was complicated.
Anyway, the stench was pretty faint in the upper catacombs where he lived and even lighter in the antechamber where he was standing now. Waiting.
There was a lot of waiting in Hell. You waited to be punished, which came far too soon for most losers and involved an unusual number of fiery objects. You waited to get jumped by gang reapers who were easily bored and easily amused by inflicting their own brand of pain. If you were a nobody, some schmuck who had pissed away his soul for job or money or talent, you waited to get yours. An
d it was coming. Every reaper, soul seeker, or demon would pounce on you, repeatedly. For grins. And it hurt. Repeatedly.
But if you were one of the Chosen, a demon with reaper capabilities, you usually didn’t have to wait for pain. They were called Demon Knights or Knights of the Unforgiven, post-humans who were cursed with a special demon living inside them. Demons like Persuasion, Affliction, and Impatience.
They might sound mild but they were from Hell; mild didn’t exist.
Demon Knights constantly endured some level of pain as they worked to control their demonic urges. The greater the urge, the greater the pain; thus, the essence of their curse. In return, they received assignments that sent them to the surface to torment humans. The kicker? They reaped their own victims, meaning they didn’t have to wait for official reapers to close the deal. A Demon Knight could snatch a tormented soul so fast that it would be halfway to Hell before a guardian received the call for help.
Hell’s Army of One.
It was a pretty sweet setup, unless you ran with Dante. He and his friends were Demon Knights, and they had issues. They kept losing souls. Well, Dante would lose his temper, and then they would lose souls to Heaven or limbo. A major faux pas down below. Because of this, Dante and his pack had been grounded, literally, for nearly four hundred years. They hadn’t been given a single soul assignment—hadn’t seen a death contract in ages. All that could change today.
“Trust me,” Dante reassured his friends. “They will vote in our favor.”
Two hours ago he had sent a petition to The Order of Reapers. They controlled everything: who competed in the Demonic Games, who was sent to wither away in Hell’s most subterranean level called the Nether Region, and who was allowed to resurface with a death contract. Dante wanted to be reinstated so he asked for a specific death contract.
He wanted the soul of Pastor St. James. Well, technically, he wanted the soul of the pastor’s daughter, Sophia.
Dante hadn’t wasted four hundred years sitting around laying bets on the Demonic Games. He had been tracking his lost lover’s soul and found it in Sophia.
