Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  “Well, yes, but … there hasn’t been time, so … I don’t mean to pry. I’m just curious.”

  She happily describes her duty, what she calls her “gift,” which entails a special ability to sense when and where souls are in danger. She likens it to a triage doctor who assesses patients’ immediate needs. She can send her sons on various “jobs” well before they sense the call. Days or even weeks away, depending.

  “And how about you?” she asks. “You seem to have the gift of seeing into the spirit world.”

  No one has referred to my talent for butting into peoples’ private lives as a gift, so I’m rather proud to hear her say it. “Well, if it is a gift, it didn’t come with instructions.”

  “Oh, so your mother didn’t have the gift as well?” This catches me off guard. I never considered it. Mom always seemed lost in her own world, apart from me in so many ways. When I shake my head against Katarina’s frown, I get an unsettling feeling.

  We are quiet, the silence punctuated only by her wooden spoon sliding around the edges of the stainless steel pot. A painful minute passes and then she brightens with a new mood.

  “Well then, how about this extraordinary second heartbeat? Hmm? Do you still feel it?” I nod, and she says, “Now? You feel it right now?” She lays the spoon aside and gives me her full attention.

  “Yes.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I think Michael is pacing in the hallway.”

  “No I’m not,” Michael says from the hallway.

  Katarina looks stunned and then whispers, “He’s worried that I’m divulging all his secrets.” We laugh out loud just as Michael appears in the doorway.

  “Well? Are you finished yet? Can I have her back—I mean … we have homework to discuss.” Michael has a serious scowl that stifles our amusement, and he marches in and takes my arm. Katarina and I exchange smiles as he leads me away.

  “That was subtle,” I whisper, as I am being pulled down a long hallway. We head to the back of the house and push through a screen door that opens to a wide veranda. Despite the cover of heavy rain, nature explodes all around us. Towering maples and elms create a canopy over an expansive lawn. A giant greenhouse takes up the far left corner, and beyond that is an open acre of garden. The outlying forest is thick and black, edging the property in a wide arc. I can barely see a faint red barn through the farthest trees.

  It’s breathtaking, even in the fading light, with gray cotton clouds bunched along the treetops and dumping rain on everything.

  There is a porch swing laden with fat pillows, and we negotiate ourselves around them until we are comfy. I snuggle into Michael, and he cocoons me in his arms. Ribbons of rain fall in a silver curtain around the veranda like we’re on the secret side of a waterfall.

  “I like your family,” I muse as we gently swing back and forth.

  “They like you, too.” He laces his fingers through mine. His hands are strong and tan and warm. I love Michael’s hands, especially when they’re wrapped around mine.

  “They don’t think I’m a complete idiot for jumping out the courthouse window?”

  “Hmm. Not a complete idiot. You still have some wiggle room.”

  I give him a playful nudge and look up. He has that pensive expression so I ask what’s wrong.

  He considers for a moment and then sighs heavily. “Maybe you should explain again exactly what you did and saw in the library basement.”

  I sit very still. Talking about last night means talking about Steve. I’d rather not, but maybe it’s time. I inhale for courage, and stare through the rain until I can pick out trees and fences posts in the murky light. I begin slowly, explaining Steve, who he is, what he did, and then Bailey’s idea to put a hex on him.

  Michael’s body has gone rigid and his jaw is tight with anger. The familiar controlled rage passes over his features, and I’m reminded how powerful his energy can be.

  He says he is sorry that Steve ever touched me, and I say it’s okay. He looks at my eyebrow, and I say, “Yeah, you saw the scar. But honestly, I don’t know what happened to it. Do you?”

  He shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

  I explain more about the night Steve attacked me, about my odd behavior, how I felt like someone else when I threw the knife at him and that I threw it with my left hand. Finally, I tell him how the feeling returned in the library basement when I felt the presence of something coming to attack my friends.

  I wait for Michael to say something or offer an explanation. In the end, neither one of us has a plausible answer so we have to set it aside for now.

  I describe the strange apparition, the guy with the chilly breath who appeared and disappeared into a million pieces. Like before, this grabs Michael’s attention. He becomes agitated and makes me promise never to talk to this man if he shows up again. I am instructed to find Michael immediately if he comes back. Michael is worried so I am, too.

  “It was a very dangerous thing to do,” Michael scolds about our little stunt. “Somehow you guys opened a spiritual channel that caught everyone’s attention. And by everyone I mean the good, the bad, and the demonic. You understand me?”

  “No.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good enough.”

  He seems satisfied, and we resume swinging back and forth, deep in thought. I’m dissecting everything that happened that night, and Michael is caressing my arm. He leans closer and snuggles his face against my neck.

  “Sophia St. James,” he murmurs affectionately. “Tell me everything you love.”

  “Everything?”

  “Anything.”

  I think for a moment and then let my mind drift. “Hmm. I love chocolate and thunderstorms and the smell of fresh cut grass. I love Sundance and opening presents on Christmas morning, not Christmas Eve. And chocolate. And taking photos, and concerts in the park, and waves crashing on the beach, and eating ice cream in the bathtub. And did I mention chocolate?”

  Michael is brushing his cheek along mine and sweeping soft kisses down my neck. His chest is vibrating with silent laughter.

  “Well, you asked,” I tease. “Now, how about you? What do you love?”

  He moans and drags his lips farther down my neck. “I love this place right here.” He pulls my shirt collar aside and trails kisses into the curve of my collarbone. “I claim this place as mine and dub it Michael’s Hollow.” He fills it with soft kisses that make me explode with shivers. My eyes become too heavy to hold up. Decency wants me to join the others but I’m not ready to give him up just yet.

  “Michael, tell me something,” I whisper drowsily, while his warm lips tickle along my skin. “Do all angels look like you and your family?” I feel him smile against my neck.

  “Of course not.”

  I curl my fingers through his hair and gently tug. He growls as though he likes it and then nibbles hard at my ear and I gasp. Good God, how can anything feel so delicious? It’s a struggle to stay focused.

  “But, you all look alike.”

  “Just our family. We originate from Estonia so there’s a Nordic influence.” His voice is husky between kisses, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

  “Originate?” I murmur.

  He stops a moment, pressing his head against mine and panting between words. “Angels … are Born … of Light.” He nuzzles his nose into my hair and continues down my neck. I can barely understand him. “My earth family … was put together … by The Council.”

  My eyes roll back in my head and my body arches. That sweet spot in my center is throbbing with heat and I’m filled with an incredible urge to crawl on top of him. This feels so amazing!

  “So … you guys aren’t related by blood?”

  “No … by Light.”

  Michael is spreading sharp bites down my neck that make my toes curl. I tremble and cling to him.

  Oh God, what’s happening? We have to stop. His family will sense my emotions.

  “We should … join the
others,” I slur without conviction.

  “But I want to explore my Sophia,” he croons and changes his assault from biting to warm, delicious kisses, and I melt into him. His arms are hard and strong and hold me in place, and his lips move gently across my face and throat.

  “Michael?” I lift his chin. He looks intoxicated and sexy, and I try to kiss his lips but he pulls away.

  “Don’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought you would understand now,” he says tenderly, but I hear the frustration in his voice.

  “Understand what? Why you won’t kiss me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t. Tell me.”

  He looks incredulous. “I just told you. We are not the same, Sophia. I am Born of Light. We don’t know what would happen if … Believe me, I would kiss you if I could, but we just don’t know …”

  “But … you kiss everywhere else.” Michael blushes a beautiful red, and I have to laugh. “I’m sorry, you know what I mean.”

  “It’s one thing to kiss your skin but completely different to kiss your mouth, to kiss where you draw your breath.” He glances over his shoulder to ensure we are alone. “Sophia, I have control in every area, well, except with my emotions around you. I’ve had years of training to perform every task I’ll face, but … the energy I create is very powerful and … well, I don’t know what it would do to you. It’s the reason I don’t perform CPR on people. I can’t blow gently enough into a small pair of lungs. We’re not trained to do that. So we can never do that. And the opposite effect, with a kiss … I can’t imagine … what it might do to you. I’m not willing to take the chance. You understand?” He is horribly uncomfortable and dejected, and I feel awful. I had no idea the extent of his concern or struggle.

  “Maybe we should join the others,” he mumbles reluctantly, taking my hand and pulling me up.

  I reach up and cup his face, and Michael stiffens in alarm. I smile reassuringly and bring his cheek against mine. His breath is warm and sweet and I nearly lose control. Tenderly, I kiss the corners of his mouth, first one side and then the other.

  He moans and wraps his arms around me, pressing the length of his body against mine. His hand sides through my hair and he whispers in my ear, “Thank you. I know this is hard for you, too. But … thank you for understanding.”

  I lean back to look at him. I want to reassure him that I will be practical, but his eyes are churning in shades of blue, and I stare, fascinated.

  “Michael, what’s happening? Why do your eyes sometimes turn so dark?”

  “That’s your fault,” he teases, pulling me even closer so that the button of his jeans digs into my tummy. His eyes fill with desire but he uses his parental tone to explain. “You understand, when I sense the call to help others, my energy level heightens and my eyes become iridescent. Well, apparently when I’m with you … I mean, when I’m really with you, my eyes turn the opposite way. Dark blue.”

  He blushes again, and I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his shoulder, smiling. We fall quiet and stare into the night. The rain taps against the rooftop, picking up the rhythm of my heartbeats and lulling me into a warm, languorous state. My mind drifts along with my hands, sliding inside his T-shirt and across the warm, velvety muscles of his back. There is a catch in his breathing as I make lazy circles with my nails, all the while contemplating ways we could kiss without killing me.

  Nothing comes to mind.

  “Maybe we should go inside,” I murmur regretfully, and look up. Michael is staring down at me, his eyes the darkest I have ever seen. They are glazed indigo, and I gasp in surprise. His face is flushed and his chest is heaving.

  Oops.

  My heart pulls with a sharp jerk and the second heartbeat slams beneath my breasts. Warm, electric impulses thump under my skin. I am wide-eyed with surprise and don’t know what to say. Slowly, I withdraw my hands and step back. His body shudders at my touch and sparks flicker in his eyes, like stars against a night sky. I am mesmerized, and then … I press my lips together as a naughty giggle swells inside me.

  “This isn’t really fair, you know?” Michael’s voice trembles but he grins through it.

  “I think it evens things out. No fair you reading my emotions, now I can read yours, too.”

  “Yeah, but of all my emotions, you would have to read that one.”

  I give him a Poor baby frown and reach out to comfort his discomfort, but he abruptly pushes me away and bursts out, “Yes! I think existentialism has some merit but also many misnomers!” His big indigo eyes flash me a pleading look, and three seconds later his dad appears at the screen door announcing dinner, and I crack up laughing.

  “Be right there!” Michael answers in a rather loud, startled sort of way. He has turned his back to the door and jammed his hands on his hips. Michael Patronus, guardian angel and Soulkeeper Extraordinaire, is a trembling six-foot-three tower of Jell-O.

  “C’mon,” I tease, and pull at his arm.

  “Are you kidding?” He runs a hand through his hair and mutters something about impossible human hormones. “I’m not going in there like this, feeling all … They’ll see … Aw, hell no!” He walks away, and I start to follow, but he says, “Oh, no! You stay over there! Waaaay over there!” He points, and I stop.

  “Michael, seriously?”

  He backpedals to the corner of the veranda, putting twenty feet between us. I lower my chin, giving him a Come and get me grin. “And stop that, too! No more smiling like that!” He cups rain in his hands and splashes his face. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop from laughing. Michael’s struggle lasts a few more minutes before he turns and looks at me.

  “Pale blue,” I say.

  “Thank heaven,” he sighs.

  *

  The dining room is spacious and formal, something you’d see in an old black-and-white movie: low ceiling, polished wood floor, fireplace, and an antique sideboard. We crowd around a mahogany table and join hands like the family I never had. Katarina says grace, and then we dig in.

  Pot roast and baby carrots, tender potatoes and buttery green beans make the rounds. Warm bread is devoured by all.

  Dinnertime is not a passive event in the Patronus household. Conversations overlap, with everyone sharing thoughts and ideas. Subjects vary from the mundane to the extraordinary, and eventually to the spiritual. I ask if they have any unique gifts besides the obvious.

  “We can move objects without touching them,” Uriel pipes up cheerfully.

  “We?” Gabe arches an eyebrow.

  “Some of us can now, and some of us are still in training,” Uriel grumbles.

  I look at Michael. “Seriously? Like … you can bend this spoon with your mind?”

  He scoffs and says, “Infantile parlor tricks.”

  I give him a pointed stare. “But can you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Will it break some spiritual code? Violate a sacred oath? I’m on pins and needles to learn more.

  Michael looks me dead in the eyes and says with all seriousness, “Well, Sophia, because the pudding will slide off.” He breaks out laughing and high-fives Uriel. I roll my eyes. Guardian humor, go figure.

  “It’s a wonder you guys don’t have super strength,” I mumble.

  “Who says we don’t?” Raph challenges.

  “Well, I mean, Michael almost dropped me out the window that night and …” Everybody is grinning, and an epiphany hits me in the head. “Michael! You didn’t almost drop me!” I smack him, and he ducks to dodge my attack.

  “Hey, I had to teach you a lesson!” He laughs at his own cleverness, and then says, “Okay, I’m sorry.” His hand slides under the table and squeezes my knee. We stare until I feel a blush heat my cheeks and I have to look away before the others notice.

  I know they can sense my emotions just as easily as Michael can, so I desperately wrack my brain for a new
topic. Eventually a question that’s been nagging me since I moved here worms its way up.

  “So, um, who was that Degan guy?”

  “He’s more of a what,” Raph says, cramming a biscuit into his mouth.

  “What?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, what is he?” I follow everyone’s attention to Dimitri. He pats a napkin to his mouth and then sets it aside. He explains that Degan is something called a soul seeker, an entity from Hell whose only purpose is to steal souls from angels, guardians, or spirit walkers; really anyone he can steal it from, he will, even his own kind. Although they’re easily destroyed, soul seekers always reappear—a weed in the garden.

  “And what is a spirit walker?”

  “To understand, you must remember there is balance in the world. Everything has an opposite, light to dark, good to evil, life to death. The opposite of a soul seeker is a spirit walker. Whereas a soul seeker steals souls and drags them to Hell, a spirit walker takes lost souls home, or to limbo. You see?”

  “But I thought guardians did that, when someone’s time is up.”

  “True, guardians protect earthbound humans and escort their souls home when it’s time. Unfortunately, not every Forgiven soul is ready to depart. Some refuse to let go of their human form; they refuse to be escorted home by guardians. They roam endlessly, aimlessly, in a very unpredictable spirit realm. You see, it is not the job of guardians to protect souls once they’ve entered the spirit realm as—what I call Free Radicals.” He grins at his own joke and then continues, “The guardians must focus on earthbound souls. Therefore, it’s the job of spirit walkers to—how do I put this without sounding predatory—quietly follow these souls, keep an eye on them, and convince them to go home. To keep them out of a soul seeker’s reach.”

  “That’s why Degan tried to touch the boy’s imprint at the car wreck? He was trying to steal his soul?” Hmm. “So Raph didn’t really kill Degan? He’ll be back?”

  “Not for a while,” Raph brags. “I ripped him a good one. It’ll take some time for him to regenerate and find his way back. If he decides to come back here. See, I used this special technique where I twist and crack his—”