Chloe's Guardian (The Nephilim Redemption Series Book 1)

by Cheri Gillard

  Chloe’s heart jumped. Then it sank. Sank even lower than it already was. No way could she convince anyone that was her money. It’s hopeless. The voice was her sole companion. You’d be better off gone.

  She turned from the fence and went over to a low concrete wall and sat, defeated. She could no longer hold back the deluge of sobs. Her body shook and shuddered, completely out of her control. She hid her shame by shielding her face with her palms, spilling her pain against her hands. Rain started to fall, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  “Miss, can I help you?” A man in a black shirt with a white collar rested his hand on her shoulder.

  She lowered her hands but still couldn’t stop the weeping or form any words.

  “Come in and I’ll fix you a cup of tea. Come on, watch your step there. You’re going to be soaked through with rain if you stay here.”

  ***

  A towel draped across her shoulders absorbed the rain dripping from her coiling hair. Though she tried to eat at a proper pace, her fork had a mind of its own, shoveling food in her mouth at a speed her mother would frown at. Sausages and eggs had never tasted so incredible.

  “This is so good,” Chloe said as she pushed the clump of scrambled egg back into her mouth that didn’t quite fit in with the sausage.

  “I get hungry after the morning services,” the vicar said. “But never enough to eat all Mrs. Henderson prepares for me. I’m glad to share it.”

  They sat at a small oak table in the kitchen of the manse, which was attached to the church. Mrs. Henderson stood at the sink washing dishes. She turned and smiled at them when the vicar said her name.

  Chloe smiled back and then held her hand in front of her mouth to finish chewing.

  “So it sounds like you are in quite a spot,” he said. “Your mum will be worried sick when the plane empties and you’re not on it.”

  Thinking of her mother made the nerves in her stomach twinge. “She’s probably so mad she’s ready to leave me here. My dad is so going to kill me,” she said. “If she’s calling, I wouldn’t know it. My phone’s dead.”

  “You can use our landline.”

  Chloe felt like a total moron. “I don’t even know the number. Speed dial. The numbers are in my phone, and—”

  “—your mobile is dead. Ah, I see. What kind of mobile have you got there?” Over the top of his half glasses he studied her cell. “Hmm, that is a fairly old one. I might have a charger that fits. You wouldn’t believe the number of things people forget in the pews. We found some phone chargers, didn’t we, Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Aye, I’m sure we did,” she answered. She was up to her elbows in suds.

  Chloe handed over her phone. He went to a drawer in the sideboard and pulled out a cardboard box heaped with stuff—a green mitten, several sunglasses, a tangle of electrical cords, and a toy helicopter and soldier. He came back to the table and dug through the box until he found three phone chargers.

  The third one he tried fit, but it was a car charger.

  “Well, looks like we will need a car then. I don’t have one, but Mrs. Henderson does. Since you're still washing up, do you mind if we use your car, Mrs. Henderson?”

  “The keys are over by my pocketbook. Help yourself.”

  The vicar led Chloe to a small alley in back where a Honda was parked. He opened the door and gestured Chloe in. Inside smelled like cigarettes and a cardboard pine tree air freshener. The upholstery was split in several places and a pack of cigarettes lay on the passenger seat, which was covered in dog hair. She pulled open the ash tray, removed the lighter, and plugged in the phone cord.

  “It might take a few minutes, might it?” he said. “I’ll leave you here for a bit while I tend some things. Once you finish your call, come find me, aye?”

  Chloe nodded. As soon as he left, she powered it up. She watched the charging bar move across the face. Her breath came out in short huffs and her heart pounded. She dialed before the phone had time to retrieve any messages.

  First she tried Todd’s number. No answer. He’s probably asleep.

  Then, with a shaky hand, she dialed home. On the fifth ring, a very groggy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom, it’s me, Chloe.”

  Her mom screamed first. Then she said, “Are you okay? We’ve been worried sick.”

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I locked my keys in the car. And missed the plane.”

  “Jessie said you took off without telling anyone. She said Kaitlyn said you were going after someone. Someone said you stole a car. Oh Chloe, how could you?”

  “They said what?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t. Kaitlyn knows where I went. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “You know how Kaitlyn is. I never understand what she says. Jessie said you broke up with Todd. Tell me that isn’t true. You won’t find another boy like him. I’m counting on him for my son-in-law one day.”

  “We had a misunderstanding is all. I just need to talk to him.”

  “That’s a relief. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “Haven’t you talked to Todd?”

  “I didn’t see him. When you weren’t on the plane, I nearly died.”

  Chloe really needed to talk to him.

  “I need my passport and I—”

  “Your father is bringing it.”

  “Bringing it?” You’ve really blown it now, the voice in her head said.

  “His plane is landing at eleven-thirty, your time. I had to call him. What else could I do? He got the next flight he could.”

  Chloe did not want to face her dad. “How mad is he?”

  “Just make sure you’re there to meet him. That might help a little. He got your bag from Kaitlyn and he’ll bring you home.”

  “You could have just overnighted my passport and some money.”

  “When he sets his mind on something—”

  Chloe started crying. It was the last thing she wanted to do. “All I wanted….” She couldn’t even remember now. It had been so stupid of her. You are stupid.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” she sobbed. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “But that doesn’t undo it, does it? Your dad has a lot of stress right now. This doesn’t help. We’ve got to do better if we think he’s going to come back home.”

  Chloe lowered the phone into her lap. What could she say to that? She couldn’t fix her parents’ marriage. They could all be perfect and Dad would still be unhappy with them.

  She spun the cardboard pine tree and watched it twirl—first one way, then the other and back again—before she put the phone back to her ear.

  “…back to sleep. Or at least try. I haven’t slept all night. When you get home, you and I are having a serious talk. We’ve all just been worried sick. I’ve had nightmares of horrible things happening to you. I hope Todd won’t be too angry with you. He probably had a horrible flight worrying about you.”

  “If you see him, ask him to call me, okay? I really need to talk to him.”

  “Don’t be late to the airport. Don’t keep your dad waiting. And when you get back, invite him in for something to eat, okay? I’ll have a nice meal made for him.”

  Chloe stayed in the car trying to control the guilt and nausea that sat on her gut like a bowling ball. Shame on you. The voice was back in full force.

  When she thought she could keep from crying, she returned to the manse. The vicar was pushing in chairs around the oak table. His smile dropped when he turned around and saw her.

  “What is wrong, dear?” he said.

  Chloe choked up and the tears started tumbling down her cheeks again. “My dad is coming. So he can kill me.”

  The vicar put his arm around her shoulders and handed her a napkin from the table. “I’m sorry, lassie.”

  She wiped her eyes and nose. “I suppose I’d better get to the airport. Thanks for all your help. You’ve been wonderf
ul to me.”

  “I’ll say some prayers for you. It sounds like you could use a little help from a higher power than me.”

  Chloe gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

  “That's all right. I’ll see if Mrs. Henderson can’t drive you to the airport.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Horatius would have to try to heal Angus MacKay all on his own. The act would deplete him greatly, but he had to save him. If it was not too late already. If it was too late, only They could heal him, and Horatius was not in a position to petition for that!

  Horatius bent over Angus, which sent pounding pain into his smashed nose. It felt as though his brain would rupture. But in spite of the agony, his fury evaporated. Too much was at stake. What if I can’t save him? Will any hope for my own redemption remain? Everything in him wanted to cry out to the heavens to restore the man, but he clamped his jaw tight. It might save Angus, but then Satarel could attack and behead him so fast, what would it matter anyway? Horatius would die unredeemed and all would be for naught.

  The impulse to listen in on the Chatter was another thing to quash. He so wanted to know how close an Escort was to claiming Angus’ spirit. But he needed to just stop worrying about the details and get on with healing him. If it was too late, it was too late. But if there was any chance, he needed to act now. So much blood was on the ground it seemed impossible for any to be left in Angus. The hemorrhage no longer pulsed out. It just drained onto the stones, collecting in the seams between the cobbles. If Angus was still in there, he would not be for long.

  Horatius placed one hand over Angus’ chest, and one over his face. He fixed his attention to the cells of Angus’ broken body. Then he pulled energy out of his own body and directed it through his hands and into Angus. Mitochondria regenerated, electrolytes reacted, corpuscles started moving again. The chest below his hands expanded back into its normal shape. The blood stopped leaking and his skin regenerated.

  Horatius could not breathe life back into an empty shell. His healing would only work if the body’s own spirit was still present. He watched and waited. He almost prayed, but again, he stopped himself in time. He was on his own. Again.

  Did his lips just quiver? His nostrils twitch? Horatius lifted Angus’ eyelid to check his pupillary response. Just as he bent closer to see around his own swelling face, Angus sucked in a deep breath and jerked his head away from Horatius’ touch.

  Horatius backed away and Angus shot up to his feet. The blood covering him left him looking quite frightful, especially with his wide open eyes gleaming as they did.

  “Wha’ did you do to me?”

  “I am sorry. For everything.” Remorse hit Horatius anew. If he had not interfered in Angus’ life before with his betrothed, his whole life could have taken a different path. Now the pathetic results of his frivolous indiscretion stood before him in all the pain and agony of a wasted life. “Truly. I am sorry.”

  “Stay away from me,” Angus shouted. “Just dinna touch me again.” He gazed down at himself, inspecting his bloodied hands and torso, and he ran away, disappearing down the street.

  Horatius dropped onto the ground, exhausted, defeated. So much energy had gone into healing Angus, he could not even walk. He needed to transfigure and heal his face, and reenergize. But not without first getting to Sanctuary and listening into the Chatter to safely ascertain Satarel’s location. The number of near calamities lately were unacceptable.

  It took an eternity before Horatius finally found the will and power to stagger to his feet. The cracked bones of his face shot convulsing pains through his head. After his first three unsteady steps, he had to stop and lean against a building.

  While he collected enough strength to attempt another three steps, he looked up and down the street—which was difficult for all the swelling in his face and eyes. For a Friday, it was abnormally quiet. Maybe everyone had closed up shop to attend the wedding festivities. He pulled himself away from the wall and went forward, determinedly aiming for Saint Giles church. His feet stumbled and his vision blurred. I better make it before I drop unconscious.

  He timed each shaky step with the rhythm of breathing, concentrating on moving forward and staying upright. Striving to not look drunk did no good with all his staggering. Changing the millions of cells and chemical processes in Angus had depleted him far worse than any simple transmutation of basic elements. In addition, he could not help but fear he was in shock for the injury to his head.

  Every few steps he stopped to catch his breath, huffing through his teeth since his nose was of no use. His limbs trembled beyond control. When he passed the only two other people on the street, the one young child cried out and ran to his mother. She grabbed the boy and quickly crossed to the other side of the lane.

  When he finally arrived at Saint Giles, he nearly fell inside the giant rib cage of stone archways and pillars to sink down onto a bench. I made it. And without his brain rupturing.

  Only after plenty of time was he able to turn his mind from his exhaustion and pain. Once he could concentrate, he lingered in silence, thinking.

  He thought of Angus, his wasted life. His life squandered because of Satarel’s desire to destroy Horatius. For no other reason than to do it. Because Satarel hated him. Because Satarel hates everyone. And he’d used Horatius in the process.

  He thought of his own existence and how difficult Satarel had made it, ever since Horatius realized he wanted more than a fleeting time of exotic debauchery before the Day of Reckoning. The Fallen did not think of that day. That day did not bode well for them. And that was why Horatius had left the Brethren.

  He wanted more. He wanted to have companionship. He wanted life. And to be able to dwell in ecstasy with They. He didn’t want to be condemned with his father and the others. But he didn’t know if he could avoid it.

  Could it be possible to win the redemption available to humans? He was half human after all. Or at least his mother had been human. He was something else entirely, something unique. Nephilim—a new race. He didn’t know if it was possible, but he was taking the gamble he could be saved. For years now, he’d been trying to live a life worthy of saving. But so far, all he had done was fail. Time and time again.

  But he would keep trying. I can’t live with the alternative.

  A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his reflection.

  The long beak of John Knox looked down at him.

  John jerked with revulsion. “What in the name of God happened to you?” The slate colored beard down the front of his frock bounced with his jaw as he spoke.

  “I ran into something.”

  “Something even harder than your own thick head, I would say. And moving with a great force.”

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  Horatius hoped that was true. He didn’t want it to be as bad as it seemed. His fingers came back covered with blood when he dabbed his upper lip.

  “I imagine by your difficult speech and the pain you must be in—by the Saints, you look awful!—you surely are not interested in our usual discourse. I shall miss it. No one has ever argued theology with me as you. Your ludicrous ideas fascinate me, if not infuriate me.” He laughed and then snapped to a look of seriousness. “I saw you at the wedding yesterday conversing with that woman.”

  Among many different things, Knox was also a misogynist. “Yes, just when you thought to be rid of your despised papist Mary of Guise, her daughter returns from France with the vigor of youth.” Horatius chuckled but stopped short for the pain it caused.

  Knox hissed through clenched teeth. “Mary of Scots,” he said with disgust, “is no better than was that wicked Jezebel of England. Over three years since that wench died, and Bloody Mary can still make my bowels clench.”

  “Her sister Elizabeth is an improvement.”

  “Women!” Knox shouted with vehemence. “They were never meant to open their mouths, let alone rule a country.”

  Horatius blinked away the dizziness. He wasn’t in the mood
to argue with Knox. “I just came to pray today. I don’t have it in me to discuss your wrong thinking just now.”

  Knox grumbled and said, “Have it your way then. You would waste your breath anyway. I have much to do myself. And keep your blood from dripping on my bench,” and he left him alone.

  Horatius blew out a deep breath while his spine wilted and he shrunk several inches. He calmed his thoughts and centered on his plan. Although he was in Sanctuary at Saint Giles, he still could not just transfigure. That would be too risky, even with the Pure standing guard at the four corners of the holy ground. He would only be able to briefly tap into the network to listen, and only when he knew for certain that Satarel was not anywhere near the sector, could he think about transfiguring.

  Horatius bowed his head, but the movement was torment and he whipped it back up in a wave of dizziness. With his head held up, he ignored the pain and willed his mind to shift, to enter into the realm of the Celestials. The Chatter was filled with static and broke up like a bad connection. The blow to his head must have left his perception compromised. After several garbled blurbs of sound, the Chatter was finally perceivable, though scratchy. It grew in strength as he waited and concentrated.

  From Sanctuary, he could not see as though he were actually in the Corridor, but in his mind’s eye, the energy fields of the Celestials glowed as if he looked through infrared goggles. The Pure burned several colors brighter than the Fallen, but the Fallen still carried a residual of Shekinah Glory from the beginning, before time when all Celestials dwelled with They.

  He focused on certain voices of the Chatter and eliminated others from his attention. The energy fields that belonged to each individual pulsed white hot. He scoured the different entities in his sector, hoping to hear a clue about the whereabouts of Satarel.

  Voices surged from some of his former companions—celestial peers of his father’s with whom he used to pursue corruption, lechery, and other vile enterprises. Hearing their schemes again brought on shame and remorse, as well as twinges of excitement and temptation.