SOUL MATES (Angels and Demons Book 3)

by Brenda L. Harper

  Dylan closed her eyes again. She could feel the pressure of Joanna’s hands on her head, but it was not an unpleasant pressure. Her thoughts were scattered. At first, all she could think about was the sound of flames cracking and popping in the next room, of the heat of it beginning to come toward her. Then she thought of Luc and Lily, of the things they had done and what they wanted to do. But as she stood there, as Joanna continued to hold her head between her hands, Dylan’s thoughts began to settle down.

  She thought of Sam. Thought of the night he kissed her. A different kind of heat moved through her body just at the memory. It made her ache in a weird sort of way. She wanted to hold on to the memory, wanted to hold on to Sam. But then the image of his battered face, the one Wyatt showed her, flashed through her mind and all the calm that had descended on her disappeared.

  “Concentrate,” Joanna said again, her voice a little less calm than it had been before.

  Dylan squeezed her eyes, as though the act of doing that would cause the images in her mind to physically change. And, in a way, it did. She focused on Wyatt this time, and pictured his face as it had been during their conversation earlier. She pictured him dragging his fingers through his hair and shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as though it would stop him from saying or doing something he didn’t want to do.

  She pictured the frown wrinkles on Wyatt’s forehead and her own fingers gently wiping them away. And she imagined him smiling, imagined that dimple that sometimes appeared in his cheek in those rare moments of levity. It didn’t happen often, so she felt special when it appeared for her. She felt that way now. She felt that tenderness that often made it hard to breathe whenever he looked at her.

  “That’s it,” Joanna whispered.

  Dylan’s thoughts moved again to the kisses she and Wyatt had shared behind that wall of boxes, to the feel of his urgency as he ran his hands under her shirt. She had never felt anything quite like that before. It confused her, her own body’s reaction to him. And his body…she had felt things she did not understand and wasn’t sure she ever would despite what she had seen in Joanna’s memories of her romance with Jimmy. It occurred to her that she never wondered why Wyatt had touched her that way; she never had the chance to ask him what it had meant.

  But the memory of it was just as exciting as the moment itself had been.

  As Dylan concentrated on Wyatt, on his touch, she felt her body begin to become light. Joanna whispered encouragement. There was warmth that traveled between Joanna’s fingers and Dylan’s mind. It was as if Joanna was infusing Dylan with something…a sort of magic, perhaps.

  And then the earth was no longer under her feet, but a distant object floating far below her.

  “Follow me,” Joanna said.

  Dylan looked around and spotted Joanna’s pure blue color far ahead of her. She began to feel heavy again as she concentrated too hard on Joanna and on her need to reach her. But the moment she stopped trying, it was as if she just soared.

  Stiles could feel the pain that sliced through Dylan with that memory. Remembering Sam—how he’d been hurt by the gargoyles when he’d been stolen from her—and then remembering one of the first times she and Wyatt shared intimacy so soon after his death…it was hard for her. Again, Stiles wanted to go to her, but he knew his presence was the last thing she’d want right now. He loved her enough to give her that space despite the pain that was eating him up at his inability to help her.

  Dylan hesitated at the door, her hand on the knob. Stiles watched as she gathered her emotions, her thought still so filled with the past. And then she pushed the door open and immediately his name was on her lips.

  “This isn’t right.”

  Stiles landed silently on the porch behind her. Dylan was in the doorway as though she was afraid to fully enter the building for some reason. He moved up behind her and peeked around her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It shouldn’t look like this.”

  Stiles frowned, not quite sure what she meant. But then he remembered a small detail from her memory—and then the building exploded into flames—that made it all too clear. The place should have been a pile of ash. Instead, the inside of the house looked almost exactly as it did the last time Stiles had walked through this door.

  He moved around Dylan and walked into the main room—a large living room/kitchen combo. There were teacups on the table and plates in a rack on the kitchen counter, all absent of dust, dirt, or any other sign of passing time. It was as if someone had just cleaned the kitchen and walked away, leaving it in pristine condition.

  “How is this possible?”

  Stiles touched the counter top and felt a vibration that seemed to come from the molecules themselves.

  “This shouldn’t be,” Dylan insisted. “The house was bombarded with fireballs. There should be nothing here but ashes. When I saw the roof still intact, I thought windows…but this?”

  “It’s the box.”

  Dylan cautiously moved into the room, coming up behind Stiles. Hesitation in her touch, she pressed her fingertips to the countertop as he had. He turned just in time to watch her eyes widen, to watch her response to the vibration deep in the wood and plastic and laminate that made up the countertop.

  Her eyes moved to the back of the house and Stiles nodded. She was drawn to it from that little touch. She made her way across the living room, her eyes moving over and lingering on the couch for a second. As she looked, Stiles could see a scene play itself out in her head:

  “You let us teach you so that you have the knowledge you need to make the right choices.”

  “Teach me what?”

  Joanna’s smile touched her eyes this time. It made them dance, reminding Dylan a little of Wyatt in the few lighthearted moments they had shared. “To be an angel,” she said.

  Dylan shook her head. “I’m not an angel. I’m a freak of nature. An abomination.”

  “No.” Joanna came to her and cradled her face in her hands the way Davida often did when she knew Dylan was particularly upset. “You are a child of God.”

  “I was created in a lab.”

  “But you were created.” Joanna stroked her cheek lightly. “Only God has the power to create. And he does not make abominations.”

  Tears burned in the back of Dylan’s throat. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “All of this is too much. How could God have created me? Why? So that I could be caught in this tug of war?”

  “So that you could make the choice that will end this war.”

  “And if I make the wrong choice?”

  Joanna stroked Dylan’s cheek again, the amusement gone from her eyes.

  “Make sure you don’t.”

  Despite everything Joanna did, she had been the first to reassure Dylan that she was a gift from God. Even Stiles had failed on that account. And it was something that Dylan had held close to her heart all these years despite her role in Joanna’s demise.

  Stiles was glad that Joanna had been capable of that small gift because he could see now how important it was to Dylan.

  Dylan continued down the short hallway that led to the two bedrooms at the back of the house. Stiles knew where she was going…she was going to the same room where Joanna had kept that mysterious box all those years ago. It must still be there, still hiding among Joanna’s things. It would make sense. This thing had powers even he didn’t completely understand. But it was clear that it had called out to Dylan, and it was possible it had something to do with the fact that this house looked as though Joanna had just stepped out moments ago instead of more than forty years ago.

  Stiles stayed back, leaning against the wall at the entrance to the hallway as Dylan made her way toward the bedroom door. She glanced back at him, an uneasy look in her eyes. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. But then, as her hand brushed the doorknob, he felt a sudden uneasiness that forced him forward. He was behind Dylan before she even finished turning the knob, his hand on her hip to urge c
aution as the door swung inward.

  The room was almost as it was in Dylan’s memories. The bed was still in the same place, the low dresser still near the windows. In fact, it looked much the same as it had the last time Stiles had seen it. The box itself sat on the dresser. It seemed to be vibrating, as though the item inside of it was getting ready to jump out. Dylan walked toward it as though it were calling to her.

  “Dylan,” Stiles cautioned, that sense of uneasiness increasing the closer she got to it.

  The moment her hand touched the top of the box, a dark form appeared behind her. A second later, Stiles’ sword was in his hand, but the blade went through the form as if it was nothing more than a whiff of smoke. It was a dark soul. The only weapon that had proven effective against them was a lasso Dylan had in her armory.

  “Turn around.”

  But Dylan was absorbed in the draw of the box. She ran her hand over the top of it like a lover caressing the face of her intended. She seemed oblivious to everything around her, as though just being near the box had transported her to another dimension.

  The dark soul moved up behind her, little wisps of darkness reaching out to stroke the back of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. Stiles took another swing, hoping at the very least that his presence, that his movements would distract it from its intentions, whatever those might be. But it didn’t.

  “Dylan, please turn around.”

  As she ignored him a second time, desperation began to build inside of Stiles. He was not used to feeling helpless, especially when it came to Dylan. He charged toward her, planning to turn her physically away from that box, but the moment his hand came up against the dark soul, images filled his mind and he knew almost instantly what was happening. And that only made his sense of desperation rise to absolute terror.

  Chapter 3

  Power. That was what Dylan felt the moment her fingers touched the countertop in the kitchen. She was drawn to it, like a cat to a dish of milk. She needed to be close to it, needed to touch it. It was for her that it existed. She wasn’t sure why she knew that, but she did. She knew it just as she knew she needed to breathe to live.

  The box was beautiful: a small, wooden box with delicate designs along the top and sides. But she barely saw the physical box itself. There was something inside, something that glowed with an otherworldly light that she could see through the molecules that made up the soft wood. So many surreal things had happened to her since she’d learned she was an angel. But this…it was different from anything she knew. It was as though she finally understood who she was and what she was supposed to do.

  As she ran her hand over the top of the wood, she saw a future that was different from other images she’d been given. This future was bright—a happy place where humans got along with one another. There were tensions, as she imagined there had been back when Lucifer decided he was done with humanity, but nothing that couldn’t be worked out one way or another. There was technology, medicine, people fighting to help humans live longer and more productive lives. There were leaders who truly understood what the people needed. There was no need, no desperation, and no pain. It was an ideal world, the kind of place she had always known humans were capable of if they were simply given the chance.

  This was a world she was meant to lead humanity toward. This was the world Lucifer was meant to create and had failed. She could even see where Lucifer had lost control, where he had become complacent and lazy, where he hadn’t interfered when he should have. She could even see that it wasn’t Lucifer’s mistake. It was God’s.

  Lucifer was tasked with watching over humanity and keeping them on the path to contentment. He was to offer relief and guidance where needed, but not interfere with freewill. Humans had to choose for themselves what paths to take and what fate to follow. Lucifer couldn’t change that. But Lucifer didn’t have freewill. Each time he reached a crossroads in his guidance, it was God who guided him and instructed him on what he should do and how he should do it. It was God who chose not to interfere when humans began to fall off the path of contentment. It was God who directed his angels to allow humans to make their own choices. And it was God who realized that humans had wandered too far, and that they had made mistakes in their choices.

  It suddenly made so much sense to her. She had always wondered how a group of angels without freewill could suddenly rebel against the one who controlled them, the one who told them how to think, how to act and how to be. And now she knew.

  Lucifer never really chose to wage war against the humans. He was ordered to.

  This was why—

  Darkness suddenly invaded Dylan’s mind. She felt another presence. She felt the pressure, the anger and the hatred of a demon infuse itself inside of her; she felt it invade her soul. It wanted to hurt—to hurt her, to hurt humans and to hurt the angels. It wanted to make them all pay. It wanted it more than it wanted freedom from this world—more than it had ever wanted anything. And it was filled with a great intelligence, a logic that should have made it possible to overcome the insanity she felt controlling all its thought and emotion. This soul was in so much pain.

  Tears filled Dylan’s eyes. Her heart broke for this demon.

  No!

  She ran her hands slowly over the box one last time, and then released it. She stepped back, vaguely aware of Stiles screaming something at her—of Stiles holding his sword high in the air, ready to strike.

  She waved her hand and Stiles’ sword disappeared.

  “We can help you,” she said, her eyes moving blindly around the room. “We can help you cross over and help you find the ones you love.”

  No! You have to pay.

  “It’s wrong, what’s happened to your soul. But it can be fixed.”

  The only thing that can fix it is power. Only control of humanity can make this right.

  “You don’t want that. I can feel your light. It’s still there, deep down, your humanity is still intact. You still believe in hope. You still believe in goodness.”

  We believe in making all of you pay for what you did to us. It is because of you that we are stuck here and that we suffer every second of every minute. And you have to pay.

  Dylan slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  She closed her eyes and blew. The demon began to panic as its hold on her body began to give way. She felt him—she knew it was a man, a man called Jack James—grabbing on to anything and everything it could, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver, but failing to get a strong handhold. And then it was gone, like a puff of wind. Just gone.

  When Dylan opened her eyes, Stiles was there, his hands on her face, her arms; his lovely gray eyes staring into hers.

  “You okay?”

  She moved into him, a coldness lingering inside of her that she knew his touch would soothe. He welcomed her, his arms moving around her and drawing her into a tight embrace. He felt so familiar—and he should, after all these years—the smell of him surrounding her and washing away the lingering stink of the broken soul. She pressed her face to his chest and took a deep breath, taking more than just comfort from her dear friend.

  Dylan liked to think she was a strong woman. She had to be to play the role God had created for her. But, in moments like this, it was precious to her to know she could be weak and Stiles would prop her up.

  He held her tightly, dropping a few kisses on the top of her head.

  “I tried to warn you. I saw it and I knew what it wanted…”

  “It’s okay,” she said, pulling back slightly so that she could see his face. “It was determined to possess me, but it couldn’t. There was something blocking it.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s my nature. Or maybe it was because I felt sorry for it. For him.”

  “You knew who it was.”

  Dylan reached up and stroked the side of Stiles’ face. “You did what you had to do.”

  The stone wall that Stiles often w
ore on his face to hide the fact that he was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve crumbled. He bent his head, pressing his forehead to hers for a long moment. Dylan could feel his memories playing out in his mind. She even caught a few snippets here and there even though he fought to keep them from her. She knew the story of Jack James—it was something they’d discussed before. And she knew it hurt him to remember how he had betrayed Jack by turning him over to the Redcoats all those years ago. But if he hadn’t, Dylan wouldn’t be here.

  Jack James—that demon that had just tried to possess Dylan so that he could use the object inside the box to control the humans—was Dylan’s father.

  It was so odd, having the knowledge. She’d grown content with the idea that she would never really understand her genetics and how she had come to be here. But now…she didn’t know how she felt knowing that the man who provided the genetic material that allowed her to exist was now her enemy.

  Stiles drew her back into his arms and held her cradled against his chest for a long few minutes. She felt him offer her strength; she felt him supporting her with more than just friendship. That was one of the perks of being friends with an angel—his healing powers were infusing themselves in her, looking for damage lingering from Jack’s soul and easing the power of her emotions to take away the darkness that also continued to linger. She didn’t need his help to feel better…but she didn’t mind it.

  There was a certain amount of pleasure that came from being so close to another living being. She felt like she hadn’t been this close to anyone in a long time.

  But then he pulled away, dropping a kiss on her forehead as he did.

  “We should take that thing and go back before something else happens.”

  Dylan nodded, reluctantly agreeing. “We should call everyone together. I have a feeling this thing’s going to impact us all.”

  Chapter 4

  They gathered in Rachel’s house. Raphael and several of his legion of angels, the gargoyles including Demetria, Wilhelm, and Dylan’s sister—sort of sister…they were raised together in Genero—Donna, and Rachel.