by Valerie King
Guardian
Valerie King
Copyright © 2012, Valerie King
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
This is a work for fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.valeriekingbooks.com
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Knowing
Chapter Two
Induction
Chapter Three
Namesake
Chapter Four
Passion
Chapter Five
Introduction
Chapter Six
Encounter
Chapter Seven
Plea
Chapter Eight
Praise
Chapter Nine
Secrets
Chapter Ten
Summon
Chapter Eleven
Convene
Chapter Twelve
Warning
Chapter Thirteen
Departure
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my three angels, and two families who stepped into my imaginary world willingly…
And for A.C.R. You are a bright and beautiful light in a dark and mysterious land. An inspiration for an angel found within the pages of this magical tale; a blessing worth waiting for.
Chapter One
Knowing
June 13th, 2001
“Macy, would you like to help me bake cherry tarts?”
I looked up at my mother and smiled. “Sure, Mommy, I would love to help. Will you let me come to dinner tonight, too?”
Mom’s iridescent blue eyes smiled back at me as she shook her head. “Macy, honey, you know that tonight’s dinner party is only for grown-ups.”
I pouted my lip as best I could before answering her. “I’m seven years old…seven and a half, actually. I’m more grown-up than Lily Myers across the hall. She’s eight years old and still plays with dolls. I find dolls sooo boring,” I howled.
Mom placed an unopened bag of flour and sugar on the counter without answering.
Perhaps pleading my case would sway her decision. “I could wear my new yellow dress that Daddy bought me last month in Paris. I promise to mind my manners and help with the dishes. Please, please, please, Mommy?”
I laid my pink crayon down on the table beside my half-drawn fairy, whose eyes were too large and whose hair was too yellow. I was absolutely terrible at drawing, but living in an apartment in New York City left little to do outside and a lot of imagination and activities to invent indoors. Pieces of my artwork covered every square inch of our refrigerator. Nearly every single piece portrayed the beauty of a fairy, a princess…or an angel.
“I’m sorry, honey, but you just can’t tonight. I agree, you are a very grown-up little girl, but this is a very special dinner for Daddy. It will just be a bunch of adults talking business. You wouldn’t have much fun anyway.”
Mom walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to me. My eyes fell from hers as I summoned up a tear, allowing it to trickle down my pink cheek. It seemed like my parents had an awful lot of dinner parties. Parties that drew crowds of curious individuals dressed in extravagant clothing and dripping with jewels of enormous size. I didn’t really understand exactly what my father did for a living, but based on the people who swirled around us, it must be an incredibly important job…with a load of wealth.
The few times I had asked my father what he did for a living, he would rustle my hair, tilt my chin up, and reply, “What every other daddy does…takes care of his children and loves their mother.” The conversation normally ended with a tickle fight, or my father sweeping me off my feet and throwing me over his shoulder, spinning in circles until my stomach hurt from deep belly laughs.
Mom’s words broke through my daydream. “Tell you what, you help me with the tarts, and then I’ll take you out for ice cream afterwards before the party. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I replied, giving a sigh.
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get these cherry tarts started. I’ll even let you lick the bowl when we’re done.” Mom stood up, pushing her chair in and strolling over to the granite kitchen counter. She carefully placed measuring cups, spoons, spatulas and other utensils on top of its surface.
I watched intently as she stood on her brown step stool, pulling down a large, brown recipe book from the cabinet over the oven. It was stuffed full of unorganized recipes; recipes that she had found in the newspaper, magazines or even jotted down on pieces of torn, yellowed notebook paper.
“Here it is! Grandma Morgan’s recipe for cherry tarts.”
I watched as my mother bit her bottom lip, running her hand over the stained, frayed, yellow recipe card. She always got a little choked up when Grandma Morgan was mentioned, or a picture of her fell from the photo box we often reminisced through.
Grandma Morgan was my mother’s mom. She had passed away several years before I was born. The smiling pictures of her standing in front of her tiny bakery in downtown Philadelphia in the early 1960s portrayed a picture of passion and love. She looked a lot like my mother. There always seemed to be a spark in her eyes and a smile on her face. It was obvious where my mother had gotten her love of cooking from, as well as her astounding natural beauty.
Taking a deep breath, I watched as my mother smoothed out her apron and held a smaller apron out to me to put on. I stood up from the table, walking over to her, and stuck my head through its opening. I pulled my long brown hair out from underneath it as Mom tied a bow around my waist.
“Okay, Macy, grab the stool in front of the oven, and let’s get to work. I’ll measure the ingredients, and you stir the bowl. Sound okay, sweet little helper?” She pinched my cheeks and kissed the tip of my nose, making me giggle out loud.
“Sounds good, Mommy,” I replied, grabbing the wooden spoon on the counter and holding it with anticipation.
Mom carefully measured each individual ingredient for the tarts. First the flour, then the sugar…I watched her as she buzzed around the kitchen, searching through cabinets for bottles of various spices and pulling ingredients from canisters on the kitchen counter.
I stirred the filling in a large, blue-enamel mixing bowl with my wooden spoon, trying not to allow any of the contents to sneak over the edge. The more grown-up I was at mastering a recipe, perhaps the more likely I would be able to be a part of a dinner party with my parents.
While my mother was busy rolling the dough for the tart crusts, I snuck a taste of the delicious cherry filling. Something was missing, though. I could taste the cloves and sweet, sugary cherries, but the filling was lacking an important ingredient. I placed my hand on top of the yellow recipe card on the counter. Without reading a single ingredient, I knew instantly what was missing. Ground cinnamon. My mind was great at telling me things.
“Mommy, you forgot to put the cinnamon in the cherry filling,” I said aloud.
“No, I didn’t, honey, I put the cinnamon in along with the cloves.” She turned to smile at me, placing her hands on her hips, then spun around to finish rolling the dough. “No sneaking tastes, Macy, or no licking the bowl when we’re finished,” she said without removing her eyes from the rolling pin.
I disagreed with her, but decid
ed not to push the issue of the missing cinnamon. I shrugged my shoulders and continued stirring in a clockwise motion.
“Let’s get these tart shells filled.”
I let go of my spoon and stepped down from my stool. Mom filled each one precisely, the sweet liquid bubbling up to the rim of each shell. Mom placed the tarts on a baking sheet before slipping them in our tiny oven.
“Okay, sweetie, now you can lick the bowl.”
A grin spread across my face as I licked my lips. I spent the next five minutes cleaning the bowl, careful not to leave a single remnant of the luscious filling. The sweet, saturated aroma from the cherry tarts baking filled every square inch of our home.
“Thank you for being such a great helper. How about a few gingersnaps and a glass of lemonade while we wait for the tarts to finish cooking?”
Jumping down from my stool, I skipped over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Yes, please!” I drummed my fingers on the dark surface of our antique table while I waited.
“Do I have to go to Ms. Lennox’s house tonight?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“We already talked about this, Macy. Yes, you have to stay with Ms. Lennox tonight. I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, okay?”
Ms. Lennox…she was a nice lady. A lonely widow who treated her Siamese cat, Meadow, like a child. I actually didn’t mind Ms. Lennox’s company. She had a shelf full of fairytales and a large collection of board games that we played together often. Her chocolate chip cookies were delicious, and when I spent the night with her, she always allowed me to stay up an hour past my regular bedtime as long as I didn’t tell my mother. I agreed to our little secret. Despite the fact that I liked spending time with her, I still wanted to stay with my mother and father for a dinner party. Just once. I was beginning to believe that I would never be able to convince them. And the older I got, the more curious I became.
The buzz of the timer pulled me from my thoughts, as Mom jumped from her chair and pulled the piping hot tarts out of the oven. I looked up from my half-eaten ginger snap cookie. Beautiful sparkles outlined my mother’s shape. They were tiny golden flecks resembling a silent snowfall. I cocked my head to the side and watched them float effortlessly. Everywhere she walked, they danced along with her.
I shut my eyes and rubbed them with my fingertips. I slowly peeked out of the corner of my right eye, the sparkles still present, but this time they were even brighter than before. The light had intensified, brighter than the sun’s rays, as the tiny specks of dazzling light spun faster. I cupped my hands around my eyes as I tried to keep them open; they stung wildly from the intense glow.
“Mom-my,” I slurred, my mind growing clouded, as I summoned her attention.
My mother spun around, sweat running down her brow from the excessive heat of the oven.
“Macy, honey!” she screamed aloud.
My mother dropped the tarts on the kitchen counter. One tart went rolling to the floor, leaving a bloodstained puddle where it fell. She flew to my side as I toppled off of my chair, my body limp.
At first I couldn’t see anything. Blackness engulfed my world as I let go. A faint light began to grow, slowly at first, and then spreading itself out into familiarity. I caught a glimpse of myself standing alone in our family room. Everything was neatly in its place. A gentle summer breeze swept through the open window; a simple classical lullaby played sweetly as I tiptoed lightly across the hardwood floor.
“Mommy, where are you? Where are you?” I walked from room to room, calling out for her, but her voice never responded to my fearful cries.
Walking out the front door, I ran to Ms. Lennox’s apartment just down the hall.
“Ms. Lennox! Ms. Lennox!” I called out, pounding my small fists on the door. She didn’t answer, and I slowly backed away and began running down the stairs of our apartment building.
“Mommy! Please…Mommy!” Tears were streaming down my face as fear grasped my tiny hand. My mother would never leave me home alone. I found myself on the first floor, the front desk completely empty. I pushed the revolving door with all my might, finally stepping outside into the heat of summer.
That’s when I saw the fire above me. The familiarity and safety of my life disappeared almost instantly. Running across a normally bustling street that now lay barren, horror pawed at me as my world stood empty. The crackling of the fire filled the air, and the pungent smoke permeated my nostrils as I spun around to look at my home, now riddled with flames.
A strange humming filled my ears as I looked in all directions for something…someone. At first it was quiet, but soon it became a deafening blare, so unbearable I covered my ears with my hands. Flames were now seeping through the roof, licking the outer edges. I tried to run for help, but my feet wouldn’t move an inch. My red sandals had melted to the ground beneath me as the heat of the fire raised droplets of sweat to my blazing hot forehead. The raging fire consumed my thoughts. I could feel the heat, the blistering heat that was so overwhelming I gasped for breath.
That’s when I saw her. My mother. She was dressed in a long, white, silken gown. Her hair was pulled back into a beautiful French twist, her lips stained red and her cheeks rosy pink. Her icy blue eyes were staring at me from the window of our tiny apartment on the second floor, the smoke billowing around her angelic figure. Why was she just standing there? Why wasn’t she running from the fire, and why had she not answered me when I had called out to her?
“Mommy! Run, Mommy!” I screamed violently, still covering my ears from the deafening blare.
I watched as she stepped out of the window, placing her feet on the narrow ledge of the apartment building. She never removed her gaze from me as she held out her right hand. I watched as a small, white feather fell from her palm, floating to the ground beneath her. A scream leapt from my throat as I pulled at my legs, my feet finally breaking free. I started running; I had to save her…I had to save her before the fire took her from me. I felt the ground shake beneath me, causing me to lose my footing before I reached the revolving door. The flames swept her out of my reach as her figure disappeared from the ledge. I felt something cold on my forehead as I covered my eyes. The pain, the searing pain of feeling hot and cold at the same time left me rolling upon the ground as I wept out loud to an empty world.
Suddenly the movement stopped almost as quickly as it had started. The pain lessened. My breathing was labored as the raging, unforgiving heat of the fire had seared my lungs. Every breath left me feeling woozy and sick. I was afraid to open my eyes. Afraid of what I would see. Would I see my mother’s burned body on the ground next to me? The way I felt, I wished death would take me if it hadn’t already.
I slowly pulled my hands away from my face. Opening my eyes, the images surrounding me were bright and extremely blurry.
“Macy, Macy, are you all right?” I could feel my mother shaking my shoulder, but couldn’t respond. Her voice sounded like a hollow echo as she spoke to me.
She caressed my cheek gently and wiped a wet washcloth across my scalding hot forehead.
I grabbed my mother’s hand, searching desperately for my voice. “You’re all right, Mommy, why didn’t you run? Why did you let the fire take you?” My words were quiet as I struggled to uncover the answers to the nightmare that swam through my thoughts.
My eyes were finally able to focus on the outline of her perfect, angelic face. She looked at me, gently placing her finger over my swollen, hot lips.
“You passed out, Macy. That’s all. I think the heat in the kitchen just got to you. You’re fine now. Just try to rest. Let me get you some water, okay?”
“No!” I shouted at her. I was afraid of losing her all over again, perhaps for real this time.
That’s when I saw it, the sparkles all around my mother as she stood up. I grabbed the corner of her silken blouse before she was able to walk away. She turned to face me, concern washing over her face. I stared at her intently. The bursts of light…they wer
e stronger this time. More pronounced.
I heard the front door swing open, my mother calling out for my father to come quickly. My father’s figure stepped into the kitchen, throwing his briefcase on the counter as he loosened his necktie. I heard his footsteps walk over to where I lay, sprawled across the cold, hard floor.
“Helen, what’s wrong with Macy? Does she need a doctor?”
My mother spoke to my father in a hushed voice. “No, no…she just got a little overheated, I think. She’ll be fine.”
“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” he said, running his hands through my sweat-soaked hair.
The shimmering stars were still swirling around my mother as I tried to swallow the hard lump in my throat.
“I see…sparkles around Mommy,” I managed to say. Closing my eyes, I let the images dance through my head once more. Exhaustion fell heavy upon my eyelids as I felt my father lift my body from the floor and carry me to the couch. The touch of my favorite fleece blanket was gently draped across my body, allowing me to burrow my nose under its warmth.
My parents’ hushed voices could be heard from across our dimly lit living room.
“Helen, she hasn’t fainted. You know that good and well.” His voice was full of fear, and it quivered lightly when he spoke.
“Shh…she mustn’t hear what you say, Carl. I just don’t think it’s time to tell her. Not yet. She’s much too young,” my mother countered back.
“You were only ten when you learned who you were. Macy’s a smart girl. You won’t be able to hide this from her for long.”
“What about this evening? Our guests will be here in less than hour, and I don’t have a single thing done.”
My father sighed heavily. “I’ll take care of it. But I think it’s only right we talk to Macy…tonight.”
I could hear my mother pacing the floor, but I kept my eyes closed tight.
“She isn’t ready, Carl. I’m not ready to hand her over to her future just yet. Not now.” My mother’s voice grew faint and saddened as she spoke.
