by Sabre, Mason
Cuts Like an Angel
Mason Sabre
&
Lucian Bane
Cuts Like an Angel
Mason Sabre
&
Lucian Bane
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Author: Mason Sabre & Lucian Bane
Cover Art by Sabre, Gray and Bane Cover Studio
www.sabregraybanecoverstudio.com
Copyright © 2016 by Mason Sabre and Lucian Bane. All rights reserved, including the right to publish this book or portions thereof (except for reviews, news media reports, brief quotes with attribution, and purposes of promotion of this book or other novels by Mason Sabre and Lucian Bane) in any form whatsoever.
Written permission may be obtained from the authors.
www.masonsabre.com
www.lucianbane.com
www.masonsabrelucianbane.com
[email protected]
https://www.facebook.com/msabre3
[email protected]
https://www.facebook.com/author.lucian.bane
Dedications
To Angela (The Wench) thank you for all your hard work. I can’t thank you enough.
To Jan and the Baneville Crew. You all obviously rock.
Disclaimer
Please be aware that Mason Sabre is from England and Lucian Bane is from the United States. As William and Josh are English, their chapters are written with English spellings and slangs. This is not an accident. Likewise, as Rosie is American, her chapters are written in American English with American spellings and slangs.
The reason for this was to keep the writers’ and character’s voices true. It also helps to embrace the differences and variety of both cultures. Our way of meshing two, very wonderful countries.
Thank you
Mason & Lucian
Also by Mason Sabre
Watch Over you
The Rise of the Phoenix
Cade
Dark Veil
Hidden
Death Awakening
Broken Snow
Find Lucian’s Other Works Here
LUCIAN’S BOOKS
Prologue
Rosie
Rosie raced to her desk at seeing the red blinking light—she had a call. Sliding into her chair, she pressed the talk button and held the mic to her mouth. “Mental Health Helpline, how can I help?” She finished slipping the headset on, adrenalin making her heart race like it always did when she got a call.
She caught the barest rasp of breathing. “Okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to talk, I understand. I’m right here to chat when you’re ready. We can talk about the weather … or the news. Or maybe exchange recipes for the best lasagna—although come to think of it, I don’t even know how to make it.” She eyed the clock, noting the time. Two in the morning—the hour when hell opened and sent demons to torment the downtrodden and broken, pushing them closer to some ledge.
Rosie listened, making out sporadic breaths. She waited, giving them a moment to gather courage to speak.
Click.
She closed her eyes and sagged in the chair. Dammit.
“Another dead end?”
She jerked a glance over her shoulder. Charles. What the hell was he still doing there? “No, just … they weren’t quite ready to talk. That’s all.”
“Ah, a breather,” he said, humor in his tone. “Soooo, you want to get coffee later?” And that was the gist of Charles, right there. One-track mind, and it had nothing to do with the job. Rosie would never have coffee with the cold-hearted, hairy Sasquatch, who poked fun at the callers.
“I’m working the night shift,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Oh geez,” he whined. “You don’t even get paid. Why do you even do that?”
She took a steadying breath and turned a little in her chair. “I know I don’t get paid, Charles. That’s why it’s called volunteer. I’m here because I care. That’s usually why people volunteer.” She left the unspoken question of ‘And what’s your game?’ hanging in the air. But she already knew why he had volunteered. He was required to have so many hours at the hospital in order to move to the next level in his profession—a scary, hairy, uncaring nurse. It had little to do with actually helping people. Didn’t anybody volunteer for the right reasons anymore?
He tapped the wall lightly with a, “Suit yourself. We all have our kinks,” and then walked off, his machine gun laughter trailing behind him.
What a douche. She should report him. When she moved up in position, things would surely change around there. And she would be promoted, this she was positive of. The place begged for leadership, and she’d volunteer her way right to the top where she could do some real good. “Yes, we all have our kinks, fat bastard,” she mumbled, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “Yours must be driving me to kill you with unsharpened pencils.”
She mentally replayed her side of the conversation with the lost caller. She’d rattled on again. It was her weakness, and she needed to get a handle on it. She was scaring people off. She couldn’t afford to be a chatterbox with these callers—not when they were standing on some emotional or literal ledge in need of a rescuer.
The red light blinked again, and she snatched up the headset. “Mental Health Helpline, I’m here to help you.” The required introduction wasn’t one change she liked to make. They weren’t allowed to give names because personal bonds might form. Ironically, personal bonds were exactly what they all had need for. But … she also knew the dangerous side of that.
Breathing filled her ears again. Struggling. Fighting angry ghosts that held their tongue, strangling them so they’d never tell.
Come on. You can do it. Just speak. Say it.
“I’m sorry,” the caller finally said, then hung up.
“Damn.” She stared into space, shaking her head before snatching up her pad and pen to record what she deciphered out of the two words. Male. Soft tenor. Maybe in his twenties, or possibly thirties, and timid. She paused, replaying the words in her mind before writing them down. “I’m sorry.”
The weight of the shame and blame she’d heard ...
She took a deep breath and let it out. Shake it off. Think positive. She went through the mental drill of not getting ensnared in the caller’s pain beyond the ability to think properly, but his words—he’d wrenched them from the darkest parts of his soul. Like he was sorry for so many things. Things he didn’t understand. Things he didn’t do. Things he did do. So many regrets. Being empathetic to a fault made her great for the job, but vulnerable to the poisons that cycled through the hospital daily.
She took another sip of coffee, rapping her pen on the table. Seemed she was finally alone, with nothing to do but doodle around her notes.
The red light blinked, and she bolted forward, grabbing the headset. “Mental Health Helpline … this is Rosie. I’m here to help you.”
She held her breath and shot a glance over her shoulder. She prayed the toss of protocol wouldn’t end up biting her in the ass. She strained to hear something—anything—in the silence.
“Rosie …”
She stifled a gasp of relief, waiting to see if he’d go on. When he didn’t, she quickly said. “So, you’re calling to give me that lasagne recipe? I don’t really do lasagne, though. I’m more a spaghetti gal,” she said, trying to keep her tone somewhere between motherly and professional. What a dance.
“I can cook,” he said quietly.
Rosie smiled at that—she’d gotten him to at least look away from whatever ledge he was on, even if for a moment. “You can cook
?” She was genuinely impressed. “There are not many men who can. I might just challenge you to give me a recipe.”
The silence that spanned the seconds twisted Rosie’s stomach. It was the kind of hush that harbored unspeakable pain, too heavy to breathe or move under. “So,” she said in a near whisper, “usually I’m instructed to ask if you have any items that you plan to hurt yourself with and whether you plan to do so within such and such a time … But how about we do something different?”
She held her breath, waiting, bracing herself for the click coming.
“Why would you do that?” he asked, softly.
The question seemed like a little gift, allowing her a chance to help. “Maybe I’m rebellious? Maybe I like to go with my gut instincts?” She perched on the edge of her seat.
So much silence. She prayed it was just him contemplating her words, and not all the wrong things in his life. “What are your gut instincts, Rosie?”
The soft sincerity in his tone tugged at her chest. “That you need something different.”
Rosie waged war on her restless tongue, ordering it to follow her lead.
“You ever think about Heaven, Rosie?”
The innocent curiosity in his voice drew out her answer. “I do ... sometimes.” She fought to think of the right things to say but found herself torn by too many uncertainties.
“I think of Hell sometimes,” he said. “But mostly Heaven and what it’s like.”
Rosie was glad to hear he at least thought it existed. But she didn’t like why he was thinking about it in their talk. “But I prefer thinking of Earth. So many things to do and see? So many dreams to make come true?”
The silence became heavy again, and Rosie felt like he was waiting for her this time.
“I’m sure you have dreams?” she chanced.
“Yes. Every night when I finally sleep. The nightmares are always the same.”
Her heart hurt at hearing he didn’t sleep much, and when he did, he had bad dreams—torments he couldn’t wake up from.
“Listen up,” she admonished gently. “Sometimes ... bad things happen. They happen to good people, but … you can dream again. New dreams.”
“Rosie,” he finally whispered, his voice sad. “There’s only darkness. And when I move … it tries to kill me. And if I don’t move … it tries to kill me.”
“What tries to kill you?” Maybe there was a real threat, she realized.
“My dreams, Rosie. Everything I ever wanted, the things I long for. They hate me. They want me to die. They wish I’d never been born.”
Rosie sat there, speechless.
“I think Heaven is probably always sunny,” he said. “Never dark there.” His voice shook a little on the last word. “I wish I knew the way there.”
The despair in his tone punched her in the stomach and sat on her chest. Like he’d lost any desire to understand what had gone wrong, why things had turned out the way they had, or what he’d done to deserve the things he couldn’t bear. The only thing left was a suffocating hopelessness. A need to escape to another place—a place he desperately sought to find a way to.
Rosie fought to breathe around the pressure in her chest. “Well, I will be honest with you,” she said, trying for a light, secretive tone. “I may not be a psychic with all the answers but … I am somebody that cares to listen, to learn and do whatever I can to figure out a way around this, okay? You and me … we can do that, right?”
“Oh, hey,” Charles said, sticking his head in her office. “There’s a party—”
Sudden fury gripped Rosie as she turned and jabbed her finger towards the mic.
“Right,” he said before going on anyway. “I was just passing along the message—”
Rosie’s fingers trembled as she shut the mic off. “I am on a call! Unless this building is burning down to the goddamn ground, you do not disturb me. And even then, you can leave a fire extinguisher, and I will make my own damn way out when I’m done with this call!”
Charles retreated with hands raised and eyes wide while Rosie turned the mic back on. “What do you say?” Rosie continued softly. “How about that? Don’t you think that’s a great plan?”
He gave a light chuckle, and Rosie wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. “You would do that? Stay on the line with me if the building was on fire?”
Oh shit. Shit. “I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I thought I turned off the mic. Please forgive me.”
“No,” he said, absolution in his tone. “Don’t be sorry Rosie. Don’t ever be sorry. You’re an amazing person. Don’t ever forget that.”
The click of the line was like an anvil of doom this time. Rosie sat there, dumbfounded, her hand shaking. She yanked off the headset and threw it on the desk.
And waited.
Waited for him to call again.
****
Rosie replayed the conversation over and over and over in her head until she was dizzy. She alternated between making notes and mentally kicking her ass. That bastard Charles. This was on him. Not her.
Rosie.
The way he’d first said her name—like maybe he’d smiled, was happy she’d given it. Like he knew she wasn’t supposed to and had, just for him. And that had meant a lot. Or maybe he knew somebody with that name. Her luck, his dead mother, or evil step sister. More likely the name of his grandmother, old-fashioned as it was. But if it had any kind of positive effect on him—which she’d thought it had—then she didn’t mind at all. Call her Josephine if that were the case. Call her anything, so long as she did some good for him.
The remaining night was excruciating. She got two calls, none of them him. She’d had to fight herself not to hurry the calls, but what if he was trying to get through while she helped somebody else? She resolved to, if it’s meant, it’s meant crap.
At 4:17 a.m, that red light blinked again.
Rosie scrambled out of delirium and grabbed the headset, answering entirely out of protocol. “Rosie here … uh … Mental Health Helpline, I’m here to help you.”
She held her breath through the quietness. “I just wanted to say thank you. And I’m sorry.”
Oh God. It was him.
“Sorry for what? Don’t be silly. I’ve been waiting up all night for your joyous voice.”
He actually rewarded her zealous efforts with a half chuckle. She took the small gift and held it tightly to her chest, so very grateful.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye properly, and thanking you.”
“What? There’s no need to thank me; was my pleasure. Why goodbye?”
“I have to. You don’t understand, and it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
His carefree tone made her panic and stutter out stupid half-ass words.
“Bye, Rosie,” he said, regretfully.
“You don’t need to do this!” she gasped, finally finding her voice. “Don’t you dare hang up, dammit! I mean it.”
After many seconds of nothing, he whispered a perplexed, “Or what?”
She shot out of her chair. “Or … I will be so very angry at you! And hurt!” she knew she was crossing every line possible, but her gut said he was dead serious—stupid pun unintended. “I mean it. Tell me your name. I want to know your name.”
“Rosie,” he whispered, like he pitied her. “Promise me you will be good to yourself, and not blame yourself. Promise me you will dream good dreams and make them come true.”
“I will not make that promise!” she declared, going for authoritative as she paced. “And you will not hang up, and you will not do anything but the right thing. You will march yourself to a hospital and you will get help.” She was shaking now.
After many seconds, he murmured in quiet awe. “You’re crying.”
“Yes, I am,” she gushed, wiping her face with her arm. “You have to believe me when I say there is hope. There is always a way; you just … have to fight. Goddammit, what is your
name?” If she could get that, she felt like she had a remote chance.
“Rosie.” His sadness said he’d fought a thousand times already.
“Promise me you won’t do anything.” she said. “That you will wait until tomorrow before you do anything, and you will not hurt yourself. Promise me that,” she demanded, not caring how very out of line she was.
“I won’t.” The tenderness in his words formed a lump in her throat. “I will call you tomorrow. Okay, Rosie?”
She nodded fervently and sat, trying to gather her thoughts while organizing her pen and paper. “Okay, mister. I’m holding you to it,” she said, clearing her throat in an attempt to recover her mother—professional voice.
The phone clicked.
“Hello? Hello?” She gripped the mic and held her breath before she gave up. She sagged in the chair and put both hands over her face as the sobs gushed out of her. “Oh geez,” she said through the wails. “Why do you even work here, you hormonal bitch? Why?”
Chapter One
William
William picked at the loose thread on the edge of his bandage, pulling at it until it began to unravel and then snap. He’d done it again—a crack addict with a needle, too weak to resist the next fix—except he was the junkie with a blade. And what had he self-harmed with this time? A book … a God damn book.
At first he had been proud of his skills. They had taken knives away, removed all the razors—shit, they’d even removed all the sharp edges off the furniture in his room—but they had left him with books. He’d been at this since childhood. He was a pro that could make the finest razor’s edge with the pages of a book.
The look of annoyance on his doctor’s face was nothing William wasn’t used to seeing—the expression of disappointment. Someone was always disappointed in him. “Now tell me,” he had urged. “What were you hoping to achieve when you did this to yourself?”
Peace. That was it. Peace in his heart, in his mind, in everything inside him that wouldn’t shut up no matter how much he tried to cut it out. The paper cuts on his arm were nothing, though. Thin slices of nothingness. He’d got his reading privileges removed from him, but there would be another way if he needed it; there was always another way.
