Freaking Off the Grid

by L. L. Muir

  FREAKING OFF THE GRID

  The Secrets of Somerled Series

  Book Two

  By L.L. Muir

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  FREAKING OFF THE GRID © 2014 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  Amazon KDP Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For my Freaking fans…

  who have waited so long

  to find out what was really

  on the other side

  of that rainbow.

  ALSO BY L.L. MUIR

  Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow

  Kilt Trip

  Going Back for Romeo

  Not Without Juliet

  Collecting Isobelle

  What About Wickham

  The Curse of Clan Ross Series

  Christmas Kiss

  Kiss This

  Blood for Ink

  Bones for Bread

  Lord Fool to the Rescue

  Under the Kissing Tree

  Ruffles and Rawhide

  Where to Pee on a Pirate Ship

  PREFACE

  Once upon a time…in a place with no time…

  At the end of the Great War in the pre-mortal realm, the spirit children of God were divided—not into two hosts, as some have been taught, but into three.

  The victors were the First Host, the largest of the three factions, and consisted of those souls willing to follow the plan of the First Born, to come to Earth and be tested. The Second Host was half so large. They lost the war by siding with Lucifer and were cast out.

  But mortals never hear about the Final Host…

  Until now.

  The Final Host sided with the First Born also, but this much smaller group of spirits didn’t wish to be born. They weren’t ready. Their fears were greater than their faith. And they thought to ask God for an alternative.

  A generous contingent of the First Host, called Primaries, took pity on them. They petitioned God on their behalf and a contract was made. The Final Host was given the task of working God’s miracles, answering prayers, and they were no longer required to come to Earth for a body, and to be tested.

  Or at least, that was what the Primaries told them.

  Had they examined the contract themselves, the First Host would find that they were, in truth, required to come to Earth, just as all spirits who had not been cast out with Lucifer. Their angelic assignments were only meant to delay the inevitable.

  Primaries were spread across the world to watch over their charges while they gathered their courage to embrace mortality. And until they were ready for that leap of faith, the Final Host would walk among the children of men, fulfilling assignments as needed.

  To disguise their work and their pre-mortality, they were organized into families under the name of Somerled. Like the Amish, they wore simple clothing, but unlike the Amish, they wore white instead of black. All their strangeness was encompassed by the term cult.

  Most Somerled families dwelt on farms where their daily work could produce food and materials that would give succor to the poor and helpless. As the ages passed and the prayers of man dwindled to a trickle, the Somerleds spent more time working the farms, or in their city industries, than they did answering prayers.

  But still the Final Host were ordered to mingle with mortals…so they might be tempted to join them…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Damn! Her stalker-ghost was back.

  Skye swallowed her surprise, but she couldn’t get her heart or her breathing under control so easily. She glanced around the café. Her other customers didn’t seem to notice a thing.

  He sat in B1, a booth by the cloudy front window. He hummed and ate away at a ghostly meal that was as gray as he sometimes was. She could almost smell it.

  Disgusting.

  The see-through Scotsman absentmindedly held out his cup to be topped off and she turned toward him with the pot in her hand. He laughed and pulled the cup away before she made a fool of herself.

  Very funny. She’d nearly said it aloud. Now that he knows where I work, I’ll be pouring coffee on the floor every day...until I’m fired.

  She replaced the steaming pot on its burner, gestured for her ghost to follow, and made her way through the kitchens to the back door.

  The owner’s daughter, Jessica Garza, stood pressing the new dish washer up against the lip of the long sink. Her fingers slid down the guy’s chest and paused.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded. She must have realized no one was left in the dining room to wait on her stupid tables.

  “Cigarette break.” Skye wiggled the door handle. Locking the back door at Fernando’s was hardly necessary; it was a bugger to open.

  The other girl grunted in protest. “You don’t smoke.”

  “I’m starting today. I’ll be five minutes.” The door popped and Skye was outside and pushing it shut before Jessica could stop her. Her Royal Laziness would never risk a nail or a bead of sweat to work it open again, and she didn’t have a ghost of her own to do it for her.

  Skye turned. The old fellow was waiting for her, sitting on a box that wouldn’t hold her own weight, let alone his, if he were real. It was hard to look him in the eye. She kept waiting for the cardboard to collapse and drop him on his butt, although she didn’t want to see that kilt go flying. He had enough of a problem keeping his knees together.

  She pushed her fists down into the deep pockets of her apron. “What do you want?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Nary a kind word, Skye, my love?”

  “No. Nary a one. You never bring good news, old man.” That was an understatement. Every bad day of her life had started with a visit from her ghost. It had been such a bad morning, she should have expected him.

  “I’ll have ye know they took a score off my age. I’m no’ auld anymore.”

  She had no idea how much a score was, but he still looked fifty.

  “Fine. What do you want young man?”

  “Auch. Dinna flatter me so.” The old fart grinned and batted his eyes.

  She couldn’t help but smile, but the smile didn’t last long.

  “Mr. Jamison, I haven’t got time for this. Really. Can’t you come visit me later? After work? When I’m alone in my car, maybe?”

  He shook his head again. “Time’s no’ on my side either, lassie. I need a promise.”

  “A promise?” He’d asked for a promise before, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She’d been about ten at the time. “What kind of promise?”

  “I need ye to stay put.” He nod
ded once, hard, then folded his arms like he was preparing for an argument.

  “I get off at eight. Is that long enough?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that will do.” He started pulling on his chin, looking at the ground, then at the sun blazing down on his silly golf hat.

  “Listen, Mr. Jamison. I’m not asking for extra hours. I’ve been here since six and I’m working a double shift as it is. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

  Standing there arguing with a shadow was no help, but she wasn’t about to ask what bad luck he saw in her future. She doubted anything could be worse than working a double.

  She smiled hopefully. “Whatever you have going on, could you just leave me out this time?”

  He was a nice old guy. Asking politely might just get him to go away and take his bad Karma with him.

  “I’ve a bad feelin’, lass. I need ye to stay put. Ye shouldna be out here even now.”

  The only danger she could see would be losing her job for standing around talking to empty boxes. But against her better judgment, she asked, “Why?”

  “I can’t say.” He scratched his head as if he’d suddenly forgotten why he’d come.

  She didn’t buy it. He’d never clammed up before.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. It’s not for me to ken the future, but I ken well enough when the sky bodes ill.”

  The Nevada sky was a flawless shade of azure—cheerful, even—except for a white line of fluff left in the wake of a jet. He noticed it too.

  She rolled her eyes.

  He pointed up. “’Tis not this sky I speak of, lass, so you can keep those eyes in yer noggin, aye?” He raised one brow. He did that a lot.

  “You see a different sky?”

  “I do, I do. Storm clouds are spinnin’ o’er yer head, lass. Hell will be breakin’ loose, it will.”

  “Today? Why today? Can’t I just have a little peace?” She hated whining, but he brought out the child in her.

  “Peace is not mine to give, Skye, my love. I’m lucky I’ve escaped long enough to warn ye.”

  “Escaped?” Great. The worst days of her life could all be laid at his feet, and he was a lunatic. But then again, so was she. Chatting with a ghost was anything but normal.

  “I dinna have a better word for it, sweetheart. And there’s no time to debate.” He looked at the brick wall behind him and winced. “I’m caught. Get inside. And bide as long as ye can. Hide in a bletherin’ box if ye must, but stay put! Help will be a-comin’.”

  He jumped off the box and disappeared before his feet hit the asphalt.

  It was typical, that paranoid thing he did, giving her the impression he was always being chased. She’d never thought about why, never imagined he might have broken out of some mental ward in Hell. His visits had always ended the same way, though, with that look over his shoulder, and the announcement, “I’m caught.” He seemed a little more upset than usual, however, and she wondered if she’d ever see him again. Or maybe there was never a sure way of catching a ghost, and he’d be back when she tucked herself into her car that night.

  Maybe it was his wife doing the catching.

  Skye wiggled and jiggled the rusty door handle, laughing at the image of a large ugly woman with a rolling pin chasing Mr. Jamison through brick walls. She glanced back at the box he’d been sitting on.

  Hide in a bletherin’ box if ye must, but stay put!

  But the old man was out of luck...no big boxes today.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was about noon when Jamison pulled over to the side of the road and let his decrepit Honda cool off while he scrolled through the map on his phone. He had to decide which address to check first.

  He’d nearly lost his mind while his mom packed him a cooler and lectured him with every bit of advice she could think of. She made it nice and clear that he was lucky she let him go anywhere at all, let alone Nevada, without her. He’d only told her he was going to visit Skye, that he would finally get her out of his system, and he’d promised not to drive emotional.

  He had no intention of getting her out of his system, of course. And he’d have never made it out of the state of Colorado if he only drove calmly. But he’d paid for it. After two speeding tickets, he’d had to get a grip. He’d forced himself to stop thinking the worst, stop thinking that the difference between seventy-five and a hundred miles per hour might mean life or death to Skye.

  He’d even managed to get some sleep along the way, twice, once after each ticket.

  But now that he’d pushed through the city limits of Henderson, Nevada, his heart started jumping around again. That’s okay, he told the poor thing, you can go nuts now.

  In the suburbs of Las Vegas, there were two seventeen-year-olds named Skye. Two. Skye Ozunian and Skye Geddes. By nightfall, he would at least know which one was his. Or at least he hoped to. He would track down the first one. If it wasn’t her, it had to be the other one. It was only noon, so he had plenty of time to find her before finding a hotel for the night.

  Or at least he hoped to, because he’d never be able to sleep again until he found her, knowing she was so close.

  He felt deep down that he’d recognize her somehow—the actual angel he’d fallen in love with, the spirit behind the eyes. Unfortunately, those eyes belonged to a girl who wouldn’t recognize him.

  Lucky for him, human time meant nothing to those who seemed to be in charge of it. By the grace of Fate or God, Skye hadn’t been born chronologically after she’d chosen a mortal life. She’d been dropped into the flow of time seventeen years back. She was now just a year younger than Jamison.

  Lucas, the Somerled angel who had acted as Skye’s guardian in her past life, when she, too was a Somerled angel, said the coincidence was possible but improbable. And by the time they’d finished their little meeting with Lanny, the Somerled Primary, they realized Jamison’s grandfather was meddling from beyond the grave. The old Scot had been overly pleased by the girl’s Scottish name. And since he was able to visit Jamison in the middle of the night, he might have been able to plant a little suggestion in the ear of the people who had named the girl when she’d finally decided to be born into the world.

  It certainly sounded like something his granddad would do.

  Knowing the girl’s name and her town had certainly made it easy for Jamison to find her. And whether it was his grandfather or someone else in Heaven, he held tight to the hope that someone Up There thought he and Skye belonged together. Now he just needed to convince Skye while keeping her safe from someone named Gabriella Somerled.

  No problem.

  Everyone seemed certain Jamison was the only one who could protect Skye from this madwoman, so he’d play along. It got him closer to the girl he loved, didn’t it? If she was in danger, he would be by her side, even if no one else would—or could—help.

  Of course it was possible the other Somerleds were telling the truth, that they were banned from Vegas, so Jamison was Skye’s only hope. Or maybe being cowards was too ingrained in them to consider coming along. But it didn’t matter. Jamison could handle anything as long as he got Skye back.

  Ten feet tall and bullet-proof. That’s what he’d feel...the second he saw her again.

  Jamison was starving, but now that he was so close to her, he couldn’t bear to stop for a burger. Besides, he was so nervous he’d probably throw it back up.

  He’d lost her in November. It was only June, but every month in between, while believing he’d never see her again, had seemed like a year.

  It still felt like a trick. He’d be devastated, but not surprised, if someone jumped out of the bushes to the side of the road and said, “Just yankin’ yer chain, man. She’s not here. She’s not real. She never was.”

  It was no use. He leaned out his open window and puked air.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jamison would be dead before he ever found her.

  He’d puked before getting to Skye Ozunian’s house. He’d dry-heaved
in the orange and pink rose bushes before he rang the doorbell. Then, after he’d been told she was at work, at the mall, he’d had to pull over and wring those stomach muscles a third time.

  Finally he found a drive-through, sipped on a Coke, then forced down a few fries. If he didn’t give it something to hang on to, a big pink stomach would be shooting out of his mouth next.

  Once inside the mall, he hit the john to splash cold water on his face. For half a year he’d barely cared if his hair was combed. Too bad he’d never thought to get it cut. Oh, well. Blond shag would have to do. His darker five o’clock shadow might scare her off, but it was a chance he’d have to take. Making sure she wasn’t in immediate danger was step one. Winning her over was way down the list.

  Next, he looked for The Hip Hop Café, where he may or may not find the other half of his soul. He checked the directory. Next to Victoria’s Secret. Terrific.

  The folks in Henderson looked like any other suburban-mall crowd. Low jeans. Swagger. Chains, tattoos—nothing new. Only there were slot machines. And they were everywhere, and between everywhere. The only stretches of free floor space were in front of the store entrances.

  Pink feathers. Victoria’s Secret. He was almost there.

  Nowhere to puke. Just hold on.

  Victoria’s Secret was gone in ten steps.

  Breathe.

  The Hip Hop Café was small and retro with big, red booths, chrome-edged Formica tables, and a white and black checkerboard floor. A juke box was painted on the back wall with neon lights coming out of the plaster, arching along the top of the box, then disappearing again. The rap music with a heavy base kind of ruined the whole effect.