by C. B. Day
Michael interjected before I could answer. “I have business there. It was convenient.”
The agent paused as if she expected me to say something more, but when I dropped my eyes down to stare at my feet, she sighed and started mechanically processing our tickets. She seemed to stall as much as she could throughout the process, now and then looking down the grand hall to where a security guard stood, trying to catch his eye, but he was engrossed in conversation with a janitor. Finally, when she could drag it out no further, she passed Michael the tickets.
“You two have a fun trip to Las Vegas,” she said, her eyebrows knitted together with worry. Michael smoothly thanked her, guiding me away by the elbow.
In less than 15 minutes we were through security and onto the tram toward our gate. The train rattled around the curves as the mechanical voice announced each stop. Even though our car was empty, Michael stood as close to me as he could, leaning against a pole for support.
“Henri didn’t show up tonight, did he?” he said, trying to be casual, but I could see the interest burning intensely in his eyes.
Careful, Henri said. I can be more helpful to you if he doesn’t know I am with you.
I tried to act surprised. “I always assumed you knew whether or not he was here. Can’t you guys all see or sense each other?”
Michael shook his head. “No. We can communicate with one another but it’s kind of like walkie-talkies. If he turns off his button, or chooses not to answer me, I have no idea whether or not he’s even out there. So, I take it he is not?”
I shook my head and chose my words carefully. “No. I haven’t heard him in weeks. Probably since right after you…found me on Stone Mountain. After you argued with him in my room.”
Good girl.
Michael laughed a bitter laugh. “Some Guardian,” he sputtered, his fingers gripping and regripping the shiny steel. “To make a point about me, he goes on strike, leaving you completely exposed. As if he was in a union! I have half a mind to take him to Court and file a complaint, have him stripped of his duties.”
“You can do that?” I said, quickly calculating whether there was any way I could forestall him.
“Yes, though the heavenly bureaucracy is notoriously painful to navigate. If we had more time I would do it in a heart beat. Maybe after we visit the Library….”
“The Library? Where is that?”
The train ground to a halt, the screech of its wheels drowning out Michael’s answer. The doors swung open with a hiss and the train spat us out to find our gate.
“Not where. Who,” Michael repeated as we climbed the escalator. “The Library is really an Elder who keeps all the records related to Heaven. Every testament, every prophecy, every battle, every promotion or demotion -- the Elder remembers it all and may have records of it squirreled away somewhere.”
“Everything?”
“Everything,” Michael said emphatically. “If we have any hope of figuring out what the Key is, we’ve got to start with that Elder. He’ll at least be able to tell us the prophecy in its entirety.”
“Where is he?”
Michael’s smiled with mischief in his eyes. “Let’s just say in Heaven, but off the grid. Making it perfect for us to pay him a visit.”
“So, let me get this straight,” I asked with a low voice as we stepped off into the concourse. “We’re going to Vegas to lay a false trail that will throw off both my Mom and the Fallen Ones, find Maria, and visit the Elder and – if we have time – we’ll squeeze in a little lawsuit against Henri?”
Michael smiled with grim self-satisfaction. “Exactly. Only there will be very little ‘we’ involved in any of that. You will be staying put in the hotel.”
I opened my mouth to argue with him but he cut me off, placing one hand on each of my shoulders and pulling me in close. There was an air of expectation between us as I looked up into his eyes. I could feel his touch burning into my skin, but the heat of his gaze was even stronger. He swallowed, hard, before spinning me around in the opposite direction.
“Go in and clean yourself up. You should have a change of clothes in your pack. And don’t even think about trying to run away. I’ll find you, wherever you go, just like I did last night.”
With that, he gave me a little shove in the small of my back, propelling me toward the restroom. Disappointed, I obeyed.
Inside, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. No wonder the ticket agent had looked at me funny. My lip was cracked, a tiny clot of blood visible in the corner. My hair was a complete rat’s nest. Clay had worked its way under my nails and into my cuticles, making my hands look almost bloody. My clothes were destroyed.
I was alone in the restroom, so I stripped down and did my best with the thin paper towels to wipe myself clean. I worked a brush through my hair, the tugging and pulling of snarls and knots jolting me awake, each bit of pain making me more alert. My old clothes were too damaged to salvage so I dumped them into the trash. Then, I rummaged in my backpack for a change of clothes; all I came up with with a pair of gym shorts and a lame t-shirt that read “I run like a girl.”
Run, run, run, the shirt mocked me. Every ounce of instinct I had was on fire, urging me to find a way out, to run, to run anywhere I could to get away from Michael, but I could think of no way out. And at the same time, I felt irresistibly drawn to him; I wanted to bury my face in his chest and let him comfort me as I wrestled with my fear and disillusionment – disillusionment he had caused.
Was anything that had happened between us – any of our friendship – at all real? Or was I really just a pawn to him in some heavenly game of war?
Henri’s voice echoed in my mind. If he means to harm you, you will never escape him, no matter how far you run. And if he is telling the truth, going with him may be your only chance.
I sighed, knowing he was right.
“You know, Henri, its kind of creepy to spy on girls when they’re changing their clothes. Especially when you’re invisible.”
Humph, he replied, clearly offended, and for the first time in a long time, a smile stole across my face.
I shook the wrinkles out of my t-shirt and squared my shoulders, staring at myself in the mirror.
“Viva Las Vegas,” I muttered to myself as I pulled the shirt over my head. I gripped the edge of the white porcelain sink and stared at myself, long and hard, under the fluorescent lights.
“Hope?” I heard my father’s voice calling into the restroom after me. I stared at the mirror for a moment longer before answering.
“Coming, Dad,” I called back, almost choking on the words. Picking up my bag, I whispered to the mirror, “I’m coming Maria,” saying it like a vow.
Then, I went outside to meet the angel who carried my fate in his hands.
Acknowledgements
There are so many wonderful people to thank for their help and insight along the way. First of all, a HUGE shout-out to my guinea pig readers, who tirelessly plowed through manuscripts, offering tips on everything from characterization and plot to grammar: Petra Zavadilova, who wanted more romance and read and reviewed with the passion of a true fan; Josselyn Simpson, who was such a thought partner and collaborator in my business writing and who proved to be every bit as helpful in this, my first foray into fiction; and my mother, who managed to read the entire manuscript in one rushed weekend, finding every last inconsistency and awkward sentence construction. Words cannot express the gratitude I have for your help and support.
I am astounded by the generosity of fellow writers. In particular, I thank Russ Stark, who shared his own experience with self-publishing his wonderful book, The Jokelabet. (If you have children and you do not have this book, you must buy it). I also thank Michael Hagan, a brilliant scriptwriter and novelist, who shared literally everything he could with me. Query letters, website and blogging advice, feedback on my own work– no topic was off limits and I benefited greatly from his advice and example. His novel, Julia Milan and the Chapel of the Chimes, was an insp
iration. The fact that he turned me on to Downton Abbey is just icing on the cake.
I am eternally indebted to my good friend, Rebecca Foster, who not only introduced me to Michael at a critical stage of my writing, but also encouraged my dreams no matter how absurd they might seem. Thank you, Beck; you are, and always have been, a great friend.
The lovely burg of Dunwoody and the larger metro Atlanta area provided me with great ideas and an extra excuse to explore. Stone Mountain, Oakland Cemetery, and Cabbagetown each provided delightful settings that for me are uniquely Atlantan. I knowingly took liberties with them and for that and any errors I have made, I beg forgiveness from their loyal denizens and only hope that others may be intrigued enough by what I have written to explore these jewels of Atlanta.
I would be remiss if I did not thank my loyal fan fiction followers. When I resumed writing after many, many years away, I had no idea that the people who started out as faceless online reviewers would come to feel like friends. I especially thank Bribbie, Ruby-Wednesday, Capricorn75, and prettypinkbookworm, each of whom has kept me glued to my computer with their riveting prose and sharp critiques.
Finally, a huge thank you to my husband. You didn’t quit pestering me to start writing my own work. You didn’t stop cutting clippings and forwarding me items from the Internet to spur me on. You were willing to discuss my storylines even though you weren’t exactly the target market J And you were my ever-ready technical support, never failing to respond to my anguished cries of “this thing doesn’t work!” I love you, and always will.
About C.B. Day
C.B. Day started out writing fan fiction based on Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series. Her name is a pen name, taken from her handle on fanfiction.com, Consultant by Day. She is a full-time business executive. Since beginning her fan fiction days, she has left the consulting firm at which she was a senior partner and has been CEO of a media start-up. She may very well be a different Chief-Something-Or-Other by the time you read this. While this is her first novel of any sort, she has been published in the business press on numerous topics.
She is married and the mother of three children, for whom she creates elaborate bedtime stories that sometimes last for over a year.
She has already completed her sequel to Locked, The Key, which she hopes to publish before the end of 2012.
Table of Contents
copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Home?
Chapter 2 – Brand New Friend
Chapter 3 – Peaks and Valleys
Chapter 4 – Return and Revelation
Chapter 5 – Big City Traffic
Chapter 6 – Just a Dream?
Chapter 7 – Lucas’s Discovery
Chapter 8 – Heaven’s Gate
Chapter 9 – Angel Flight
Acknowledgements
About C.B. Day
