by Adams, Lori
Drums begin, announcing the start of the ceremony. A slow, deliberate rhythm sets a serious mood, and my eyes snap to Michael’s. He’s directly across from me and first in line like I am. We hold a steady gaze as my second heartbeat thrums gently beneath my breast. I want so much for Michael to be happy for me; I’ve become what I was meant to be. But the blank look in his eyes says he has deadened his emotions. I could wait in vain for a sign of life from him. His own trials have made a man out of him. He seems hardened like a seasoned warrior already. Michael has wanted to be a Halo all his life, and I can’t imagine what he’ll think when he sees me standing on the same stage.
A procession of Halo Masters files up the center aisle and takes seats up front. Chief Master Sachiel is waiting on the stage. He begins by greeting the guests assembled for the special evening. He apologizes for the last-minute arrangements, but as these ceremonies are always last minute, it should be expected and he doesn’t want to hear complaints.
There is a smattering of polite laughter before he gets down to business. He says the Halo trials and the Awakenings were especially grueling this year. The spiritual family should be very proud of those who have prevailed. He goes on to detail events but I’m drifting, wondering what will become of me and Michael now. Will he be deployed with a squad right away? Will he stay local or be sent into other realms? There’s so much we never discussed. And I suppose we never will.
Squad Master Camael joins Sachiel on stage, and they call up the Halo candidates first. Michael and two others climb the stairs and face the mass. Camael asks that they receive the Sigil of the Halos, and he stands before each candidate in turn. The candidates open their shirt collars, and Camael places his hand over their hearts.
“Receive the Sigil of the Halos to mark you as one of us, a spiritual warrior and a Halo of the Son.” Beneath his hand, a white light glows and stirs their spiritual energy. Michael’s eyes sparkle with a prism of colors. When Camael removes his hand, a circular rune with ancient markings is left behind. When the last candidate has received his spiritual mark, Sachiel steps forward, holding his hands over a table laden with armor. He blesses the holy weapons.
“You may now receive your spiritual armor: the Shoes of Preparation.” Each candidate steps up and takes their shoes from the table. They slip them on and then stand at attention again.
“The Belt of Truth,” Sachiel says, and the candidates wrap black belts around their waists. “The Breastplate of Righteousness.” They strap on gold breastplates with black markings that match their sigils. “The Helmet of Salvation.” It’s the same gold and black helmet I saw on the warriors at the Borderland. The warriors tuck them under their arms. “The Shield of Faith.” Small and round, but bigger than the one I used. They look indestructible, like the warriors themselves. “And the Sword of the Spirit,” Sachiel says, backing away from the table. The three warriors gather their swords and hold them across their bodies. They now look every bit as lethal as they are.
“Fully armored, do you pledge to stand against evil, protect all heavenly realms, and fight the powers of darkness?” Sachiel asks, to which each candidate replies, “I do.”
A cheer goes up and Michael’s family jumps to their feet, clapping and beaming with pride. The vast meadow fills with whistles and calls of encouragement. The warriors have not cracked a smile.
Then Sachiel turns in our direction and announces the coronation of the spirit walkers. Rama and two other Ascended Masters take the stage. They make their brief introductions, and then we are called up. I take a deep breath and mount the stairs. I know I should be nervous because that’s how I am, but right now I feel a depth of calmness I’ve never experienced before. I have crossed the threshold and am reborn with the understanding that I have not added anything to myself but revealed the mystery within myself to me. I’ve moved beyond the functions of thought or belief, and transcended to a sense of knowing certain things. With my Chelsea Light—the driving force of all good things—I have the ability to override all physical and theological laws. And this understanding settles inside me, where it belongs.
I stare at Michael’s profile as we approach. His eyes remain fixed ahead, and I give up on changing his mind. I don’t even wonder about him tugging on my heart. I’ve made my choice, and he’s made his.
We line up opposite the Halos, and Rama walks down the center of the stage to face the audience. He has remained in his beach attire, which stirs comments among the crowd. He glances back at me and winks. I smile. I’ve never been more proud to have him as my Ascended Master.
“This is a day of celebration,” he announces, “For those who have accepted and fulfilled the Awakening of the Heart have embraced and responded to their Metaphysical calling. They have: Purified the Soul, Illuminated the Way of Compassion, and Empowered the Physical Form.” He turns to us and recites the oath: “Do you swear to protect lost souls to the best of your ability? To defend against evil entities above and below?”
“I do,” I say along with my fellow spirit walkers. Then each Ascended Master stands before their student. Rama lays a hand above my heart, and I feel the spirit walker sigil tingle along my skin beneath my vest. It’s warm in a circular formation and starting to tickle.
Rama whispers, “It is totally righteous and pure,” and I smile. His chin is quivering because he’s holding back a flood of tears.
The Ascended Masters gather to one side for a moment of silent meditation. A hush falls over the crowd. I become aware of the sound of rippling water from the brook. It seems to evolve into the hum of a monastic choir, rising and building until the water practically rages into whitecaps, and then slowly it fades back into the pleasant, rippling brook that it was. It has purified the air and stirred up the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. With the Ascended Masters in accordance, the barn is refreshed in peace.
One of the Ascended Masters steps forward and spreads his arms over our weapons, lying on the table. He murmurs a blessing for their undertaking. One after the other, the spirit walkers lift their hands, calling to their weapons. We catch them and secure them in holsters or sheaths. It’s a silent, peaceful process without the fanfare of the Halos’ holy weapons.
Almost immediately, my crystal dagger and crossbow pistols begin to glow indigo. The others startle as though this is something unique. None of their weapons are glowing. Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Heads crane to see me. I look quickly at Rama, worried that something is wrong. He gestures to my hair, and I know my dreadlocks must be glowing, too. I can feel the warm, indigo light tingling across my scalp. The crowd breaks into applause while I blush, embarrassed. They seem to recognize me as something more than the other spirit walkers. I have no idea, but I give a dramatic bow because there is nothing else to do. This sparks more cheers and whistles.
When Sachiel strides across the stage, everyone settles down. He throws me a disbelieving look, so I wipe the smile off my face. Then he raises his hands and makes the final announcement that welcomes us into the spiritual family. The crowd stands and applauds again. Sachiel waves us over; the spirit walkers and Halos are to meet center stage. I now have a highfalutin attitude, so I walk with my chin up and a fresh smile against Michael’s hard eyes. I’m brimming with happiness that he simply can’t ignore. His stoic composure shatters as he breaks into silent laughter. Then I feel three gentle tugs on my heart and I stop in my tracks. My fellow spirit walkers bump into me but I don’t care.
He still loves me!
Michael has stopped, too, and we stand there, grinning like lovers. He winks and my chest swells until I think I’ll explode.
Someone shoves me in the back, and I take an awkward step forward. Michael and I meet in the center of the stage, where we turn and face our spiritual family. I’m bursting with love. I wish I could reach over and squeeze his hand three times. Everything is going to be fine. Michael and I are going to be fine.
The roar of the crowd escalates with wild cheers and whistles. They call out good wish
es and wave at us. I’m laughing with nervous energy, but as I raise my hand to wave at Raph, a strange sensation jolts through me, a tearing away of flesh from bone. I stiffen as vital elements are being ripped out. I suddenly can’t breathe. Random thoughts scream in my head, Ka! Dante! Too far away! Don’t go! Don’t go!
Something is severed inside me, and I stagger forward, clutching my heart. I’m dizzy as dark and light images flash around me.
Michael catches me before I fall. He cups my face, looking deep into my eyes, and then gasps.
“Sophia! Where the hell is your soul?”
* * *
The End
of
Nothing
* * *
To be continued. Look for book three, the final installment in The Soulkeepers trilogy, Unforgiven, coming soon.
To Eddie, Danielle, and Sierra
Acknowledgments
To my family, who gives me alone time to write and who understands that I do this as much for them as for myself. For my incredibly patient editor extraordinaire, Sue Grimshaw. And to the wonderful team at Random House: Gina Wachtel, April Flores, Kimberly Cowser, Matthew Schwartz, and Allison Dobson.
And a special thanks to the amazing bands who continue to inspire and pump me up. The right songs are as important to my writing as the right words.
~Anti-Heros: “All Hail Santa”
~Dean Martin: “A Marshmallow World”
~Clarence Carter: “Back Door Santa”
~Thousand Foot Krutch: “Fire It Up”
~T. Rex: “Christmas Bop”
~Straight No Chaser: “Who Spiked the Eggnog?”
~The Fratellis: “Chelsea Dagger,” “Henrietta”
~Blink-182: “I Won’t Be Home for Christmas”
~Shemekia Copeland: “Stay a Little Longer, Santa”
~Tenth Avenue North: “By Your Side”
~Grace Potter and the Nocturnals: “Stars”
~Rihanna: “Russian Roulette”
~Trans-Siberian Orchestra: “A Mad Russian’s Christmas”
~The Dandy Warhols: “Bohemian Like You”
~Blue Öyster Cult: “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper”
~TobyMac: “Catchafire”
~John Williams: “Carol of the Bells”
~Fever Ray: “If I Had a Heart”
~Switchfoot: “The War Inside,” “Evergreen”
~Stereoside: “Tattoo”
~Nox Arcana: “Legions of Darkness”
~Two Steps from Hell: “Black Blade,” “Archangel”
To Chelsea King. Forever Seventeen. Thank you for your Light.
BY LORI ADAMS
Forbidden
Awaken
Coming Soon:
Unforgiven
Photographer: Yuen Lui Studio
Lori Adams is originally from Oklahoma but now lives in Southern California with her husband and two daughters.
loriadamsbooks.com
@LoriAdams33
Read on for an excerpt from
Forbidden
by Lori Adams
Available from Flirt
Chapter 1
Things That Almost Never Happen
I always know I’m in trouble when I hear devilish laughter.
Could be my overactive imagination. Could be I’m losing my mind. Or it could be that I am being watched by some evil entity that finds me particularly amusing. Not that I’m superstitious or anything, but lately I have been hearing some pretty weird stuff. It’s become too frequent for my taste, like one of those never-ending playground chants that grate on your nerves.
So when this motorcycle cop pulls me over, I’m not surprised to hear deep, sadistic laughter pinballing around in my head. Possible translations? You’re screwed, Sophia. Steve is pressing charges and you’re headed to juvie. Or, on a lighter note, Time to see a good ear doctor, duh.
I fiddle with the long brown braid resting over my shoulder and wait for the cop. Please, please don’t give me a ticket!
It’s my first time being pulled over and I’m nervous as hell. Thankfully, Dad is a few miles ahead, pulling the U-Haul trailer that contains my meager seventeen years of existence. I’m glad he isn’t here because he hasn’t been himself lately. He would probably make things worse. Dad has withdrawn more than usual in the past two weeks. Well, really since the disastrous breakup with my ex-boyfriend, whom I now lovingly refer to as Psycho Steve. It was torture for Dad to see Psycho Steve’s anger left all over my face. Sometimes Dad acts like he was the one who got pummeled instead of me.
But I don’t blame him for shutting down, again. Mom died unexpectedly a few years ago and Dad is still an emotional wreck. We both are.
So it’s just Sundance, my golden retriever, and me in my red jeep Wrangler. The top is open and I know my hair is doing a strand-up comedy but the cool evening air was too comforting to avoid. It calms my nerves about moving to a new town. Being the daughter of a roaming pastor, I still haven’t gotten accustomed to relocating at the drop of a hat. Since Mom’s death, Dad has grown increasingly restless; we have moved four times in the last two years, everywhere from Monterey to Santa Barbara to San Diego. So basically, my college dreams of Stanford have not only been tossed by the roadside but run over, backed over, and pulverized by my car tires. I had just started my senior year at Los Angeles High when—out of nowhere—Dad announced that we were leaving. No warning. No discussion. Just pack and go, and four days later here I am on the side of the road somewhere in Connecticut.
I grab my phone and shoot a text to Dad, letting him know I’m temporarily delayed. He’ll think I had to pee. I know I wasn’t speeding so hopefully this won’t take long.
I sigh and rub my aching neck. The cop is taking forever so I search for him in the rearview mirror, but my eyes are drawn beyond him to a big apricot sun setting behind a distant ridge. My eyes lock in place like I am hypnotized, and a familiar tingle darts up my spine. I feel a strange heaviness settle on me, the same sensation I had when I realized that Mom was never coming back. Life went still then and my vision blurred, but I could hear things without sound. And now, I hear the customary colors of sunset bleeding orange, pink, and purple into a blank, unused sky. It ignites a vague warning as it hisses and simmers, like it’s reprimanding me for staring at its coveted beauty. I feel its heat burning through me, melting my irises and boiling the liquid in my body until my organs are soup and my bones clatter into a heap. I am outside of myself, floating in a sea of blue light.…
I snap my eyes shut and take a deep, staccato breath. God, Soph, get a freaking grip.
The burning is such a familiar sensation that I am tempted to believe it has happened to me before, in a previous life.
If I believed in all that reincarnation shit.
A shiver runs through me and I exhale the madness that has inundated me for two weeks. I’ve been nursing the same headache for the same two weeks and it flares up now. My fingers pad along the scar on my eyebrow, compliments of Psycho Steve. I may have been on the wrong end of his fist but that was nothing compared to the way I defended myself.
I did say I’m not the superstitious type. I don’t go for voodoo or ghostly mumbo jumbo but the way I stopped Steve—well, my world has tilted a smidge.
I didn’t tell Dad the details of my bizarre behavior the night Steve attacked me. I didn’t tell anyone. The only person I would have confided in was Mom, if she had been alive. Not to get it off my chest or to hear her explain the impossibility of what I think I did, but because, on some bizarre level, I know Mom would’ve understood exactly what I did and how it changed me forever.
The cop is approaching, and my attention shifts to more immediate concerns.
“Evenin’, Miss. I’ll try to make this quick. I can see you’re in a hurry.”
His voice is rich with a funny eastern accent, which under lighter circumstances I would find amusing. But it’s been a grueling four-day drive from Los Angeles to Connecticut; I’m exhausted.
The cop
looks me dead in the eye as if anticipating some smartass rebuke. I consider the logistics of mounting an argument. I know I wasn’t speeding, but I promised myself no more trouble. I smile politely.
He asks for my license and registration. I lay them onto his outstretched hand, and widen the smile just a tad more.
He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are cataloging the contents of my backseat.
“Where you headed?”
“Haven Hurst,” I say brightly, adding a touch of hope to the smile.
“You don’t live there,” he states accusingly, like I’m lying, and my shoulders slump. He’s not the friendly type, and I feel unwanted.
And then I remember my out-of-state tags and license. “Oh, yeah. I mean, no. I’m just moving there. Now. Today.” I hope to end on a happy note. Epic fail.
“Miss St. James, you have a lot of expensive equipment back there.”
The backseat is a dumping ground for my camera junk. It’s an expensive hobby but Dad indulged me a year after Mom died. Anything to distract me from asking about the strange circumstances of her death.
Over the past year, my collection of cameras and lenses and filters and tripods has multiplied like rabbits. The cop and I eyeball each other. I didn’t like his suspicious tone, and the unfairness is building inside me.… I didn’t do anything wrong!
“Well, it’s mine!” I blurt out. “What, you think I stole it or something?” Holy crap, here I go. Big, fat, stupid mouth. Everybody knows when you claim you didn’t do something people think you did do it. It’s just these damned nerves. I’m always keyed-up when we move.
The cop rips a ticket from his pad and flips it over, scribbling on the back. “Tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna take this to the newspaper office in Haven Hurst. The Gazette. Give it to Miss Minnie. She’ll take care of everything. I’ll know if you don’t.” He gives me a warning look that feels all too parental. I’m bewildered. I stare at him and then read the ticket.
