by ML Guida
Heather held her head high, trying to feel braver than she felt. “I take it you talked with Detectives Hewitt and Mason?”
“Obviously,” Cynthia said. “Did you have a dream about Sam Dawson?”
She wasn’t going to lie. Her abilities were nothing to be ashamed of. It took her a long time to appreciate them. “Unfortunately, I did. He killed his boss, didn’t he?”
Andre pulled out a pocket notebook. “What can you tell us about your dream?”
Heather smiled. He might not believe her and might even think she was guilty as hell, but at least, he kept the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Sam smashed a beer bottle, then stabbed his boss in the neck. Guilt seemed to overcome him and he grabbed a piece of glass to slice his own throat.” She stared down at her wringing hands. “There was so much blood. It was everywhere—on the walls, trash bin, the pavement. I didn’t know people could bleed that much.”
“Amazingly accurate,” Cynthia purred. She reminded Heather of a cat playing with a mouse’s tail before it killed it.
Andre stopped writing. “You saw this all in your vision?”
“It wasn’t a vision. I don’t have visions. I have dreams and read auras.” Well, this time it was a vision, or it might have been a dream. She couldn’t tell, but she’d be damned if she’d try to explain this to her executioners.
Cynthia scowled. “What the hell is an aura?”
Heather sighed. She was so tired of skepticism. She squared her shoulders and met Cynthia’s hostile gaze. “An aura is a field of subtle, luminous radiation surrounding a person or an object. In therapy, I examine my patient’s damaged aura, which is a dark and murky color due to the patient’s drug and alcohol abuse. A vision appears in my mind and I can see the person in a new light.”
“So, you do have visions?” Cynthia asked.
“No, I don’t see into the future. I only see what the patient will look like drug free. I paint their portrait and rather than being strung out and pale they are smiling and have a healthy glow. Their auras are no longer murky and instead they are clear and bright.”
Andre and Cynthia gave each other the this-one-is-ready-for-the-nut-house look.
“I read auras,” Heather said. “Detective Radison, yours is a muddy purple, meaning overbearing or arrogance. You also have a murky red and this one means you have deep seated anger.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe in this mumbo jumbo, so don’t try to sell me on it. Tell us more about Dawson.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“Do you mind if we talk to your secretary?” Cynthia asked.
Not having much choice, Heather nodded. “Go ahead.”
Cynthia left. A loud cry stung Heather. Cynthia led a crying Stephanie into the office. She motioned for Stephanie to sit in a nearby chair.
Stephanie clutched a tissue in her hand. “How can this happen? I can’t believe he would do this.”
“I’m sorry,” Heather said. She had no idea Stephanie cared so much for Sam.
“You were close to him?” Andre asked.
“We used to talk and go out for coffee. We were friends. That’s all. He was trying to get his life back together, but he was scared.”
Cynthia cast Heather an accusing look. “Scared how?”
Stephanie took a deep breath then blew her nose. “His roommate was Mark Vanderbilt. Mark had killed his professor. He was afraid he’d be next.” Her eyes clouded. “Come to think about it, he killed his professor almost the same way Sam killed his boss. But instead of using a beer bottle, he stabbed his professor with a pencil.”
Heather remembered her dream of Mark. Her heart beat faster. She could still see Mark stabbing his teacher repeatedly before he crashed through the six story window to his death.
Cynthia gave her the famous attorney Perry Mason stare as if any minute Heather would break down and confess she was a liar.
“Ms. Bowen,” she said, “there seems to be tragedy upon tragedy here. Don’t you think this is more than coincidences?”
“Recently, there have been problems, but we’ve never had any problems until a few months ago.”
“Ms. Bowen, this is the third incident in less than two months,” Andre said. “This doesn’t even include the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your sister’s death.”
Heather felt like they were ready to strap her into the electric chair. “Wait, did you find a vial?”
Andre glanced at Cynthia. “A vial?”
“Yes, a clear one. The pills were the same size as the red hot candy, but they glowed.”
Her voice was excited. Maybe if they found the pills, they could figure out what the drug was and how to counteract it.
Cynthia sneered. “Glowing red pills? Are you saying they were cursed?”
Regretting she told the truth, Heather put her arms across her chest. “Yes. They glittered as if they were on fire.”
“Please.” Cynthia drew out the word. “This is pure nonsense.”
“Fine. Don’t believe me,” Heather said. “I have never come across a drug like this one. In all the autopsy reports, the coroner said that all of my patients and my sister had some kind of anomaly in their system. They could never identify the drug. If you found that vial, we’d know what they were taking.”
Andre and Cynthia stared at her as if she’d turn into a man. They whispered to each other, but Heather couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Listen to me. The minute Sam swallowed those pills, he changed. His eyes glowed red; same as the man’s in my dreams.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “So, the man became a vampire?”
Heather leaned back in her chair. “Did I say that?”
“Radison, let her continue,” Andre said.
Heather turned to Andre who at least had the courtesy not to show her such open disdain. “Do you know of any drug that changes eye color? I sure as hell don’t.”
“According to you,” Radison said. “All these patients are taking these deadly pills and strangely enough it still comes back to Serenity House. So far, you’re the common link. What exactly is going on at this place?”
“We haven’t done anything wrong here.” Heather’s voice turned defensive. “We are providing treatment to help people change their lives.”
“You mean like Sam?” Cynthia looked around the office as if searching for something to prove Heather was guilty. “I’m sure Cheryl Meinke, Sam’s manager, thought he was perfectly fine right up to the time he jammed the broken beer bottle into her neck. She was only twenty-four years old and had a three-year-old daughter, Ms. Bowen.”
“But you didn’t know him,” Stephanie said. “He wasn’t violent. He was kind and gentle.”
Someone pounded on the door and Heather jumped. “I’m sorry news of Sam’s death must be spreading. I need to talk with my staff.”
She hurried to the door and opened it, expecting to see Paul’s anxious face. Instead she stared into the triumphant faces of Detective Hewitt and Detective Mason with a horde of police officers behind them.
Detective Hewitt handed her a piece of paper. “Hello, Ms. Bowen. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
The blood drained from her face. She was a deer trapped between two hungry wolf packs.
She read the piece of paper that authorized the police to search through files, the building, and the premise for illegal drug paraphernalia. She lowered the paper. “Why do you need to see the clients’ files? That’s therapist/client privilege.”
“Because you have had three patients commit murder, then kill themselves. In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Bowen, no other treatment center has your record.” Hewitt pushed past her, pumping her shoulder. “Something’s going on here, and believe me I’ll be damned sure to find out what it is.”
Heather leaned against the wall, afraid any minute her legs would lose the fight to stand. “Fine. Go ahead. You’re wasting your time. You’re not going to find anything her
e.” This was getting too much. She needed help. Scythe’s face flashed in her mind and for the eighty-ninth times she wished he’d walk through the door and wrap his arms around her to hold her close.
6
Under a shady tree, Scythe sat on his motorcycle watching Serenity House. He’d heard Heather’s pleas for him. The last one, he’d almost given in and thrown down his bike and scared the souls out of the domineering police officers. He’d never felt this way about a woman to the point he’d jeopardize a mission.
He gripped the handle bars tighter to keep from running into Serenity House to grant Heather’s wish and hold her in his arms. He wanted to inhale her feminine scent and kiss those luscious lips to see if they tasted as sweet as they looked.
Stay focused.
People came out of the Serenity House and they all looked shell shocked as if a bomb had gone off inside the treatment facility, but he didn’t see his temptress. Scowling, she came out following a skinny cop who gestured for her to remain with the wide eyed crowd. He stood in front of the door like a shield that could easily be blown over with a single blast from the wind.
Heather seemed to be talking to the crowd, trying to reassure them. She acted as if she was in control, a pillar of courage, but he could sense the fear hidden within her. She needed him and he wanted to go to her, but if he did, he’d lose himself and cost his brother his soul.
A lanky kid dressed in a holey white muscle shirt and loose jeans slunk away from the group. He kept darting furtive glances over his shoulder as he edged toward a tall shrubbery of lilacs. Sweet drenched his tee shirt and his huge eyes were filled with fear.
Heather turned and walked toward him. “Stan, where are you going?”
Stan stopped, then ran. His flip flops smacked on the sidewalk. His muscle shirt fell off his narrow shoulder while his ragged jeans inched down his slim waist.
Scythe recognized him. When he last visited Stan’s dreams, his eyes had been brighter, and he’d had a nice build. After witnessing his own funeral and seeing his mother sobbing, the kid had promised to go to treatment. But now, he was more of a scrawny scarecrow than a man in his twenties. Somehow Blade had gotten to this poor kid.
Heather chased him. “Stan, stop!”
Stan didn’t listen. One of his flip flops jammed into a crack in the sidewalk and he did a somersault, sliding on his shoulder across the cement. He jumped up. Blood leaked down his shoulder. He held it and ran-hopped to a city bus parked on the street.
“Stan!” Heather hurried toward the bus, but the bus pulled away.
Scythe gunned his motorcycle and pursued the lumbering bus.
“Scythe!”
He winced and pretended not to hear her excited voice. He had a hunch that Stan would lead him to Blade and if he stopped to talk to Heather, he might lose his only lead.
The bus edged passed Capitol Hill, a local cemetery. He stiffened. He hated passing these places. Lost souls swirled toward him, but an invisible force prevented them from crossing the cemetery’s boundaries. Ghostly figures clutched the fence, their faces filled with despair.
“Help us! Please help us!”
Men, women, and children called out to him to take them to heaven. Their moaning voices assailed him with guilt at being powerless to help them. This was their purgatory. Based on their sins, Saint Peter had deemed them not ready to enter Heaven. They were doomed to walk the grounds until someone prayed for their soul. If their sins were forgiven, an angel of death would escort them to paradise, but until then, they were forced to wait for the end of the world. No matter how much he wanted to, he was forbidden to help them cross over.
“Set me free!” a little girl cried out. “I want to see my mommy.”
Scythe avoided her stricken face and forced himself to ignore her sweet voice. He never understood what children had done to receive such a judgment, but Saint Peter was mum on the reason. Questioning was a sin of disobedience.
Scythe sped away, trying to block the desperate cries.
Stan got off the bus and headed over toward a supermarket, but instead of going into the store, he walked along the side, toward the back. Scythe parked his motorcycle and using the speed of light, he hurried after the kid. He pressed his back against the wall, then peeked around the building. Stan headed toward a dumpster, his flip flops echoed on the pavement. He shoved his greasy hair behind his ear, then looked at his watch. He shuffled back and forth on his feet as if he had to take a piss.
When he wasn’t looking, Scythe flashed to the opposite side of the dumpster. He choked on the stench from the garbage. Zeus, it smelled like death.
A motorcycle roared. A man maneuvered a bike down the alley way. He had a long dark braid that hung over his left side. He wore a black leather jacket that revealed a cobra tattoo on his chest. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes. Blade.
Blade pulled up alongside Stan.
Scythe stepped around the dumpster. “Hello, brother.”
Blade grabbed Stan. “You fool, you led him here. I oughta—”
Stan looked between them, his eyes huge. “I didn’t know I was being followed.”
His voice shook with fear.
“Leave him alone, Blade. This is between you and me.”
Blade’s lips turned up into a sinister smile. “If you insist—” He released Stan.
Scythe motioned at Stan. “Run, now, boy.”
Stan hesitated, but then ran.
“Can’t fight your own battles, Scythe?”
“What are you talking about?”
Blade tilted his head to glance behind Scythe.
“Stan!”
A frightened female yelled. He groaned. Before he glanced over his shoulder, the scent of jasmine teased him. Heather hurried toward them. How did she find them?
“Well, well.” Blade got off his bike and pulled out a long skinny blade from a sheath attached to his belt.
Scythe went rigid, his blood cold. “Shit, where the hell did you get that?”
“Balthazar.” He raised the sword. “Afraid, brother?”
“Kiss my ass.” Apprehension pooled in his gut. It had been along time since he’d seen a hellish weapon, a weapon deadly enough to kill an angel of death.
The click of high heels grated on Scythe’s nerves. For Heaven’s sake! Was the woman brave or just damn foolish? He blocked her view of Blade. “Get out of here, Heather.”
She came up alongside of Scythe. “You. It’s you. You are real.” She pointed at Blade as if she was a small child who discovered ghosts were real.
Blade laughed. He slapped the dagger on his palm. “Yes, I am. But you already knew that.”
Scythe edged closer to Heather, trying to wedge his body between her and Blade. Her faint feminine scent set his blood on fire and all he wanted was to kiss those lips. This was insane. His brother was about to ram a hellish blade up his ass.
Concentrate.
“How quaint,” Blade sneered. “You’re trying to save her, brother.” Without warning, Blade raised the blade and lunged at Heather.
Scythe shoved Heather to the ground. She fell flat on her stomach.
Blade missed. “You’ll pay for that, bro.”
Scythe whirled around, but he was too slow. Blade jammed the dagger into his gut, then moved it from his stomach to his sternum. Unbearable agony seized him. He couldn’t breath and collapsed onto his knees, holding his gut. Blood seeped between his fingers. “Shit.”
“Oh no, Scythe.” Heather held him close. She trembled, but she didn’t run. “Leave us alone.” Her voice rattled like a rickety train.
He leaned against her, trying not to pass out, but the pain, Zeus, he’d never felt anything like it. His insides were on fire.
Blade walked around him. “Hope she was worth it. Farewell, brother.” He got on his bike and saluted him with two fingers. He gunned the engine and drove off as if going off into the sunset.
Sirens wailed. The screeching of tires skidded onto the pavement.
; Heather pushed Scythe’s hair out of his face, her touch was so soothing, despite the pain splitting him apart.
“Oh, Scythe, I’m so sorry.” She ripped the hem of her dress and pressed it on his wound.
He arched his back and gritted his teeth to keep from screaming.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”
He grabbed her slippery hand and squeezed. “No, it’s all right.” Her gentle grip and fragrant scent blocked the agony, but evil delved deeper inside him. With each breath, his goodness died. If the Archangel Raphael failed to get to him in the next twenty-four hours, he’d be hell’s play thing.
Heavy footsteps rushed toward them. A gray-haired cop that weighed about two hundred pounds knelt next to Heather. “What happened?”
“He was stabbed, protecting me.” Her voice cracked and tears swept down her face. “Help him. Please.”
A thirty-something female black cop jogged over to them, her cap smashing her dreadlocks. She held up her palms. “Okay, ma’am. Don’t get hysterical. I already radioed for an ambulance.”
Heather grasped his hand. “Hang on, Scythe. Don’t leave me.”
He tried to listen to her voice to stay alive to block the endless torture, but the pain was unbearable. He closed his eyes. Zeus, how did other angels withstand this?
“Can you hear me?”
The same thick male voice asked, but it sounded so far away.
“Yes.”
Scythe moved his lips, but he didn’t know if he actually spoke.
“He’s dying,” Heather sobbed.
The cop rested his head on Scythe’s chest. “No, he’s still alive. What’s his name?”
“Scythe Angel,” Heather sniffed. “He works for me.”
Pushing the torture to the back of his mind, he forced his eyes to open. “So, I got the job?”
She laughed and hiccupped. “Yeah, you do. He’s so pale. What’s taking the ambulance so long?”
“ETA is less than two minutes,” the lady cop said.
More sirens screamed.
“Hang on, Scythe.” Heather pressed his hand against her cheek. “The paramedics are here.”
After they worked on him, they put him in an ambulance and slammed the doors. Heather never left him and rode in the back next to the gurney. Pain ate through him like maggots.
