Angel in Training (The Louisiangel Series, Book One) (39 page)

I came to a stop as another memory took over
me. It took several moments to once again work through the feeling
of my insides being ripped out. When it had ebbed away, I
straightened, trying to work out where my feet had taken me. I was
in a cemetery, that much was obvious, but it was a cemetery which
was very much active.

New Orleans sits below sea level and because
of the many (true) horror stories of caskets rising during
flooding, there is a common misconception that bodies can only be
cremated or buried in a tomb above ground – in a mausoleum. In
actual fact, there are still traditional in-ground cemeteries in
use.

I gazed across the rows of new headstones and
the gnawing feeling in my stomach started up again. I didn’t know
where in the city I was exactly, but I knew whose grave I had
walked to: Paige Kenworth’s.

My feet left the main path, taking one of
the gravel routes that stretched out at the bottom of each row.
Even without much light, I knew when I’d found the right tombstone.
It was a simple oblong feature, with
Sleeping with the Angels
, engraved into the stone front, under the
name and dates. At the same time my stomach turned to lead, my legs
turned to jelly, and I crashed down on the sodden dirt.

I’d like to say I lost track of time and
didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there, but I’d be lying. Time
and time again, I replayed those last minutes of Paige’s life. How
Lilah, the one who had earned her wings before me, the
supposed
archangel
, had
her hands wrapped around Joshua’s throat, choking the life from
him. How I had taken her sword and thrust it so hard through her
back it had stuck out of the centre of her chest. How, finally,
she’d laughed at me, explaining that she would never have been able
to kill Joshua otherwise her crazy plan would never have
worked.

My troubled thoughts distracted me long
enough that the internal LoJack I have on Joshua didn’t flare into
life until a sensation I hadn’t felt in weeks shot through me. It
took me a moment to work out it wasn’t me hurting. I sat bolt
upright, blinking in the rain. Not so long ago, I had to rely on my
gut instinct to locate Joshua. Now, I could narrow him down like he
was on Google Maps, only it was like the roads hadn’t been
downloaded to my brain. Currently, he was just over three miles
east of my current location, and more importantly, he was in
pain.

I didn’t hesitate any longer, getting to my
feet and running. I was by no means as fast as The Flash, but just
over six minutes later, I was outside the house I knew he was in,
and I didn’t care if anybody had seen me. Thankfully, it was just
after ten and though I’d barely registered the fact I had probably
passed a dozen people, my priority was Joshua.

I paused outside, staring up at my
destination, certain that the LoJack was on the fritz. I was in the
middle of the Lower Ninth Ward. Although Joshua was a detective
with NOPD, his district didn’t cover this far out. As he was on his
probationary period, he was mainly restricted to the French
Quarter, unless of course, the case he was working required him to
visit other areas. This location left me mystified. There were some
areas in New Orleans that had been decimated when Katrina hit. The
section of the street behind me had already had the houses cleared,
leaving vacant plots behind. I was in front of a house which had
long since been abandoned. “What are you doing here?” I muttered to
the deserted street.

The front door was hammered shut and I had to
go around the side, following a path which had been cut into the
overgrown garden by many pairs of feet. Inside, although sheltered
from the rain, the room was wet. The far side of the room, which
had once been a kitchen, was missing a chunk of the ceiling and
water was pouring in. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. There
was, of course, no electricity in the house. The little light that
was available was coming from the streetlights outside.

I moved into the hallway, and nearly ran back
out onto the street. I’d just walked the streets of New Orleans
without shoes on, yet walking across a carpet which not only smelt
moldy, but also squelched under my feet, turned my stomach. It was
only Joshua’s strained voice that pushed me forward. “You’re about
two minutes away from making a mistake you can’t come back
from.”

I hurried down the hall, finally bursting
into what turned out to be the bathroom. It was a little brighter
in here, thanks to the streetlight which seemed to be placed
outside the small, broken bathroom window. The first thing I
spotted was the hideously filthy bathtub, followed by Joshua
sitting on the floor between the tub and an equally disgusting
toilet bowl.

My eyes fell on the blood on his forehead,
dropping lower to the dark blue eyes staring up at me. He didn’t
look please to see me. In fact he looked scared. “Angel, get out of
here,” he barked at me.

I took too long to process the words. Behind
me, the bathroom door slammed shut. I whirled around to find a gun
pointing at my chest. “Oh, this isn’t good,” I muttered.

This is easily the hardest section to write,
but only because there are so many people I need to thank and I
don’t want to miss anyone out.

I must start with Jana, for without you, I
don’t think this book would have been written. You let me into your
home, fed me dirty rice (amongst other things) and introduced me to
your Louisiana. You’ve answered countless questions and continued
to do so even when we’ve had a difference of opinion, and I love
you for that. It was these conversations which helped this story
take shape.

Eternal thanks will always go to Amalia for a
cover more fabulous than I could ever imagine, and also for putting
up with me as the image of Angel began to take form.

Without Tina there would be a plot hole that
still needed filling. There would also be dozens of typos and far
too many sentences starting with the word ‘and’.

A writer also cannot function without a
group of beta-readers she trusts to read and find the faults all
while being gentle. Kris and Donna, I thank you for being sounding
boards from the
What The Eyes Can’t See
days, and for sticking around all these years later.
Chrissi and Victoria, I also thank you for putting up with my car
journey ramblings about plots and characters, and importantly,
giving me the much needed support.

Patrick, you have no idea how much I needed
your final check over this – for the story’s sake, and for my own!
Thank you for your keen eye and your baking. I’m (impatiently)
waiting for the beignets now.

My colleagues also need a shout out. I’m sure
you’re all sick of me harping on about this book, or your ears hurt
from the frequent excited shrieks when another ‘milestone’ is hit.
The bad news is that there are another four books to come in this
story, so you might want to invest in some earplugs!

To all my family and friends to have helped
and supported me, you’ve been truly wonderful. Your support has
made this whole experience much less terrifying. I would list you
all individually, but I would be horrified if I missed anyone
off.

Last, but certainly not least, my thanks go
to you: the reader. You picked this book and took a chance. I hope
you enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the Angel’s
story.

Debut author C.
L. Coffey works in an office by day. By night she leads a (not-so)
secret life DJing, and throughout it all, is constantly scribbling
away as the plot bunnies demand constant attention.

Her first novel
was written when she should have been revising for her exams. While
it is unlikely to ever see the light of day, it was the start of
long relationship with the evil plot bunnies of doom.

A need to do
more than just one subject led her to the University of Hull, where
she graduated with an honours degree in American Studies. For the
third year of the four year degree, she was able to call Baton
Rouge home. Since then, Louisiana has claimed a large chunk of her
heart, and remains a place she will always consider home.

When not
transcribing the stories of the angels and archangels, working, or
DJing, she is at the beck and call of three cats – all of whom rank
higher in the household than she does.

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