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Minnie, meet your new photographer. ~Tom

I don’t get it.

And then I do.

He turns to leave, and I yell, “Hey, wait a minute! You can’t do that!” I hold him there hoping he’ll explain but he doesn’t, so I sputter something unintelligible before snapping, “Well, what’d you stop me for anyway?”

“Buckle up your dog. He’s a passenger like anyone else.” He walks away, and I look at Sundance who has been sitting up and watching with his big red tongue hanging out. He is happy to be included, but I roll my eyes and jerk the seatbelt across his chest.

“What kind of obtuse podunk outfit is this anyway? Supersized, narcissistic Rent-a-Cop!” I sit back and realize the cop has returned to my window.
Aw crap
. My face reddens and I want to crawl under the jeep. He says he forgot to return my license and registration and then hands them over.

“Thank you,” I mumble, too embarrassed to look up.

“No problem. Oh, and Miss? This podunk Rent-a-Cop is Sheriff White and I’ll expect you to remember that in the future. Welcome to Haven Hurst.”

He stalks away and I melt into the seat completely humiliated. I wait for the sadistic laughter, but instead I hear static from the sheriff’s radio and then the dispatch. His motorcycle roars to life. On impulse I twist around, hoping to throw out an apology, but his siren is blaring and he zooms away.

I slump, taking a moment to reflect on things. I wanted our move to Connecticut to be a fresh start. I wanted Dad to find peace and new friends. I wanted to slip unnoticed into a new life and finish my senior year in relative silence. I wanted to put Psycho Steve and the incident behind me and to forget the nagging questions about Mom’s mysterious death. I need this.
Dad and I
need this. We are like strangers abandoned on the same deserted island since Mom died in that psyche ward.

And what do I do? I insult the sheriff of our new town and give Dad a label; that new West Coast pastor with the rude daughter.

How much worse can it get?

Sundance flattens his ears and growls deep in his throat, and I have my answer. A creepy feeling raises the hair on my arms. The road is dark and empty but I sense we are not alone.

I scan the forest lining the remote country road. It has become a thick black wall under a gray moon. My pulse jumps and ignites the scar on my eyebrow. It throbs like somebody’s knocking. Sundance whimpers, and that’s enough for me. I start the engine and peel out.

A few miles later the road dips, and I come upon the reason for Sheriff White’s hasty exit. An accident. There is a semitruck jackknifed across the opposite ditch, its grill munching on a small white car. The truck driver, a burly guy with a confused expression,
is standing aside talking to a cop.

A voice in my head says
She’s okay
, and I immediately look at the lady in nurse scrubs sitting on the ground. The voice is calm and all too familiar. It’s Mom, and it’s the other strange thing I’ve been hearing lately. The first time I heard my dead mom’s voice was the night Psycho Steve attacked me. It was Mom yelling,
Grab the knife, Sophia!

I hear her pretty often, usually when I am about to do something exceptionally lame. So it’s odd that I should hear her now.

I stop the jeep next to red emergency flares. There are two patrol cars and the sheriff but no ambulance. Two cops and Sheriff White remain with the truck driver who is shaking his head, upset. The other cop is crouched beside the nurse. He is writing on a clipboard, and she is holding a towel against her forehead.

Between the nurse and the crumpled car is a blond guy in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He is standing stock still with his arms crossed over his chest. There is something peculiar about him. Almost like he’s not quite—

Sundance barks, and I nearly jump out of my jean shorts. I shush him but he is persistent because there is a black dog peering from the white car’s window. It starts yapping and Sundance argues back. He wiggles free and bolts out the window! I am mortified! I shouldn’t have stopped! I can’t afford to upset Sheriff White again.

I scramble out of the jeep, race by the blond guy, and catch Sundance at the car. The dogs settle down and sniff their hellos through the open window. The nurse smiles ruefully.

“It’s all right,” she says. “He’s friendly. And probably scared.”

I post an apologetic smile and pet her dog, some terrier mix. He’s trembling. She wants to know if he’s hurt, so I check and report that he seems fine. She sighs and turns back to the cop. I look at the blond guy in jeans.

He’s tall, 6’3 or 4, and muscular like a body builder. Probably eighteen or so. He seems disjointed from the others like a curious bystander. With no other vehicles around, I think he’s probably the nurse’s son.

He didn’t acknowledge Sundance barreling onto the scene or even glance in my direction. He seems emotionless, concentrating on the nurse. I wonder if he’s in shock. I know that deep sense of fear when someone you love is in pain, so I start to walk over and say something reassuring.

That’s when it hits: a painful explosion in my chest like I had dynamite for dinner and it’s just now digesting. I catch my breath and clutch my heart. I imagine a mushroom cloud wafting up my torso and then reversing and imploding back on itself to form an intense knot. After an agonizing moment, the knot settles under my breastbone and drums
like a second heartbeat. Each beat stings and reverberates up my throat. The only thing more disturbing than this bizarre pain and second heartbeat is seeing the blond guy react like it’s happening to him, too.

He snaps to attention and his back goes ramrod straight. His head is now turning slowly, methodically, and he is looking at me as though I’m one of the Seven Wonders of the World. His eyes are wide, aquamarine prisms that stare with such invasiveness I almost feel violated.

Holy Mother of Gandhi!
I’ve never seen or
felt
anyone so passively powerful. And then I notice that his chest is heaving like mine and his face is full of curiosity. He cocks his head as if expecting me to speak, so I try.

“Um, hey, are you okay?”

The nurse looks right through him and answers, “I think I’ll be fine, dear, but could you grab my purse from the car? I should call my husband.”

My eyes swing from the guy, down to her, and back up to him. She hasn’t acknowledged him, and he remains frozen with an expression of utter astonishment. My knees feel weak but his eyes are full and strong and hold me up with their intensity. Noises recede and the second heartbeat snuggles deeper inside my chest as if staking claim to me. I am not alone inside myself but feel occupied and missing the freedom I knew just moments ago. The sensation makes me tremble, and the guy’s face softens with awareness. His concern for me is palpable, like a hand caressing my cheek.

I am stunned by his fragile beauty; the chiseled planes of his cheeks, the aquiline nose, the curve of his lips, and the peace and gentleness he radiates. When his mouth opens to speak, I hold my breath in a long, suspenseful moment … and then … something in the distance draws my attention.

Through the darkness of the forest comes a guy about fifteen or so with disheveled brown hair. He is thin and lanky, wearing a grungy black T-shirt and distressed jeans. He is traipsing through the brush and should be causing a racket, but I don’t hear a thing. As he approaches, I notice a cruel red scar along his jaw and another across his throat. His dark eyes search the scene and land on the nurse.

He smiles casually and sidles up to the blond guy. Just as he starts to speak, the blond guy whips around and smashes him to the ground with a single backhand blow. I gasp and startle the nurse and cop.

The grungy guy shakes his head and struggles to his elbows but the blond guy beats him down again. Then he slams a foot into the guy’s throat and holds him in place. The blond guy is coiled and ready, palming something strapped to his hip. And then he slowly lifts his head and looks at me. His beautiful eyes have hardened into iridescent
marbles and seem to glow. His fragile beauty is razor sharp, a feral mask of determination. This realization sets both of my heartbeats drumming furiously in my chest. He seems to be waiting for me—almost daring me—to do something. I am in shock and can only blink and stare.

The grungy guy grimaces in anticipation of the next attack. When it doesn’t come, he peeks at the blond guy and then tracks his attention to me. Our eyes lock, and a ribbon of coldness flutters through me. He has solid black eyes.

“Hey! What’s going on?” The grungy guy struggles under the foot, his eyes cutting back and forth between his attacker and me. The blond guy ignores him, keeping his focus on me, waiting. He seems worried about something. The grungy guy points at me and says, “You can’t blame me for that! I didn’t know!” He is more terrified of me and less about the beating. To shut him up, the blond guy grinds his foot deeper into the guy’s neck, who gurgles and writhes in pain.

I can’t take it anymore!
This huge guy stomping on this defenseless kid!

“Stop it!” I yell, and scare the bejesus out of the nurse. The cop with the clipboard stands abruptly like he might say something. Sheriff White marches over and asks if I’m causing trouble. His tone suggests that he wouldn’t be surprised.

Everyone is staring, expecting me to explain myself, but words are jammed in my throat. I don’t know what to think, let alone say.

And then I get it. No one else can see the guys fighting just twenty feet away.

Please no, not another hallucination
.

I squeeze my eyes, take a deep breath, and repeat the mantra in my head. Since the night I defended myself against Psycho Steve, I’ve had strange visions. Strange like seeing my dead mom standing in the kitchen.

When I open my eyes again, I stare at the two guys. Blue and red lights flash against their faces but if I focus and squint, I think I can see right through—

“Miss St. James!” Sheriff White yells, and I jump.

“Uh—”

“It’s okay,” the nurse says, coming to my rescue before I humiliate myself further. “You bothered by the sight of blood, hon? It’s just a small cut. I’ll be fine. But my husband will be so worried. My phone is in my purse so …” She smiles reassuringly.

The two guys are suspended in action—eyes on me, foot on throat, fists cocked and ready like vicious cartoon characters. They look so real that I make a quick decision; after I get the purse, I am going to march over and demand to know what’s going on.

So I backpedal and snatch the purse from the front seat. When I turn around the guys are gone, and I hear devilish laughter.

Chapter 2

Michael

Just outside of Haven Hurst, the warm evening air above a Victorian farmhouse moved in a gentle clockwise swirl and hummed with an aquamarine heartbeat. Hovering inside the energy force was the spirit form of Michael Patronus, guardian angel, first class. He was clad in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. With his arms out to his sides, razor-sharp fetching angled up and out of Michael’s forearms and kept him aloft. This set of wings was his defensive pair, great for short distances, not to mention decapitating demons, reapers, or soul seekers in a single swipe. The larger gossamer wings seen in religious paintings or on statues were cumbersome and noisy. They were used for long hauls or formal ceremonies like graduation and stuff. Since guardians were designated to watch over smaller regions these days, Michael rarely used his gossamer wings. Besides, he preferred the new and improved fetching, like most young guardians. The elders could keep their gossamer. Fetching was faster and more precise. Deadlier.

They could also slice open your thighs if you weren’t paying attention. It wouldn’t be deadly to an angel but the clean up was a hassle.

Michael took care alighting on the lawn. He waited for the faint clicking sound as the wings retracted and disappeared before lowering his arms. His kaleidoscope eyes powered down until they eventually settled into their normal human color of pale blue. The transformation from spirit form back to human form was complete, yet Michael was anything but relieved.

He scrubbed a hand through his blond hair, exasperated. He couldn’t believe what happened tonight. It went beyond his imagination, which could go pretty far. It was saying something.

Who was that girl? How did she see him in spirit form? And why didn’t she say anything to the others?

This wasn’t exactly something he was trained to deal with. No one ever warned him about hot human girls who could see him in spirit form.
No, not just hot but sexy as hell and— Wait, what?

Sexy?
Where in the hell did that come from?

Michael shook his head and scoffed. It was the first time he’d ever described a
human in those terms. He wasn’t even supposed to
think
in those terms. Something strange was going on and he decided to choose his words carefully when explaining to his family.

They were all angels of one variety or another, living and working in Haven Hurst as normal humans. Hiding this from them was not an option. But how much he should tell them was debatable.

Michael mounted the porch steps, flung open the front door, and marched down the hall to the kitchen. His two younger brothers, Raph and Gabe, were as he’d left them when he received the “call” for help, sitting around the large butcher-block island. As pure angels, they were Born of Light, not blood. To appear as a real human family, they were originated in Estonia, where they shared a Nordic influence of blond hair and blue eyes. But they were graced with distinctly different personalities.

Gabe, the youngest at sixteen, had his nose buried in an 1893 first edition of
Spiritual Philosophy
by Allan Kardec. It was not homework, although the boys attended Haven Hurst High as a formality to blend in with humans. Gabe was the brainiac bent on reading every book written by prominent humans. He was nearly finished with the 1800s.

Seventeen-year-old Raph was shoveling blueberry pie into his face with one hand and levitating a glass of milk with the other. He rotated his finger like a wand and stirred the milk until the chocolate was mixed to his liking. Eating and levitating objects, preferably at the same time, were his favorite hobbies.