She makes a soft sound in her throat, wrapping her wings around us and rocking me gently side to side. I bury my face into the crook of her neck, scenting all the spices she loves to cook with, while I work to get air back into my lungs.
“You can’t think of them that way,” she whispers with an emotional rasp. “It’ll eat you up inside. That’s what they want. Monsters are easy to kill. Ones that wear innocents’ faces... not so much.”
“She looked so scared,” I tell her, “but she would’ve killed Nolan. I couldn’t let her...”
“Exactly,” she affirms, her hand running along my damp hair. “They will use everything they have to stop you, to hurt you, but there’s no goodness left inside them. No soul. Only the monster that has no mercy.”
“She’s wrong,” a female voice says from somewhere near the trees.
My stomach twists as I look between Keziah’s wings. Letti stares back at me, her body encased in the golden shine of a pure spirit, and her face twisted by sadness and pain.
“You sent me to Hell,” she whimpers, her arms wrapped tightly around her like she’s freezing. “You saw me. You could’ve saved me. Why didn’t you save me?”
“I didn’t know. It was too late,” I whisper, but there’s no forgiveness in her.
“What was?” Keziah questions, leaning back so she can look at my face.
Between one blink and the next, Letti’s gone, and I’m left with the worry in Keziah’s eyes.
“Nothing,” I reply, pulling away to stand up. “I’m just… tired. Can I go? I promise to train more with my wings, okay?”
She dismisses her wings and nods while she rises to her feet. “Alright. Go get cleaned up and lie down. You had a rough night.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, turning to go into the house.
As I walk away, she calls out, “You can talk to us about what happened. You know that, right?”
I pause at the sliding glass door with one hand braced on the wall.
“Maybe later,” I promise, my voice as even as I can make it, while I wonder if a ghost can come back from Hell to haunt a single person, or if I’m just losing my mind.
Chapter 4
Kaleb
Slamming the front door behind me, I mutter every Latin curse word I know, and when that fails to quell my irritation, I move on to Mandarin Chinese. The literal translations can be somewhat odd, but I like the sharpness of the words on my tongue. I’m considering learning Gàidhlig next, if only because the Scottish have some of the most creative insults I’ve ever come across, and I need every one of them so I don’t murder Donovan.
Drives like abèn dàn, and then has the audacity to throw how much I hate driving in my face, knowing I have a good reason.
The roar of my own heartbeat is so loud I nearly miss my father calling out my name. Stomping down on my never-ending supply of irritation when it comes to Donovan, I turn with what I hope is at least a neutral expression on my face.
With pronounced bags under his eyes, his jaw dusted with a day’s worth of growth, and his button-up shirt and slacks wrinkled, my father looks tired standing in the doorway of the office he shares with my mother. His lips are pressed together in a tight line, and the imminent lecture is transparent in his gaze. With a single hand, he motions for me to follow him back into the office.
My already agitated state moves quickly into righteous anger. It’s difficult to find my normal calm, and I find myself having to fight to keep my mouth shut instead of going on the offensive to defend my actions. I saved lives last night. I helped Callie through unspeakable trauma. I refuse to feel guilty about helping the living despite my purpose being only to help the dead.
Releasing a deep breath, I follow my father inside. This office doubles as a room to counsel those in need from their congregation, and is furnished with plush chairs and couches, built-in bookcases, a tucked away desk with a laptop, and a large bay window that looks out on our front lawn. Everything is decorated in muted tones—blues, beiges, and distressed woods—to encourage a feeling of safety and ease.
Normally, I love this room and its strong scent of well-used books, but today it feels like a lie. We’re supernatural beings with the power of warriors. There are real threats out in the world that need us, but we intentionally squander our gifts. We make ourselves less to blend in.
Humans have other humans to help them deal with their day-to-day lives, but who do the supernaturals have? Who counsels people like Callie? Protects those like Connor? Speaks for wronged innocents like Nolan? Ensures dark nephilim like Donovan never fight alone? Even if he irritates me to no end, he still deserves someone covering his back. Yes, helping souls cross over is important, but why does that have to be all we are?
“That’s one hell of a stew you got going on there,” my father states, when I sit down on the couch across from him.
So much for my neutral expression.
“Donovan… irritated me on the drive home,” I answer, choosing my words carefully to keep anything else from spilling out. Holding on to my polite mask seems to be getting harder by the day, the cracked pieces not fitting together quite as well as they used to.
He sighs, rubbing between his brows. “You two have always been able to get under each other’s skin, even when you were little.”
