Affinity (The Guardians Book 1)

by K Fisher

  Affinity

  By: K. Fisher

  Book One of The Guardians

  First printing July 2019

  Copyright © K. Fisher All rights reserved.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  K. Fisher

  Formatting & cover art done by: J. Szarmach Photography

  Brushes for title page and page breaks: Sapphire Iris

  DISCLAIMER

  The book as well as the characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  License

  All rights reserved. This ebook or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  *** Warning ***

  For those young adult readers who enjoyed my Tales of Desin series: This is an adult paranormal book for recommended 18+ readers, this is not a young adult series. Graphic violence, sex, and sarcasm ensue.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Other books

  Dedication

  To my husband who listens to all my crazy plot ideas and suggests characters to kill. I love you.

  Chapter One

  “The best predictor of mental stability is past behavior.”

  Not allowing her crack-proof wall of pleasantness to waver, Hazel flashed the good ol’ doctor her pearly whites, nodding slowly and deliberately as the woman spoke to her.

  “I do understand my past record of mental reliability is weak at best, no one is arguing that. My hope is to only bring truth to the statement my employer has expressed – I am indeed ready to return to work,” Hazel said confidently.

  “It’s not up to him,” Dr. Moore quickly corrected.

  The doctor uncrossed her long, pale legs and shifted her body slightly towards the window. It appeared she was doing everything in her power to cuddle with the outside world rather than confront Hazel with what was scribbled down on her notepad. Hazel didn’t know much about the doctor, except what the woman allowed her to know during sessions. She had been married for thirty-seven years and had three children and six grandchildren. She was a caretaker with a controlled demeanor who had always wanted to work with married couples and young children in need of extra care. Instead, she had to deal with Hazel and the terrible things that happened to her. The last part was not something Hazel had been let on about, but she was drawing the conclusion quickly as she finished the doctor’s story in her mind.

  Of course, Dr. Moore seemed happy to talk about all the subjects Hazel brought up. But the stories weren’t true, just made up tales to create a stage for the real issues that lay far beneath the surface. There was no way the truth would be believed by the dear doctor, and certainly not when she was in the business of psychological evaluation. Hazel was approaching thirty and there was no way she was going to settle with how things had ended with the job she had viewed as the dream career, no way she was going to give up that easily. So, even in a place where she should be safe to divulge her deepest fears and the events she had been through, it was just another fake version of Hazel’s real story. Anything else would be self-sabotage.

  She had trusted the woman enough to share some insecurities and fears, but the cause of those fears was something the poor grandma couldn’t handle, and Hazel wasn’t interested in being referred to an institution, especially not when she was so close to being reinstated. She was already dancing with the devil after the reported ‘suicide attempt’. It had happened prior to her being referred to the therapist, barely keeping Dr. Moore optimistic in regards to her mental health.

  There was a shuffling of paper and she was brought back to the present moment, eyes narrowing in on the source of the noise. Hazel hated the insufferable notepad in Dr. Moore’s hands. She saw the pen and paper as a way for all mental health therapists to distance themselves from their patients, at least it had been the case in the other two she had seen.

  When Hazel was young, her adoptive parents had thought some of her mannerisms were difficult to deal with and sought help from a renowned child psychiatrist in the area. Hazel had not known better and shared all her stories about the shadows she saw around town and the voices that would try to communicate with her at night; of the man who glowed when she spoke to him in the reading room at home, a person who was no longer alive.

  After the woman repeatedly tried to convince her it was all in her head, Hazel refused to speak to or acknowledge her during sessions. The stubborn little girl insisted on speaking with someone else, and after several weeks of this, her parents had no choice but to agree if they wanted her to continue therapy.

  The second Ph.D. to try their hand with her had it the worst. Hazel had started observing adults by then, finding what made them tick and using it against them as a form of power. It was the only thing she could control in her world, and she used the ability for evil. Well, as evil as she possibly could be. There was still a code of honor that resided within Hazel from a young age, one she had been incapable of defeating as an adult.

  But before she was grown, she had watched the man she was sent to, the man who would attempt to dissect her mind. He was organizing his pencils and pens perfectly on his desk, each one aligned flush with the edge. Hazel observed as he stood in the middle of one of their sessions to adjust a painting on the wall a quarter inch to the left, sighing when it was absolutely perfect.

  When her mother accompanied her to one of her sessions, she had noticed him squirm, hardly able to keep his eyes off the half-rolled sleeve on the woman’s peach-colored blouse. As her mother had droned on about the behavior of her child, Hazel zoned in on the assumably sweaty palms of her therapist rubbing on his thighs. She was certain he was trying everything in his power not to leap across the room and fix what made him tick. It was a disease that she had not yet learned sympathy for, nor could she understand fully at such a young age.

  After that, Hazel started coming to his office with a half-rolled sleeve, hair mussed, and with one shoe untied. She made it a point to disrupt everything beside her, and relished in the building reactions from her psychiatrist. Within five minutes of the session, he had begun to sweat, his beady eyes attempting to look at anything but the triggers she had exposed him to.

  Hazel told him stories explaining why she believed she was seeing the evil things she had described to him in earlier sessions. Stories about how her real parents had worked for the CIA, taking her with them on their adventures to fight crime and had to leave her to be adopted by her current parents. She insisted these shadows and dead people she saw were her enemies coming after her for her real parents’ mistakes.

  The little girl had always been able to spin a tale.
Week after week, she would come up with more to cover the truths that had only turned adults away. It was clear by week four he wouldn’t believe a word out of her mouth. Perhaps it was when she spoke of how she was royalty and had been left at the orphanage in an attempt to get her away from enemy hands. But Hazel found some pride in wondering how much he did believe before she started getting reckless with her tales.

  Her adoptive parents did not force her to see anyone else after the obvious reluctance and games she was playing. It had been a great many years since she found herself sitting in a chair across from one of the mental-purging notepad demons. That was what Dr. Moore was, right? Torture hidden in a leather bound yellow legal pad with a pen scratching along the pages.

  Scratch scratch scratch.

  It was like a grinding inside Hazel’s mind that refused to stop. She wondered if perhaps she was plagued with the same mental misgivings of her previous psychiatrist. Karma in its finest form. Did adults truly begin to have mental illness at such an advanced age? It wasn’t something Hazel found herself familiar with, but worried about often.

  All of the psychiatrists seemed to think the same, believing the notebook was a magical record of all the things that could possibly be wrong with their patient. Then, in the case of Hazel, it was used to place blame. As if to prove it wasn’t their fault she didn’t pass the psychological requirements her previous job had required. The notepad said it was so. There was no one to blame but the paper.

  “I have it written here…” Dr. Moore licked the tip of her index finger, using it to delicately breeze through several pages of notes. It was a habit which disgusted Hazel but she kept her painted smile despite imagining all the little bits of the woman’s slobber left behind on the pages of the notebook, “…you experienced an incident in my office several weeks ago. Do you recall the details of the incident?”

  Oh yeah, like they both didn’t recall it. It really was a good thing her notepad was there to remind them.

  “Wait, you weren’t there? Who was that delightful woman I was having such a good time with? I’d love to send her my regards for the good talk, heartwarming sentiments, and the delicious wedding mints she always has available.”

  The doctor frowned, clearly she was not at all entertained by Hazel’s antics and sarcasm; finally showing her age when all the wrinkles appeared on her furrowed brow. It was nice to see her in a human light, instead of hidden behind whatever spell was keeping her looking so youthful and wise.

  She had to be applying blood from those who tried to fool her into prescribing them something they didn’t need, no doubt. Did wonders for the skin.

  Hazel had found her first gray hair the week before and blamed her spitefulness as she gave the doctor an apologetic smile. She didn’t need any more bad karma rolling around. She would be in the grave within a week, or cursed to never break the dry spell left behind by her ex and die alone with her cat, Charlie.

  “It really was such a terrible week. Death in the family. Breakup. But I have to say, I have not had any slips since that day. Don’t we all express distress when our lives are turned upside down? Thankfully, I’ve had the help in my past, by you and others, to teach me how to better work through these issues in the long run,” Hazel said, forcing herself to keep her smile snugly in place and as much of a twinkle in her eyes as she could muster.

  Dr. Moore was staring at her from behind her oval frames; the intensity was one that made Hazel squirm in her seat. It was a reminder that she was under a bright light and shackled to the promise of emotional normality if she just behaved. But the incident had been less than minor and a clear sign that Hazel was not ready to return to work. If that was even an option after the stunt she pulled, a large part of her believed the false hope was only instilled in her to make her feel better.

  She’d be working at a coffee shop within the week, degree and years of service thrown to the wayside as she burned her hand making cappuccinos and flirted with men who had moustaches and wrote poetry in leather notebooks. Men who had delightfully patterned socks and believed whiskey should only be consumed on the rocks, delicately, in suspenders, whilst listening to records.

  Dr. Moore sighed, uncrossing and crossing her long legs once more as she continued to peer over at Hazel. “The incident, as you recall…” her voice continued on, Hazel already was staring ahead at the notebook in an attempt to forget.

  The ‘minor’ incident the doctor spoke of had been a direct result of an attempted meditation practice brought on by none other than herself. Hazel had learned as an adult to steer clear of practices that required her to empty her mind and think of nothing, never having interest in hypnotism. It always seemed impossible for her brain, which insisted on being all over the place. But still, Dr. Moore had insisted they continue to give it a try to see if the method helped unlock past trauma in Hazel’s life.

  In the recent past, Hazel had even made it a test to see if she could trick Dr. Moore into thinking she was falling into hypnosis, spouting nonsense when she asked her to reach in deep and tell her what she felt and saw. For some reason though, something inside had prompted her to try the exercise that day without blocking the process.

  Maybe it was the lack of coffee in her routine that Wednesday morning or the new scent in her car pod air freshener, but she was feeling risky. She had taken a seat and listened to the doctor’s calm words as she allowed her mind to be emptied and the scene painted for her to drift her away. Hazel had successfully been hypnotized for the first time in her life and the reaction was far from ideal.

  When the dead man of her past, the man who spoke to her as a child in the reading room at her adoptive father’s home, came to her mind in the darkness of the hypnosis, she did not know how to react. She saw herself and the doctor sitting in the office, but she was floating above them with her back against the ceiling as she observed, hovering. Her body was seated and motionless on the chair below as the doctor continued to speak soft words to her. She could not fully hear or understand the words. They sounded as if they were muffled.

  The dead man stood behind the doctor, his body basked in the light blue glow of his energy just as she had remembered. Although it had been five years since her father’s death and the last time Hazel had laid eyes on the dead man and spirit Guardian, he looked exactly the same. It was a silly thought really, as he’d never manage to look any differently now that he was dead and incapable of growth.

  His crystal blue eyes lifted and focused on her, narrowing with understanding and a shock she had not anticipated. Her breath caught in her throat, long brown hair drifting down around her face as she floated above and tried to beat the air to get to her body like a swimmer. But she did not move from the ceiling, arms struggling to reach for herself as she remained suspended and away from both the Guardian, and herself.

  He slowly tore his eyes away from Hazel and walked towards the side table next to Dr. Moore. Reaching for her mug, he looked once more at Hazel’s face before throwing it with all his might against the adjacent wall, causing a loud smash alerting the doctor instantly, her head whipping around to stare at where the mug had made contact.

  She could see the sneer of anger he surely had, despite being unable to spot much more than his bright eyes amidst his energy swirling around him.

  His words were a demand in a deep growl she remembered so well, a rumble vibrating through every inch of her body.

  “Get out of here!”

  Chapter Two

  Hazel’s energy tore through the air, astral body hitting her physical one on the chair with a speed and ferocity she was certain would hurt. Yet she had felt nothing as her two bodies became one and she opened her eyes, staring at Dr. Moore.

  The woman’s mouth was agape as she stared at the broken mug upon the ground. She was astonished and alarmed as she seemed to struggle to bring some understanding to the situation that had played out before her.

  The moment the mug was thrown, the spell was broken and the dark feeling settled
deep within Hazel had not been there previously. It was like Hazel was moving in slow motion, wading through a sludge with every movement she struggled to make. It was too similar to the incident that landed her in the therapist office in the first place. But the man she had known so well when she was a child, Guardian, he wasn’t there for the suicide attempt. Why had he been in the office just now? Why had he demanded she leave now after so long without speaking, and how had he escaped the home in which he died? From what she had been told so many times before, those who were born with a connection to the dead, those with Affinities, they were trapped on the lands in which they died while other, normal souls drifted off to their final destination. How had he been able to appear before her in that moment? He hadn’t returned to her since the mug throwing incident, however, no matter how much Hazel had tried to reach out and find reason. The dead man was gone once again.

  She had left Dr. Moore in her chair, eyes wide and pen held steady on the cursed paper of the notebook. The poor woman had no words and instead of giving her an excuse, Hazel had simply grabbed her things and left the room in a rush.

  She bought the woman a new mug the following week, refusing to be scared away by a being of her past and his unwarranted demands. A part of her even hoped the defiance and ignoring him would bring him back. Along with the mug, Hazel had come up with some bullshit story about how she suffered from sleepwalking and, most importantly, had violent tendencies when doing so. Somehow Dr. Moore’s mind was so desperate to believe the mug had not been thrown on its own accord and instead by Hazel herself, she was willing to take whatever excuse Hazel offered her. Her mind changing the fearful situation into one she could cognitively connect to. Hazel had thrown the mug, surely Hazel had been the one to do it.

  Getting Dr. Moore a new mug had to count for something, despite the hesitant and unbelieving look in her eyes when she slowly took it from Hazel. It was a wonder the doctor had offered to see her again afterward. Apparently, the woman didn’t think Hazel truly was a danger. However, the burly new guard they had at the entrance to the front office made her wonder if she had the doctor worried about safety, at least to some degree.