by Kristie Cook
About This Book
My toes curl over the edge of an abyss, my lifeline of hope fraying into a thin line. If it snaps, I’ll plunge into complete darkness. Thankfully, I have my son and my writing. Because of them and the support of my mother, I’ve been able to hold on.
Until now.
Erratic impulses, disturbing delusions and my own demonic blood threaten my insanity. Everything about my world is twisting and turning and flipping me upside down with it. When the Amadis council forces me to choose between hanging on to hope or letting go to serve my purpose, I face a decision with inconceivable sacrifices. So what do I do?
I run.
I need to get away from it all. I need to think. I need to get my freaking life together. I go to the one place I think will provide answers, only to find myself at the center of another battle of good versus evil, not only with the Daemoni, but within myself. And also against the worst opponent imaginable.
But even if I win—even if I survive—what will I lose?
An Angel’s Purpose
Kristie Cook
Contents
Books by Kristie Cook
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Glossary & Cast
An Angel’s Purpose Playlist
About the Author
Connect With Me Online
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt
Genesis
Books by Kristie Cook
Books by Kristie Cook
Soul Savers
A Demon’s Promise
An Angel’s Purpose
Dangerous Devotion
Dark Power
Sacred Wrath
Unholy Torment
Fractured Faith
Genesis: A Soul Savers Novella
Awakened Angel: A Soul Savers Novella
Prophecy of the Wolves: (A Soul Savers Tie-In Novella)
Wonder: A Soul Savers Collection of Holiday Short Stories & Recipes
Havenwood Falls
Forget You Not
Lose You Not
Break Me Not
The Collector: Awakening
The Winged & the Wicked (with T.V. Hahn)
Savage Salvation (Sin & Silk)
Sun & Moon Academy Book One: Fall Semester
Havenwood Falls Short Story Anthology 2018
Havenwood Falls Short Story Anthology 2019
Book Of Phoenix
The Space Between
The Space Beyond
The Space Within
Original Material Copyright © 2009, 2010 by Kristie Cook
New Material Copyright © 2011, 2015, 2020 by Kristie Cook
All rights reserved.
Published by
Ang’dora Productions, LLC
Mailing Address:
5621 Strand Blvd., Suite 210
Naples, FL 34110
Ang’dora Productions and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Ang’dora Productions, LLC
Cover design by Lily Rowserein at https://rowserein.pb.design/
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the owner of this book.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition December 2010
Second Edition August 2011, Updated November 2015
Third Edition June 2020
Created with Vellum
For Yvonne Clark and Gertrude Perguson
And in memory of
Sheree Cook Chestnut
Prologue
The First Three Years
Living with half a soul is like living forever in the hour before dawn, when the sky is no longer black, but a dark, charcoal gray, waiting for the light. It’s like clinging to the hope of a new day lingering just beyond the horizon. The new day that never comes. The light that never brightens the world.
I live in varying shades of gray and with each shade, I feel like a different person . . . but always only half a person. Always half empty. Except when I’m with my son, when I feel the most like the real me, the old me. When I am Almost Alexis. Dorian pushes the darkness away and brightens my life. With him, I actually feel half full.
But then there’s Swirly Alexis, who disorients my thoughts to the point where I don’t know what is real and what is fiction, swirling my world into confusion.
And Psycho Alexis is blind to everything but rage, lashing out with a heart and soul black as ink.
Foggy Alexis, however, rules most of the time, allowing me to live in a dense fog, with no clear edges to my life, my thoughts, my feelings. She numbs the pain so I can survive without screaming.
The only sure thing I know is the rope of hope I hold so tightly to—the hope that Tristan still lives. That he will come back. Just as he promised.
Over time, however, the rope thins and begins to fray. I have tried to strengthen it by making a promise of my own. That I will rescue him from his hell after I go through the Ang’dora—a promise he may never know but I will nonetheless keep. If the Ang’dora arrives before it’s too late. As time passes, I don’t know if I can continue hanging on. What remains of the rope is now just a thin thread. If it breaks, I will plunge into an abyss of complete darkness.
For now, the thread still remains intact. And as long as it does, I will hold on. I will hold on to that hope. Even if doing so means living in a fog. Even if it means living with just half a soul, as half a person. Because I am reminded nightly that I need to, that our souls are worth it.
For a short time every night, I allow myself to remember, if only in my subconscious. And then I know again what it feels like to have a whole soul. To feel loved. To be complete. To live in a world of beautiful color and light. To know that he lives. And so does the Real Alexis. Somewhere, we cling to each other, our souls still united. Somewhere, we live together in the light.
But then the sun rises, and life goes dark again . . .
Chapter 1
Seven years, seven months, seven days.
That much time had passed since the day my husband left my life and disappeared without a trace.
At least, it would be in about three minutes. Not that anyone was counting. Especially not me. Not according to anyone else, anyway. After the first few years, I finally learned to put on a game face, to mask my feelings, to lock up what I really believed in my heart and soul. I figured out how to live as Fake Alexis or, on bad days, Foggy Alexis. Only with Dorian was I Almost Alexis, as real as I could possibly be. As anyone with depression, anxiety, or PTSD—I’d self-diagnosed them all—understood, pretending was the only way to survive a “normal” life. As if my life w
as ever or would ever be normal. Fake, Foggy, and Almost were at least better than Swirly or Psycho, whom, thankfully, we hadn’t seen a trace of for a long, long time. They were the worst, and hopefully gone for good. How I ached to just be Alexis again.
Seven years, seven months, seven days.
I knew the exact count without thinking about it. In many ways, it still felt like yesterday. In others, like an eternity.
I stared at the numerous number sevens I’d doodled all over my notebook without realizing it. I’d started out writing notes for the ending of my current book, but apparently, I’d become distracted. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, I had to hold back my hopes and mentally brace myself that my lucky number seven would fail me this time.
A few years ago, as a coping mechanism, I’d started a game with my psyche. I’d convinced myself that he wouldn’t return on just any old day, but on one that had significance. Perhaps my birthday or our wedding anniversary, maybe our son’s birthday or Christmas or Valentine’s. When each one would come and go without his appearance, I had another day in a few months to look forward to. It helped me get through all those weeks in between on a more even keel, although those particular days were extra tough. I’d grown beyond needing the game to a point where only the Terrible Twos—the two weeks and two days between our anniversary and the anniversary of the day he left—were difficult, but I still played it.
I still hoped.
It was March now, nowhere near the time of the Terrible Twos, which were in July and August. Yet, I felt off all day today, and especially now, as I sat at my desk, listening to midnight chime in from the clock in the living room, staring at the number seven on the page before me, and twisting my wedding set around my finger. Exactly eight years ago, he’d put this engagement ring on me. Still not part of the Terrible Twos, but that combined with the 777 had lifted my hopes up unusually high. This is the day, a tiny voice whispered in the corner of my mind. It’s the perfect day for him to come home.
Stop it! A bigger part yelled at that voice. The part that knew tomorrow—today—would just be another day, and I needed to stop getting my hopes up.
I pushed away from my desk, shut everything down, and closed up my office for the night. That little secret part of me wanted to stay up all night, not wanting to miss the moment he came through the door, but another part of me said morning would come sooner—the actual day would begin—if I went to sleep. Besides, sleeping and the dreams that came were some of the best parts of my day anyway. They were the only time I could see his face. As time had passed on, the conscious memories had faded.
“Calling it a night?” Mom asked when I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Wearing her robe and slippers, she held a mug of her usual nightly tea in her hands.
I went to the fridge to fill my glass with ice and water. “Yeah. I’m stuck and have been staring at a blank screen and paper all day.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Her warm smile shone in her brown eyes as she lifted the mug to her lips.
“I will. I think it’s just because it’s the last book.” I rolled my head on my neck and returned her smile with a forced one of my own. “I want to make sure I do a good job.”
“Oh, you will. Your fans will love it. Get some rest, and I’m sure it will come to you in the middle of the night.”
I let out what I hoped sounded like a good-natured chuckle. “I’m sure something will.”
She frowned a little, knowing what I meant, before turning toward the hallway that led to her bedroom. She paused in half-turn. “I’m going to the market tomorrow. Do you need anything? I assume you’ll be writing all day and night to meet that deadline before your conference call with the publisher next week.”
Writing this week meant all business next week. Ugh. Business sucked the joy out of my profession, especially meetings with my publisher. At least this one was on the phone and not in person, which would require actually leaving the house and wearing real clothes.
I pressed my lips together to keep from making a face and tilted my head. “Just chocolate and coffee. Thanks.”
She came over to give me a quick hug goodnight, and we each went our separate ways. I let out a breath of relief once I was in my own bedroom and the door closed. Mom saw through me more than anyone, and sometimes I didn’t even bother with her, but I tried when I could. She’d stuck with me through all of this, and those first years had been especially hard. I probably would have left me if I were her. But she hadn’t. And now she took on the roles of personal assistant, business manager, home manager, and nanny/Mimi, pretty much taking care of all of Dorian’s and my needs so I could write and bring in the money. Probably because she knew nobody else could stand the job.
I peeked inside my nightstand drawer, but quickly slammed it closed. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but not yet. So I slid into bed without changing my clothes, turned off the light, and closed my eyes, welcoming the dreams . . .
We sat side by side on white sand, gentle waves sliding onto the beach with just a whisper, and the sun low, about to tuck itself behind the horizon. Pink, purple, and gold streaked the sky and reflected on the water. The mixed smell of salt and cocoa butter wafted on the warm air. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to pull the whole scene in so it would become a part of me. His tangy-sweet scent filled my senses. Fresh mangos and papayas mixed with lime and sage and just a hint of man. I would never forget that smell.
I opened my eyes to find his exquisite face only inches from mine. My heart skipped a beat—or three or four. The gold flecks in his hazel eyes sparkled brightly. His full lips curled at the corners in an enticing smile. He lifted his hand to stroke my cheek. His fingers lingered, his palm gently cupping my face. He leaned forward, still holding my eyes. He hesitated. My heart stopped beating. My breathing ceased, too. And the rest of the world melted away as his lips met mine and he kissed me for the first time.
In a heartbeat, we rode his motorcycle to Gasparilla Island. The engine rumbled underneath me, the sound loud but comforting. I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist and pressed myself into his powerful body. We stopped at our favorite place on the beach and sat on the bike, watching the dolphins. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his. His lovely voice murmured, “I love you, ma lykita.”
When I opened my eyes again, Rina had her hands pressed to our hearts at our wedding as she murmured the Angels’ covenant that created an unbreakable bond between our souls. Power flowed through her hands and into us, binding us together in a way that nobody on this Earth could ever experience or even comprehend. In a flash, we were at our beach house in the Florida Keys, the one he built for my wedding present. The white leather bodice of my dress fell to the floor. He lifted me to the bed, and we made love for the first time. Then we were in the shower. Then the motel shower in North Carolina. It was our last time. Ever.
I closed my eyes, wanting to hold on to him because I knew what came next. When I opened them again, we were at the safe house, and I begged him not to leave. Then he led the others out the front door and into the battle. Scenes flashed quickly—shooting lights, mangled body parts, spurting blood. They were suddenly somewhere else, another field, the safe house nowhere in sight. Daemoni attacked the powerful warrior, once theirs. He fought, but there were too many. Dozens of dog-like creatures. Hundreds of them. Their fangs sank into his flesh. The scene changed again, now to a foreign place. A desert valley or some kind of cavern, stone mountains or walls reaching upward out of sight. He could no longer fight back, but writhed on the ground, his beautiful face contorted in agony.
And then he went still.
“NOOOO!”
My eyes flew open, and I gasped for air. I looked around wildly as my mind adjusted to the abrupt change. Darkness surrounded me. My fists clamped the bed sheet to my chest. The duvet hung off the edge of the bed, kicked to the side. I forced myself to pull in a long, controlled breath, and then let the air out just as slowly.
My breaths eventually became even, and my heart finally settled. I looked at the clock, already knowing it was around 3:45 a.m. The blue lights glowed 3:51.
Every night was the same as the one before. Regardless of what time I would finally fall asleep, around 3:45 I would awake screaming and gasping for breath. My imagination created the last part of the memory-dream, but the rest was real and very precious. Some nights, when my subconscious knew my soul needed more, I relived some of our other times together.
I threw myself back on the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember in my conscious mind what my subconscious could so easily play back. I struggled to pull his image into clarity. The edges blurred, as if an oily film coated the lens I looked through. I’m losing him. The image had become dim, faded with time. I can’t forget. I can’t forget, damn it! But remembering had become so hard. My dreams showed my husband’s face perfectly, but my waking mind had lost the clarity, unable to focus on the details.
I tried to recreate the scenes—the good ones—in my mind, focusing on the background, the feels, the smells, hoping my wandering mind could bring his face into view naturally. My scheme began to work. The blurry edges started to sharpen, the light on his face grew brighter, the hazel eyes came into focus . . . .