Fallen (Guardian Trilogy Book 1)

by Laury Falter

  Annie and Charlie leapt up on the couch, curling themselves into balls, and immediately began to snore. Eran filled two bowls with stew and placed them on the table before taking a seat.

  “Oh…it’s comfortable,” I said, as I sat down in the only other chair.

  Eran smiled to himself. “We old things are well worn.”

  I picked up my spoon, noticing it was already warm to the touch, so it wouldn’t chill the stew. Hesitantly, I asked, “How old are you exactly?”

  “Centuries,” he replied simply, as if this were commonplace.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, astounded.

  “Why? Do I strike you as immature?” he teased.

  “At times,” I replied, flatly.

  He glanced up surprised, until he saw I was grinning playfully back at him.

  “Actually, you…have a certain kind of awareness about you that…sort of demonstrates your age.”

  “Is that so?” His eyebrows raised in interest.

  “Yes. It seems like you know what is around every corner and you’re not concerned, because you’ve handled it before. It seems as if you are…infallible.”

  He paused, holding his spoon, and snickered lightly. “That is certainly not the case.”

  “It’s not? You mean, you’re vulnerable? But how could that be?” I teased.

  Eran’s reply was more serious. “We all are, Magdalene, each of us in our own way.”

  I mulled this over as we ate, realizing the truth behind his statement. Less than a minute had passed when I noticed that my stew was almost gone. It was so delicious; I had almost devoured it. After finishing off the last of it, I settled back into the chair.

  Glancing around and enjoying the feeling of being with Eran in this particular place, I thought to ask, “What do your guests think…of this place?”

  He shook his head languidly at me. “Guests? Oh, I don’t have guests here. This is my private paradise.”

  “But you brought me,” I stated, watching him though he’d dropped his head to avoid eye contact. “Yes, yes, I did.”

  I couldn’t ignore the butterflies that flitted in my stomach at this acknowledgement. “So why me? Why did you bring me?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, taking another spoonful of stew. “You…you asked about where I live,” he said faintly. With a deeper, more evocative tone, he added, “And I get a sense that you miss the feeling of home sometimes.”

  My breath caught in my throat at the obvious sense of awareness he had about me. He knew me better than I thought.

  “Home wasn’t something I could comprehend for a long time. But, I’m getting a sense of it now,” I replied.

  “With your roommates,” he added.

  “Yes, definitely. They make our house a home. But, I feel at home here too.”

  “You do?” he asked, enthusiastically.

  “Yes.”

  Not bothering to hide his grin, he cleared his throat and set down his spoon, clanging it loudly against the rim of his bowl. He’d finished his dinner and was now leaning back, folding his hands across his abdomen, watching me.

  I felt transparent with his blatant attention and had the urge to keep the conversation going as a diversion. He’d let me see his piece of paradise and it now made me question mine.

  “Eran…you were there when I died last, right? I believe that’s what you said. When I was just a baby…you thought I saw you before I passed on.”

  He noticeably cringed at the memory and I instantly felt bad about bringing it up. I reminded myself there was an important reason behind why I was asking but it didn’t help much. When he nodded, I continued even though he wouldn’t look up from his empty bowl.

  “Well…if you were there, when I died, you must know where I died.”

  He nodded again, still avoiding my eyes.

  “Will you tell me where it happened? So I can find out who I was?”

  His head finally rose, and a sharp pain pierced my heart when I saw his expression was blanketed with regret.

  “Please don’t look at me like that,” I whispered.

  “It’s the thought that I couldn’t stop it…couldn’t prevent you from feeling the pain…” his voice trailed off, shaking his head, clear contempt for himself etching his beautiful face.

  “It’s not your fault.” When it looked like he was about to refute, I didn’t allow it. “You would do anything in your power to protect me. You’ve already proven that.”

  “I would,” he looked up at me through his long eyelashes and lifted his head to be level with mine again. “I would,” he repeated, more firmly, erasing any doubt I may have held. Though, I didn’t.

  “And that is why you are the only person I would want to show me who I was before…”

  His breathing became labored, clearly indicating he was battling some pressing desire to not help me, though I didn’t understand why.

  Finally, he conceded, grudgingly. “Next time. Right now…” he tapped the skin on his wrist as if a watch were there, and said, “…you have to get back to earth.”

  At that moment, I awoke to my alarm clock and the smell of Felix’s eggplant crepes.

  I didn’t sit up immediately but took a few minutes to remember Eran’s face, as I was pulled far too quickly away from him. Reluctantly, I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, regretful that time did not exist in the afterlife while it was so prevalent here on earth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: PAST LIVES

  It felt like time stopped, teasing me each time I looked at my watch…which was often. For the first time in my life, I could relate to all those infatuated girls fawning over their love interests. Every minute was too long to wait before I could see Eran again. I sat in The Square all day, hoping to wear myself out so I would fall asleep quickly when I got back to the house.

  Eran was such a strong distraction that I actually had to record people’s messages on a piece of paper I’d torn from Rufus’s sketch book. I just didn’t trust that I would remember them correctly when half of my attention was focused on my feelings for Eran. It was driving me crazy; I could barely concentrate. It wasn’t until a girl I recognized from school approached me that I was able to focus a little more.

  It was Saturday and I’d set up my chairs in their usual spot, beneath one of the dappled oak trees dotting The Square. Today was a busy one with throngs of tourists buying trinkets and their caricatures from local artists. Still, despite the swarm of people, I saw her coming. She had a self-assured air that was hard to miss.

  She was from my English Interpretive Literature class, and she sat several rows in front of me. I’d caught her staring at me recently when I entered or left the classroom. As she took a seat in my customer chair, I knew why.

  “You’re Miranda, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, how did you know?” She seemed surprised.

  “I pay attention.”

  “Ah…Did you also know I was on the school paper?” She asked, grinning broadly at me. There was a hint hidden in the tone of her voice which instantly concerned me. It meant I had guessed her reason for being here correctly.

  “Yes,” I said, hesitantly.

  “Good. I’d like to do an article on you.”

  I laughed, awkwardly. “Oh, I’m sure there are more interesting topics you can write about…”

  “No…there really isn’t,” she said decisively, making it clear she wasn’t going to concede. She sensed my apprehension and quickly added, “Look, you are by far the most interesting person in school – from your bike…“

  “Harley Davidson 883 Sportster,” I clarified. If she was going to do a story about me, then she was going to do it accurately.

  “Thank you,” she replied, confirming she understood my point. “You weren’t born and raised here in New Orleans. You don’t work at a souvenir shop, like everyone else, or have a wealthy family paying your tuition. No…you come from the unknown…working in Jackson Square for your money doing psychic readings.” She enunciat
ed this last part for emphasis. I stopped her there.

  “I don’t do psychic readings, and I’m not psychic. I deliver messages to those who have passed on. At least get that right.”

  She didn’t appear offended at my verbal jab and that made me feel a little more comfortable with her. Instead, she smiled confidently and said, “Let me interview you. I’ll write the story, you’ll read it before anyone else sees it, and you can make changes if you wish.”

  “I don’t even want the story written in the first place.”

  She sighed and leaned back in the chair, clearly displeased. “I can either write the story with your help, making sure it’s correct, or I can write it based on my observations…which may be entirely wrong.”

  “What do I care?” I shrugged, trying to dissuade her.

  “Do you really want people thinking you do séances? Because that’s what I see here.”

  She was tough, but I could relate to that. I repositioned myself, glaring openly at her. “You’re going to write this story with or without me, aren’t you?”

  “I prefer it be with you,” she replied, bolting forward in her seat. The girl had a lot of energy. “People are intrigued, Maggie. They want to know you, but they’re too afraid to ask. You are a…phenomenon. Explain it to them.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Through me,” she added. “Ah, come on. If nothing else, it’ll drive The Warden batty.”

  I instantly perked up. “Did you…Did you just call him The Warden?”

  She frowned back. “Did you think we’re all a bunch of status quo, mindless followers? We know what he’s like. Give us some credit, Maggie.”

  I laughed at her response, regardless of my frustration with her. I then decided anyone who could see the man for what he was – an overbearing dictator – couldn’t be all that bad.

  “Alright, what do you want to know?” I begrudgingly asked.

  She beamed, swiftly retrieving her notepad like a professional, before launching into countless questions, most of which were written down in shorthand – a skill I thought died in 1969. She asked about my past; including my adoptive aunt, previous schools, where I’d lived, who I lived with now – which I elaborated on with pride, because I truly thought my roommates were wonderful people. Finally, with the preliminary details out of the way, she asked about my work.

  “How exactly do you do it?” She was eagerly leaning forward in her chair, again.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know why me…and not someone else. I don’t know what allows me to wake up in the morning after spending the night in the afterlife. I don’t even know that I could stop it if I tried.”

  “Have you ever tried? I mean…it must get exhausting.”

  “Not really. I wake up as refreshed as everyone else seems to be. And I don’t want to stop trying. I think, or at least I like to believe, the service I perform helps people.” She had her head down, rapidly jotting notes, but nodded once, signaling for me to go on. “Miranda, you should see the joy, the pure excitement, on their faces and sometimes the complete humbling appreciation. Imagine waiting years to tell someone that you weren’t mad at them when they passed on and finally being able to release that guilt or being able to check up on a newly departed loved one ensuring their transition was smooth and they’re happy. I perform that service.” I paused for a moment, thinking about it. “No…I wouldn’t stop even if I could.”

  By the end of my chatter, Miranda’s face was frozen in awe, her jaw slightly dropped, her eyes glassed over. “You really don’t do this for the money, do you?”

  “I needed it at first, but the truth is, I can live on very little – and I have. The money now…it makes my customers feel better. I get the sense they need an insurance policy to ensure their message will be delivered.”

  She laughed at that, making notes on her pad, and smiled warmly at me.

  “Maggie, thank you so much for the opportunity to get to know you a little better.”

  “Sure. Are we done?” I asked, watching a man shifting from foot to foot, eagerly waiting to be my next customer.

  “Yes, we are.”

  She held out her hand, which I shook, and a moment later she was gone.

  Although I didn’t regret having taken the interview, I did start to wonder later if she’d keep her word and let me review the article before it was published – my skepticism mostly caused by having found very few heartfelt people at the Academy of the Immaculate Heart. But, what was done…was done. If she chose to run her own version that decision was now hers. I was never good at judging others and I couldn’t tell if she was trustworthy, so I just had to have faith.

  By the end of the day, my concerns over whether Miranda would portray me in an honest, positive light had been chased away by my eagerness to see Eran. As dusk fell across New Orleans, shadows rose up and Cajun music began filtering out from neighborhood bars, I was preparing myself for what I was about to learn – who I was before.

  At the house, I rushed through dinner, polishing off Felix’s Sprout and Eggplant Egg White Crepe Special which boosted his pride and surprised Rufus and Ezra. Rufus had been busy preparing hamburgers and steak fries when I refused to wait so I’m certain they thought something was up. To assuage their suspicions, I explained I had a lot of work to do…which was true. I did have quite a few messages to deliver since The Square was really busy today. I’d already determined I would tackle those first, before I could see Eran, or I was convinced I’d never get around to delivering at all.

  A few minutes later, I was upstairs hastily brushing my teeth. I splashed some water on my face, in place of a good scrub, and hopped into bed, finishing my nightly routine in less than a quarter of the time it typically takes me.

  Just as I had hoped, keeping busy at The Square today helped put me to sleep quickly. The next moment I was waking up on the stone bench in the middle of the Hall of Records, only this time I wasn’t alone.

  With my eyes closed, I didn’t see him, but I felt a surge of elation run through me, reaching from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  “Pleasant trip back?” Eran’s sensual, deep accent was lined with enthusiasm and made my heart beat faster.

  Sitting up, I opened my eyes and found him standing over me.

  “Far too overdue,” I said, taking him in while trying not to show it.

  “You were counting the minutes until you saw me next, weren’t you?” he asked, playfully.

  I rolled my eyes at him, trying not to show how close to the truth he actually was. “No one will ever accuse you of modesty.”

  “Never,” he grinned, brazenly.

  I noted that he smelled of fresh earth, spring air, and warm sun. In fact, he looked like he’d just walked off a vineyard during harvest time. The flannel and jeans he’d worn last time I’d seen him had been replaced with khakis and a white cotton tank top, helping his dark tan skin stand out. I could see his carved muscles lining the inside of his shirt, making it very hard for me to look away.

  “When you arrived, you were smiling. No, beaming is more like it,” he stated.

  I shrugged, intentionally not explaining. There was no reason I could give without letting him know I was thrilled to see him.

  I stood giving myself something to do before my attention could be drawn back to the enticing curvature of his muscles.

  “So, what are you doing here? Looking for a record?”

  “No…” he replied, offhandedly. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Me?” I asked, stunned.

  “I said I’d show you the record with your past lives on it.”

  “Oh, that…” So, he had only come to fulfill a promise and nothing more.

  He chuckled. “For some reason, I thought you’d be more excited.”

  “I am! I am. I just…I need to deliver a few messages first.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning to walk toward the wall closest to us. “I’m here. I might as well help.”

/>   I was surprised at his offer. I’d never had help before, and his enthusiasm caught me off-guard. Still, I was glad he suggested it. Company would be a welcomed benefit on this visit, especially his company.

  “So, who is first,” he asked, walking toward the wall, anticipating the search for our first scroll.

  It struck me while watching him, either he was naturally intuitive at using the scrolls or he had done this before. I had never seen Eran in the hall, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here during my off-hours.

  “Tipper McNeal is first…died last in Omaha, Nebraska on December 14, 2000.”

  He nodded and then pointed down the wall toward the “O’s”.

  Reaching the spot where I needed to climb the wall, I grabbed hold and began to lift myself up.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, holding back laughter.

  “I’m climbing,” I told him, my voice tinged with defensiveness.

  This time he released a hearty laugh and said, “I’m happy to carry you.” He moved slightly up and down in the air, boasting his ability to float.

  I scoffed at the proposal. “Show off. No thank you.”

  His response was a mere glimmer in his eyes, the meaning of which was unmistakable. He was going to race me.

  I sprang upward, carrying myself faster than I’d ever moved to reach a record.

  Less than a second later, I was several stories high when I heard him clear his throat.

  “You passed it,” he called out, not bothering to hold back his laughter.

  I felt the flush creep over my cheeks as I turned and found him floating a few feet down from me, next to the scroll for Omaha.

  I grimaced. The point I was trying to make was that I didn’t need help, but it was futile.

  I climbed back down and looked at him, purposely, before reaching to open the scroll.

  He was smirking but gave me what I wanted…confirmation. “You’re fast.”

  “Beat you…” I muttered, pulling out the scroll to review.

  I found Tipper McNeal’s information midway down the page. Reaching out my thumb to drift over the entry, it surprised me when Eran took hold of me, preparing to be guided there also. His gentle touch made me shiver in reaction.