by ML Guida
She glared and refused to answer him.
“Mason.” Hewitt shook his head. Mason turned away and grumbled under his breath.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bowen.”
Heather sat straighter in her chair and clutched her hands together, turning her knuckles white. Hewitt’s soft voice and Mason’s hard voice twisted her nerves tighter and tighter. Their good cop bad cop routine threatened to tear down her façade.
Hewitt smiled. “What was her demeanor like?”
Heather frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did you suspect she was using again?”
His voice was soft, almost as if he was chiding her.
“No, she wasn’t. I would have known.”
Mason leaned back in his chair. “Addicts are experts in hiding their usage. She was probably using right under your nose, and you didn’t even know it.” His know-it-all tone made her want to knock his lights out.
“Excuse me? I’m a licensed clinical social worker and a certified alcohol counselor. I would have known if she had a relapse. She had just attended her one year sobriety meeting and was damn proud of her success.”
Mason stopped leaning back on his chair and folded his hands on the table. “You were there?”
“Yes, she received her pen and was ecstatic.”
Susan looked at the detectives. “We concede that Rosemary had a drug problem in the past, so what is your point?”
Detective Hewitt filed through papers. “We’ve talked to the coroner. He said he’s never seen a hallucinogen act this way.”
“I know he told me,” Heather said.
Hewitt put the papers down and leaned forward. His hard stare pinned her to the wall. “Did you also know that the coroner reported that two of your patients—Jessy Malcomb and Mark Vanderbilt—had the same the drug in their system.”
Blood drained from Heather’s face. “Both of them? They were both my patients at Serenity House.”
“Yes, we know.” Mason slammed his hand on the table. “We want to know where they got the drug. Are you their dealer, Ms. Bowen?”
Susan slashed her hand across the table as if to karate chop Mason’s words. “Heather, don’t answer that.”
Heather jumped and her racing heart nearly bounced out of her chest, but she didn’t listen to Susan. “No! I think she got it from that man.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Mason said. “You’re some kind of psychic.”
Heather sighed. Of course, the police didn’t believe her. Law enforcement scoffed at the supernatural. They both thought she was a charlatan.
Susan touched Heather’s shaking hand. “I advise you to not answer any more questions.” She raised her eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you have proof that my client has committed a crime.”
“No.” Mason leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Not yet. But we will.”
Susan’s harsh voice didn’t intimidate the smug ass. Fear turned Heather’s stomach into tiny knots. She was innocent, but what if the detectives could convict her on circumstantial evidence? Witch hunts had sent innocent people to prison.
Hewitt pulled out his little notebook and licked his finger. He flicked through the paper. “Ah, yes. Your client said a mysterious man was at the crime scene and that she only dreamed of him, but that night he was there in the alleyway.”
Heather nodded. “I know you don’t believe me, but yes, that’s what happened.”
“You’re lying, Ms. Bowen,” Mason said. “You’re hiding something.”
“I’m telling you the truth.” Heather’s voice raised higher than she wanted and the detectives smiled. She broke out in a hot sweat. She was losing control and falling into their trap.
“Mason.” Hewitt glared.
Mason shrugged, but he stopped beating her over the head with his accusations.
“Now, Ms. Bowen,” Hewitt said. “Let’s say for argument’s sake, you saw someone. What did he look like that night?”
“It was dark, and he was hard to see. I only saw him for a few minutes.”
“Why? Did he disappear?” Mason mumbled.
Heather’s cheeks flamed. He had disappeared, but if she admitted it, she’d end up on seventy-two hour hold.
Hewitt glared. He motioned to Heather. “Please, try to remember.”
“He wore a jean jacket with no shirt and had on jeans. He had long, braided hair.”
Hewitt scratched on his trusty notepad. “Do you know what nationality he might be?”
She shook her head. “No, but he had olive colored skin. And, oh, he had a cobra tattooed on his chest.”
Mason studied her. “That’s a remarkable memory for only seeing him in the dark and for a few minutes.” He flashed his gaze over her. “It’s almost as if you knew him.”
His low voice sent chills down her back. She new the man. He haunted her dreams every night. She hadn’t thought he was real.
Until now.
“What about the color of his eyes?” Hewitt asked.
“I’m not sure. Brown maybe. It was dark and hard to see his face.” She couldn’t tell them he had red eyes as if he were possessed. They wouldn’t believe her anyhow.
Hewitt picked up a paper in a file. “Did your sister suffer from mental problems?”
“Obviously, she did.” Heather motioned. “You’re reading it. She was never psychotic. She’d been depressed and suicidal, but never homicidal.”
Mason turned the tip of his mouth into an ugly twist. “She was a couple of days ago.”
She’d had enough. “Did your father rape you when you were six years old, Detective Mason? Then force you to have sex with him until you were ten?”
Tears crept into her eyes and she trembled with anger. She wanted to take his fat head and slam it into the file so he could read about the horrors Rosemary had to endure.
His cheeks turned red, and he looked down at the table.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Ms. Bowen,” he said. “The prisons are full of people who had terrible childhoods. It doesn’t give them the right to kill people.”
Heather bristled at his gentle voice. She knew that. She’d tried to drill this into her staff at Serenity House, but it was different when it was your own sister.
The pea colored walls closed in on her. She gulped for air. Her thumping heart sent blood rushing through her and her temperature rose ten degrees. Her fingers turned numb and her vision clouded. She had to get out of here before she had a complete panic attack.
“Susan,” Heather whispered. She hated sounding so weak.
Susan stood and motioned with her hand for Heather to stand. “My client is still recovering from her sister’s funeral and is obviously under duress. Unless you gentlemen plan to charge her with a crime, this interview is over.”
“Yes, of course.” Hewitt smiled, but the corners of his mouth didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks for coming down here.”
“Don’t worry,” Mason opened the door, “we’ll be in touch.”
Heather darted out of the room, afraid Mason would slap handcuffs on her wrists.
Susan rushed behind her, her heels clicking on the floor. “Will you wait for me!”
“I’m sorry.” Heather gasped to breathe. “I just couldn’t stay in there. I thought I would pass out.”
Susan rubbed her back. “It’s okay. Mason’s a total ass.” She glanced at her watch. “Are you sure you want to go to work? You’ve got less than fifteen minutes to get there.”
“I need to work. I need some normalcy in my life.”
“Okay.” She tilted her head. “Just don’t meet with those two clowns without me.”
Heather saluted. “I promise.”
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into Serenity’s parking lot. Great, she was still late. She flung open the door and grabbed her purse. She kicked the door shut and bolted toward the front door. She inhaled the sweet smell of geraniums and petunias. Rosemary had planted them in terra-cotta pots on either side of the door
. Pain stabbed her heart. She’d miss Rosemary’s little touches of making Serenity more homey and welcoming.
She wiped her feet on the doormat and put her shoulders back. She wouldn’t cry. She had a job to do and opened the door.
Her secretary, Stephanie Rampart, looked up from her computer and smiled. “Good morning, Heather.” She flashed one of her bright smiles that matched her yellow sundress. “Your first appointment is here. Unfortunately, the other two canceled.”
“Great. We’re short staffed as it is.” She didn’t want to think about having to work double shifts because she couldn’t find drug and alcohol counselors. She wished she could pay more, but her tight budget wouldn’t allow it.
The aroma of coffee tantalized Heather’s senses. “I need coffee first.” She poured a generous cup and doctored it with cream, hoping the warm drink would erase the horrible morning. She turned to greet her first interview and froze. Her breath caught in her throat and her hand shook. It couldn’t be. It was him. The man from her nightmares!
She shook and coffee splashed onto her hand. “Ow! Shit!”
Stephanie rushed over with a paper towel. “Heather, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her hand throbbed, but she didn’t care. All she could do was stare at the man sitting on the sofa, watching her with curious eyes.
On closer look, he didn’t look exactly like her dreaded dream man. It was the same dark hair, but not braided. It flared over his massive shoulders and she had a ridiculous compulsion to run her fingers through it to see if it was as silky as it looked. He had the same fine chiseled face. Only his eyes were different. They were glowing silver instead of red. She’d never seen such a luminous color. She could get lost in them.
But it was his aura that intrigued her. It was a brilliant white. She had to shield her eyes; it was so bright. She’d never seen such a beautiful color. It radiated peace and love. A white aura meant angels were nearby, but this man wasn’t like any angel she’d ever seen. As if by magic, his aura dissipated, but she could feel its power, a power that burst through the entire room.
He stood and smiled. “You’re Ms. Bowen?”
Like the man in her nightmare, he had the same sultry voice. He was too damn handsome and so tall. She’d barely come up to his shoulders, but she was the boss. She put her coffee cup down. “Yes, I’m Ms. Bowen. And you are?”
“I’m Scythe Angel. I have an appointment with you.”
With his long hair and a diamond stud earring in his right ear, he reminded her of a pirate. He wasn’t exactly dressed for an interview with a leather jacket, T-shirt, and tight jeans—more like a biker convention.
Stephanie hurried over with another cup of coffee. “Here, Heather.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at her. She’d be lost without her efficient secretary.
Scythe studied her. “You look like you needed some.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been crying.”
She gripped the cup tighter and cleared her throat. “My sister’s funeral tends to do this to me.”
His eyes softened. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
She blinked. “You knew about my sister?”
Stephanie shrugged and gave her a don’t-ask-me-look.
“It was in the paper,” he said. “Along with Serenity House.”
“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“I don’t.”
His strong voice emitted that this man made his own decisions and didn’t base it on what some reporter wrote. She sipped her coffee and couldn’t help but appreciate his attitude. She liked strong guys who weren’t afraid to take a stand against popular opinion. The news had painted Rosemary as being a psychotic killer. They even had discovered that Jessy and Mark had killed someone, then themselves.
She sighed and that terrible night rolled over in her mind. The same sorrow bubbled up her throat and another fit of crying threatened to overtake her, but she pushed her shoulders back, then held her head high. She was in charge. She held out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you.”
He shook her hand. Chills rushed up her arm, then changed to warmth. She released his hand before she melted onto the floor. “This way, please.”
She led him into her office and tried to ignore his masculine smell of spice. Unlike Mason’s cologne, Scythe’s was faint. It made her want to lean in closer to see if it was cologne or the man himself that smelled so good.
Chapter 3
Scythe followed Heather into her office. He couldn’t help, but admire her tight ass. The red sun dress hugged her curvy body and he lowered his gaze to her firm calves. Zeus, when was the last time a human tempted him? One, two hundred years ago?
He turned away to keep from lusting her over her. He had to find his brother before Michael did. And indulging in a sweet brunette was not on the menu.
She opened the door and motioned for him to sit in a pink Queen Anne chair. He inhaled jasmine—exquisite and innocence. Suddenly, his whole body trembled, as if the fragrance set off an earthquake inside him.
His heart beat faster and faster. Blood soared through his veins as if on fire. He had an urge to throw her down on the hardwood floors, strip off her dress, and claim her as his. He tensed, battling to regain control. He’d never experienced this with any other human or angel. Even at Rosemary’s funeral, her aroma drove him mad.
He sat in the chair in front of her desk and clung to the armrests to keep from climbing over the desk and kissing her. He broke out into a hot sweat, his clothes stuck to his skin. This was insane.
She raised her eyebrow. “Do you like what you see?”
“This place is beautiful.” He winced. He hated lying. Angels were forbidden to commit any sin, but he couldn’t tell her he was so hot for her he wanted to rip off her clothes to seduce her.
“Uh-huh.” She opened a manila folder. “So, you’re a Certified Alcohol Counselor III?”
“Yes.”
“In looking at your file, you don’t have a degree?”
Shit. Why had he forgotten that? He waved his hand. “Look again. I’m a Licensed Clinical Social Worker.”
“I did, Mr. Angel.” She held up his resume, then dropped it as if it were on fire. “Wait, a minute.” She rubbed her temples. “I swear it wasn’t there.” She lowered her hands. “God, I must be tired.”
“Must be.” He frowned. “But what does God have to do with this?”
She cocked her eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t use God’s name in vain.” God resented this more than anything. Who could blame him? Would Heather like her name to be an expletive?
She flicked her brown hair behind her shoulder. “I wasn’t.”
He smiled. He wanted to run his fingers through her strands to see if it would feel like silky chiffon. One day, he’d have to find out, but now wasn’t the time. His brother’s soul was in jeopardy. If he didn’t stop Blade peddling the hell drug, Xanadu, Michael would. Michael’s punishment would be swift like when he had smitten down the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. With his sword, Excalibur, he showed no mercy.
Michael had returned to Heaven covered in blood and said they deserved it. That was Michael—black and white—no gray.
Every muscle tensed. Scythe gripped the chair hard.
Crack.
He winced and immediately reduced his squeeze. Crap, there was a big split. Heather was busy rustling papers. He snapped his fingers, and the split disappeared.
She gave him a curious gaze, and he smiled.
She didn’t return his smile. “Let me tell you about Serenity House. We provide both outpatient and inpatient therapies. Currently, ten patients live here, and twenty clients take part in our outpatient treatment. We need another outpatient therapist who would provide individual, group, and family therapy. Plus, the therapist would perform case management duties. So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Angel?”
“It’s Scythe. I’ve been at both Arapaho H
ouse, Jeffco Chemical Dependency Program, and West Pines. I provided both individual and group therapy.” He grinned. It was another half-truth. He had never worked there, but he had visited each place. He would appear in each patient’s dream and show them their own funeral. A priest would stand over their grave, reading Psalm 23. Their loved ones would be crying. They had a choice—repent or die.
Sadness crept into his heart. Even witnessing their own death, people continued to use—a pity.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Angel?”
He forced his muscles to relax and flashed her a reassuring smile. “No. Not at all.”
She stared hard and tight lines formed around her her pressed lips. She wasn’t any different from Michael. He hadn’t earned any good graces.
She twirled a pen in her hand. “Tell me what your strengths are.”
“I’m a natural leader. I’m straight forward. And I advocate for my clients.” This was true. There had been many times he pleaded for Michael to have mercy. If people attempted to change their behavior, he spared them. If not, he struck them down.
She scribbled something down. Her smooth hand was so elegant. He wanted to clasp it, pull her toward him, and kiss her on those ruby lips. Zeus, she was a dangerous distraction.
“I don’t back down from challenges. I’m a fighter for the weak. I’m loyal to my employer.” He was rambling, but couldn’t stop. This woman put him on edge.
She lifted her pretty head. “So, what about your weaknesses?”
She gave him an I-bet-you-don’t-think-you-have-any look. She was such a spitfire.
“Actually, one of my best traits is one of my worst weaknesses. I don’t know when to quit. Sometimes I can be combative without meaning too. It’s something I’m working on. I fight for justice.”
She wrote more down.
The last time he’d been combative God almost tore off his wings. Blade had refused an order to kill Pharaoh’s son. Scythe hadn’t blamed him. Pharaoh’s son had been four years old. God had ordered Scythe to kill his own brother. He wouldn’t do it. If Raphael hadn’t intervened, he’d be dead.