by ML Guida
“So, Mr. Angel—”
He liked the way she said his name, soft and husky.
Someone knocked on the door. She sighed, got up from behind her desk, and opened the door.
“Stephanie, can’t this wait.”
Stephanie bit her nails and looked over her shoulder. “Heather, I’m sorry, but there’s a man here from the Colorado Department of Behavioral Health, and he insists on talking to you.”
She spoke in a hushed and frightened voice.
“Shit, this is all I need.”
“Ms. Bowen?” A tall, curly haired man wearing a dark suit stood next to Stephanie. He puffed out his chest as if he were of some great importance.
“Yes, I’m Heather Bowen.”
“I’m Steve Sandoval, and I am from the licensing department.” He handed her a business card. “We need to talk.”
She opened the door wider and motioned toward Scythe. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Can this wait? I should be finished in fifteen minutes.”
“No, I’m afraid it can’t—not with the deaths of two of your patients and now, your sister.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her shoulders slumped as if the man had piled three heavy boulders of guilt onto her small frame. Her voice faded. Scythe had an urge to protect her. He wasn’t sure what to make of this feeling. He’d never felt this way about a human or an angel. He clenched his fists and walked across the room. If Sandoval didn’t lose his arrogance, Scythe would punch him right in his weasel-nose. “What is this about?”
Sandoval lost his pompous attitude and stepped back. “And you are?”
“Scythe Angel. Are you here to offer your condolences?”
The man blinked. “Um, no, I’m not.”
Heather glared at Scythe. “Will you please sit down? This doesn’t concern you.”
Scythe ignored her. “I didn’t think so. You don’t actually think Serenity House has anything to do with those poor people’s deaths?”
Sandoval gulped and straightened his tie. “It’s my job to ensure patients’ safety. We have received several complaints about the safety of this place, and we need to investigate. If we find there is a concern, we will shut you down.”
He avoided looking at Scythe and stared at Heather.
Scythe had enough. “Don’t threaten us.”
“Us? Excuse me, Mr. Angel, there is no us.” Her indignant voice matched the fury in her eyes. “I am the director and I will handle the complaints.” She stuck out her thumb. “The interview is over. You can leave.”
“What?” He was being dismissed. “No, I need this job.” His voice tapered off. Crap, what had he done? He was the head of Michael’s Dark Angels army and he always acted cool and calm under pressure. No woman had ever compromised his mission. Until now.
She turned to the sniveling little weasel and gave him a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sandoval. Please accept my apologies.”
“Mr. Angel, you are being dismissed. I don’t think this is the right job for you. Stephanie, please escort him to the door.”
Stephanie’s eyes widened as if Heather had just asked her to escort a rattlesnake.
Scythe gritted his teeth to bite back a retort. No one ever spoke to him in such a dismissive tone. If she knew who she was degrading, she’d change her tone.
“Mr. Angel?” The frightened secretary shook. “This way.”
Scythe glared at Sandoval. He bumped into the man. The briefest touch released tiny tingles of angelic energy.
His eyes huge, Sandoval paled and stepped back.
But Scythe sensed a darkness within the man. A demon had touched him—Blade.
Sandoval stumbled into the wall. “Did you see that? The man tried to assault me.”
Heather steadied him. “No, he didn’t. He just bumped into you.” She scowled at Scythe.
He jerked free of her grasp. “The man tried to hurt me. Is he high now? One of your drug induced killers that I read about in the papers?”
“Mr. Sandoval, we don’t have any psychotic killers lurking at Serenity House.” She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I do not appreciate your defamatory accusations.”
Scythe forced himself to leave the room, but not Serenity House, not with knowing that Blade was manipulating humans to hurt Heather. He had to find out his brother’s deadly plans. He stuffed his hands into his back pockets to keep from shaking some sense into Heather and from strangling Sandoval’s thick neck.
He should beg Heather for another chance, but groveling wasn’t his style. Michael always said he was foolhardy with pride and stubbornness. Two of his sins that Michael always liked to recite.
He stepped out the front door onto the porch. A young man wearing a faded light blue sweatshirt that hung off his frail bones and torn jeans sat on the steps smoking a cigarette. Small hoop earrings dangled from his ears, and he lifted an eyebrow riddled with piercings. “Hey.”
Scythe sat next to him. “Hey, yourself.” Tingles swept over him. His angelic sense sent warnings that Blade had contacted this poor kid.
“You the new guy?”
“The new guy?”
“Are you the new counselor Heather was going to hire?”
Scythe glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then smiled. “Scythe Angel.” He offered his hand. “And you’re?”
“Dawson. Sam Dawson.” He shook Scythe’s hand.
The kid trembled and scratched his dry, flaky skin. The light glistened off his scruffy brown hair, and Scythe inhaled the scent of sweaty body odor. Showering must not be big on the kid’s agenda. He kept shifting his bleary red eyes back and forth. Sam smacked of someone dying for a fix like he were ready to shed his own skin. Scythe could see into his soul. The kid had a story to tell. He’d seen the desperation so many times.
Scythe gestured to an empty lounge chair. “Mind?”
“Whatever, dude.” Sam inhaled a cigarette as if it was his lifeline. He flashed his gaze over him. “You used to be an alcoholic, a tweaker, coke head?”
Scythe frowned. “Why do you think that?”
“You don’t look like the goody social workers running around here, trying to save us. You’ve definitely lived a hard life.”
The understatement of Creation. “What if I told you I did?”
He shrugged. “Means nothing.” He took another drag. “What’s your story?”
“I got into trouble when I was younger and made some bad choices. I’ve had a hard time following orders and landed in a pile of crap because I don’t believe the boss is always right.”
“Yeah, bosses suck.”
Lightning flashed overhead. Scythe tensed and his heart beat faster. It was a warning. Michael detested anyone questioning his orders. If he thought Scythe was pushing the limits, he’d come down here in person—that was never good.
Zeus, the kid looked barely eighteen. “How long have you been here?”
Sam pulled another cigarette with his shaking hand. “About three weeks. My probation officer ordered me to come here. It’s not like I had a choice. It was this or jail.”
“You don’t want to be here.”
“I don’t know. I have a place to crash.”
Scythe leaned forward on his chair. Why did humans think losing track of their faculties and being stoned out of their minds made life more bearable? The kid was traveling down a dark path that could welcome an invitation of evil into his life.
He wiped a trembling palm on his thigh. “But with some of the things going around here, I wish I’d chosen prison. At least, I’d be alive.”
Sam’s quivering voice and hands sent Scythe on alert. Had Blade already approached him?
He noted a gray Honda parked next to a black Chrysler Le Baron with government plates. It had to be Sandoval’s. He could easily blow one of Sandoval’s tires with a snap of his fingers. He looked at the sky and sighed. Michael wouldn’t approve. Besides, he’d already annoyed his uptight leader with his remark about bosses
being wrong. Michael didn’t have a sense a humor. It wasn’t smart to piss off an Archangel.
A straight-laced man emerged from the gray Honda. He straightened his blue tie and wiped his hands on his blue pinstriped pants. He looked at him with huge blue eyes. “Um, is this Serenity House? I’m Brandon Low and I have an interview.” His voice shook and sweat trickled down his forehead.
Scythe put his hands behind his head. “Good for you.”
Was this the guy Heather wanted working for her—a blond crew cut and angelic face, but afraid of his own shadow?
Sam blew smoke into Brandon’s face. “You’ve found it.” He stuck his thumb toward the door. “The director’s inside.”
Brandon scurried in like a mouse.
Sam grinned. “I think he was half-scared of us. Or, at least, you.”
Dark angels tended to scare the pants off people. Scythe smirked. “I think you’re right.”
Sam frowned. “So, Heather’s hiring two people.”
“Apparently.”
Thunder rumbled. Scythe gritted his teeth and lowered his arms. It was only a white lie. Michael could be so dramatic.
Sam smirked. “He’ll never make it here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He looks way too green.”
“And I don’t?”
Sam laughed. “No, you look like a Hell’s Angel.”
Scythe sat straighter in the lounge chair. He relaxed and took a deep breath. The kid meant the motorcycle gang, not one of Balthazar’s goons.
Sam tapped his cigarette and ash floated to the ground. “Have you read the newspaper lately?”
“You mean about the murders?”
“Yeah.” A skeleton of smoke swirled around his face. He tossed the dying cancer stick on the porch and squashed it with his boot. “Mark Vanderbilt was my roommate.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t what the paper said.” He paced the porch. “He was a helluva of a nice guy. He hadn’t used for four months. Hell, he even registered for college classes at Metro.” He stopped and laughed nervously. “Can you believe it? He wanted to be a fucking social worker.”
“I’m sorry.” He meant it. Mark didn’t deserve the way he died.
Sam wiped his cheek. “Yeah, well. He was my friend—my best friend.”
“What really happened?”
He shook his head. “I wish I knew. The day he died, the director ran into the dining room like a crazed bitch, looking for Mark. She said she had a dream he would use again, then become psychotic. She said he’d stab his professor in the jugular vein, then filled with remorse. He jumped off a parking garage and kill himself.”
He was talking fast and his hands shook. “The worst of it was, he did everything she predicted.”
Scythe’s stomach clenched. Heaven’s wrath, why was Blade visiting Heather in her dreams? But then, Blade always liked to play with his prey before he killed.
“You know,” Sam said, “the director scares the hell out of me.” He pulled out another cigarette.
Before Blade could get to him, the kid would die of cancer.
He exhaled smoke. “I’m not the only one. Everyone here is scared shitless. No one wants to talk to her. Afraid, she’ll make some deadly prediction.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I heard someone called the state and reported her.”
“Maybe what happened to Mark was a fluke.”
Sam glared. “No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t the first time.”
Scythe sucked in air. “What?”
“Jessy Malcolm. She was the first one. She was a real sweetheart.”
Dread pooled in his gut. “Heather had a dream about her?”
He nodded. “She stabbed a teenage girl at a mall for no reason, just walked up to her and sliced her like some serial killer.” He threw his cigarette onto the ground. “I bet you money she had a dream about her sister killing that old lady.” He smashed it like it was a deadly spider. “Mark had everything to live for. And I got shit.”
A city bus creaked and shooshed, black smoke blowing out of its tailpipe. “My ride’s here. I work at the big amusement park. Lucky me.” He lopped off the porch and jogged to the waiting bus. “See you tonight.”
Scythe waved. “See ya, kid.” Sadness gripped Scythe. He’d read Sam’s soul. The kid still wanted a fix. He glanced at the sky. Did Michael know?
The door flew open. His nose in the air, the uppity Sandoval marched across the porch. “I’m sorry, miss.”
Heather trailed him. “Please, Mr. Sandoval, my patients aren’t dangerous.”
“Really?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Tell that to Carolyn Carmichael, Mark Vanderbilt, and Jessy Malcolm.”
Heather ran her hands through hair and tears welled in those big beautiful eyes. He was done. He stood. If this were medieval times, he’d lock Sandoval’s head and hands in a stockade, then throw rotten tomatoes. “I’ve had enough of you.”
Sandoval paled. “What? You’re still here?”
“Mr. Angel, what are you doing here?”
Her voice trembled, but she lifted her chin in defiance.
The man was so dead. Scythe stepped in front of her. “I’m saving your sweet ass.”
“Hey.” Sandoval edged toward his car, his eyes wide. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Yeah, you do.” Scythe stared into the man’s beady eyes and peered into his gray splattered soul soiled from his foul deeds. “You get off threatening people—even if they are innocent.”
Sandoval licked his lips. “No. No. I don’t.” He pointed to Heather. “She’s not innocent.”
Scythe took a step toward him. “You’re lying.” He wasn’t sure what he would do. It wasn’t Sandoval’s time yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make Sandoval sick.
“No, I’m not. You’ll see my report.”
Heather stepped in front of Scythe. “You’re not helping me. Please stop.”
She barely came up to his shoulder, and her scent sent his blood on fire. Zeus, he wanted this woman.
Sandoval ran to his car and glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve had two patients murder someone, then kill themselves. I do not believe this place is safe. I’m recommending this place close in thirty days.”
Heather ran over to him. “Mr. Sandoval, what if I can prove that Serenity House had nothing to do with the murders? Will you keep this place open?”
Scythe followed her. Sandoval opened the car door and used it as a shield. Scythe could sense his fear, but if the man knew the true terror that Scythe could inflict, he’d piss his pants.
“You stay away from me,” he said.
When Scythe edge closer, Sandoval darted into his car, slammed the door, and locked it.
A determined woodpecker, Heather tapped on the window. “Please, Mr. Sandoval. Please, listen to me.” She pointed at Scythe. “He doesn’t work here.”
Sandoval shook his head. He started the ignition, then tires squealing, he peeled out of the parking lot.
Heather turned and glared. “You bastard! What have you done? Get off this property, before I call the police.”
Scythe winced. Her biting tone ripped through him, but she’d no idea the evil she faced. Blade had targeted her, and would play with her until he got bored, then he’d kill her. “I was trying to help.”
“You call threatening the man who could shut me down, helping?”
She was nearing hysterics, and Scythe didn’t have time for this. He needed answers and needed them now. Without thinking, he clutched her arm and dragged her into Serenity House.
She banged on his hand. “Let go of me!”
“No.” His voice was calm, the exact opposite of hers.
“Heather!” Stephanie put her hand on her throat.
Heather kicked his shin. “Call the police!”
Brandon stood next to the counter and dropped his pen as he filled out a form. He hurried to help Heather.
Scythe waved his hand. Stephanie slowly
put down the phone and went back to typing on her computer. Brandon walked back to the couch and sat, a sappy smile pasted on his face.
Heather stopped fighting. “What did you do?”
Fear dripped in her lowered voice. She looked at him as if he were possessed.
Scythe led her into the office. “I won’t hurt you.” He snapped his fingers. A brilliant white light filled the room. It was a barrier and would prevent people from seeing them or hearing them. He hadn’t wanted to use his angelic powers so quickly, but Blade wasn’t giving him many choices.
He released her, and she half stumbled. His hand turned cold where warmth had been before. He frowned. Humans had never had that effect on his skin. He wanted to touch her again to see if it happened again, but she ran to her desk. She was breathing hard and her face had turned ashen. “Who are you?”
His gut twisted into a double knot. He scrubbed his hand over his face. He didn’t want to frighten her. He wanted to keep her safe and find out why her touch had sent tingles over him.
She picked up the phone and frowned. “Did you cut the phone lines?”
“No, I didn’t.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please, sit down.”
She gripped the receiver and lifted it over her head.
He couldn’t help but admire her tenacity. “Do you plan to use the phone as a deadly weapon?”
He smiled to ease her terror, but she only clutched it tighter. Showing her his hands, he slowly sat in the Queen Anne’s chair and waited.
Watching him warily, she sat behind her desk. Her bosoms rose and fell as she gasped for breath. She tilted her chin. “What do you want?”
“You’re in danger.”
She clutched the receiver tighter, turning her knuckles white. No doubt she was about to throw it at his head.
Her face paled. “I don’t understand. Why am I in danger?”
“You don’t think the cops will wonder about those so-called dreams? Especially since they all came true?”
“I tried to tell them about Rosemary, but they didn’t believe me.” Her voice cracked and then faded.
He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he’d only frighten her more.
“No, they were listening. But they think you had something to do with the murders. They’re probably watching you right now.”