Divine Temptation

by Nicki Elson

  Cover

  title page

  Divine Temptation

  ...

  Nicki Elson

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  Dallas

  Copyright Information

  Divine Temptation, Copyright © 2013 by Nicki Elson

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  10000 North Central Expressway, Dallas, TX 75231

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, March 2013

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, March 2013

  ...

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  ...

  Elson, Nicki.

  Divine Temptation / Nicki Elson – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623420-09-3

  1. Angels—Fiction. 2. Romance—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction. 4. Horror—Fiction. I. Title

  ...

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This book can only be dedicated to John Wharem,

  without whose encouragement, wisdom, and honesty

  this story may have never made it

  from my imagination into words.

  Chapter 1

  CLAWED FEET LANDED WITH A MUFFLED THUD atop the January snow. His balance was instantaneous. Surveying the still forest around him, he watched the pale morning sunlight filter through the bare branches, illuminating nothing but the trees, the forest floor, and him. All active life had vanished from the area moments before his arrival. To joggers along the perimeter of the preserve, the distant ruckus of fleeing animals had registered only as a minor disturbance to the music blasting through their earbuds. His entry point was good.

  He shook the white crystals from his talons and stepped through the snow. As he walked, his true form mutated, adapting to the world he had entered. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, he looked like any other man, complete with a pair of black dress shoes, a wool overcoat, cashmere scarf, and fedora. His power in this world had become such that all he had to do was think it, and it was his—for such minor details, anyhow. But acquiring what he truly desired would take more finesse.

  The streets along his short walk to the historic part of town were already alive with cars pushing through the slush, carrying their contents to work. It was a new year—time for humans to get back to the old routine and make more money. They had Christmas bills to pay off, after all. His mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. This time he wouldn’t fail. This time they’d practically beckoned him forth.

  He reached downtown Prairie Oaks, and as he traversed its sidewalks, a glass door swung open in front of him. Along with the earthy aroma of coffee drifted something else. He halted his steady gait and swiveled his head to peer inside. Shooting through the collection of people, his gaze landed on two women. Both of them were middle aged; one was modestly plump while the other was of a leaner build. The latter was the one he sensed. There was nothing in her appearance to set her apart from anyone else—thick waves of caramel-colored hair ending just below her shoulders, medium complexion with a dusting of makeup over straight, long features—but there was no mistaking that she could suit his purpose.

  While he watched her laugh and talk with her friend, the door swung shut and then open again. This time he detected something new amid the warm air seeping out from the shop, something exceedingly unwelcome. He shuddered and moved on. He had plenty of time; there was no need to jump on the first possibility to present itself…particularly if that possibility came mixed with complications.

  “I saw an angel.”

  Sharon’s eyebrow shot up as she sipped her grande chai.

  “In my dream. Last night,” Maggie explained and then added, almost to herself, “I don’t know why I keep thinking of him as an angel.”

  “Him?” Sharon asked.

  “Yeah.” Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she strained her memory. “He was standing in my bedroom, across from the bed, next to the dresser. He was just…watching me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, thin.”

  “Fluffy wings and no shirt on?” Sharon prodded hopefully.

  Maggie laughed. “No! He was fully clothed—sorry to disappoint you. And how do you possibly manage to turn talk of an angel into something perverted?”

  Sharon shrugged. “A gift, I guess. Besides, you’re the one who brought him into your bedroom.”

  “I didn’t bring him anywhere. It wasn’t real.”

  “Your subconscious brought him there. It wants a man, darlin’.”

  “It wanted rest. And it didn’t conjure a man. It conjured an angel.”

  “Male angel.”

  “Whatever.” Maggie lifted her coffee to her mouth and scanned the room. She was hardly going to engage in boy talk. Not at the age of thirty-eight. Not when divorced. And certainly not with two kids, including a thirteen-year-old daughter who was dangerously close to plunging into the world of dating herself.

  Sharon sneered at Maggie’s obvious closure of the subject. “Well this rots. You’re my single friend, you know? I’m supposed to get to live vicariously through you, but all you ever do is go to work at that church and run your kids around to practice and lessons and whatnot. Now you finally have a sex dream and you’re going to clam up on me.”

  “It wasn’t a sex dream! Honestly, Sharon, can’t those first weeks after the divorce last you for a while longer? I gave you plenty of vicarious action then.”

  Sharon smiled. “That you did, my friend. That you did. But those were just sleazy flings. I’m ready for some romance now. Let’s find you a nice, handsome bloke that’ll sweep you off your feet.”

  “Already happened. His name was Carl Brock, remember? And we all know how that turned out.” Maggie searched for a change of subject when Sharon frowned. “So how’s the Fun Fair coming along? Which committee did you get roped into this year?”

  Sharon rolled her eyes and plunged into a diatribe about the grade school PTA, the invariably overeager newbie mothers, and the impossibly small budget and limited time frame. “But I’ll tell you one thing,” she added, “we sure do miss your mad decorating skills.”

  “Oh please. Do you think the kids even care about the decorations? As long as there are fun games and prizes and popcorn, they’re happy.”

  “Well, I liked your decorations.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie stuck out a teasing tongue.

  “And I suppose you decked the hell out of those Catholic school hallways this Christmas, eh?”

  Maggie took a long sip of her coffee and shook her head before gulping it down. “Nope. I’m out of the PTA business.”

  “What? The PTA junkie has gone cold turkey?”

  Maggie laughed. “I guess it was sort of an addiction. Heaven forbid I simply join a committee—I had to run it. And I couldn’t just do the job. It had to be done better than it ever had been before. These days I still clip box tops and bake brownies for the classroom parties once in a while, but mostly I keep my focus on my job in the parish office and stay out of the school’s affairs. It’s healthier for all of us.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh gosh, I’d better get going.”

  “Yeah
, me too.” The two women stood and pulled on their coats, and then Sharon gave Maggie a big hug. “It was great seeing you, kiddo. Let’s not let so much time go by again, huh?”

  Maggie returned the squeeze. “You’ve got a deal. Tell Reggie and the girls I said hi. I’m so glad Katie and Kirsten have kept in touch.” She turned to unsling her purse from the back of the chair and froze in place when she caught a glimpse of someone behind the coffee shop’s counter.

  “What’s wrong?” Sharon asked.

  “I…nothing.” Maggie slid her purse strap over her shoulder and headed to the door.

  Sharon got there first and positioned herself to block Maggie’s way out. “Bullshit nothing—what did you see?”

  Maggie knew her friend well enough to be sure she’d cause a public scene rather than miss out on the dirt. “Fine. But don’t you dare say one word to him.”

  Sharon’s mouth curled into a wicked grin at the word “him.”

  Keeping her back to the counter, Maggie jerked her head to gesture in that direction. “The tall, sandy-haired guy behind the counter looks just like the angel from my dream.”

  Sharon looked over her friend’s shoulder. “That’s a chick. And I wouldn’t call her tall. Or dream worthy.”

  “What?” Maggie turned but didn’t see the guy she’d spotted a few moments earlier. “He…he must’ve gone into the back room or something. Can we get out of here now? I’m going to be late.”

  “Holy crap. You’re fantasizing about a Starbucks barista!”

  “I’m not—Oh, forget it. We are so not meeting here next time.” Maggie pushed past her friend and waved a mittened hand as she made her way down the slushy sidewalk to her car.

  While she navigated her SUV through the morning traffic, she thought about how nice it had been to see Sharon. Maggie was still on friendly terms with a few other moms from Madison Elementary, but Sharon was the only one who’d stayed steadfastly by her side and never treated her any differently throughout the divorce. Most of the other women had avoided eye contact after the news first broke. As unpleasant as that reaction was, Maggie found she preferred it to the awkward pity hugs and well-intended condolences that had occasionally come her way. Even worse were the women who’d looked her directly in the eye while a sneer played underneath their false smiles, delighted that Maggie had finally proven herself less than perfect.

  She parked in the church lot and rushed into the buff-colored brick building, passing an oversized painting of the archangel Michael in the entryway to the parish office. Her lips twitched into a wry grin; perhaps she’d been unintentionally bringing work home with her.

  “There she is,” a thin, older woman with short but poufy blond hair called from behind her low cubicle walls.

  “Sorry, Brenda. I know I’m a few minutes late. Met a friend for coffee.”

  “Well, the monsignor from Rome is coming at any minute so you’ll need to reschedule all of Father Tom’s appointments for the day. Might want to do the same for Father Dominic, just in case.”

  “I didn’t think he was due in until next week,” Maggie said as she hung her coat in the cubby.

  “Neither did I, but we got word that he arrived in town this morning.”

  Maggie settled into her chair at the office’s front desk and shoved aside the project she’d planned to work on in favor of the church pastor’s spiral-bound appointment book.

  A couple hours into her day—and still no sign of the expected visitor—a third grade class marched past the glass office doors on their way to the church, as they did every Wednesday morning at that time. Maggie looked up and smiled, waiting for a particular mop of wavy brown hair to stroll past.

  Today the mop was accompanied by a huge grin decorated with peanut butter and cheese cracker crumbs. Maggie gave the boy a small wave and blew him a kiss. Liam was happy here, as was his older sister, Kirsten, and Maggie was relieved that the painful steps that had led them to St. John’s had at least come to something good.

  Throughout her marriage she’d maintained control over everything—her house, her garden, the neighborhood block parties, her former size-six figure. Even during the divorce proceedings, Maggie had been in command. A guilt-ridden Carl had willingly given her everything she asked for, including the house, and she’d expected that besides no longer having a husband around to leave his dirty socks on the floor or take out the garbage, the only change in her life would be having the kids gone Tuesday nights and every other weekend. She hadn’t taken the time to assess the impact of her husband’s infidelity on her ego until after the papers were signed. That’s when she began to imagine the other moms whispering behind her back about things like the thickness of her hips, her lackluster hair which was far too often pulled into a simple ponytail. No wonder he fell so easily into someone else’s bed, she was certain they’d concluded.

  She hadn’t realized she was in control of nothing until it suddenly felt like she was losing everything. After months of insecurity, less-than-satisfying sexual indiscretions, and borderline depression, she realized that she couldn’t continue living so close to her old life without constantly feeling like a failure. She needed change, and she convinced herself that the kids did too.

  When Maggie had approached Carl about sending Kirsten and Liam to a private school, he hadn’t balked, though she knew his finances must’ve been severely stretched by that point. She’d also known that he was motivated by more than guilt. The caution that wavered in the deep blue of his eyes and at the edges of his baritone voice had indicated his genuine concern for her stability—that’s what had given her the strength to stop spiraling downward. She didn’t want him thinking she’d disintegrate without him by her side.

  They’d looked at a few different schools, but Maggie liked the laid back feel of St. John’s, and when she saw the posting for a part-time office secretary position—which came with a fifty-percent break in tuition—she didn’t need any more signs that this was the right place for her and her children. The hunt for something away from Madison Elementary had begun as a quest to run away, but finding St. John’s had felt more like being called home.

  Liam’s class disappeared down the hall, and the side door from the rectory opened. Father Tom stepped into the office, followed by a slight man with ash-colored hair and pointed features. Behind the two of them towered Father Dominic, the parish’s junior priest, only one year out of seminary.

  “Good morning, ladies,” said Father Tom. The portly, gray-haired priest’s customary greeting was more clipped than usual, and there was something forced about the deep crinkles surrounding his mouth and eyes as he gestured toward the shorter man. “This is Monsignor Sarto.”

  Maggie stood and shook the monsignor’s outstretched hand. “Welcome.”

  He returned her greeting with a polite nod as his eyes scanned her desk. “What’s your role here?”

  “I’m the front desk secretary. I answer phones, coordinate use of church facilities, schedule Father Reardon and Dominic’s appointments—”

  “Keep the place running like a well-oiled machine,” the monsignor finished, his slightly accented English backing up Father Tom’s earlier explanation that the visitor was American but had been living in Italy for several years.

  “I try to.” Maggie let out a nervous laugh.

  “Monsignor, this is Brenda Drummond, the office manager,” said Father Tom.

  The two senior priests stepped over to Brenda’s desk, and before following, Father Dominic locked eyes briefly with Maggie, raising his eyebrows and shrugging to indicate that he still had no more clue than she did what they were all in for. Father Tom had told them that the Vatican representative’s visit was routine, but word in the pews was that it was anything but. The general assumption was that Father Tom and St. John’s were under some sort of review, but Maggie tried not to let her imagination wander on the issue. The pastor had never been anything but forthright with her in the past, so until she had any facts to the contrary, she’d ta
ke him at his word. Still, the stiffness of his expression as he made introductions gave the church gossip more than a touch of credence.

  “Watch out,” Father Tom warned after Brenda had listed off her many duties. “The moment you get settled in, Brenda here will be after you to write a weekly article for the bulletin.”

  The monsignor’s lips maintained a polite, half smile. “I’ll gladly contribute.” He turned to Father Tom. “I’d like to look around the school facilities now. May we visit a classroom?”

  Father Tom glanced at the clock. “I’m sure that’ll be fine, but we should check in with the school principal first. Father Dominic, please run ahead and find out from Mrs. Hawk which class might be the best one to drop in on. I’ll give the monsignor a quick tour of the gym and library on our way to meet you.”

  “You’ve got it.” Father Dominic exited into the school hallway, oblivious to the way Monsignor Sarto’s eyes had narrowed in response to the junior priest’s blatant informality.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, ladies,” the monsignor said before gesturing for Father Tom to lead the way. In the doorway, the visitor paused, turning briefly toward Maggie. There was no emotion in his look, but it pricked the hair on her arms and filled her with the instinct to get back to work—immediately.

  That night, Maggie’s consciousness clung to the wispy vapors of a dream even as her eyes opened under her satin sleep mask. She sensed his presence and pushed herself to sitting. Fumbling to pull the mask down, she looked immediately to where he stood in the corner of her bedroom, just as he had the night before. This time she noted that he didn’t glow; no halo or anything else illuminated his form. Yet somehow, while her dresser and armoire stood in shadow, she could inexplicably make out his every detail.

  He wore white, and she realized that was why she’d categorized this figment of her sleepy mind as an angel. But the garments weren’t flowing robes. Hugging his trim physique was a pair of linen-like drawstring pants and a T-shirt.