When Ash Rains Down (Kingdom Come #1)

by Cecelia Earl

  "Stay," I say. "I can't sleep in here by myself." He hesitates. "Just to sleep. Really. Please."

  He moves back toward the bed, lies down on top of the covers beside me, and turns off the lamp. He kisses my forehead. "Goodnight, princess," he whispers. I take his hand and pull it over my stomach, holding on for dear life, letting waves of sleep rock me into unsettling dreams.

  When I open my eyes, the room is filled with pale morning light. We didn't shut the heavy black drapes—a good thing or I might never have woken up. My arm is draped over Cole's bare side. He's facing me, eyes open. A slow smile curves his lips up, just enough that his dimple shows. What a way to wake up.

  "Hey," he whispers.

  "Hey." I blink, orienting myself to this fantasy-come-true. "How long have you been watching me sleep?"

  "Ever since the first rays of light came through that window." He picks a finger up, pointing from where his hand is resting on his hip. He must've gotten up at some point during the night to grab the blanket I'd left on the chair by the fire, which is extinguished.

  "And when was that?"

  "A few seconds ago."

  "Did you sleep at all?"

  He nods. "Some." He raises a hand and brushes hair off my forehead, following the strands through to the ends with soft fingers. "You?"

  I roll on my back to stretch. The ceiling is far away and white, like a bright dawn sky. "I think so. What time is it?"

  "Maybe six-ish. Want to get going?"

  I turn back to him, looking at his full, parted lips. "Yes." The thing is, I should be up, sprinting to the hospital, but sometimes when I'm with Cole, and his blue eyes are on mine, my head gets foggy and my motivations get fuzzy. I want to be at my family's bedsides, but instead, I whisper, "Come closer."

  He doesn't hesitate to lean toward me and brushes his lips across mine. He pulls back so that the tips of our noses touch. "Help yourself to anything in that closet. If you don't object, I'd like to walk across the hall to get dressed. I'll be quick." He glances at the base of my neck, like he wants to say something else, but just touches my necklace. "You'll be safe here. Then I'll take you downstairs for coffee and a quick bite to eat, and after that, we'll head straight to the hospital."

  Again, I can't help but take my hand to his cheek, slide it across, feeling the stubble on his skin. I skim the brown tendrils of hair across his forehead, and with the back of my fingers, slide over his ear until my fingers cup the back of his neck to find the curls of hair there. I move my body toward his, and mimic his gentle kiss. When we separate, he sighs.

  I focus on sliding my legs out from under the covers and getting to the hospital in order to stop myself from pulling him in again. He leaves, and I find a light switch in the closet. Immense. Whoa. I'm overwhelmed, so instead of getting lost in the forest of clothing, I scan the shelves and hangers for denim, grab a pair of jeans—my size—and pull the closest shirt off its hanger. There's a drawer with undergarments and socks. I return to the bed and strip down. The jeans are the most comfortable I've ever worn. I slip a black tank and white button-up shirt on and head to the bathroom, where I brush my teeth and run a brush through my long tangles. In the toiletry bin, there's a hair band, so I throw my hair up in a ponytail. I dig out some eyeliner, mascara, and blush. I want to look nice when I hire the contractor today, professional and mature. Too bad Cole didn't use his money to include some fancy jewelry for me to wear. But there's none.

  Cole is waiting for me in the hall when I step out to meet him. He takes my hand as we descend the stairs. I look down at our entwined fingers and feel warm and safe. So unlike the day before. Even my nightmares drift far away. Sunlight makes his house look even more amazing as it glints off every crystal chandelier, lamp, mirror, vase, and large window. The place is perfect in every way—design, arrangement, colors. I try to soak it all in, to be able to take away something I can tell the contractor, some way to make our new home a little bit like this.

  I stand at the kitchen island while he throws together ham and cheese croissants. He hands me a travel mug filled with coffee and we're off, food in hand. We head to the garage and he holds open the door of his black Porsche.

  "Seriously?"

  "You want to get there fast, right?"

  I roll my eyes, but scoot in and buckle up. Before reversing, he places a hand on my knee and squeezes, reminding me I have everything to be nervous about. Nerves pull tight in my stomach, everything rushing back to full-center of my brain. Mom and Noah. I squeeze the door handle, praying I'm not too late for his surgery, to be there, holding their hands when they wake up, to have a place to go to once they do. I tuck the past twenty-four hours into a small pocket in my mind. Poof—gone. Even my romance with Cole needs to be folded up and neatly placed in a drawer until my life can be my own again—if ever.

  I eat without tasting the food, only to make sure I have energy to do what I need to do throughout the day. The sky is deepening in color already, the pale peach on the horizon only a thin line, taken over by a cloudless blue. Through the open windows, fresh fall air blows in. I breathe it in. The city isn't awake yet, except for a car here and a truck there. It would have been a perfect morning for a run. Cole pulls up under the east wing awning to drop me off.

  "Sorry I can't come in with you."

  "Don't be. Have a good day at school." The words ring hollow. School. A place that used to represent my future. Getting good grades for college was all I could think of. Now, even the institution of school seems abstract, frivolous. How will I ever face all those silly girls again? Was it only days ago that they were putting a tiara and flowers on me, celebrating homecoming? Even then it seemed silly, but now? I shake my head. I'll have to return at some point, probably sooner than later. "See you." I meant it as a statement, but it came out a question.

  He hands me my cell phone. I stare at it, having no clue where it came from. Before I can raise questioning eyes, he confirms, "Of course." He leans across the center consul for a kiss, but I pretend I don't see and step out, slamming the door. The space between us helps me breathe. Focus. He's constantly a distraction. Grasping my phone in a tight fist, I walk into the hospital without watching him drive away.

  The nurses glance at me and smile, but offer nothing, just bustle past. I stand at the reception desk on the ICU floor, feeling like I need to wait for permission to venture down the hall, but nobody pays me any attention. While I wait, I glance down at the counter. Flower-topped pens, smiley-faced stickers, a desk calendar with a Bible verse: For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; Psalm 91:11—wait, the date, September 25? But that's the date it was yesterday.

  "Excuse me," I ask a passing nurse, grabbing her shirtsleeve. "Is this calendar wrong?" Surely they must have forgotten to tear off yesterday's page. She glances at it.

  "No, dear. That's today." She gives me a smile—sympathetic, concerned, I don't know what's behind it—and walks away, clipboard in hand.

  That means only hours passed while I was with Nicholas, not an entire day. Maybe that means none of it happened, not a virtual reality, not a hallucination. It means—

  I illuminate my cell phone. 7:11 AM, September 25. Nicholas kidnapped me at about 8:00 PM, September 24, the time I came to visit my family… just last night. I missed the nighttime, but I haven't missed a day. It's as if Cole rescued me only hours after Nicholas brought me to the forest, as if that dark night and the next day fighting demons never went by. Today is yesterday. No one will even have missed me. No wonder there are no alarmed texts from Mitch, his mom, Molly, or Rach. Nobody noticed I was gone, because I wasn't.

  I text Cole: We need to talk. You lied.

  Because omission is the same thing as a lie, and I want to know what he's not telling me.

  And why.

  -30-

  I take a deep breath, blink back tears of confusion, and tuck this new horror into another corner of my brain. I'm running out of storage space up there, but I don't know what
else to do. I rush off to Mom's room. As soon as I'm seated at her bedside, where she also looks as though no time has passed, I lay my head by her arm and let the tears fall. I must doze, because a nurse has to shake my shoulder to wake me.

  "Miss? Julia, is it?"

  "Yes? Yes." I shoot up, the chair falling over behind me in the process. "What's wrong?"

  She rights the chair, propping it up soundlessly. "Nothing, nothing, dear. I just wanted to let you know we'll be prepping your brother for surgery in about half an hour... in case you want to go in to see him first?" She holds out her hand. In it is a blue sterility mask on a string. "Please cover your nose and mouth with this before entering his room. Just a precaution."

  She turns to go, but I touch her shoulder to stop her. "Is he... how is he doing?"

  "He's stable enough for surgery." She smiles and pats my arm. "He'll come through just fine. The doctor will come in to speak with you in a little while. You can ask him any questions you may have."

  "Thank you."

  She nods and leaves. It's as if nothing weird ever happened at the hospital, business as usual. As if they never lost power and had to fight to keep their patients taken care of. I turn back to my mom, trace her eyebrows and forehead with my thumb. Her hands are cool and dry in mine. Though her cheeks are warm, they leave my lips numb, as though frostbitten.

  "Love you. Off to take care of Noah, so you're on your own for a bit. Behave." She used to say that to me every day before I stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk in front of my elementary school. When my middle school attitude set in, somewhere in the middle of third grade, I started saying it to her before she went down to the diner, or got in her car to go to the grocery store. At the time, she was annoyed with me and took away TV for the night, or made me go to bed early, but the word soon became one with "Goodbye" and "I love you." I wonder if I'll ever hear her laugh again.

  A few doors down, Noah is pale, and there's a staleness to his room that makes me catch my breath and clutch my chest. He looks too fragile to touch, but I dare to slip a thumb across his cheekbone. "Muffin? It's me."

  I turn to find a chair and drag one over. I lay my hand on his, without disturbing it. "The doctors are going to fix you today. After that, you take some time to rest up, but then I expect a full recovery. You got that?"

  His brown mop of hair that's usually all over the place is matted down. His cheeks that are usually red with life and exertion from running around are snow-white. I try to remember the exact color of his brown eyes, but I can't.

  When the doctor comes in, I have to dry my eyes carefully with my fingertips, remembering how I want to look for the contractor later—like I've got it all together, not like a mess who can't stop crying to take care of her life. I spend a blur of minutes listening and trying to ask questions before a red-haired nurse walks me to the waiting area. She's as old as my grandmother would be if she were alive, and has this bounce to her step as if she loves her job, including walking crying sisters to waiting rooms.

  Her voice is quick and bright as she explains the television on the wall and how it will show me when he's in surgery and when he goes to post-op, so I can watch without wondering. A doctor or someone will come in periodically to update me as well. They're expecting this to take a long time, so I shouldn't worry. She points to the coffee pots and a vending machine, and then reminds me there's a cafeteria if I get hungry. I nod and take a seat by the window, not making eye contact with any other waiting family members. The room is full, reminding me atrocities happen everywhere, to everyone.

  Although, if Nicholas is to be believed, trusted, they're happening more here than anywhere else. Had he said it was because of me? I rub my temples. I can't remember.

  After a few hours of watching the screen and watching birds fly, watching clouds inch across the sky, I lean my head back and close my eyes. During the first hour, I called or texted everyone I know to pray for Noah. If miracles are possible, I don't want to take a chance on Noah missing out on his miraculous recovery.

  Cole responded to my accusation of lying, and texted: I didn't lie. Be right there.

  I texted: NO! Don't you dare.

  I don't want to see him.

  He didn't respond again and hasn't shown up. I'm both disappointed and relieved. I have so many questions, but I'm so mixed up about who to trust that I need to take a break and focus on my family. They're all that matters.

  Noah is still in surgery, and after a nurse comes out to tell me he's doing well, but it'll be a few hours yet, I chance leaving. I need to get to that contractor before the end of the day. When they wake up, we need a place to live, to recuperate. A place I can take care of them. Protect them.

  My car is right where I left it before Nicholas nabbed me, and it's open with keys under the driver's seat. I don't know how it's possible the keys are there, but whatever. I'm too tired to care. So over these strange coincidences.

  Driving is almost therapeutic. I have control. I'm doing something normal. Molly's house is locked up—she and her husband are at work and her kids at school—but I have a spare key and let myself in. The paperwork is in ‘my room,’ so I grab it and settle in the kitchen to call Tom Boscar. His secretary says he's out on a job, but she can reach him, and he'll be there to talk and sign papers within the hour.

  Mol's refrigerator has everything in it from cottage cheese to ham to orange juice. I drop a bagel in the toaster and pull out a paper plate from a drawer. When it pops, I cover it with ham, cheese, and cream cheese. I wash it down with lemonade and leave a note on the counter thanking them for their hospitality. I sign it with a smiley face and my name.

  True to Tom's secretary's word, half an hour later, I'm sitting across from him with a book of plans open before me. His office is located near the bowling alley, an older section of town with mature, shade-giving trees. Run-down, still-functioning gas stations sit on every corner. The bowling alley had two cars in its lot, but otherwise the street looked deserted. Tom's office is newer, brick with large windows, and a welcoming awning with decorative pillars. It makes him look like he knows what he's doing, makes me trust he'll make our place look nice, too. He's referencing the plans he drew up the other day, asking what I liked, what I didn't. I'm paging through his floor-plan book, placing sticky notes on plans with something that sticks out at me.

  "You have a good eye," he tells me. I don't ask for what. He continues, "For a young woman, you know what you want. That's a good thing." I nod, chewing my lip. Do I? Do I know what I want? Does what I want even matter? Will it ever? Will there ever be a time when need doesn't trump want?

  "Okay. All done," I say, turning the book to point out everything I want included in our new restaurant and home. He takes notes, grunting in agreement as I tell him where I want higher ceilings and a staircase to upstairs that doesn't feel like a back-alley fire escape, how I want spacious bathrooms in the restaurant, because a bathroom says a lot for a place. Mom's new place won't be hole-in-the-wall diner, but an upscale restaurant. She'll still have diner-like seating up front for the morning and lunch crowd, but then an elegant area for candle-lit, expensive dinners for evening customers. I explain how I want a parking lot with a patio for outdoor dining, complete with a wooden wraparound fence, a fountain, and lights. I want Mom to have a master bedroom and bathroom fit for a chef of her talent.

  He looks at me. "This is a bit beyond the drawings I did the other day."

  I nod once. "Yes."

  As if he thinks I don't catch his meaning, he adds, "It will impact the cost."

  I stick my chin out. "Yes."

  "That won't be a problem?"

  I set my shoulders straight. "No. Where do I sign?"

  He sighs, but walks me through some paperwork, explaining it will take him two months and that he'll start demolition this weekend. Inwardly, I laugh. Most of that work was done for him the day someone blasted the place. We shake hands and, as I leave, I grab a newspaper from a stand.

  Sittin
g behind the steering wheel, I read the headline: Explosion at Melissa's Ruled Intentional by Investigators.

  There's been no word on the robber being caught, my robber, the one I'd held a knife to, but there have been more reported. Many more. “This ain't over,” he'd said. I'd hoped it was an empty threat, but deep down I knew. Knew he'd be back. And somehow I knew he was the number one suspect.

  And now I want revenge.

  -31-

  My heart burns with wanting revenge. My tongue, my nerves, my fingers tingle with anger.

  I stop by the bowling alley, but when I step inside, I stop and watch. Rach is walking around chatting with the couples and families, smiling. She's really good at being nice. And it doesn't even look hard to do, or take much more time. How is it that I could only manage to see inside my own head, see where I was headed—to the soda machine, to the grill, to a table, and back again?

  Then Mitch comes out, and I see him and Rach take a moment to talk. He laughs. Like, really, really laughs. I've never seen such a wide smile on his face. Ever. Not even when I spilled an entire soda on my shirt when we got pizza one Friday night. That Friday night was our last time hanging out. And it was a long while ago. Months.

  I leave and crank open the car windows, let the wind take my hair and fill me up, trying to cool off.

  My back is killing me. The pressure is almost too great to bear. I wonder what would happen if I willed my wings to open. Would they? Are they real? What does being an angel even mean? Would I be able to better protect my friends and family? Prevent horrible things from happening to them ever again?

  I swing down my street and head the opposite way from our diner—toward the police station. At first, nobody will talk to me. Then I start grabbing cops by the elbow to ask about the robber from Melissa's. Nobody will say anything in response. I'm getting no answers. Finally, the sheriff pulls me into an office. I remind them what the robber looked like, try to think of new details like a mole or a scar, the logo on his hat. I tell him what the robber had said, that had threatened me. I beg them to up the manhunt because I know he's the one who not only robbed us but made a bomb and harmed dozens of people.