I take a steadying breath and follow them into the living room. Both men sit on the couch. I stand by the room’s opening.
Mr. Cohen observes me with a frown. “You should sit before you faint.”
He’s right; I should sit down. I step to the side and lower myself on the ottoman pressed against the wall. I refuse to abandon my position near the exit. Periwinkle doesn’t share my aversion. She leaps between the two men and burrows herself onto the cushion.
“You said you would explain,” I say to Mr. Cohen when neither of them speaks. My adrenaline is still high, and my fingers are trembling. I try to hide the movement by tucking my hands under my thighs.
My teacher leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses his lips together and looks at the coffee table in front of him.
His brother doesn’t look as conflicted. He leans back and bends his arms to rest his hands on the back of his head. He watches me with a grin, and I fight the urge to shield myself with the decorative pillow next to me.
“I regret blurting out the truth,” Mr. Cohen states. He lifts his eyes to me. “I apologize, Messenger.”
I shake my head, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “Why are you in my house, Mr. Cohen?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve told you, I sensed your pain.”
“So you were able to tell I’m sick,” I restate his words. “How?”
“You aren’t just sick,” Mr. Cohen’s brother interjects. I swing my eyes to him.
He continues to grin at me. “Your symptoms are merely a side effect of your powers developing.”
I blink, believing I misheard him. “Powers?”
“Yes,” Mr. Cohen confirms for his brother, then elaborates, “your angelic powers.”
My heartrate increases. I’m dealing with crazy people. I’m not sure what to do. I can try to make a run for it, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it far before one of them catches me.
I pray my parents will not be long at the grocery store.
I decide to go along with the conversation, hoping to stall them from doing anything else until my parents are back. “What makes you think I’m an angel?”
“Part-angel,” Mr. Cohen corrects, “and angels are always able to detect other angels.”
I try to hide how rattled his words make me feel. “You’ve known for a while?”
“Since the day I saw you in my physics class.”
The memory of my first day of senior year consumes me.
I’d been walking to physics with Annie, both of us contemplating who the new teacher might be. Mrs. Wallace had retired the previous year, and we’d been afraid the school wouldn’t be able to find anyone qualified for the position. The two of us rounded the corner of lockers and entered the science wing, whispering our hopes and worries for the newest teacher. Then, I saw him.
Mr. Cohen was standing by his open classroom, greeting students. Even from my distance, I’d been able to see how good-looking he was. Annie had whistled low, admiring our teacher as well.
When we approached the classroom and Mr. Cohen had looked at me, I was sure my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. He reached out to greet me with a handshake, and I will never forget the jolt of electricity his touch elicited. I remember how he’d stared at me, and I swore he seemed just as affected by the touch as I was.
I shove away the memory.
Looking at my ex-teacher, I address his previous statement, “So why didn’t you say anything?” If Mr. Cohen really believed I was an angel, why hadn’t he said something before now?
“We aren’t allowed to reveal the truth to Nephilim,” his brother reveals. “Not until the transformation begins,” he finishes and looks at me with unveiled excitement.
Nephilim? I’ve heard that word before, but only in paranormal novels or sci-fi television shows.
He can’t seriously think I’m one of those beings, but one look at his expression tells me he is.
I grab the decorative pillow beside me and clutch it to my chest. “What do you mean, ‘transformation’?” I ignore the word, Nephilim, for now.
“The pain you’ve been feeling,” Mr. Cohen says. “It started on your birthday, right?”
I nod and dig my fingernails into the pillow.
“Nephilim don’t show angelic characteristics until their eighteenth birthday,” Mr. Cohen reveals. “Your powers are rising, and it is known to be a painful process.”
I absorb the tale. My instinct is to deny all of their claims, but I know I need to play along if I have any hope of delaying their next move until help arrives.
“Y-you said earlier that you sensed my pain… What did you mean?”
“Your pain is an extension of your developing powers,” says Mr. Cohen. “As your body adjusts to the change, flares of power and magic will seep out of you uncontrollably. To you, it feels like pain. But those of us gifted with Sight are able to detect the fluxes of power surrounding you.”
“But don’t worry,” his brother adds, “once the change is complete, you will no longer feel pain like you do now.”
I realize I’m not controlling my expression. I must look horrified to warrant the man’s assurance. I quickly school my features.
“This is crazy.” The words slip past my lips. I press them together to keep any further outbursts at bay.
Fortunately, neither of the men are alarmed, or deterred, by my statement.
“We know this is a lot to take in.” Mr. Cohen laces his fingers together and continues to watch me like I’m a wounded animal ready to strike. If I thought such a move would be effective, I might try it.
Instead, I exhale and look at the ceiling. I rub my stinging chest without thought as I contemplate my next words. “So… one of my parents was an angel?”
“Or a Nephilim, like you.”
I frown and lower my gaze to my teacher’s brother. “Wouldn’t that make me a quarter-angel?”
His lips part in a wide smile, and I have to force myself to ignore how good-looking he is. In fact, he and my attractive teacher could pass as twins. Maybe they are.
“Nephilim is a term used to describe someone who is a descendant of a human woman and someone with Fallen blood in their veins. Percentages don’t really matter.”
My eyes widen. “Fallen? As in… the biblical fallen angels?”
Both men nod, but it is Mr. Cohen who says, “One and the same.”
Okay. That settles it. They are nuts.
There is absolutely no way I believe I’m the offspring of a freaking fallen angel from the bible. The only one I really know about is Lucifer, and he sure as heck isn’t a father figure I’m interested in adopting.
I sit in silence, staring at the brothers with a mix of fear and disbelief.
Mr. Cohen breaks the quiet. “I’m aware you are adopted, Messenger. But have you ever had contact with your birth mother?”
It takes all of my restraint to not jump up and make a run for it. “No,” I croak. I clear my throat and continue, “My mom and dad are the only parents I’ve ever known.”
“Have they told you anything about your birth mother?” his brother asks. “Where she might live, or if she’s dead?”
I flinch. It’s been a long time since I’ve wondered about the woman who gave birth to me. Part of me didn’t want to face the potential heartache of learning the truth behind her decision to give me up, but I never considered the woman who brought me into this world might no longer be alive. Sadness presses on my shoulders, and I close my eyes, confused as to why the idea affects me so much. It’s not like my life would change with the knowledge of her death.
“Gabe,” I hear Mr. Cohen hiss, disapproval drips from his tone.
“What? I simply want to know if we can contact her so we might discover the identity of her Fallen father.”
I open my eyes, careful to hide emotion from my face. “I don’t know anything. Not even her name.”
Mr. Cohen watches me with concern, but I foc
us my attention on his brother, Gabe.
His blue eyes flicker between mine. Then, Gabe says, “She has two eye colors. Her father could be anyone.”
Again, I flinch. Gabe seems to lack any sort of filter. I hate when people discuss my eyes. “What do my eyes have to do with anything?”
“Nephilim tend to have their father’s eye color,” Mr. Cohen explains. “It’s either blue or hazel. Your two eye colors mean your father could be any Fallen angel.”
“Oh.” I pretend like his explanation makes sense. When, really, it just makes me more confused. I lower my attention to Periwinkle. She’s still snuggled between the men, but she watches me with round eyes. She can sense I’m upset.
Suddenly, Peri stands up. Her body stiffens. She growls, staring through the living room’s entryway. Both men jump to their feet. They, too, stare at something through the entrance, glaring with menace.
Before I can stand up to see what they are staring at, a tall, muscular figure walks into the room. I recognize the platinum hair before the newcomer turns toward me.
“Adrian?”
Eleven
Adrian, the blunt, gorgeous man from the concert, turns towards me slowly. The corner of his mouth lifts, and he says, “Veronica. Long time, no see.”
I stand and stare at him. “W-what are you doing in my house?” How do you know where I live?
“Checking on you, of course.”
I don’t understand. I shake my head, trying to clear my muddled mind. Too much is happening. I struggle to believe I am not caught in another horrific nightmare.
The thought Adrian might be a part of whatever crazed scheme Mr. Cohen and his brother are trying to complete hits me. His position blocks my only escape from the room. My anxiety spikes.
From my right, I hear angry words fly across the room, “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
My neck snaps toward Gabe. He and Mr. Cohen wear matching masks of anger. I’m slightly relieved to realize their hate-filled eyes are only trained on the blond man.
So much for them being friends, I guess.
Adrian tucks his hands into his pockets. He is the epitome of nonchalance as he says, “I could ask you the same question. What are you doing with my bashert?”
“Your bashert?” Gabe growls.
I don’t recognize the unfamiliar word. It sounds like “baw-shirt”, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t English.
I look between the men, confused as to why they are so on edge. Mr. Cohen hasn’t said anything, but he looks just as tense as his brother. They don’t like Adrian. And based on Adrian’s expression, he doesn’t like them either. I have the feeling I’m caught in the middle of a feud—one I cannot even begin to understand.
“Yes,” Adrian replies. His voice takes on a lethal edge. “My bashert.”
“She is not yours,” Mr. Cohen finally speaks.
I register they are talking about me, and dread fills my stomach. “What about me?”
I’m ignored.
“I assure you, gentlemen, she is.” Adrian resumes his air of indifference, waving a dismissive hand. “You may leave and resume your boy-scout routine of saving fallen orphan offspring from themselves. Now that I am here, I shall oversee her transformation.”
Fallen orphans?
Saving them?
Transformation?
My heart pounds in my chest. I need to get out of here. I don’t want any part in whatever is happening.
Gabe steps towards Adrian. “You won’t touch her.”
My eyes zip between the men. I see Adrian’s lips lift into an amused, yet malicious, smirk. The fingers tucked in his pocket are raised towards me. Before he can touch me, Adrian is tackled by Gabe.
All I see is a streak of black hair before their two forms crash into my mother’s antique cabinet. Expensive figurines crash on the hardwood floor. I release a shout and jump back, but Gabe launched his attack away from me. There is a good three feet between me and the grappling men.
Mr. Cohen joins the fray. He leaps over the coffee table effortlessly. He tries to separate his brother from Adrian. Though, I notice he gives the latter unnecessary shoves in the process.
I’m only shocked for a moment before I snap out of it. Seeing my opportunity for escape, I take it. I tuck my chin to my chest and make a break for the open entryway. Adrian is on his back with Gabe gripping his shirt, trying to punch him in the jaw. Mr. Cohen pushes his brother’s shoulder, preventing him from making contact. None of them notice my escape.
My breathing is ragged as I turn the metal bolt and fling open the front door. I run into the front yard, not daring to risk looking back. I need to get as far away from my house as fast as I can.
I race down the driveway and turn towards my nearest neighbor’s house. Mrs. Hall is a widow who lives alone, but she’s friendly. She will let me in her house. All I need is to get to a phone so I can call the police. Then, they can take care of the three brawling men who broke into my house.
I am moments away from reaching Mrs. Hall’s front door when it hits me—the smell.
I nearly fall over as the wave of nausea hits me. Rotting meat mixed with burnt flesh assaults my nostrils. I whirl around, trying to identify the source of the horrendous aroma. My mind replays moments from my recent nightmare, and my blood runs cold as I relate the smell to the horrific monster conjured by my mind.
It was just a dream, I tell myself. Your brain is playing tricks on you.
I continue to examine my surroundings. I convince myself the reason I dreamed of the disgusting smell is because I’ve smelled it before. Dreams and nightmares are extensions of conscious experience. Hence, it would make sense that the smell existed in my neighborhood. I bet it is someone’s rotten garbage that our local waste management company forgot to pick up.
The setting sun casts Mrs. Hall’s yard in warm hues and cool shadows. Seeing nothing of note, I turn back to finish jogging to her front door.
A stick snaps behind me. I freeze.
An eerie chill travels the length of my spine. Goosebumps pucker over my bare legs and arms. Slowly, I turn around again. This time, I’m not greeted by a serene yard.
Across the street, slinking towards me, are five ominous shadows. I blink, but the sight remains. I’m not hallucinating. This is real.
The shadows draw near, but they are still far enough away where I can’t distinguish anything other than the fact they are tall.
And lean.
And nerve-rackingly familiar.
The disgusting stench is almost unbearable now. I pinch my nose. As my hand swings towards my face, I hear one of the shadows unleash a guttural growl.
I swear my heart stops beating. Both of my hands fall to hang limply at my sides.
I know that sound—it’s the same noise the creature who attacked Joey’s car made when I punched it.
The creature growls again. I’m unable to deny the similarity between the sound and my nightmare.
Crap.
I need to move. I should back away and seek shelter.
But I stand there. Like a sitting duck, watching as my predator draws near, I am unable to do more than breathe.
The shadows step into the lingering light of the setting sun. My cry of terror is barely more than a pathetic whimper. I recognize the red eyes and the short of horns embedded in the monsters’ skulls.
I suck in a breath and squeeze my eyes close.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
I inhale through my nose and exhale one, short breath before I repeat the process. I try to pull forth my bravery, but the thread unravels in my fingers like a ball of loose yarn. I’m beyond terrified, and I don’t know what I should do.
Knowing I will be forced to face what comes next, I part my eyelids and look forward.
The creatures aren’t in sight.
My muscles tense. Slowly, I rotate my neck. I look toward my house, then Mrs. Hall’s neighbor’s yard. Still, I see nothing.
I exhale, and my should
ers roll forward. I lift a shaky hand and wipe away the beads of sweat on my brow.
Are hallucinations a symptom of my unusual illness? Or am I experiencing a mental break?
I shake my head, trying to dispel my lingering worries. I plan to confess the hallucinations to my dad the moment he is home. After the three brawling men are taken care of, of course.
Without warning, black, scaly fingers fly towards me. I barely manage to duck and avoid being scratched by the creature’s ragged nails.
I stumble but manage to stay upright. Movement to my left draws my attention. Another creature approaches. Swinging my head to the right, I see two more closing in. I’m surrounded.
I’m not hallucinating.
“HELP! Someone, please help me!” I back towards Mrs. Hall’s home, hoping to trigger her security lights and draw attention to my predicament. But the lights are timed, and it isn’t yet late enough for them to turn on.
My legs brush against the shrubs bordering her front patio. “Stay back,” my voice wobbles.
The four creatures continue to approach. I wonder where their fifth companion is when a gust of wind pushes me backwards. I fall into the bushes, but the branches are so dense I do not fall in. Sharp sticks and thorns scratch my arms and legs as I wrestle out of the shrubbery.
When I finally regain balance, I visibly start at the sight before me. Mr. Cohen and Adrian stand two feet away, facing the surrounding monsters. My eyes widen as I register the sight of Gabe fighting with one of the frightening creatures. Unlike when he fought Adrian, every punch and kick lands their mark. The monster is screeching in pain, but none of its companions come to his aid. In fact, I swear they have stepped back.
I don’t understand what is happening. Even if I do not consider the missing fifth creature, the scaly beasts outnumber the men before me. The creatures had looked ready to attack me before their arrival. Why wouldn’t they take their chances with the men? Are they being strategic?
If so, I’m shocked. They don’t exactly scream intelligent beings with their growls and guttural noises.
Then again, for all I know, the sounds could be a means of communication. I’m unable to assess the notion at the moment since not one of the monsters makes a sound. Their red eyes watch their companion flail on the grass.
Claimed by the Fallen: A Fallen Angel Reverse Harem Novel (The Fallen Harem Book 1) Page 7