Sons of Angels

Book 2: Laverstone Chronicles

by Rachel Green

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Hell is already frozen. Now what? Felicia's brief tryst with a woman in a lady's loo leads to exceptionally hairy legs and an odd craving for raw steak. After her mother is killed by what appears to be a demon, her landlord and his partner, a vampire, take Felicia and her sister Julie under their capes, revealing that all four are sons and daughters of angels, the Biblically despised nephilim. Felicia and Julie begin to develop their skills--just in time, because angels attack them, bent on ridding the world of nephilim. Felicia and her friends discover that the seraphim seek a dragon, the birth of which was foretold in the Revelations of St. John. In the race to find the dragon before the angels, will Harold and his crew convince the angels that nephilim are really quite nice when you get to know them. . .or will the polar ice caps melt first, and wipe out humanity and nephilim alike? WARNING: Innuendo, blasphemy and lesbian sex 84,000 Words

Release date: October 1, 2012

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 332

Sample

 

Prologue

 

Carol Goodwin closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. She tucked the bedclothes around her sleeping six-year-old son, kissed his peachy-smooth skin and stood. Her smile lingered as she picked up the clothes left in a pile by the chair, the jumper inside out and the trousers with one leg rucked backward. After she dropped them into the empty laundry basket, she selected Peter’s clothes for the following day: a white shirt, gray trousers, socks, underpants and the garish red jumper the school insisted upon, and placed them on the chair to save Peter searching the house in the morning.

She took a final look around the room, righting several of the dinosaurs Peter collected before turning out the main light, to leave only the small bedside lamp to cast gently turning shadows of cartoon dogs. She closed the door and went downstairs, just in time for the weekly detective series she followed and a glass of the chablis she’d uncorked over dinner.

* * * *

Peter woke in darkness. He looked around, his nervousness and heartbeat increasing as he pulled the covers closer against the cold in the room. He could just make out the thin outline of the window and the sliver of light from the landing under his bedroom door, but his nightlight had been turned off. He felt nervous without the gaily dancing puppies to protect him from encroaching shadows.

He felt all around, his fingers trailing quickly across the scratchy wool of the blanket and the shiny satin of the quilt until it touched the soft velvet of Philip, his stuffed horse. Peter clutched the toy against his chest, the chill of the fur against his pajamas making him shiver. Whether the grasp was for the protection of the horse or for Peter, it was impossible to say. His breath coalesced where it passed the ray of light from the edge of the curtains and he clamped one hand over his mouth to listen.

The room was silent but for the trickle of water through the radiator pipes and the beat of his heart, but Peter could hear the faint sounds of the television in the living room downstairs, so he knew his mummy had not yet gone to bed. He let out his breath, feeling pressure from his bladder due to a bedtime cup of warm milk. He pulled back the quilt to slide out of bed but froze when he heard the creak of a floorboard.

The house didn’t creak. Mummy had bought it new when she and Daddy had got a divorce last year, which meant someone was on the landing. Peter froze. Mummy  never crept about at night so the only explanation was.  a burglar or a skeleton from the graveyard at St. Pity’s. He lay stock still in the darkness and was about to call for Mummy when the bedroom door opened.

He strained his eyes against the sudden influx of light but the silhouette in the doorway wasn’t Mummy. She would have called out to him to tell him it wasn’t a monster and, besides, the figure was much too tall. He held his breath again, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. Where was Mummy? The figure stepped farther into the room, the light flickering like white fire around its body. Peter could see it was a man, of sorts. Not a nasty man, for no one nasty could have a face so perfectly calm and a smile so genuine.

Peter relaxed. “Who are you? Are you one of Mummy’s special friends?”

“You could say that.” The man moved closer to the bed and spoke in a voice so soft and gentle it felt like a ribbon trailed through Philip’s fur. I am a special friend to all. I am of the Light and the Life.”

“Are you an angel, then?” Peter remembered the phrase from assembly at school.

“An angel?” The man considered the question. “Yes, I’m an angel.”

“Where are your wings then? Have you come to take me to Heaven?” Peter frowned. “Where’s Mummy?”

“My wings would be too bright for you to see, little one, were I to unfold them.” The angel raised a hand to touch Peter’s face. “Suffer little children to come unto me.” The touch connected, and Peter felt such peace that, for an instant, he understood his mother’s love.

“Suffer little children.”

Peter felt the heat before he saw the flicker of orange flames as they engulfed Philip’s acrylic fur. He tried to scream, but the fire was so very, very hot and the one breath he managed to take he couldn’t release. Everything went gray.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Felicia Turling felt as if her head was about to explode. She’d never wanted to hit another woman so much in her life. Not that she ever would. A slap would cause more trouble than the temporary satisfaction was worth. She let the woman babble on instead, pretending to listen while planning her outfit for the club tonight. She nodded, as if in response. Emily Baker was a promising young artist but there had been no indication of her temperament in her CV.

“...amongst the bananas. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course.” Felicia smiled and took the woman’s arm in a gentle but firm grip. “Those bananas are actually an installation by the renowned artist Sarah Whitelaw. Have you come across her work?”

Emily shook her head. “It’s a bit retrogarde in my opinion. Rotting fruit has been done to death.”

Felicia raised an eyebrow. Retrogarde was a new term to her, one she guessed meant the opposite of avant-garde but she took it in her stride. “It’s less to do with the rotting of the fruit than the evolution of the fruit-fly. It will be gone before your show goes up anyway.”

“Oh.” Emily cast her gaze around the basement gallery. “What about that door? Can I cover that?”

“I’m afraid not,” Felicia steered the young woman toward the office. “That leads to the bookshop upstairs. Mr. Waterman and I share a small amount of passing trade. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee while you detail your installation for me on the gallery plans?”

She didn’t regret her small lie for a moment, but it would teach her not to leave her shopping in the gallery.

“It’s great you’re going to let me paint the gallery black.” Emily looked up at the steel pipes criss-crossing the ceiling. “No one’s ever let me do that before.”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I said.” A phone began to ring in the office and she paused. “Would you mind if I got that? I’m waiting for a call from an investor.”

“No. Sure.” Emily diverted her attention to a series of etchings.

Felicia answered the phone and was overtaken with gallery business for the next hour and a half. Working without a break made for one hell of a long day.

* * * *

She was relieved when Meinwen joined her for lunch. On the wrong side of thirty, Meinwen was still single and made an invaluable friend. Rumors of an affair with the parish priest had been rife when she first moved to Laverstone, not least because of her profession as the owner of the only pagan shop in the village. As members of a village minority of artists, writers and other free-thinkers, Felicia and Meinwen had become firm friends.

“I saw Emily Baker in here earlier.” Meinwen smiled and accepted the mug of herbal tea. “She comes into the shop regularly. Rather you than me, I must say.” Her soft Welsh accent was musical after Emily’s harsh jabbering.

Felicia rolled her eyes. “I offered her a show on the basis of slides sent by post. I should have met her to discuss it first. Did you know she wants to paint the whole gallery black?”

Meinwen laughed. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t know you’d offered her a show, either. That explains why she bought my entire stock of black candles.”

“Oh no. I’m not having any religious mumbo-jumbo in the gallery.” She looked askance. “No offence.”

“None taken.” Meinwen grinned, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on the two-seater sofa. “I loathe the mumbo-jumbo too. Most of it is just pseudo-Christian guff, performed by people who wouldn’t recognize a goddess if she showed them Paradise.”

Felicia opened her sandwich and picked out the cucumber. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been agnostic since school.”

“Fair enough,” Meinwen spread hummus onto a piece of pita bread.

“‘Morning ladies.” Harold Waterman, who owned the bookshop upstairs, appeared with his own mug of tea, not trusting the “muck in a cup” Meinwen enjoyed. In his mid-thirties, he cut a roguish figure in an Italian tailored business suit and open-necked shirt. A lock of platinum-blond hair swept over his brow, a reflection of his easy smile. He reached over and took the discarded cucumber.

Felicia bit into the sandwich. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I’m up to date on the rent, aren’t I?”

“Of course. Nothing like that. I just fancied a bit of company.

“Your business associate not around, then?”

“Jasfoup’s busy with some of his freelance work.”

“Fair enough.” Felicia picked up her coffee. “Who’s looking after your shop?”

“Devious.” Harold grimaced. “Er... One of Jasfoup’s friends.”

“What an odd name.” Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Not terribly complimentary.”

Harold shrugged. “It is where he comes from.”

Felicia repressed a shudder at the thought of where that might be. “Do you want half my sandwich? I’m on a diet.”

“If you’re sure.” Harold smiled and held out his hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you go hungry.”

“I’m not.” Felicia passed it to him. “Think of it as saving me from myself.”

Harold bit into it and dropped a shred of lettuce onto his leather trousers. “It’s good. A bit under-cooked, though.”

“It’s feta cheese salad.”

* * * *

After lunch, when Meinwen had returned to her pagan emporium–Closed to honor Bacchus: Back at Two–and Harold to his bookshop–We never close for time-travelers: Come back before lunch–Felicia conducted a gallery check. The series of alien landscapes were popular, as far as anything in her gallery was popular with the locals, but she hadn’t sold any despite her policy of easy payment plans. The russet-hued Dragon at Dawn, her personal favorite, had not even received an enquiry.

The watercolors in the third gallery had fared a little better. The modest sums asked for them, all but three of them under two hundred pounds, had generated enough sales for Felicia to subsidize the exhibitions for a further three months on her portion of the price.

Gallery two, where she’d hung four huge oils by the relatively unknown Gillian du Point, was like stepping into silence. The pictures, made with layer upon layer of glazes, seemed to suck the sound from the room. Felicia spent a few minutes looking at them. Even if she could afford the huge price tags, the smallest of the four was larger than any single wall of her flat.

“Quite delightful, aren’t they?”

Felicia jumped at the voice, unaware anyone else had been present. A tall gentleman in a twenties-style double-breasted coat emerged from the shadows. “Yes they are.” She stepped forward. “She’s very talented.”

“They took a long time to make.” He indicated the smaller one with his cane. “Each layer of glaze takes months to dry.”

Felicia nodded. She’d graduated in printmaking before progressing to a master’s in art history and a doctorate in socio-economics. “She has more patience than I do but the results are fantastic.”

“Indeed.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I should like them all. When can you deliver them?”

“All?” Felicia gaped at him. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Nevertheless.”

Felicia nodded. “The show finishes next Friday. I can deliver them after that.”

“Excellent.” The man inclined his head and gave her a short bow. “I will return then.” He pressed his card into her hand, nodded once more and placed a trilby on his head as he left the gallery.

“Wow.” Felicia let out a silent whoop then looked down at the card in her hand. There were no contact details. No address, no phone number, no email. Just one name, written in white against a dark background.

Raffles.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Felicia rubbed her eyes and clicked the projector on another notch. Honestly, was this still the seventies? Why did some artists insist on sending color slides of their work? Hadn’t they heard of computers? She could project the image from a CD onto a wall as easily as using a slide projector. Easier, even. Loading a CD was a lot quicker than loading a cassette of slides.

She turned the projector off. That was an hour of her life she’d never get back. The slides were all right but owed more than a small debt to Sir Stanley Spencer and his post-war landscapes of the Rapture than to anything she could comfortably call modern. What was the term that ghastly woman had used? Retrogarde.

She turned to the etchings. They were a similar subject, and in a couple of cases the same subject, as the paintings but they’d suit gallery two if she could price them affordably. She might even buy one for her flat. If she was crafty she could get Harold to display some alongside the bibles in the bookshop upstairs.

Sorted. She tossed the package to one side and yawned. Could she close early? She could. No one was viewing the exhibits anyway.

Felicia locked the main doors and went upstairs, where she found Mr. Jasfoup at the kitchen table sorting through a pile of books. Wherever they had come from, they had been there a long time. Each was covered in dust and dirt, the pages redolent with the acrid smell of mold and mildew.

Felicia wrinkled her nose. “Have you been to a house clearance? Were they really worth buying?”

The dark-skinned man looked up and smiled. “Always. These are a set of first-edition Dickens. I paid a mint for them.”

“They don’t look to be worth anything.” Felicia stepped closer and ran a finger across the gilt-embossed cover of volume one. “How much exactly?”

“I told you.” He reached in his pocket for a half-empty packet of sweets. “I gave him a mint for them. Have one if you like. Gratis.”

“Thanks.” Felicia extracted one and popped it in her mouth. “It was a good deal, then?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Jasfoup grinned, caressing the volume in his hand like a long-lost lover. “Once they’re cleaned and disinfected, they’ll be worth a couple of thousand.”

Felicia whistled. “I’m in the wrong job. I struggle to make that much in a month.”

“That’s gross, of course.” Jasfoup patted Felicia’s hand, eclipsing her tanned skin with his. “I’ll take my commission out of that.”

“How much is your commission?” Felicia wondered if it was worth asking him to procure paintings for her gallery.

Jasfoup laughed. “A soul.”

Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Do you get many people who would give their soul for a book?”

“One or two.” He winked. “Would you like to take tea?”

“No thanks. I was just looking for Harold to tell him I’d closed early.”

“That’s not like you.” Jasfoup stood to put the kettle on for himself. “Did you make a sale?”

“No. I mean, yes, but that’s not why I’m closing early. I want to nip and see my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Jasfoup dropped a teabag into a mug. “Don’t tell Harold I make it like this, will you? He insists on a teapot but sometimes I really can’t be bothered.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks.” He filled the cup with boiling water. “What did you sell? One of the landscapes?”

“No. Actually I sold all four of the Du Points.”

Jasfoup paused in the act of fishing for the teabag. “The Gillian du Points?”

“That’s right.” Felicia took her car keys from her handbag. “Sixty grand less commission. Can I use your back door?”

“It sounds like me who’s in the wrong business. Here, I’ll see you out.”

* * * *

Felicia went through the double doors of St. Pity’s Psychiatric Hospital and walked up to the desk. The duty nurse smiled at her and passed over the visitor’s book without prompting. Felicia signed it, her visits filling almost two thirds of the page. Psychiatric patients weren’t popular.

“I'll send an orderly for your sister.”

“Thank you.” She returned the book and made her way down the two-tone corridor to the refectory, trying, as she did on every visit, to get used to the half-sickly, half-sweet smell of the hospital food. She chose a table near the windows that had the least spillage of food and tomato sauce. While she waited, she stacked the used plates on the next table along and wiped the spilled salt into her hand. She threw a pinch of it over her shoulder before depositing the rest onto a dirty plate.

“Careful. Watch where you’re throwing things.” Julie shook salt from her hair. She was shorter than her sister by a head, though she had the same dark eyes and hair, albeit in a shorter bob.

Felicia gave her a hug and helped her into a seat. She indicated to the orderly there was nothing she needed.

“Felicia?” Julie’s face was drawn with fatigue. “Is there something the matter?”

“No. Sorry.” Felicia did her best to smile at her institutionalized sister. “How have you been, Julie? You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” Julie’s gaze was fixed at a point an inch to Felicia’s left. “I hear the voices constantly, yet I can’t see what makes them. You’d look tired too.”

“I know.” Felicia patted her hand. “I’m sorry. Would you like to walk in the grounds?”

“Why not?” Julie’s face screwed up, her jaw clenching. “The sun is shining, the flowers are pretty and your poor mad sister is blind to it all. Let’s go for a walk in the grounds. It will make you feel as if you’ve done something charitable.”

Felicia looked her sister in the dead emptiness of her eyes. “You’re not mad, Julie. God knows I’d feel the same way if I had to go through what you do.”

“You don’t, though. You have your art and your beauty and your silence. How I beg for silence.”

Felicia tried to change the subject. “I sold some paintings today. My commission alone came to nine grand.”

“Of course she’s special.” Julie looked to her right. “She can see.” She looked in Felicia’s direction again. Felicia rested her hand on Julie’s arm. “I thought you were getting better but you’re talking to your invisible friends more and more. I don’t understand why.”

“You wouldn’t understand, would you? You’re not blind.” Julie surveyed the room as if she could see. “Without Wrack I’d have been totally insane years ago, but even with him here they get through.”

“Without who? Who the hell is Wrack? Another patient?”

“My miniature elemental.” Julie patted the air above her own shoulder. “He sits on my shoulder telling me what he can see.” She looked at Felicia again, the flicker of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “You’re wearing a white shirt with a mustard stain behind the third button.”

“How did you know that?” Felicia waved away an approaching orderly and lowered her voice. “I could almost believe you do have something on your shoulder.”

“But you won’t. It’s outside your comfort zone, so you’ll choose to believe it was a lucky guess. I know you well enough to expect you to wear a white shirt, and the mustard has a distinctive smell.”

“Oh.” Felicia stopped short. “That’s clever, though. You should be on stage.”

“One with a trapdoor and a noose around my neck?” Julie nodded to herself. “Let’s go for this walk. Then I can go back and wallow in self-pity.”

“Don’t be silly.” Felicia stood. “How are you doing this? Have you got a miniature two-way radio? Is someone feeding you this information?” She turned slowly, trying to spot her sister's hidden accomplice. “Have they given you a new drug or something?”

“Without you signing a consent form in triplicate? Nothing so simple.”

“This isn’t easy for me either, you know. I closed the gallery early to come here.”

“Lucky me.” Julie threaded through the tables toward the exit. “If my eyes worked I’d be crying in gratitude.”

“What’s the matter with you today?” Felicia hurried to catch up with her. “You’re not normally like this.”

“It’s the voices.” Julie reached the doorway and turned. “They’ve got worse recently. If it wasn’t for Wrack...”

“Why?” Felicia caught up and took hold of her sister’s hand. “Come on. Level with me? How are you really seeing things? Have you started to regain your sight?”

“I told you. It’s my elemental.” She petted the empty space above her shoulder.

Felicia shuddered. Had her sister finally lost her tenuous grip on reality? She could see a future of leather straps and padded rooms.“All right. Let’s just say I believe you. What does this creature do?”

“He keeps me sane.” Julie looked to her left shoulder this time. “He keeps all the others away so I can get some peace.” She pulled Felicia through the door and onto the front drive, turning left to avoid Felicia’s parked Audi without even touching it. “He tells me what he can see. Nice car. Is it new?”

“Not really. I bought it second-hand six months ago.”

Julie nodded. “You’ve a scratch on the offside wing. Let’s go to those trees over there. What are they?”

“How should I know?” Felicia looked at the car. Sure enough, there was a fresh scratch on it. “How did you know about that scratch?”

“They’re poplars.” Julie turned, her sightless eyes staring into space. “Haven’t you been listening? Wrack tells me.”

“Your elemental?” She made a mental note to discuss her sister’s imagination with the doctor.

“Yes. My elemental.” They were halfway to the poplars but Julie turned and headed back toward the hospital.

“What’s the matter now?” Felicia stopped, looking from the trees to her sister. Sometimes Julie could be infuriating. “Julie? You’re not making any sense.”

“Why should I have to make sense? I’m the mad one, remember?”

“Don’t you want to go to the poplars?”

Julie stopped and turned around. “There’s somebody there I don’t want to talk to. He frightens me.”

“Who?” Felicia looked toward the trees, holding her hand to shadow her eyes. “I don’t see anybody.”

“He’s there, just the same. Let’s go to the rose garden instead. There’s just Mrs. Blesset there.”

“All right.” Felicia tried to keep up with Julie’s strides. “I don’t understand this. Is there really something on your shoulder?”

“Yes.” Julie reached a bench and sat. “Look. Give me your purse.”

“Here.” Felicia handed it to her. “What do you want it for?”

“This.” Julie opened it and pulled out the first note, holding it up to her right shoulder. “A ten pound note.” She held up a second. “A twenty. A photograph of an old woman.” She paused. “Is that Mother?”

“Yes. She got old. You’ve been here twelve years.”

“Is it really that long?” Julie stuffed the notes back into the purse and handed them back. “I didn’t realize.”

“You’ll be thirty this year.” Felicia closed her hand over Julie’s. “Do you want to see her?”

“She won’t come.” Julie stared into the distance. “She never has.”

“I’ll tell her you’re getting better.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Julie stood. “I have to go back in now.”

“Must you? It’s early yet.” Felicia pulled her into a hug

Julie pushed her away. “The sun’s going down.” Her voice warbled with anxiety. “I have to go.” She turned and hurried back along the path, making several apparently random twists and sidesteps.

“See you on Sunday.” Felicia expected no reply and lost track of Julie when she turned into the hospital courtyard.

* * * *

Felicia drove back to her flat irritated by her sister. What had caused her to spiral further into her make-believe world? She’d been getting better, surely? Where had this idea of an elemental come from? It sounded like something from the Twilight Zone or the Hammer House of Horror. Had they changed her medication? She’d tried to see Julie’s doctor but he was “available by appointment only” no matter how much Felicia had pleaded.

She pulled into her usual spot and walked up the short flight of steps to her flat. She owned the top floor of an old Victorian schoolhouse with a preservation order. She couldn’t replace the single-pane windows but the high ceilings afforded her space to display paintings and sculptures, and the polished oak floors were easy to sweep clean.

She threw her jacket on the sofa, kicked off her shoes then poured herself a glass of wine. Despite the early hour, she felt she deserved it after Julie’s craziness.

She dropped into the armchair and dialed Patricia Turling’s number.

“Mum? It’s Felicia.” She listened to pleasantries before interrupting. “I saw Julie today.”

“Really? How considerate of you.”

Felicia frowned at her mother’s sudden icy tone. “You can’t ignore her forever, Mum. She’s your own daughter.”

“That's not my daughter. My daughter left a long time ago.” Patricia’s voice was distant. “Not like you. You’re a good girl, Felicia.”

Felicia cringed. That was not what she’d said when they were kids. In those days Julie had been the good girl, despite her penchant for invisible friends.

“I think she needs more help than they’re giving her. She seems to be getting worse. She says she’s got an elemental on her shoulder.”

“Stuff and nonsense, darling. Too much television. I spoiled you both when you were little.”

“Yes, Mum.” Felicia sighed. “I’ll drop in tomorrow, shall I? Before work?”

She replaced the phone, leaned back and sipped her wine. Why did her mother always deflate her good moods? If she told her mother she was getting married, Patricia would tell her she was lucky a man had found her worth having when, as everybody knew, it would be quite the opposite.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Felicia pulled into Sandringham Crescent and onto the drive of number four, parking behind her father’s immaculate Volvo. He’d been dead for nearly five years and, although her mother didn’t drive, she paid one of the neighbor’s lads to wash it every week and the garage to keep it serviced and roadworthy. She felt she couldn’t separate the man from the car he loved and to let the car go would be to say goodbye.

Mostly Felicia ignored it. The amount Patricia spent on the unused vehicle in a month would have kept hers going for a whole year. She left her car unlocked as she went to the house. Years of growing up in this neighborhood meant she trusted the residents, or at least their twitching curtains.

She pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked good for pushing thirty, though her mother would no doubt comment on her choice of foundation, how short her hair was and how it matched the indecent length of her skirt. She refreshed her lipstick, dabbed a spot of powder on her nose and forehead, took a deep breath and got out.

The door unlocked with her father’s key. The death of her husband had been the only reason Patricia Turling gave her daughter a key to her own house. She had moved out, rented and eventually bought a place of her own before her mother had conceded she was responsible enough to have a key to this one.

Felicia was used to her mother's foibles. Despite the constant nagging about her job, her partners and her life in general, she hadn’t wished her mother dead for months.

S. . .