Misguided Angel: A Parnormal Romance Novella

“Yes.” He knelt before her, putting his eyes level with hers. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” When she smiled, her severe little face was beautiful. “I knew you would come.” She pulled a necklace free of her collar, a tiny gold cross. “I knew He would send you to us.” She held the cross out to him, the chain still looped around her neck. He could see Rachel behind her, watching.

He bent his head and kissed the cross. “The Light saved you, little one, and your faith.” He kissed her gloved hand, too.

He stood up as the old woman from the first house came running across the square like a woman half her age. “Elena!” She pushed past Asher to hug the girl tight. “Thank God,” she repeated over and over. “Praise be to God you are safe.”

Anthony put a han

d on Asher’s shoulder. “Come, brother.” His smile was as joyful as the girl’s. “Let’s go home.”

Asher stepped out of the space between worlds back into Kelsey’s city. His senses were assaulted by the vital horror of humanity around him, the stench of motor fumes, the sharp, bitter cold of the wind. But there was beauty, too, he realized, seeing it all as if for the first time. The light of the streetlamps glimmered on the icy pavement, and down the block a late night club was pouring the music of a saxophone out into the night, seductive as a woman’s soft kiss in the dark. He felt reborn. He had passed the test. He had walked to the edge of the abyss and not fallen. He had felt too much, but he had served the Light.

The Imps on the Street

Kelsey walked back from the cemetery down the frozen sidewalk. It was almost midnight. But she had been so scared for so long, she barely thought about it anymore. So she didn’t see the three figures lurking in the shadows of a stoop as she passed or notice when they fell into step behind her. She didn’t notice a thing until the first one grabbed her.

“Hey pretty,” he said in a barely-human rasp, slamming a gloved hand over her mouth as he shoved her back against a wall. They were in front of a boarded-up building just two doors down from her own. If she could have turned her head, she could have seen the light burning in her own kitchen. The other two moved in on either side of her, blocking any hope of escape.

“Hey pretty,” they repeated, one slightly after the other in perfect imitation of the first. One of them smiled, licking his lips, and a trick of the light made his tongue seem forked.

The leader leaned in close, sniffing her. “You reek of angel, pretty.” All of their faces were swathed in scarves and shaded by hoods; she couldn’t tell their races or pick out any features. But the leader had a spike through his eyebrow, accentuating a jagged scar. She tried to kick him, and he shoved a knee hard into her stomach, knocking her breathless. His sidekicks each grabbed her by a shoulder and slammed her hard against the bricks, making her see stars. When her eyes cleared, she saw the knife. “Sorry, pretty,” the leader said, holding it in front of her eyes. She thought about the bloodstain on the alley wall where the homeless woman had died, and she started screaming, the sound muffled against his thickly-gloved hand. His eyes were glowing blue, not reflected moonlight but flickering flames from within. “It’s nothing personal.” He raised the knife, preparing to strike.

Then suddenly his arm was gone. She heard the knife clatter on the pavement. He screamed, falling back from her, and hot, stinking blood spattered across her cheek, spurting from his shoulder where his arm had been. She caught a glimpse of Asher’s face behind him as he crumpled to the ground, beautiful and terrible with rage.

“Asher!” she cried out, and their eyes met for barely a moment.

Then the other two were attacking Asher, screaming in high-pitched, inhuman voices. She thought she saw a flash of long, wet fangs as one of them latched onto his shoulder and the other darted past him, scuttling over the ice like a crab and coming up with the knife. The leader was still writhing at her feet, howling and spitting with rage. She could see the gleaming white bone of the shoulder joint. Asher had ripped off his arm like twisting the leg off a chicken.

But she didn’t have time to feel sick. The one who had recovered the knife was coming after her. She tried to run, and he grabbed her by the hair. “No!” she heard Asher shout, his voice like a roar, too loud, making her ears ring. The one holding her let her go, dropping the knife to clamp his hands over his ears. She kicked at him, tripping over the one on the ground, trying to reach the street.

“Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the sidewalk was deserted. “Somebody call 911!” She looked down, searching for the knife, and something shoved her hard, sending her sprawling face down on the ice. A blinding white light swept over her, and she heard another high-pitched scream. Rolling over, she caught a glimpse of something glowing white but flickering like fire in front of Asher’s face—a sword? The one who had bitten his shoulder was still screaming, half-crawling, half-running down the street, clumsy but fast as a cockroach running from the light. Asher turned his back on her, watching him, and she lost sight of what he was holding, sword or not—the flickering light went out. She slid backward on her ass, trying to find her feet, and suddenly the one who had lost an arm was sitting up, reaching under his jacket with the hand he had left.

“Asher!” she screamed out, knowing what was coming, lunging for the gun before she saw it. Asher turned as he fired, and the bullet tore through his shoulder—she saw the blood spurt from a smoking hole in his coat. Laughing like a lunatic, the third one came up with the knife again and leapt on Asher like a monkey, slashing at him. He should have been cut to ribbons.

But he didn’t fall. He grabbed the one with the knife by the nape of the neck and shook him hard before flinging him against the wall. He smashed into the bricks with a sickening crunch and slid to the ground. The one with the gun was weak, swaying on his knees, but he raised it again, swinging it toward Kelsey. She saw the round, deadly mouth of the barrel and the blue flame in his eyes.

Then he was flying. Moving so fast she barely saw him, Asher grabbed him by the head, lifting him straight up into the air. She felt the bullet whiz past her cheek as she saw him twist, heard the terrible crack. Then she was falling, swooning, her cheek bouncing slightly on the gritty, blood-slick ice.

“Kelsey!” Asher was bending over her, holding her tight by the shoulders. “Kelsey, get up.”

“Can’t,” she mumbled, limp in his grasp. Then she looked past him and saw the leader. He was still moving, one blue eye still glowing. His head was hanging at a monstrous angle on his broken neck, but he was getting up. “Oh my God…”

“Get up!” Asher was heaving her up from the ground, and she put her feet under her, willing herself upright. “Run!” he ordered. “Get inside!”

“Come on!” She clutched his wrist in both hands and pulled with all her strength. “Asher!” It was like pulling on a marble statue. But the man on the ground had made it to his knees, his one hand scrabbling over the ground like a spider, looking for the gun. The one Asher had thrown against the wall was moving, too, hissing as he rolled over. “For Christ’s sake, Asher, come on!”

For a moment, he just stared at her, his face a mask. Then suddenly, he was moving, the statue giving way. He let her steer him to the door of her building, running beside her, holding her upright from behind as she fumbled her key into the lock and half-carrying her inside. She could hear the footsteps running behind them and willed herself not to look back. The door was steel and safety glass, at least six inches thick. As soon as she had locked the deadbolt, something huge and heavy slammed against it, and she screamed, falling back against Asher again.

It was the leader. His neck still looked broken, and his stump of a shoulder was still pouring blood. But he was smiling.

“See you later, Asher.” His rasp of a voice carried through the glass. “Later, pretty.” He lunged, jaws snapping like a dog’s, and she screamed again. Then with a laugh, he was gone.

The Nymph in the Hallway

Asher caught Kelsey as she crumpled, scooping her up in his arms. “No,” she said, pushing against his chest. “Put me down; I’m fine. You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“I’m not hurt,” he promised, carrying her up the stairs.