Few Are Angels

Title Page

Few Are Angels

Copyright © 2012 by Inger Iversen

All rights reserved.

Published by: Inger Iversen

All of the situations and characters in this novel are fictional. Any similarities to actual people or situations are completely coincidental and wholly unintentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Editing done by: Sean Fox|The Red Adept

Cover Artwork done by: Ana Fagarazzi|AF-Studios

Cover fonts, Spine, and Back Cover done by:
Christine DeMaio-Rice|Flip-City Books

Story Synopsis by AMDesign Studios

Formatted by
CyberWitch Press

Inger Iversen

www.ingeriversen.com

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

—Ernest Hemingway

Prologue

It is understood that inside even the most innocent of beings slumbers a beast. This beast, with proper coaxing, can be released. But can it be controlled?

“The Dark Prince, Destroyer Of Kings”

Laurent could feel her, newly awakened by a memory. He ached to steal that memory from her. Many had called him names that would make a child like her fear him, but she had no cause. As long as she cooperated, he would allow her to live at least nine years longer; however, his patience was wearing thin, and he knew that he was more than capable of taking it out on her once she was delivered to him. He’d need to work on that. You could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, his father had once said.

Never in his long existence had he felt the need for so much restraint, but he’d learned from his past mistakes. Yes, he’d learned that she could evade him without knowingly trying to do so. Her only ability was to see past events; yet, through forces that he had yet to discover, she’d always seemed to elude him. Of course, he’d always found her with time, but he had reason for concern. In the modern age, girls were
not
so keen on staying chaste, and she would only be of any use to him through her purity. Last time, he’d used her for exactly one year before that silver-tongued boy weaseled his way into her life, stealing her purity as well as her sight. Though for a brief moment before her death, he’d wondered if the boy was correct, that she was lying about the loss of her ability, to save herself and others from him. If so, was it a mistake to change the boy? Should he have killed him then and there? Was eternal life as a diseased parasite still too lenient?

Laurent felt that the Arc would be more powerful than before; perhaps she could even develop herself into a soothsayer. She would be the first; and from the strength he’d felt from her, it was a feasible transformation. Seeing past events was a valuable asset, but seeing the future could give him the omnipotence that few, if any, would be able to rival. He felt her coming into her power, and he would use that like a beacon to find her; his blood coursed through her veins. Though it was weakened from the generations that separated them, he knew that the more she remembered, the stronger his pull to her would become.

Every flare of strong emotion from her activated that beacon, and he was hot on her trail. The men at his command devoted every second of the day to following wherever the connection signaled her presence. Time after time, they’d proven their worth to him, but now they were a year late in bringing her. He could think of no reason for this other than that the Council of Immortals, headed by his rival Aleixandre, was killing his men as they got closer to her. Though it angered him, his men could be replaced—the Arc could not. He would kill whomever and do whatever it took to find her; he expected that the Council was capable of doing the same. He’d done it before, easily, and he appreciated that in the modern world, where death was as accepted as sin, he would have no difficulty eliminating anyone in his way. The only problem was that if this Arc was anything like Hélène, he would have to approach her differently. Hélène’s heart had been as pure as gold, and the things he wanted from her were black as sin. He would have to convince the new Arc of his innocence of past events, and he would use death to pull her to his side—for, after all, death transforms even the most innocent of hearts, in time. Laurent of all people knew this; whether he would admit it or not was entirely different.

He looked around, disgusted at what he saw; French classic style, the woman at the front desk had called it. The room’s gaudy colors failed to replicate true French Baroque style. Lurid, cheap draperies of fake gold satin adorned windows that looked out onto the biting cold snow that plagued the ground. Warm-colored stripes in red, brown, and gold fabrics decorated the four-post bed, as did coiled, scrolling woodwork; the patterns created a particularly captivating sight, but they looked as if they had been made from pressed board in a workshop.

He still found ease in familiar things, but America was far from familiar; the Arc would have to be found soon. His surroundings did nothing for his patience, and in this search where patience was all that was asked of him, the Dark Prince wondered who would pay the price for making him wait so damn long.

Chapter 1

Warm summer nights were a thing of my past; to leave behind summer’s warmth was, in my mind, a CRIME, but through winter’s frost came change, and death brought forth a new beginning.

Ella Monroe

Thaxinburg, Virginia

Cedar Grove County

That bed, that room, or even that house didn’t feel like home, though I’d been there many times before during past summers and long weekends with my parents. The thought of them left a bad taste on my tongue. I swallowed several times, but the bitter taste lingered, growing stronger. I pushed the memory away and stored it in the back of my mind, the place where I locked all of the things that I couldn’t handle and the things that I refused to remember. That was where their memory would have to stay. I couldn't keep thinking about them because then the voice would start, and with the voice would come the visions and the sickness. I sat up in bed and looked around for what seemed like the hundredth time. I knew it was late because it was pitch black outside, but I didn’t look at the clock. I hadn’t slept a full five hours in weeks, and I didn't have anywhere to be in the morning, so time seemed irrelevant. I stayed in this odd fugue state where I was aware of all that was around me, and even more aware that none of it mattered anymore. I floated through the days on autopilot, waiting for a situation where a reaction was expected from me, and remembering the “normal” way to react. Pretending was a chore that I wasn’t sure I could handle much longer. The room was so familiar. I knew it like the back of my hand. Why did it seem a million miles away? Or like a dream? Alex and I had spent plenty of time hanging out and growing up together, discovering who we were and where we wanted to go when we were grown. To us, that meant when we turned eighteen. And now that I’d “grown up,” the disappointment that was my life was more unsettling than anything. The realization of where I was versus where I should have been was a relentless headache I couldn’t remedy. Why did this room seem so cold and alone? A summer escape became a prison, and a constant reminder of a past that I could never return to.

Normally, my father would be down the hall snoring, and my mother would be in the kitchen with Mrs. Carlton giggling over vodka martinis. Alex and I would be watching old reruns of
Miami Vice
. The memory of my parents crept up my spine and into my heart, causing it to spasm in pain. My lungs felt as though they were filled with water. I gasped for air, trying to catch my breath, wondering if I would always feel the physical pain at the memory of my mother and father, wondering if the pain would be all I would have left of them in the years to come. In my eyes, memories equaled pain.

I stood up and bent over, putting my face into my sweatpants, and tried to take deep breaths. That had always worked when I panicked at summer camp because I was homesick, feeling out of place amongst the kids who didn’t understand why I didn't want to go swimming in the lake or horseback riding, why I wanted to go home instead. My stomach heaved. I regretted skipping dinner. Nothing was worse than dry heaving as my body tried to purge itself.

I was sure that I couldn't throw up memories. Even if I could, I didn't think it would matter; I’d still be full of them. Suddenly, I realized what was happening. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it, but I didn't want to ride it out for fear that someone would find me passed out in the morning. The usual wave of nausea that came with my hallucinations slithered into my belly. My head felt as if it were on fire, which caused my vision to blur and darken. Everyone thought I was better, that I was cured or close to it. I ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, hoping that I could shock my body into being normal—free from visions and voices. But it was no use.

“Come to me,” the voice whispered, so close to my ear that I whirled around, thinking someone was in the bathroom with me. The voice. I fought the urge to do as it commanded: follow it into the darkness. My tears threatened to explode, but I held them back. I refused to break down at the Carltons’. They weren’t going to send me back to the hospital. The voice and hallucinations weren’t my fault; I couldn’t control them.

My headache still raged, and from experience, I knew it had not yet reached its crescendo. I gripped the porcelain sink and squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the pain to subside. My mother had once said that pain was a gift. It reminded you that you were still alive, and surviving the pain would only make you stronger. Did she feel that way as she lay dying in the wreckage that night? The thought of my parents’ ordeal did not help. I knew that if I had a full on attack, I would be dragged into a hallucination and they’d find me in the morning, unconscious on the floor. That’d earn me a trip right back to Dr. Lithe and Nurse Laura, with her needles and her pills that made you feel nothing and sleep for days.

My hands began to ache from the tight grip I had on the sink. When I removed them, they felt stiff and cold. The voice hadn’t spoken again, but I could hear what sounded like someone scratching at the bathroom door. I froze. I thought to call out and ask who was there, but an intruder wouldn’t announce himself.

Would it be so bad if someone killed me? I was a whack job. I’d flipped out in school when I’d had the vision, the one of my death. They sent me to Ocean Trace to talk to a shrink, and like an idiot, I had confessed my vision to the doctor. A man’s voice demanding that I return to him. My own death. That day I became the fragile girl that everyone was afraid to be around, scared they would set off another episode. Finally, it was decided that I would go to an inpatient care facility for seventy-two hours, which turned into three weeks. That was what happened when you let people in, when you told the truth. It was my fault, and I realized then that keeping my mouth shut and keeping people at a safe distance was for the best.

I shook my head and rotated my shoulders, trying to pull myself from the fog the pain left behind. Acting braver than I truly felt, I decided that if the person who belonged to the voice in my skull was outside that door waiting to kill me, then so be it. I couldn’t live like that anymore. I grabbed the handle, tightened my grip, and wrenched the door open, fully expecting to see a man in a black ski mask with a knife or a gun, but was instead greeted by Max, the Carltons’ pet husky. His big eyes were lined with what seemed to be worry, or maybe just the need to pee. Since my headache was receding and my stomach was no longer rolling, I decided that some fresh, cold air would be good for my nerves.