Paradox Love: Paradox Love Book 1 (17 page)

Never before had her suffering been placed upon his very doorstep.  Never before had he been given such a choice as the one he faced now.  For the first time, he had the power to relieve her suffering.  No agony he’d experienced in the past was equal in comparison to bearing witness in person. 

And for all the times he’d never been able to save her, never been allowed to intervene, he stepped into the corridor and walked toward her.

Grace was oblivious at first, as his footsteps approached.  So immersed was she in her concentration that she was literally immune to her surroundings.  His coming footsteps began to rouse her slowly.  When she was alert enough to open her eyes, she did so.  And there he was standing only inches away.  She did not look up.  She could not. 

A silence lingered between them.  But then the tiniest sound was in the air, as the tinkling music of an unfolding metal chain was lowered before Grace’s eyes.  And there, swinging before her, a key.

It couldn’t be real.  It was not real.  She looked up at him, her eyes spilling over.  The lump in her throat rendered her unable to speak.  And still she thought, it could not be real.  Gabe stooped to retrieve her hand.  Then gently turning it to face up, he placed the key in her palm.

He moved in close and spoke softly in her ear.

“Grace, you can go.”

She looked at the key in her hand, that manifestation of an utter miracle.  She closed her hand around it.

“But Grace, this time, this room will be for transference only.  No illusions.  It’s the best I could do.”

Her spine stiffened at the thought. 
So be it.  So be it.
  Her mind was tough enough to take it, but her heart was victim to a gripping panic.  For just that blink, for that second, she hesitated.  Transference was terrifying.

Gabe reached out once more.  This time, he wrapped his hand tightly around hers and helped her to her feet.  She understood immediately that she would not be going alone.  

And in that fraction of time, Grace made yet another decision.  Gabe did not have to come with her.  It was not a fair expectation that he would make such a sacrifice.  Life on Earth was no picnic.  And if they were going back together as dogs, there was no way to predict their fate. 

She could have refused his offer, could have begged him to stay behind.  It was the right thing to do.  And yet, her fear of walking through that door alone overrode all else.  She knew that as long as his hand was locked with hers, she would be okay.

Without a word, Gabe gently took the key from her hand and unlocked the door.  Complete darkness filled the space inside.  There was no air of reassurance.  Her hand tightened around his as they stepped through.   The door sealed behind them and total darkness surrounded.  Gabe guided Grace toward the center of the room.  From the distance, a whooshing sound approached.  He pulled her to him tightly.

“Grace, I want to tell you something.”

Around them, the air was vibrating and a wind blowing, as though a prelude to a coming hurricane. 

She could barely hear him above the storm.  And in that moment, his closeness, the contact with him brought her a comfort that was equal in contrast to what was occurring all around them.  He wrapped his arms tighter around her.

He was speaking, but she could not catch all the words.  Her hair was flying.  She tucked her head into his chest.  He had one arm wrapped around her waist and the other now around her head, protecting her as much as his arms would allow.

“Grace, I have loved you since the beginning and I’ll love you till the end.”

And then the pummeling began.  The storm in the room began to compress and refine them, change them, materialize them.  The floor beneath opened up to release them to the sky.  They began to fall slowly, having transformed into the tiny fireflies Grace had seen when she’d last returned to Castellans.  They floated downward softly toward their destination on Earth.

Above them, a solitary roach scout scanned the skies.  Victims here were hard to come by, but every legion assigned at least one lookout to each advanced world.  The prospect of thwarting the advancement of an entire world was a particular obsession. 

Roaches were dark souls.  They too were subject to the laws of transference.  They had little experience with ascensions, as they had no interest in progressing.  They did, however, have a keen understanding of the patterns of advancing worlds.  It was clear that Castellans was approaching its next ascension.  A single chink in the armor of Castellans’ defenses was more tantalizing to a roach than an entire world of defenseless souls.

They were not known as roaches without good cause.  These souls built around themselves a black armor not unlike the spiny shell of the Oriental cockroach.  Their expansive wings were not the birdlike feathered wings found on Castellans, but were tough as steel and sharp enough at the ends to wound an enemy in battle.

You always knew they were coming.  And the fact that they made it obvious was at first perplexing to unsuspecting victims.  They announced themselves with a high pitched hissing.  That sound was a terrifying prelude to battle.

  Once you understood them, you realized that instilling terror was their ultimate satisfaction.  Their worlds were so profoundly regressed that none retained the slightest hope or inclination for anything better. Instead, they delighted in setting back the progress of other worlds.

All souls are immortal.  A roach could never kill a soul making its way to Earth.  They could, however, inflict wounds that the soul would carry with them.  The nature and severity would vary. 

The roach soldier, Blatta, was patrolling the skies along the borders of Castellans.  Below him two tiny dots of light emerged from the protective sphere of the world.  One had the full protection of an advanced soul.  A waste of time.  He honed in the other, while simultaneously doubting what he saw before him.  The second soul bore the telltale signs of pronounced regression.  Where the light of the advanced soul cut through the sky with its brilliant beam, the other was faint, dimmed. 

Blatta did not care why it was so.  He didn’t need to understand the strange events which had produced this weakened soul from Castellans.  All he knew was that the soul was vulnerable. 

Blatta was alone, his battalion far away.  They would not likely arrive in time to be of assistance.  It was just as well.  It meant he’d be allowed the pleasure all to himself.  He bellowed out the war cry from deep in his gut as he launched himself toward the two tiny lights below him.

* * * * *

Grace was solidly encased in an impenetrable shield, like a tiny unbreakable egg.  And as she slowly descended toward Earth, the final elements of transference were taking place.  She was aware that Gabe was nearby, but as she grasped at memories of him and of herself, they began to fade into the black sky.  She knew that she was going again to Earth, but all the reasons for the journey were escaping her.  The veil of forgetfulness was returning.

She became aware of a wretched sound racing toward her from above.  And though it was filtered and muted by the protective shield around her, it brought forth a shiver of fear.

Blatta was hurtling toward them, announcing his arrival with a screeching hiss that had not been heard on this world for generations of ascensions. 

Gabriel heard it as well, instinctively sensing his own vulnerability.  He too was losing memories.  All he’d ever been, all past lives were disappearing.  Shadows of memories were vaporizing as he traveled downward.  All but one.  Grace was still there.  Grace was not forgotten.  And he knew she would be safe. 

In times past, his safe transference was assured by the protection of an impenetrable armor.  It was no so now.  The ramifications of his regression were already manifesting.  His protective shield was flimsy.  And as the hissing intensified, he braced himself for the impact of the terrible beast bearing down upon him.

The first attack was an experiment of sorts.  Blatta raced toward Gabe, tucking his head under his armor, so that the full force of impact could take its toll.  He wanted to know, wanted to see for himself, to confirm that this pitiful soul from Castellans had been taken down a few notches, punished.

As he made contact, his suspicions were immediately confirmed.  The initial attack was enough to send Gabe to Earth with battle wounds, as cracks in his armor exposed him to injury.   Such a thing was a rare treat and Blatta was happy to be enjoying it alone.  He circled around and back above the pair to take another dive.

Grace was no longer self-aware.  It was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because she did not understand what was happening around her and could not be frightened by it.  A curse for the same reasons. 

Gabe was bleeding light.  That’s what they called it when a transferring soul was suffering from a roach attack.  His armor splintered, a trail of light was leaking from his shield as he continued to descend. 

Tragic as it was, that trail of light was his salvation.  The Obsidian Order was able to spot him easily from their vantage point above the scene.  They flew in a V formation, Flynn at the head.  Below them the roach was maneuvering for attack.

The Obsidians arrived without the fanfare of hissing or battle cries and their expansive black wings were a perfect camouflage against the darkness of the sky.  Their enemies would never be afforded warning before an attack. 

Thousands of years of practice had made them more adept than any roach.  A roach was certainly dangerous, certainly formidable.  But in their foolishness, they could not have known that a world’s ascensions made its citizens better fighters.  Lifetimes of experience on Earth provided excellent schooling in war.  Obsidian warriors had lifetimes on Earth as soldiers.  They had fought in all the great wars, where in contrast, a roach was a stunted, uneducated excuse for a soul.

  And as Blatta barreled toward Gabe, members of the Order swooped toward him with all the technique and fury of their shared expertise.  Flynn had made the call and it had been answered.  Twelve members of the Order had come to fight.

The roach continued its attack hiss, this in itself a demonstration of its ignorance.  His own screeching served to drown out all other sounds.  He would never detect the swoop of wings bearing down upon him.

As he drew closer to Gabe, Blatta was tackled by the entire squadron.  A satisfied smile momentarily crossed Flynn’s face.  It was good to fight again.  Shame there was just the one roach, though.  Not much of a challenge.

The tornado of wings fell upon the roach, disabling him immediately.  Massive arms stretched out as the entire group spun, each grasping onto Blatta’s armor in the places they knew well to be vulnerable. 

And then it began.  Bit by bit, piece by piece, they stripped off sections of Blatta’s armor.  He screamed in agony as they wrenched it off, taking chunks of his flesh with it.  And when they were done, there was nothing left of the creature but  his puny, unadorned self.  With no armor and no means of flight, they pushed his naked, wormlike body out into the blackness of space, where he would remain until his people found him.  Only safely back on his home world would he be able to restore his armor. 

Their mission complete, the men of the Order circled a few more times to see that all was clear before heading home.  Grace and Gabe were nearing Earth now and out of danger. 

Flynn looked back one last time to see the roach floating off the in distance and Gabe nearly out of sight below.  He felt a twinge of pity for both scarred souls as he turned to head home with his squad.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The two spheres of light containing the souls of Grace and Gabriel continued to descend to their destination.  They reached Earth and entered the womb of a female German Shepherd mix, Fiona.  She was one of several animals belonging to Clare and Francis Chiara.  None had been purchased.  All were rescued. 

They had a trio of mixed breed sibling Chihuahuas named Pepper, Mint and Mocha.  The couple referred to the three as their Coco-Chis.  In fact, the little dogs were unaccustomed to being referred to by their individual names to the point where they would not have responded to them if summoned. 

Their human parents would call them as a group for everyday events.  “Dinnertime, Coco-Chis.  How bout a treat, Coco-Chis?  Oh, how we love our little Coco-Chis.” 

And in the rare event that one little dog was ever scolded by name, the punishment was benign at best, for none of them knew who their parents were talking about. 

Clare was rarely called by her name, either.  Since early in their marriage, Francis had referred to his wife as Mama.  When they were told early on that Clare was unable to bear children, Francis had embraced his wife and kissed her gently on the cheek.  “You will always be Mama to me.”

Clare allowed herself to indulge in a period of mourning for what would never be.  But it did not last long.  After all, mothers came into the lives of those needing them in a variety of ways, only one of which was biological. 

When Francis brought their first child home, there was an instant family bond.  He’d spotted the injured dog on the roadside as he was coming home from work.  They named him Parker, as he was found on Parker Street along Francis’ commute from the University, where he worked as an English Professor.

Clare was a writer, spending her days at home.  She rarely sat at her desk, however.  Her laptop was like an electronic appendage, always with her.  She carried it from room to room, outside, to the park, everywhere, anywhere.  Because she worked from home, the animals in her care received a level of attention equal to that of any hard working stay-at-home mom.

Parker was not alone for long.  Over the years, they’d become parents to eighty-seven animals.  Each came with its own unique set of circumstances.  Some came to them by chance.  In other cases, the couple sought them out. 

Whenever Clare felt she was ready to take on an additional child, she and Francis would visit their local shelter.  Their favorites were not the animals near the front of their pens, those giddy for a visit and eager for a home.  Their favorites were the dogs that sat in the corners, their backs to visitors.  These were the dogs who’d given up.  They were the broken ones.

Once chosen by Clare and Francis, every single one of those lonely dogs was destined for a magnificent transformation.  They would be happy again.  They would know love again. 

Among the beautiful souls that had come into their lives were, to name a few: Charlie, Lance, Suze, Melvin, Turkey, Sheldon, and on and on.

What brave souls these humans were.  Not for the commitment of the hard work.  Not for the time it took.  Not for the rewards, but because for each glorious hello, each happy transformation, there was also a final farewell.  Only the bravest human soul is up for eighty-seven heartbreaks in a lifetime. 

Some dogs were with them for a decade or more.  Some only had days or months.  But each was given the best of care for the balance of precious time that remained.

These days, Clare and Francis’ quests to adopt had slowed.  They realized that their own aging was beginning to limit the number of animals for which they could provide what they knew was deserved by each. 

In their home now was Fiona, the pregnant Shepherd, the Coco-Chis, Ace, the Jack Russell, and Stella, Jean and Cooper, their cats.

Even as they were taking in fewer and fewer animals, the couple would, from time to time, receive a plea for help from someone who knew well where to go when an animal was in need. 

In the case of Fiona, she was to be surrendered to animal control by her previous owners, who had neither the foresight nor inclination to have had her spade.

“Mama,” Francis had turned to Clare after receiving the phone call, “shall we do this one more time?”

“Yes, let’s do it one last time.”

And so, Clare and Francis became parents again at the ages of seventy-one and seventy-two respectively.  They agreed that one pup would remain with Fiona after weaning.  They could not raise another litter, but it would have been cruel to take all her babies from her.  One would stay.  The others would go to good homes.

They had little time to bond with Fiona before the arrival of her pups.  She’d only been with them for two weeks.  She was still learning her place in the household. 

Clare would speak to her softly and for long stretches of time.  The soothing vocalizations helped to relax the anxious mother-to-be.  Day by day, Fiona turned to Clare for comfort.  By the time Fiona began to nest, Clare had earned Fiona’s confidence. 

Clare took Fiona’s temperature on a daily basis.  When it fell to ninety-nine degrees, she knew that labor would begin in the next eight to twelve hours.

Clare knew from experience that mother dogs were most comfortable birthing their pups in dark, protected spaces.

“Francis,” she said, the morning she was certain the birth was imminent, “we won’t be getting much sleep tonight.”

Fiona was most comfortable in the couple’s bedroom, where  Francis had constructed a sturdy box, generous in diameter and eight inches deep.  They placed it at the foot of their bed, the location that Fiona had settled on as her most frequent napping spot.

Clare was well aware of the intense nesting instincts of mother dogs.  That being the case, she purposely left small, clean towels and blanket scraps around the house, so that Fiona would find and use them to build her nest.  She had done a lovely job.  The whelping box would be a comfortable resting place for mother and babies.

Sure enough, the puppies arrived in the wee hours, when the house was quiet, the windows dark.  Ace and the Coco-Chis scratched at the bedroom door from time to time, understanding that something big was happening.  They wanted to be a part of it.  But not tonight. 

From time to time, Francis would speak to the closed door.  “Go to bed, Coco-Chis.  You too, Ace.”  And for a while, the scratching would stop. 

Fiona gave birth to eight pups before the sun came up.  Although it was not uncommon for a stillbirth to be among those delivered, all the pups were alive.  And Fiona had plenty of milk to go around.

After a few days, the other members of the family were finally allowed to come into the room.  Fiona was gentle natured, and having felt no threat from her new brothers and sisters, she allowed them to sniff to their heart’s delight.  In fact, the Coco-Chis would often take turns watching over the pups while Fiona was away eating or spending time in the yard.

It wasn’t long before Clare noticed something different about one of the male pups.  They’d named him Torch.  He was almost all black with streaks of copper along his body that looked like flames. 

At two weeks old, the puppies were becoming a little more mobile now.  Clare had been observing Torch specifically.  She noticed that he would actually avoid a vacant teat unless it was next to one specific littermate.  She was the smallest in the litter, with a beautiful coloring of copper and cream.  They called her Grace.

Clare was fascinated by their interactions.  If Torch woke from a nap and Grace was not near him, he would not rest until he found her.  For a pup so young, crawling from one end of that box to another took determination. 

Getting close to Grace was exhausting.  Sometimes she would make it easier for him.  Sometimes she would seek him out.  Other times she would wiggle and stretch her limbs, wanting to explore the space around her.  Often she would reach for the top of the whelping box, wanting out.  Whenever she was not near him, Torch would squeak, voicing his discontent.

Clare and Francis had provided around the clock care to the young pups, taking turns going to the store and running errands.  As the puppies reached three weeks, they realized it was time for a date night.  Their next door neighbor, Nancy came to sit with the dogs while they were gone.  Nancy was close in age to Clare and Francis.  She’d never remarried.  She still lived in the house Luke grew up in.  He visited several times a week to check on her and help her around the house. 

Nancy was around regularly.  Visitors were a novelty, and each time she came, there was excitement in the air.  This time she’d brought treats for all the older dogs.  Knotted bones for everyone.  As she handed them out, the dogs sat expectantly, tails wagging.  Each took his or hers and promptly went off with it.  First licks at a bone were special occasions.  Fiona took her treat to the kitchen, where she sprawled out with it on the cool tile. 

Nancy had not seen the pups since the third day of their arrival.  She made her way to the bedroom to check on them.  With their mother away enjoying her bone, the pups were snuggled together for warmth.

As she sat next to the box on the floor, the little light colored one was beginning to stir.  Grace rolled over on her back to untangle herself, stretching her chubby limbs.  She opened her eyes and was startled at first, as she spotted Nancy off to the side.  She rolled over onto her feet and sniffed the air.  She liked the smell of this human.  She wanted to get closer.

Nancy was pleased.  You were never too old to love the feel of a puppy in your arms.  Grace waddled toward her.  Nancy scooped her up as soon as she was close enough.  She cradled Grace, rolling her on her back, so she could rub her tummy. 

The puppy was enjoying the interaction, but didn’t want to stay in that position.  She kept trying to flip over, her legs flailing.  She wanted to smell this human so badly.  Nancy instinctively pulled the squirming pup closer, afraid that she would fall.  Grace was finally able to sit upright in her arms. 

She nuzzled in under Nancy’s chin, sniffing deeply.  The familiar smells of her mother, siblings and other members of the household were all she knew.  This was a different essence.   But she liked it.  It summoned up little squeals from deep in her belly.

The vocalizations had Torch opening his groggy eyes.  Once again, she was away from him.  He sniffed around to confirm her absence.  Then he set about looking for her.  Nancy didn’t notice him as he approached.  She was fully absorbed in the happy circumstance of Grace’s affections.  She found herself fully laughing from time to time, as wet kisses came one upon the next.

“You sweet baby doll.  What did I do to deserve all this sugar?”

And then next to her from inside the box came Torch yelping with as much vigor as a toddling puppy could muster, as if to say, “Leave my Grace alone!”

This was all too much adorableness.  Nancy’s head rolled back in laughter.  Little Grace had a defender.  Ace was watching, his bone in his mouth and his snout resting on the edge of the box.  He seemed to be sympathizing with Torch’ cause, even as he did not understand it.  Though he refused to let go of his bone, little whines came from his throat as if to say, “Don’t worry, Torch, Uncle Ace is here.”

It wasn’t immediately obvious what all the fuss was about, but as the tiny barks continued, Nancy made the connection between Torch, the boy pup and Grace, the girl in her arms.  As an experiment, she placed Grace back in the box right next to him.  The result seemed nothing less than the instant relief of his angst.  At once, he was satisfied.  Grace was close to him and in no one’s arms.  Torch slumped into the soft bedding, seemingly exhausted from the effort.  Grace settled in next to him, her head resting on his rump. 

Nancy was anxious to recount the extraordinary event when her friends returned from dinner.  And she did just that, as she and Clare enjoyed a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.  She was a little disappointed that the story did not have the dramatic impact she was hoping for.  It had apparently become a rather common occurrence that little Torch fretted when Grace was not nearby and that he was fiercely protective of his much smaller sis.

“Who can explain such connections?” Clare wondered aloud. 

Nancy sipped at her coffee and pondered just that question.

Though they were not ready to leave their mother, several of the puppies were spoken for.  Francis had become an expert at finding suitable homes.  Clare had purposely held back from offering Torch and Grace.  It was clear that they should not be separated.  And yet, she knew their brood was larger than it should be.  With Fiona, Grace and Torch, there would be three large dogs in the family.

“It would be a shame for Torch and Grace to go to different homes,” Clare was talking again.

“Yes, it would.  But you’ve got your hands full here.”

“So true.  We do.”

As Clare poured herself another coffee, an idea was bubbling up in her brain.  Like any mother, she was always setting about planning the lives of her children.

“It’s probably difficult to find someone willing to take two dogs at once.”

“It certainly is,” Clare replied.  “Sometimes you have to settle for the next best thing.”