Awaken the Soul (Havenwood Falls High)
Michele G. Miller
To Angie for giving Viv and Breckin names.
To Jo for helping give them life.
Thank you, ladies.
Hold on for Your Life
Breckin
White.
Everywhere I look. Pure, undiluted, untouched.
Colorado in December.
Banking left, the tip of my wing disturbs a snow-laden pine bough, scattering ice crystals. The mountain forest is peaceful this late in the afternoon, though the threat of a storm lurks in the gray sky. A gust rolls in from the north, and I snap my wings, letting the airstream guide my path toward home.
How long will this peace last? This morning’s message from Elias served as an eerie reminder of my time limit. Four months. Tucking my wings, I shift, free-falling toward the ground, dodging trees as I dart in and around the woods. Freedom. I arch skyward, shooting high above Mount Alexa. The ground, the falls, the trees—they are blemishes on a snowy white canvas.
A scream penetrates the peace. I twist, levitating among the clouds, my gaze narrowing on the ground far below.
The crimson trail, smeared for yards before the dense forest covers the evidence, is hard to miss.
Blood. Thick, human blood.
This is Havenwood Falls—it’s not an abnormal occurrence in the forest. But . . .
I dive, lured by a scent that burns my nostrils and confuses my senses.
I’m on the ground within moments of her scream. Her keening death cries prick at my skin, sending an unfamiliar sensation skittering up my spine and across my wings. Angry snarls join her moans. I should leave, yet I press on—following the blood trail. The creature drags her instead of making a clean kill. Most shifters kill, rather than play with, their food. I maintain distance, preferring to remain in the good graces of the other supernatural beings within Havenwood Falls. Angel or not, minding my business keeps the peace. History has proven this. The world is a better place when all creatures, good and evil, play nice together. That type of thinking will be my downfall in four months, if I’m not careful.
An unnatural calm claims the still woods, and my senses sharpen. I move forward as an ache builds up in my chest. Her cries diminish, but her scent strengthens. It’s familiar. The spicy combination of ginger root and mint. I duck beneath low branches and break through thicker brush, my steps quickening as I track them. Another growl disturbs the woods, and I pause. Twenty feet ahead, a shadow of fur and menace crosses my path—retreating. The feeling in my chest intensifies like a fist crushing my heart.
Ginger, mint, and something—more. They inundate me as I maneuver around a thick tree and come to a stop.
She is bathed in blood. Her long golden hair spreads around her head, a silken halo on a snowy pillow of white. From my vantage point, I cannot see her face, but her scent—her perfume—gives her away.
Vivienne Freeman.
And above her lifeless body, he is ageless and brings with him the kiss of death. A reaper. His corporeal existence remains unseen to the human eye.
Her name begs to be spoken. A kick to the gut, it is an urge unlike any other. The image of her, two desks in front of me in chemistry for the past few months, is superimposed on the gruesome scene before me. The wisps of hair framing her face, her elegant profile, the way she hunches over her desk while she works. Movement breaks the memory. The reaper’s swirling mixture of light and dark extends toward her face, and a thread of black touches her forehead reverently. The perceived intimacy compels me across snow and blood, my wings bared as a warning to this angelic host.
“Leave her be.”
Reapers have no affiliation with Heaven or Hell. They’re vessels of Death. Wardens sent to usher souls from this life into the next. I’ve had limited interaction with others of my kind, but I know about egos. I’m the son of an angel, with a human soul, thanks to the woman who gave me life. One of the Nephilim. In hierarchy alone, I win.
Dropping to my knees, I take in Vivienne’s shredded jacket and blood-soaked clothing. Her face matches the snow—pale, deathly. Her lips colorless. Her heart? My hand presses against her chest. The pulse is faint, but it beats. Barely.
The reaper hisses as a ripple shocks the air, shattering the calm. His cloaked form floats back as though pushed by the disturbance. He turns, and his piercing blue eyes hold my gaze. She is mine, son of angels. His voice does not speak for human ears. He has no body, no face—only a mist-like outline and blue eyes.
“She isn’t dead.” My hands rip at her clothing, searching out her injuries.
Her heart beats. He can’t kill her. Reapers don’t kill. They reap souls once the earthly bodies die, nothing more. I can save her. Grabbing my sweatshirt from where I keep it tucked into my waistband when I fly, I staunch the flow of blood from her wounds. The fabric soaks through immediately. A call to medics won’t help. She’ll be dead in minutes.
As though he’s read my mind, the reaper reaches out once again, straining for her. This is Death. I have no part in it. I barely know Vivienne. She’s a classmate, not even a friend. A beautiful girl I’ve known my entire life, but who has never been impressed by me or my antics.
“Don’t take her.” The words pour from my lips as the falls pour through the rocks of Cooley Creek. “Can’t you spare her? Does she have to die?”