Adorned Read online

  Adorned

  The Trinity of Souls

  Georgeann Swiger

  Adorned: Trinity of Souls

  Copyright © 2013, Georgeann Swiger

  All rights reserved. Ebooks are not transferable. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Ashley Christman

  Cover Art by Fiona Jayde

  Book design by Ashley Christman

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Entranced Publishing, LLC electronic publication: 2013

  Entranced Publishing, LLC

  Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States of America

  www.entrancedpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  Back Cover Copy

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  About the Author

  Also in this Series

  More from Entranced Publishing

  Back Cover Copy

  When seventeen-year-old Anya finds out she’s actually an angel being trained to protect humanity, she discovers that becoming an angel has nothing to do with wings and haloes. For Anya, becoming an angel has to do with death—her death.

  Micah, the angelic soldier ordered to protect her until she transitions from human to angel, promises her death will be a glorious experience as long as she follows his rules. But getting Anya through this life and to the next isn’t as simple as Micah expects. His job becomes even more difficult after he unwittingly performs a miracle that exposes Anya’s hidden angelic light.

  With her secret out, Hell’s legions begin targeting her. Unfortunately, Hell’s minions are the least of Micah’s worries. He’s more concerned about the forbidden human emotions he’s developed toward Anya. Even more troubling, is she seems to love him too. And giving in to those feelings, could mean dire consequences for them both.

  Dedication:

  To Danny

  Acknowledgements:

  Anya and Micah’s story came to life thanks to the support and encouragement of many wonderful friends and writers.

  Irene Marinelli, devoted critique partner and friend, I am lucky you were there to cheer me on and help me polish the story. My first reader and friend, Patricia Patteson, I will always trust your advice and critiques. Jo Ann Dadisman, writer of some of the most beautiful memoirs I’ve ever read, your words of encouragement meant more to me than you know.

  The gang of writers who’ve been with me since I started writing fiction: George Lies, Dan McTaggart, Aimee Hoffer, Michael Janney, David Sloan, Dan Sharp, Ted Webb and Jim Davis. Your critiques forced me to grow as a writer. I appreciate every one of you.

  Ashley Christman, editor/publisher, I’m grateful you discovered this story and put your heart and soul into making it shine. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Most importantly, I want to say thank you to my husband Danny, and kids Tommy and Abby, who shared me with a group of imaginary angels that demanded a lot of my time and attention. I love you for understanding.

  Chapter One

  KIDS SWARM THE SIDEWALK in front of Kingwood High School. I keep my eyes on the ground, hurrying through the crowd, and slam into what feels like a brick wall. When I look up, Sam Malick’s staring at me.

  The red stone in his class ring flashes in the morning sun as he reaches out to flick my long bangs out of my eyes. “If you didn’t keep your hair hanging in your face maybe you’d see where you’re going,” he says.

  Shivers prickle my skin as Sam’s friends gather around.

  Sam leans forward and whispers in my ear. “You should do something with yourself.”

  My heart hammers in my throat. I veer away, stumbling over Sam’s black and red running shoes. His cold fingers grab the back of my sweatpants. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, my hand stinging where it scraped the concrete.

  “Oh, my God!” Sam’s best friend Ethan Major slaps him on the back and laughs. “Now that’s what I call an ass eater.”

  Heat races to my cheeks as cell phone after cell phone captures me pulling my sweatpants out of my butt.

  Kenny’s aide pushes Kenny and his wheelchair through the crowd. “Break it up!” the aide shouts. Grunts and shrill noises flow from Kenny’s mouth while he bobs his head and stretches his neck in the direction of Sam and Ethan walking toward the building.

  “Anya, what happened?” the aide asks. “Are you all right?”

  I rub the palm of my hand, not wanting to look at the aide.

  He touches my shoulder. “You should tell the principal about this.”

  I shake my hair into my face and walk toward the front doors. I’m not about to tell the principal anything. Sam Malick, the star football player, would never be punished. Besides, telling on him would give him reason to do something worse next time.

  I step into the gift shop of Kingwood General Hospital, straightening my red volunteer shirt. Frances is arranging yellow roses in a vase. She looks over the top of her glasses. The lines around her eyes deepen as she squints at me.

  “I’m glad you’re here today.” She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “I have so much to do. I haven’t had time to put together the giveaway bouquet. Would you like to do it?”

  Like to? I’m honored she would trust me to do a job she always insists on handling herself.

  “Let me finish this and I’ll get you started,” she says. She breaks apart several stems of baby’s breath and shoves the tiny white flowers around the roses.

  Frances positions the rose vase front and center in the floral refrigerator. She turns, dropping a basket of dried carnations on the counter. “Tear this apart and use what you can.”

  I glide my hand over the stargazer lilies sitting in a container on the counter. “But what about these?”

  “We can still sell those.” She points at me with a pair of scissors. “The carnations will look good-as-new after you give them a haircut.”

  Frances hobbles to the storage room. I bite my lip as I snip the brown tips off the carnations. Pieces of wilted petals dust the top of the counter.

  “When you’re done,” she calls from the back room, “take those flowers up to Mrs. Nelson in room three-oh-six
.”

  The stargazer lilies brim high over the top of the gallon bucket on the counter. Their fragrance overpowers the shop. Even though I’ve been told not to, I use three lilies to hide the wilted carnations.

  I hurry out of the gift shop before Frances comes out of the back room.

  When I get to the room, I tap on the open door. An elderly woman who weighs about three hundred pounds lies in the hospital bed. Her weary eyes brighten when she sees me.

  “Are those flowers for me?” she says, lowering a magazine to her lap. “Who would send me flowers?”

  I set the arrangement on the windowsill, taking a moment to watch the raindrops tap against the window, then turn and smile. “They’re a gift from the hospital.”

  “Oh, how nice,” she says. “Would you do me a favor? The writing in this magazine is so small. Could you read me this recipe?”

  She hands me the magazine and points to a picture of a bowl of potato salad. I hesitate. The onset of a headache makes it hard for me to concentrate.

  “Dear, are you having trouble seeing the words, too?”

  “No ma’am.” My voice cracks.

  “Speak up. I don’t hear so good.”

  I adjust my eyes, focusing on the words.

  “Green goddess potato salad,” I say loudly. “Tender potatoes, crunchy celery and mild scallions tossed with a sweet creamy dressing.” Her stomach growls as I read. “You need two pounds of red potatoes, one third cup of mayonnaise, a third cup of sour cream, two tablespoons of…”

  Crash. A loud noise in the hallway draws my eyes to the door.

  The old woman gasps. “What was that?”

  A can of disinfectant rolls into the room.

  “I think a cleaning cart fell over.” I hand her the magazine and look toward the doorway. “I better go see if I can help.”

  “You’ll come back and visit me, won’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks again for the flowers.” Her voice follows me. “They mean more to me than you know.”

  Nurses scramble through the corridor being careful to avoid the cans scattered on the floor. I put everything on the cart while the custodian tightens a loose wheel. When the man stands, he pulls his baggy blue uniform pants up high on his waist. I almost laugh out loud, but get sidetracked when a nurse snaps at us to get out of her way. She rushes to the elevator and pokes furiously at the button.

  The janitor wipes his hands with a paper towel and nods toward the nurse. “I heard her talking about how someone got shot in the chest at Rodger’s Convenience Store.”

  My mouth drops open. “Someone was shot? And they’re bringing them here? Why aren’t they going to the trauma center in Morgantown?”

  A rumble of thunder sends a tremor through the small hospital.

  The janitor looks up at the flickering lights. “I guess they couldn’t get a helicopter out with the storm and all.”

  As the janitor goes back to work, I take the next elevator down to the emergency room, curious see how the staff of the tiny hospital will handle a major trauma.

  I stay on the far side of the room to keep out of the way. A crash cart is pulled next to the exterior doors. Three nurses and a doctor talk while another nurse sways from foot to foot near the sliding glass doors. Red lights circle the entrance, lighting the raindrops that blow in under the canopy.

  The ambulance pulls up and the back door swings open. Medical staff swarms the gurney as it clambers to the floor. They push the patient toward the ER elevator that is open and waiting.

  A loud clap of thunder booms and vibrates the glass in the exterior doors. The light goes out inside the elevator.

  “Go to the lobby elevator,” the doctor says.

  The gurney swings around.

  “Out of the way!” someone shouts.

  I can’t move. I stand frozen in the middle of the floor with the stretcher coming at me. A nurse shoves me to the side.

  The patient’s hand slides off the edge. A glint of crimson flashes as a pair of bloody black and red Nike running shoes is whisked past me. I flatten my back against the wall. My knees go weak as I watch Sam Malick being wheeled away.

  Chapter Two

  WHEN THE LAST PERIOD bell finally rings, I dart out of school to get to my volunteer job at the hospital. I’m so tired of the non-stop gossip about Sam Malick. I’ve heard everything from he’s paralyzed to he’s in a coma, but I know better than to believe anything the rumor mill spits out.

  At the hospital, Maggie greets me from her chair in reception. “There’s our number one volunteer,” she says. “Remember, I’m done at five forty-five tonight.” She stresses the time as if to remind me of how I showed up ten minutes late the last time I caught a ride with her. She pushes a set of keys toward me. “After you put on your uniform I need you to take these to Dr. Groves.” She emphasizes his name and flutters her lashes.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking. It’s what all the women at Kingwood General are thinking about the good-looking cardiac specialist from Morgantown.

  “He sent his BMW out to be washed.” Maggie grins. “He’s up in the ICU.”

  I shove the keys in my pocket, knowing this is my chance to see firsthand how bad off Sam Malick really is.

  When I get to the locked doors of the unit, I straighten my red volunteer shirt and smooth my hand over my white slacks. Then I push the buzzer.

  “I have something for Dr. Groves.”

  The intercom crackles. “Come on back.”

  As I walk to the nurse’s station, I glance around. Only two rooms have patients. They’re both old men. If Sam is in critical condition, he should be there. I swallow hard and take another quick look. Where’s Sam?

  The keys shake in my hand. “These are for Dr. Groves,” I mumble to the nurse.

  She continues typing on her computer and tilts her head, directing me to the small room behind her desk. I take another look into the rooms behind me. I really don’t want Sam Malick to be dead.

  Dr. Groves stands in the office with his back to me talking on the phone. He has an X-ray clipped to a light. “The surgeon thinks the bullet zigzagged. You need to see this, Luther. It missed everything.” The doctor rubs his neck as he listens. “It’s a miracle that boy’s still alive.”

  He turns and lowers the phone from his ear. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asks.

  I hand him the keys. “Are you talking about Sam Malick? Is he going to be okay?” My question oversteps my boundaries, but I don’t care. I need to know.

  The doctor gives me an encouraging smile and shuts the door in my face.

  I wheel the dinner cart down the third floor corridor. Janice, the food service worker I help, walks ahead of me.

  “Go to the end of the hall,” she whispers over her shoulder. “The woman in three-oh-six likes to talk. We’ll drop off her tray last.”

  I push the cart past room 306. Mrs. Nelson’s chubby feet stick out from under the blankets while a cooking show blares on her television. The secret ingredient for the most tantalizing meatballs ever is interrupted by a plea coming from the next room.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  The sound of Sam Malick’s voice causes my hands to sweat. I stop in my tracks. It takes all my strength to push the cart past his door. All I see of Sam is his feet under the blankets. A dark haired man sits in the recliner near the window. A woman with long blonde hair stands near the bed.

  “I don’t like seeing you in pain,” the woman says.

  Sam moans. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom. I’ll be okay.”

  The footrest of the recliner slams down. “Do you know how lucky you are?” The man raises his voice. “You could have been paralyzed. Thank God we don’t have to deal with you being bedridden. How many times have I told you to come straight home after football practice?”

  “I needed gas.” Sam’s weak voice is full of pain. “I had to go in and pay cash because you took the credit card.”

  “Jerry
,” Sam’s mom lets out a huff. “None of this would have happened if you didn’t take that credit card.”

  “You got to be kidding me, Beth! You’re blaming me for him getting shot.”

  “Be quiet,” Sam says. “Leave my mom alone.”

  Janice tugs on the cart. I look over my shoulder, unable to take my eyes away from Sam’s room. I hadn’t bargained on him being on the third floor. I thought he’d be in the step down unit on the second floor. Like the doctor said, he should have died. But there he is, sitting up, arguing with his parents.

  As we finish the deliveries on the far end of the floor and make our way back down the corridor, I pretend to be busy straightening the cart as Janice takes the tray in Sam’s room.

  “We’ve got some soft foods to start you off,” she says. “A little broth, some fruit juice and Jell-O. Maybe tomorrow you’ll get something more filling.”

  “Thank you,” his mother says. “I’ll make sure he eats.”

  Janice comes out of the room smiling.

  “Do you know that boy?” she whispers. “He’s cute.”

  I slide Mrs. Nelson’s tray off the cart, pretending I don’t hear her.

  Janice checks her watch, and then takes the tray. “Why don’t you come in and visit the lady in here? I’m sure she could use some company.”

  Janice walks ahead of me into the room.

  “Oh, hello.” Mrs. Nelson bats her eyes when she sees me. “I’m glad you came back.”

  Janice puts the tray down and leaves. I push the bedside table to the elderly woman. When I lift the cover from her food, she frowns.

  “This doesn’t look anything like what I make.” She takes a bite of the beef and wrinkles her nose. “I knew it. Someone should learn a thing or two about how to season food. This has no taste and it’s tough.”