Forty-Four Book Twelve (44 series 12)

  Forty-Four Book Twelve

  by

  Jools Sinclair

  Copyright © 2015 Jools Sinclair

  You Come Too Publishing

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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

  Books by Jools Sinclair

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Four Book Two

  Forty-Four Book Three

  Forty-Four Book Four

  Forty-Four Book Five

  Forty-Four Book Six

  Forty-Four Book Seven

  Forty-Four Book Eight

  Forty-Four Book Nine

  Forty-Four Book Ten

  Forty-Four Book Eleven

  Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-5

  Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10

  The Road Not Taken (An Abby & Jesse Short Story)

  Whiskey Rain (A Rose City Novella)

  Available on Amazon.com

  For you

  (you know who you are)

  Forty-Four Book Twelve

  by

  Jools Sinclair

  PROLOGUE

  I remember everything now.

  The fluttering of my heart when Jesse said he loved me. Metallica grinding through the speakers as we drove. That chill rolling through my body like a growing wave, leaving me breathless as I gazed into his eyes and knew that we would be together forever.

  I was so happy, the happiest I had ever been in my life. We had finally spoken the truth, allowed the words in our hearts breath and flight. It was magical. Ethereal, like a dream.

  But in that next moment the dream exploded, a fiery blast of orange embers shooting into the sky, turning to dust and scattering in the wind.

  When the tires hit the ice the car spun in circles before skidding off the road and down an embankment. My scream was hollow in my ears as I flew through the air, a nauseating crunch of metal and glass behind me. I landed with a thud in an empty white meadow. Time stopped. Nothing moved. Not a breeze through the trees, not a voice calling out to me. Everything was quiet and still.

  Until it wasn’t.

  It was faint at first, but the noise beneath me grew louder, sounding like an old ship creaking across a raging ocean. I realized that I wasn’t in a meadow after all, but instead on the breaking surface of a frozen lake. Suddenly, an icy blackness rushed in and swallowed me whole, taking me down to my death.

  When I died there was no light at the end of the tunnel, only tunnel. No smiling relatives, no dead mother waiting for me. And for the longest time I feared that there was a reason that I hadn’t experienced the happy afterlife promised in the movies. I had assumed it was because I wasn’t worthy of Heaven, that I had not lived a righteous life, or with enough faith. Or perhaps I had done something beyond forgiveness.

  But I was wrong.

  The darkness I saw was only my mind blocking the truth, keeping the memory out of reach so that I could heal and recover. It was hiding what had been at the bottom of the lake waiting for me.

  Or rather, who.

  “Hello, Abby,” he said, his piercing blue eyes like bits of sapphire and snake, as he towered over me.

  And even though I knew I was dying if not already dead, I wasn’t scared. As I looked into his eyes, the landscape around us shifted and we were soon standing on the shore of a river. A small rowboat was out on the water moving across to the other side.

  “Who are you? Are you an angel?”

  “Once, but no longer,” he said. “My name is Samael.”

  For some reason he felt familiar and a deeper calm began to settle within.

  “Where are we?”

  “Between the worlds,” he said.

  I pulled my eyes away from his and looked around. It wasn’t winter anymore. The sun’s rays flooded the landscape and I stood there basking in its warmth. Behind us, a beautiful forest was filled with trees, aspens and oaks with fat leaves shimmering in the wind, evergreens thick with branches. Grass lined the banks, purple butterflies danced among the wildflowers, birds flew above in the cloudless sky.

  But the other side of the river was a polar opposite, barren to the core. I shuddered as I stared at the far shore and the hills beyond, so bleak and gray and dark. It was shrouded in a thin fog and I started shivering as a sudden terror bubbled inside me.

  “Is that… Hell?” I said, my voice catching. “Is that why you’re here? To take me across the river?”

  Samael stepped in front of me and blocked my view of the dark land.

  “That is not Hell. Over there is the path that leads to judgment that all souls must walk when they’ve left the land of the living. It is where one meets their God and it is a journey that must be made alone.”

  “Oh,” I said as relief washed over me.

  “That is not why I’m here. That is not why I’ve come.”

  “Then why?” I said.

  “I need your help.”

  “Me? Help how?”

  He took a moment before answering, looking up at the sky as if searching for the right words.

  “By returning,” he said finally. “By going back to your life.”

  I saw that the small rowboat was now in the water again, heading my way.

  “You mean you want me to go home? You’re saying that I don’t have to die?”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes intense.

  “Of course,” I said, my heart filling with joy. “Of course I’ll go back. I don’t want to die. Why would I stay…?”

  And then he stepped away so I could clearly see the tall, skinny figure standing on the gray shore across the way.

  Jesse.

  “Oh, my God,” I said, forcing out the words.

  I asked the question anyway, already knowing.

  “Is he dead?”

  Samael answered with his eyes. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I saw Jesse staring back at me across the water. He looked so confused, so lonely.

  Jesse was dead.

  “No!” I screamed. “Nooooo!”

  The pain ripped through me like jagged glass as I shook my head violently.

  “No. I won’t. I won’t leave him,” I said. “I can’t. We belong together. Forever…”

  I dropped my head. The sound of oars in and out of the water filled the excruciating silence as the horror of what had happened became so real now that I could vomit.

  “There is a storm of darkness building in your world,” Samael said. “And you are in a position to help me stop it.”

  He lifted his hand and placed it over my wet eyes.

  “You must see, Abby. You must see what could happen if we don’t act now.”

  Vivid images ran through my mind like a movie. There were people walking along the sidewalks of a big city. They were being stalked by dark beings with icy white eyes. The strange creatures were everywhere and when they began their attack, the streets ran red with blood.

&nbs
p; I didn’t understand any of it, but I felt the terror.

  Samael took his hand from my eyes.

  “What were those things?”

  “There is an evil one close by,” Samael said. “At this very moment he is hard at work on a plan that will destroy your world as you know it. He wishes to create a kingdom of his own on earth populated by shadows and darkness, by those too fearful to look upon the face of God.”

  I just stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying through the pain.

  “He must be stopped. We have to try.”

  “Try?” I said.

  “There are no guarantees. He is strong. Very strong. Abby, you must know that if you decide to help, and to return to your life, you will not return as you once were. It will not be an easy journey and it will require sacrifice.”

  I looked back over at Jesse.

  “But why, Samael? Why me?” I choked back the tears. “What can I do?”

  He didn’t answer. Just then the boat pulled up to the shore and when the man sitting in the back of it called out my name, I didn’t answer either. Instead I looked in Samael’s eyes. There was something compelling, something sincere and real in them. And desperate.

  “All right,” I said finally, not really sure why. “I’ll help you.”

  I looked back over at Jesse one last time, fresh tears dripping down my face. I whispered his name and said a prayer.

  And then I took a step toward home.

  CHAPTER 1

  “For Christ’s sake, Craigers, could you possibly have found a more depressing place to work? What ever happened to monks just making ale and chocolate?”

  Jesse was sitting on a worktable swinging his long, skinny legs and staring with large ghost eyes at the finished pine coffins lined up against the wall waiting for the morning inspection. We were the only ones in the humungous workshop. Cleaning up after hours was just one of the many chores I did in and around the abbey where I had been staying the past few months.

  “I think it’s kind of cool,” I said, pushing the large broom across the floor. “It’s smart business. Everybody needs a coffin, eventually.”

  “I guess so,” Jesse said. “But just for the record, next time I’ll drop by when you’re out tending to the roses or on your run. This place gives me the creeps.”

  It surprised me that it bothered him so much.

  “Did you ever spend much time in yours?” I asked. “Your coffin?”

  “Not a second. I just stood next to my dad, trying to tell him I was all right. But he couldn’t hear me.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I said.

  “You didn’t miss much. Besides you were still in the hospital and under the impression I was alive, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “That was very special, what you did. Not telling me until I was ready.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I went over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Anyway,” I said. “These bad boys here are the bare-bone models. I think that’s why they sell so well. The monks are having a hard time keeping up with all the demand.”

  Jesse jumped off the table and walked over to a half-finished one.

  “Not bad,” he said, getting inside. “Not bad at all.”

  I laughed.

  It was crazy how we could joke about it now. But it had been eight years. Eight years. Jesus, that was a third of my life. And then it hit me like a cast iron skillet. For more than half of the time I had known him, Jesse had been a ghost.

  “You better get out of there before I start nailing down the lid,” I said.

  The next thing I knew Jesse flew out of the box and picked up a small chunk of wood from the floor and tossed it at my head. I ducked just in time. I switched to a smaller broom and swept up scrap pieces and sawdust and bent nails and used a dustpan to dump them all into a trashcan.

  “So how is it here with all these priests and monks and nuns around? Does it drive you crazy? I think it would drive me crazy.”

  I had been living at St. Mark’s Abbey since February. I felt safe at the monastery and I had settled into a nice, even dull routine. And every single day I woke up, I was grateful.

  “It’s good to be here,” I said. “Mostly they’re friendly, but they keep to themselves too. I don’t even mind the chores. It’s a hell of a lot better than living on the road.”

  “I suppose. I guess it beats picking chiles, too.”

  “Hands down,” I said, blowing out air. “I still wake up once in a while in panic, thinking I’m on the floor in that shelter and the alarm is about to go off. That was the hardest job I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Jesse stood at the large window facing the dense forest, staring out even though it was pitch black on the other side of the glass.

  “Yeah, you’re lucky to have found this place,” he said.

  It was a large monastery, located on more than fifteen hundred acres and set on beautiful landscaped grounds in rural Louisiana, about an hour north of New Orleans. There was a seminary school, a church, a dining hall, a community center, and housing for the monks, students, and priests. It also had a retreat area with small bungalows that guests could rent for a small fee and chores. I was staying in one of these.

  There were only twenty of the units and there was a long waiting list to get in. Not only had I been granted permission to go to the head of the line, but I also had approval for an extended stay. I knew it wasn’t just luck. It was Samael.

  Samael had helped me get here. And it was just what I needed.

  I put away the brooms and the dust pan, letting out a yawn. I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

  “You’re sure I can’t talk you out of this Nathaniel thing?” Jesse said. “Because from what I can tell, it’s going to be epic.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I knew where he was. Where we would meet. I had seen it in that vision I had before leaving Hatch. Nathaniel was on another small island, this time near a town called Marathon. I had seen a sign for it. It was in the Florida Keys.

  Jesse came over and put his arms around me and just held me.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “How can I help then?”

  “Being here, like this, in my corner.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I mean it, too.”

  “Okay, but is there, I don’t know, something that’s giving you trouble?”

  “Well, now that you mention it. I’m having a little trouble seeing how this will have a happy ending.”

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  “Well, having doubts when I was alive was never my problem, Craigers. But I think you might want to try some visualization. I used to do it before big games. You know, see myself scoring at will. See the ball leaving my hand and hitting nothing but net. Time after time after time. Stuff like that. And it worked. You must have done that too with soccer.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “You’re right. I did. That’s a good idea. I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Okay, just make sure it’s not a brick,” he said.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, basketball. No, I’m going to go GOAT on his ass.”

  Jesse started dancing around me and throwing punches in the air.

  “Greatest of all time, sucka,” I said, playing along and quoting Ali but sounding more like Bill Clinton. “Why, just last week I hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean, I make medicine sick.”

  He laughed and I got back to work.

  “Hey, speaking of basketball, next time you should stop by during the day so we can shoot some hoops,” I said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to cut down on your quality time with the good father.”

  Jesse was talking about Father Carmichael, a visiting priest who, like me, was staying at one of the bungalows.

  “So why does a priest need to vacation at a retreat surrounded by other priests?” Jesse said. “If I were a priest and wanted to get away I th
ink I would go to Vegas.”

  “Some priest you’d be,” I said, punching him in the arm.

  “I said if.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s so unusual. I think he needs to think about things, clear his head. I don’t know. Reconnect with his faith or something. He pitches in and helps out in the workshop here with the monks.”

  “So he’s a carpenter, huh?” Jesse said, smiling. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But I think he’s thinking about leaving the Church.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words,” I said. “It’s just a feeling.”

  It was more than a feeling, but I didn’t want to explain it to Jesse.

  In this last month, I was changing. When I saw people, I didn’t just see their energy floating around them like before. I saw other things, too. Brief, strange scenes from their lives would flash across my mind. Most of it wasn’t life and death stuff, like one of the students forgetting the words to a prayer during Mass or one of the monks back in his bartending days. And just as soon as these images appeared, they would vanish. The whole thing left me with my own feelings of guilt over intruding in other people’s lives.

  Recently, while talking to him, I had one of these flashes of Father Carmichael. He was sitting alone in a dark stone church, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the burning candles up at the altar. He was crying, and between his quiet sobs, he was whispering how sorry he was. And then he stood up, ripped off his collar, and threw it down before walking out the back doors.

  “Maybe Father Carmichael has fallen in love,” Jesse said.

  “Maybe. But whatever his reason, I’m glad he’s here. It’s been good having someone to talk to. We have an understanding. Our conversation never gets too personal. We stick to subjects like the weather, running, and food.”

  It was nice and odd at the same time. Father Carmichael didn’t talk much. I think it was the first time in my life where I had the burden of having to do most of the talking.