Angel by Alton L Gansky

Author:Alton L Gansky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Charisma House
Published: 2011-05-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

PRISCILLA HEARD LEO SCREAM HER NAME, AND SHE CHASTISED herself for not taking his advice. A second later, the bubble that had been descending as slow as a feather dropped like a stone.

She covered her head, bent low, and tried to scamper from beneath the sphere.

She failed.

It touched the back of her hands, then her spine, and then swallowed her like a wave over a careless surfer. She raised her head and looked for Leo. He was on his feet charging her direction …

… then disappeared.

Priscilla fell to the ground, hands still cupped behind her head.

She shivered.

She whimpered.

She waited for the crushing to begin.

It never came. The outside sounds of the newscopter, of people shouting, of traffic on the street below disappeared.

She took a deep breath and felt relieved that nothing hindered the expanding of her lungs.

Maybe it had stopped just above her. Maybe Aster sensed she was below and stopped in time. Maybe …

Priscilla opened her eyes and looked up. She saw sky. Not the sky she had seen a moment before—not the azure of another San Diego day—but a sky of jade green.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and discovered that she sat not on the concrete of the rooftop patio, but on grass—dark, blue-green blades in tight tufts that reminded her of carpet.

“How … ? Where … ?” She struggled to her feet. I must be dead. Can this be heaven?

The surroundings were lovely enough to be heaven. In the distance, green-tinged mountains rose, giving the horizon a gentle sawtooth look.

Priscilla struggled to her feet and swayed like a young tree in a stiff breeze. Dizziness churned in her head, and for a moment she thought she’d faint.

Bending, she placed her hands on her knees and took several deep breaths. The air smelled like … like what? Pomegranate? The air also had a taste, but not like fruit. More like freshly mowed grass.

With each deep inhalation, her heart slowed a few beats. At first, it had scrabbled in her chest like a squirrel trapped in a cage, and she had been certain it would claw its way out.

She straightened and took another look around. Her mind refused to believe the images before her eyes: a green sky, green ground, green mountains, carpetlike grass—if it was grass at all. No sun hung in the sky. No moon. No stars. Nothing flew in the air. No breeze blew.

Priscilla turned, taking in as much as her mind would allow. She saw no buildings, roads, or signs.

She was alone. She had never been or felt so alone.

“Think, Priscilla. Think.” She spoke to herself in low tones. The words sounded slightly distorted, altered in a way she couldn’t describe. “I was on the roof patio. Aster’s ship arrived. The bubble descended. It fell on me. How did I get here? It doesn’t make sense.”

Should she move? Should she walk from this spot? Or would traveling make things worse?

The desire to crumple back to the ground overwhelmed her. Only her tenacity, cultivated by a lifelong commitment to stubbornness, kept her on her feet.

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