The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) by Vicki Pettersson

Author:Vicki Pettersson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-02-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Two angels battling over the same body. Grif grounded himself in the reality of Jeannie Holmes’s blood and bone, and thought, This is bound to get ugly.

Lying on the cold hospital floor beneath Jeannie’s bed, the first thing Grif did to prepare for entry into Jeannie’s body was force his own blood to thicken, gel, and cease circulation. His angelic nature allowed his flesh to easily go malleable and light. Like atoms, his cells could disperse and travel through the cold and unyielding wilds of the Universe, as long as he kept a clear picture in his mind of where he was going. That’s how he delivered souls into the Everlast, and that’s how he entered Jeannie Holmes’s body.

But Jeannie was having none of it. He’d been careful to line up his energies with hers, felt their chakras click into place, but fumbled blindly for her precariously tethered soul. She was hiding. Thus the darkness.

Don’t let go yet, he thought, just as her pulse points flashed, and a jolt of lava-hot electricity shot through his etheric form. Her energy lit like a landing strip, but her body temperature immediately dropped twenty degrees. Scratch had arrived.

Grif looked around at the reality illuminated by the fallen angel’s presence, unsurprised to find an exact replica of the cubicle where Jeannie’s mortal body rested. The curtains, the bed, the sounds of the ER were all the same, and Grif approached the bed, surprised at the thoroughness, though he shouldn’t have been. Even on the Surface, even fully conscious, people always created their own individual realities.

So while Jeannie might’ve been wearing a hospital gown back on the Surface, in this reality she wore a cotton shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots, all black. Her skin was unmarred by open sores, her eyes alert and clear, and she was a slightly older version of the Jeannie who’d stared back at him from Jann’s well-worn photo. It was how she really saw herself.

Yet even here, her plasmic outline was a violent ring of red flame. It seared the space around her like a solar flare, and sent heat radiating throughout her body. Jann Holmes, Grif thought, was going to have her heart broken one last time.

Worse yet, this Jeannie lay bound to the bed by thick, winding coils of enormous tree roots and dead branches. Grif didn’t know enough about possession to know if this was how she felt, or if Scratch had placed her there once it’d entered her body, but she was trapped, and clearly unable to free herself.

Grif rounded the bed, flexing his shoulders so that his wings flared. “He’s after me,” Jeannie whispered, as he leaned over her.

He paused, the onyx blades of his wingtips glinting in the light. They could appear softer, like dew-tipped smoke, if he willed it. Sometimes he did, depending on the skittishness of the Take, but there was a reason God gave angels wings like weaponry. Sometimes the rise and fall of a waterfall of spears was the tool needed to navigate through the silky Universe.

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