Feel the Flames

By BJ Sheldon

With the apocalypse behind her and new relationships before her, Skyy looks forward to a different kind of life…one filled with peace and contentment. But her idyllic life is interrupted when a startling vision rocks her world, forcing her to confront a brutal truth.

The war isn’t over.

An ancient evil arrives and encourages her to locate a long-forgotten artifact, one which can be used to control demons and spirits, threatening those she loves if she refuses to play along.

Pieces of Skyy’s past are revealed, unmasking the awful truth behind her true destiny. With a final battle between Hell and Heaven imminent, the fate of the world rests in her hands.

In the end, she must decide whose lives she must save: the people she cares about or the rest of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781635969436

BJ Sheldon

BJ released her debut paranormal romance, Haunting: The Dusty Chronicles - Book One, in April of 2013. The story of Dusty and Jack won a silver medal from Reader's Favorite in a Young Adult category. As an Iowa native, BJ finds inspiration through her childhood and through the mystery of the paranormal.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dorian lifted his head, struggling to catch his breath. It was clear he was in pain, agony etched into his brow. Blood poured from his nose, and a painful looking gash oozed under his left eye. He struggled to push himself up on all fours and spit out a combination of dirt and blood before glancing over in my direction, giving me the stink eye.

The sight of him made me laugh.

I knew it was rude to revel in his pain, but I couldn’t help myself.

Learning to fly wasn’t an easy task. But he continued to insist on skipping the basics, telling me he was a quick learner. So instead, he opted to go straight for the advanced course.

I had told him jumping off the roof of my shed so soon was a bad idea, but Dorian was stubborn.

I hate you right now, he said, spitting again, holding his gaze on me. He wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

I struggled to contain my laughter. I know. But it’s your own fault. I tried to tell you how it all works, but hey, I said, holding out my hands, you said you had it.

Dorian managed to stand. He was a bit wobbly, and it took him a few moments to get his feet firmly beneath him. His nose finally stopped bleeding and the cut under his eye closed up.

Dammit! he shouted, grasping his shoulder.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing at his pain any further.

What’s wrong? I asked, holding back a chuckle.

I think I dislocated my shoulder. It just popped back in. That friggin’ hurt!

Yep. I know. Been there.

So, you don’t die, but you still experience all the pain associated with any injury you get before it starts to heal? he asked, still rubbing his shoulder.

Oh, that’s nothin’. The worst part is when you get impaled on something. You have to remove yourself from whatever it is before you start to heal. Otherwise, it’s torture trying to get it out after your skin has healed around it. I remember this one time, there was a whale harpoon…

Dorian’s hand shot out in front of him. Stop right there. I really don’t want to know the details.

I raised my eyebrows and smirked.

Fine, I retorted. Look. If you don’t want to suffer the same fate I have over the centuries, then you better start listening to me when it comes to learning how to fly. Otherwise, you’re just going to find yourself impaled on a pitchfork after you land in some pig farmer’s yard in the middle of the night, I said, my hands shooting to my hips.

Dorian lowered his brow. Has that ever happened?

Just once. Lord knows what was on that pitchfork when it—

Seriously? Why do you keep trying to freak me out? he barked.

I stepped forward and placed my hands on either side of his face, then kissed the tip of his nose.

Because, I can, I said with a wink.

I hate you.

I know.

As Dorian dusted himself off from his latest fall from the sky, I reflected on everything we’d been through in recent weeks. It had been a month since he’d arrived on my doorstep, and he still didn’t remember a thing. The only memory he could recall after his death was finding himself in complete darkness—and a voice. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what the voice had said, but I tried to assure him that it would all come back eventually. As for the addition of his new wings, those were a mystery, as well.

At first, he seemed normal—the same laid back, even-keeled Dorian I’d first met when he arrived with his sister to recruit me for battle. But as the days progressed, he started to become a bit short and quick to change the subject whenever I tried to bring up his return to Earth. So, I stopped pushing. I could only hope that at some point he’d begin to remember. Then we’d finally be able to put together the pieces of what had occurred—and why.

I, too, had undergone a kind of transformation since Dorian came back from the dead. I had begun to master my Watcher skills and could morph my size at will, just as I’d done on the battlefield. It became easier each time, and I felt my power growing at each attempt. I had also begun to practice disguising myself as a mortal. It was the next logical step in the whole angel-in-training scheme of things. If Watchers had the ability to disguise themselves, then I should be able to do it, as well. At first, my wings would only vanish for a few seconds. But after some practice, I managed to keep them hidden for hours on end. But rather than looking like someone else altogether, like my father’s alter ego, Sam, I decided to keep it simple and just retain my own identity for the time being. And even though humans made me nervous, my wings causing my self-imposed solitude, I often fantasized of fitting in and of being able to head into town to walk amongst them unnoticed.

Sean used to tell me about the people in town and how they lived. Most of them sounded self-absorbed and oblivious to the wonders of their world, blindly wandering through life without truly living, but I was also intrigued. As anti-social as I was, I was still curious about mortals.

Dorian had wanted me to teach him the ability to disguise himself, too, but I had quickly declined explaining that he needed to master crawling before learning how to run a marathon. He needed to master the concept of flying before taking on such an advanced new skill.

That answer didn’t appease him, but I suspected he knew I was right.

I watched Dorian run his fingers through his hair, shaking out the dirt and grass from his latest crash landing.

Want to try again? I asked.

To fly? Or to crash?

Both.

I’ll pass. Maybe later—after I’ve licked my wounds a bit.

I laughed. Come on, I coaxed. You know what they say. If you get bucked off the horse, you have to get right back on.

I’ve already ridden this specific horse a dozen times and it continues to buck me off.

Then let’s go for lucky number thirteen. I thumbed in the direction of my trailer where a ladder leaned. Come on. Move it.

Dorian glared at me, squinting hard. But I simply stared back, never wavering from his gaze. I shifted my weight and placed my hands defiantly high on my hips.

Fine! he shouted, tossing his hands up in defeat. He spun around, nearly tripping on his large, black wings on his way to the ladder. His feet plodded hard on each rung as he clumsily climbed upward until he reached the roof of my old, dilapidated trailer.

Now remember, I began, you have to feel the air around you. Feel the current and allow it to do its job.

Yeah, yeah, he said, his chest heaving in frustration, surrendering to my will.

Look you hard-headed jackass. You can either listen to me or you can continue to crash and burn. Your choice.

Dorian rolled his eyes but lowered his head in mock defeat.

Now spread your wings.

He unfurled them, his black feathers splayed out in complete grandeur, and for a moment I wondered if I looked that majestic when I prepared to fly.

Okay. Now bend your knees slightly and jump. But remember, I said, my voice becoming a bit more persuasive, "the instant you’re in the air, you have to allow your wings to do what they want. It’s almost instinctual. Don’t fight it."

I watched Dorian take a deep breath and bend his legs.

He leapt off the roof. For a split second, it seemed he would again crash hard to the ground below. But his wings suddenly caught the current, his feathers shifting slightly upward, and he began to soar.

A smile spread across his face.

You’re doing it! I cheered, pumping my fist in the air.

But I’d spoken too soon.

Moments later, Dorian dropped out of the sky like a sack of grain, face down, onto the rough terrain below.

I ran over and skidded to a stop just shy of where he’d landed.

Jesus, Dorian! I barked. You had it! Are you all right?

He moaned and slowly rolled over onto his side. A large laceration on the bottom of his chin started to bleed. The left side of his face looked like a cheese grater had mated with his cheekbone, and his nose appeared to be broken by the way it sloped to one side. He mumbled incoherently and moaned once more.

Omigod. What’s wrong? I asked, leaning in closer.

Suddenly, my wrists were bound firmly in his grasp and I was immediately pulled down. He wrapped his arms around me, and together we rolled about wrestling for control, laughter filling the air. In the end, I found myself pinned to the ground, Dorian sitting on top of me, his hands holding my hands over my head.

Did you see that? he huffed excitedly. I stayed airborne that time! I actually flew!

Don’t get too excited there, fly boy. You soared. You didn’t fly. But, that being said, it’s definitely a start. See what happens when you listen to me?

So, you’re saying I should actually listen to you more often.

I think that goes without saying.

Dorian rose to his feet and reached down for my hand, pulling me up.

As much fun as it’s been to watch you bite it this morning, I think that’s enough for now, I said, dusting myself off.

Sounds good to me. Gives my body some time to lick its wounds, as it were.

Dorian laughed at his own joke and took my hand.

Um, I began, pointing to his nose. You might want to fix that before it stays that way.

Dorian’s fingers worked their way up and down the bridge of his nose feeling the break. He let out a defeated sigh, grasped either side, and jerked hard to his right. He screamed out in pain for a split second, tears welling up in his eyes.

Shit!

I chuckled at his pain. How many is that? I asked.

Broken noses? He glanced up, his eyes moving back and forth like a metronome. Three?

I squeezed his hand, and together we headed toward the door of my art studio.

From the corner of my eye, I saw something dark soaring through the air. I glanced up and spied a falcon flying low, directly between us and my shed where it came to land on the edge of my trailer’s roof. It seemed to study Dorian and me, its head cocking back and forth while it beat its wings anxiously, creating quite a ruckus from its perch. I was captivated by our feathered friend. In fact, I couldn’t remember seeing a bird like that anywhere in the area before…ever.

As we strolled off, I glanced back at the falcon. I was mesmerized by its beauty and wondered why a bird so rare would be out in my neck of the woods. It acted as though it wanted our attention, screeching loudly and flapping wildly until both Dorian and I stopped and gave it our full consideration.

Attention whore, Dorian joked.

Then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the bird took flight and was gone.

We continued on and headed inside the studio. I quickly made work of locating a new, blank canvas and propped it up on one of my easels. I chuckled to myself as I spied Dorian attempting to perch himself on my work desk. His wings refused to cooperate, and he was struggling to figure out the least awkward way to position his wings. After a few tries, a couple of curse words, and office supplies crashing to the floor below, he eventually managed to make himself comfortable, feathers securely tucked away for the time being.

I can see why Watchers transform into human bodies all the time. The wing-thing is a pain in the ass, he said, settling in.

You get used to it, I chuckled, trying to focus on what I was doing.

Dorian grunted in response. Says the girl who’s grasped the whole hiding-the-wings-thing.

I glanced over in his direction, amused at his hollow contempt of my latest ability. He sat with his legs dangling off the edge of my desk, hands on his knees, and allowed his gaze to wander from one part of my studio to the next. It was clear by the look on his face that he was bored.

Dorian had been struggling with his newfound immortality—and his wings—from the instant he re-entered my life. He’d been used to eating like a normal person, and even though he was no longer hungry, he often craved specific food just because he missed the taste. On more than one occasion, he went on and on about pizza and how he missed it burning the roof of his mouth. There was also the whole not-sleeping-thing that took some getting used to, apparently. I would hear him complain about how the days seemed too long and that he longed for a break from reality from time-to-time. When I asked him what that meant, Dorian said that he missed sleeping and the dreams that usually followed.

I had heard about dreams. To me, they sounded like nothing more than visions without a purpose. It seemed silly to miss something as trivial as dreams, but then it was difficult to fathom missing anything you never had.

Dorian’s last vision had been of Sean’s death—a reality which I was still learning to come to terms with, and the last one I’d experienced was of the Watchers’ bones buried in the Badlands. I glanced off to my right where the aforementioned six-foot by six-foot canvas sat propped up against the wall. Other pieces of artwork now covered its grotesque imagery, hiding some of its details. I often thought about destroying it or even just draping a drop cloth over it to hide it, wanting nothing more than to forget that part of my past. But forgetting that war would mean forgetting about Sean.

And forgetting Sean wasn’t something I wanted to do.

That battle continued to haunt me daily. The faces of the other Hybrids as they were killed. Lillith’s smile before she died. Sean bravely facing down his killer and telling Raja I would avenge his death, truly believing those words with all his heart. Sean had died thinking I was some kind of superhero. But he was the true hero. As far as mortals go, he was definitely one of the good ones.

Sporadic whistling caught my attention. Dorian sat swinging his feet below him. He’d trained his entire life to fight the enemy, jumping from one part of the world to another, going up against other Hybrids who were on the side of Azazel. But that part of his life was over, and now he was doomed to live a secluded life with me.

A selfish grin spread across my face.

At least I wouldn’t need to go through eternity alone, I thought to myself.

We could be bored together.

His Chakram hung from his belt at his side. Dorian’s unique weapon of choice hadn’t been used since that day of the battle against Azazel. Lillith’s sabre also hung on a sheath over his left shoulder and had been there since he came back. He had said it was because he couldn’t bear to let a good weapon go to waste, but I knew it was just his way of keeping a part of his sister with him.

His gaze again explored my studio, taking in every painting, statue, and piece of artwork that littered the walls and floors. He sighed dramatically, swinging his legs from side to side.

Why don’t you find something to do? I asked.

"There is nothing to do, he whined. I don’t paint. I don’t sculpt. And I certainly can’t fly."

Well, you need to find something other than sitting there and annoying me to bide your time.

Why? Am I making you nervous just sitting here like this? Dorian grinned. Because if I am, I’ll keep doing it.

You’re not cute, I said.

Yes, I am.

I shot him a nasty look, my eyes narrowly squinting in condemnation.

He laughed.

Look, I began. One of these days, I’ll teach you how to meditate. That will help with the boredom thing. But I have a crap load of books. Why don’t you just grab one and read for a while. It’ll help with that whole time-isn’t-passing-fast-enough issue you’re having.

Dorian rolled his eyes in response. He then reached over to the far edge of my desk and grabbed the Bible I kept there. He flipped quickly through the pages, the noise sounding a bit like someone shuffling a deck of cards. He finally stopped, turned a few more pages, and began to read silently to himself.

Figuring he’d found something to do at last, I was able to direct my attention toward my empty canvas. But my mind drew a blank on what to create. It seemed odd I couldn’t come up with an idea. Usually, the creativity flowed freely, and it was frustrating to find myself having a bit of an artistic block.

I lowered my hands to my side and imagined the potential, trying to force an idea to the forefront of my mind. My fingers found their way the hilt of my sword that hung from my waist. It never left my side. I wore it when I flew, when I painted, and even while lying on my old metal bed as I read. I would often hold it in my hands while meditating, not wanting to be caught off guard—just in case. And even though we’d won the battle against Azazel and his army, I had an uneasy feeling that I just couldn’t shake. And at times, it felt like someone was watching me. I knew it was probably just paranoia setting in, but with everything I’d experienced and witnessed over that summer, it couldn’t hurt to be hyper vigilant.

What are you reading? I asked, stepping away from the easel.

Dorian peeked over the pages and gave me a quizzical look. He held the Bible up in front of his face as he continued to read.

"I can see that, you idiot. What I meant was what are you reading in the Bible?" I asked wryly.

Oh. Proverbs 11, he replied, not looking up.

Solomon, I replied casually.

Dorian stopped reading and glanced up at me. Huh?

Solomon. It’s believed he wrote most of Proverbs. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to access the data banks in the far recesses of my mind. Proverbs 11 is about what defines the righteous—the difference between good and evil.

Something like that, he said, using his finger as a bookmark, shutting the book. Ironic, really. Solomon is widely considered one of the wisest men to have ever lived. There’s an ancient myth about how he built the first temple in Jerusalem using demons. Or so they say.

I don’t remember reading about that in there, I said, nodding at the book in his hands.

It’s not in the Bible, but there are ancient texts that talk about it a bit. I just find it funny that Solomon is still considered to be such a righteous person when he had seven hundred wives, three hundred concubines, and swayed from his faith to build idols. All anyone remembers is the story of how he ordered the baby to be cut in half to settle a dispute between two mothers…which when you really think about it isn’t genius. It’s diabolical. Weird how the perception of people can change through the centuries.

I cocked my head at him as he spoke. He’d been a warrior for most of his life, but since coming back from the dead I’d found he was far deeper than just some guy who was highly skilled with a weapon. He was always surprising me with his depth of knowledge, especially regarding anything having to do with ancient Bible texts—not to mention kung fu movies from the seventies.

He loved kung fu movies.

After everything I’d read over the past three centuries, I was amazed that I’d never come across the story of Solomon using demons to build the temple. But then, there were a lot of books in existence I hadn’t read, yet.

Dorian opened the Bible back up and continued to read.

I closed my eyes and emptied my thoughts, giving my creativity an opportunity to manifest itself.

Seconds passed but nothing came to me.

Ugh! I grunted loudly.

Having issues?

I’m drawing a complete blank. It’s frustrating.

Stop trying to force it. Let it flow through you. You’re trying too hard.

What do you know? I teased. Mind your own business, big guy.

I took in a long, deep breath and held it, counting to ten. Then, I let the air slowly escape my lips as I tried to focus.

My inner muse suddenly began to speak. It started softly as a whisper in the wind, but it quickly gained momentum until it was screaming at me to listen. I grabbed both sides of my head and closed my eyes coming to the upsetting realization that it wasn’t inspiration striking me…it was a brain-splitting vision.

It struck me like a two-by-four to the back of the head. And it wasn’t a welcome visitor.

My head spun out of control as images of a symbol crashed about in my mind. The paintbrush in my hand sprung to life, taking on a life of its own. Two lines—one vertical and one horizontal—intersected in the middle and were surrounded by a circle, various strange images placed in each quadrant.

I painted it repeatedly over and over until my canvas was covered in the symbol.

The brush fell from my hand as a rush of energy traveled throughout my body. I collapsed to the ground, my head pounding.

Skyy? Are you okay? I could hear Dorian calling out to me, but I was weak and couldn’t respond.

Here we go again, I thought.

Chapter 2

I sat on the floor, curled up in the corner with my chin resting on my knees, my arms pulling my legs in tight. My gaze was fixed on the painting I’d been compelled to paint. It was as if I’d been under some kind of spell, unable to break its magical hold on me—my attention drawn inward, compelled to exorcise the pictures inside my head onto the canvas before me.

Dorian remained silent and studied the image, carefully taking in every dot, stroke, and swipe of paint. The symbol was simple. Old script, possibly Hebrew, was scribbled around the edges of the circle. And each quadrant within contained something that resembled a stone of some type.

And that was it.

There was nothing grand about it as a whole. It didn’t appear to be anything special. It wasn’t fancy or even alluring. There was no elegance to it. Squiggles, lines, and zig-zags were strewn about in no discerning fashion that seemed to make any kind of sense. In fact, it looked quite ordinary.

But