Out of Reach

By Jocelyn Stover

Gwen Cohen has aspired her whole life to reach her current position of project manager at Preston-Ward Pharmaceuticals, but when she stumbles upon a dirty little secret everything changes. As she struggles with the reality of evil and her own powerful legacy, she gets pulled farther from the world she knows and closer to the one she can’t deny.
Eyes finally open, Gwen struggles to unlock the dormant magic within herself before it's too late. The lines between love and duty become exceedingly blurred and the ultimate choice to be made may not be between right and wrong but the head and the heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jocelyn Stover
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9780615744384

Jocelyn Stover

Jocelyn lives in sunny southern California where she writes as time allows. Her head is full of dreams and she is continually thinking of new stories, and looking for new opportunities to learn and grow. She is blessed with a ingenious husband and four amazing children. Laughing with good friends and family is her favorite past time and the only thing she really dislikes is being cold.

Book preview

Kade

Man, I hate redheads.

The muttered sentiment is quickly drowned out by the everyday bustle and city noise all around me. If the petunias sitting in their planter boxes share my thoughts, they keep it to themselves, preferring to bask in the warming sunlight that coats downtown Phoenix today.

Alone on a commandeered second story balcony among the vibrant pink and purple blossoms, I maintain a silent vigil, watching the café on the first floor of the building directly across the street. I have been at this for several days now, observing my target from a respectable distance. The scene I’ve just witnessed of him berating a bus boy for some perceived offense sets my teeth to grinding. The self-centered prick I’ve had the pleasure of trailing this week has a short fuse, even for a ginger.

Rising from a dilapidated lawn chair, I stretch my legs, walking the length of the five-foot box I reside in. Rolling my head from left to right, my neck cracks with an audible pop. My body is tense and stiff from long bouts of sitting on my ass, a problem that is about to be remedied. Moving through the sliding glass door, I draw the curtains aside and quietly enter the apartment.

Vera is puttering around in the small kitchen, humming to herself. Seeing my appearance, she smiles.

Will you be staying for tea today, Kaden?

Returning her heartfelt grin, I close and lock the sliding door behind me.

No not today. I’m afraid I have to leave, indefinitely.

That’s a shame, dear; I’ve enjoyed your company.

In three long strides, I cross the quaint, doily-covered living room, headed for the front door. Vera has returned to her midday routine, preparing tea and cleaning the already spotless kitchen. Wrapping my hand around the brass doorknob I pause. Glancing back at my elderly companion of the last few days, I wish her well before turning to go. With a thought I wipe clean all memory of my existence from her mind.

Stepping through the door, I verify it’s locked before pulling it silently closed behind me. An old woman can never be too careful, even in an upscale apartment complex like this. For her sake I would have liked to implant a suggestion making her more wary of strangers, but changing things, even small, seemingly insignificant things, has consequences, and as a rule should be strictly avoided.

Besides, if not for Vera’s overly hospitable nature and extreme loneliness, I might have spent the last few days behind the complex’s dumpsters instead of her tiny yet reasonably comfortable balcony. Not to mention the old soul was better conversation than I’ve had in months. Having seen more than most in her 83 years, the wealth of her experiences was priceless, the quality far superior to anything that passes for entertainment in this decade. It’s true there’s nothing new under the sun, but at least in the old days they didn’t glamorize it. When exactly fringe society became mainstream and broadcast over the television as reality is beyond me.

Feeling the vibration of the cell phone in my pocket, I pause mid-march toward the elevator. Pulling the thing out of my pants and quickly screening the caller, I answer.

Z, where are you?

Staring purposefully at a landscape photograph hung on the corridor wall I wait for his response. No, I’m done here. It’s been a waste of time, I say, running a hand through my hair in frustration. The elevator lets out its bright ding and I glance over, alerted to the fact I’ll soon have company.

When the doors slide open, a family of four spills out. Mom is carrying a navy blue diaper bag, pushing a crying infant strapped into a bright orange jogging stroller. A firecracker of a toddler runs in circles, her honey-blonde pigtails bouncing across her shoulders. Dad, arms full of fast food garbage, wears a frown of annoyance and hollers at the little girl, trying to bring her to heel.

A curve of a smile stretches up the left corner of my mouth, the sight of the four inspiring an idea.

Z, meet me at the café. I’m hungry, I bark into the receiver, ending the call. Striding to the lift with purpose, I sidestep the chaotic group, and mutter an apologetic, Excuse me.

Upon exiting the building, my eyes begin to water in response to the intensity of the late afternoon sun. Sliding down the aviator glasses from where they’ve taken up residence on my brow helps to improve the glare. Cocking my head left and right I pause on the sidewalk and wait for a break in traffic.

Luckily for me not two minutes later I’m able to capitalize on the signal change at the intersection down the street. Jetting across the road at a decent clip I catch a couple judgmental stares at my obvious jaywalking. I chuckle to myself under the harsh frowns of two fortyish year old women who meet the stereotypical depiction of desperate wives. In the wake of their scrutiny, I proceed to the café. Neither woman has the balls to confront my six-foot three-inch, lethally built frame in person, and I refuse to pretend remorse I don’t feel.

Some regulations the humans have come up with over the years are just ridiculous. Take jaywalking: if you aren’t smart enough to be able to cross the street without getting hit by a car, then you fully deserve the consequences. You can’t regulate stupid, but the humans sure make a valiant effort these days.

I see you’ve made friends.

A gravely, baritone voice greets me just outside the door. The mountain of a man belonging to that voice detaches himself from against the café’s wall where he had been lounging. Stepping out of the shadows, Zafir’s stride has more swagger than a pompous alley cat, and the look he throws the desperate houseswives behind me is feral.

Clutching their packages tightly, the two take Z’s invitation to move along without argument, hustling down the street like someone just lit their Stilettos on fire. Nobody messes with Z.

I wish you wouldn’t do that, I complain.

Hey, if you can’t take it you shouldn’t dish it out, Z replies. Clapping me on the shoulder Z spins me in the direction of the café. Let’s eat!

If the timid little hostess is surprised by our request to be seated in the redheaded server’s section, she doesn’t let on. Avoiding eye contact, she stutters, It’ll b-b-be t-t-ten minutes or so?

My reassuring smile goes completely over her head as I tell her, That’ll be fine. Literally, the five-foot nothing woman is too intimidated to peel her eyes away from her shoelaces, so my effort to appear harmless is completely wasted. The fuck off sticker permanently attached to Z’s forehead doesn’t help.

Geez, Kade, stop scaring the locals, Z teases, leaning over my shoulder, his grey eyes full of wicked humor. Shrugging my shoulders I step back, disengaging Zafir from my personal space. Grinning mercilessly he continues to stand in the middle of the entryway, his size and demeanor making the other patrons uncomfortable.

True to her word, the shy brunette leads us to a corner table in the redhead’s section not ten minutes later. I lay claim to the chair facing the open dining floor, leaving Z with his back to the room. Stretching my legs out under the table I peruse the menu while observing the target in my peripheral vision.

Resting two large elbows on the table, Z leans in. So what’s this ginger’s name?

John Summers, I answer.

So what’s our play here? I assume this isn’t really about the food.

I’ve found no evidence linking this guy to the electrical disturbances. My observations this week lead me to believe that this guy is nothing more than a prick.

So we’re here to push his buttons.

Yup.

I love this part, even when they don’t pass.

One hour, Z. If we fail to elicit a response, it’s done, we’re leaving.

All business now, Zafir leans back, assuming an arrogant posture, fingers interlaced behind his head. Ok brother.

Thirty minutes and three drink orders later, the tension is so thick you could scoop it up and cart it out in a wheelbarrow like manure. Wiping his mouth on the pristine, white tablecloth, Z looks around.

You’d think a nice place like this could keep a man’s glass full. John, another refill my man! he bellows. John, our waiter is red, flushed with annoyance from head to toe.

I’ll be with you gentlemen in just a second, he replies from a table down the row where he’s trying to take the order of an elderly gentleman.

I continue to toss balled up pieces of bread onto the floor, making a colossal mess, while Z runs his mouth—one of his finer talents when harnessed for good. Most of the other diners have left already, totally appalled by our obnoxiously rude behavior, while we keep John running to and from the kitchen like a chicken with his head cut off.

A bus boy places a large pitcher of lemonade on the table and steps back, allowing John room to serve us our meal.

I hope this will be satisfactory, he says, inclining his head toward the pitcher.

Yes, fine, fine, I chime briskly.

Noticing Zafir staring down in disgust, John asks, Is there another problem, sir? John’s tone takes on a brassy quality, his words clipped and short.

Looking John straight in the eyes, Z replies, Yes, there is. Someone’s spit in my food.

Shock and anger war across John’s face but he controls his voice with visible effort. I assure you, sir—no one at this establishment would do such a thing.

Jumping to his feet, Z stares down the nearly two-foot height difference separating John and himself, his stormy grey eyes glowing with contempt. You calling me a liar?

No, sir!

Then take this back and try again, Z says, thrusting the offensive plate back into John’s hands. And that’s when John reaches his limit. Everyone has one. There’s an undefined amount of abuse we are all willing to take before completely snapping.

A flick of the wrist sends the blue ceramic plate flying into a nearby wall, where it shatters on impact. John points his pasty white finger in Z’s face.

"Look, you ... son of a bitch. You want another sandwich, make it yourself. Looking back and forth between the two of us, he continues. You two need to leave, now!"

And who’s going to make us?

Our scene grabs the attention of the few remaining patrons scattered around the café. A waitress darts into the kitchen, no doubt to alert the manager of the disturbance. This stalemate needs to end quickly, before we draw more of a crowd, or the authorities.

Wanderer.

Z turns at the sound of my voice and I shake my head. Straightening to his full height, the hostility that was rolling off his body in waves moments before vanishes, like a switch has abruptly been flipped.

Clouting John on the shoulder, he smiles.

Well, we best be going, my man. No hard feelings. Thanks for everything.

Shooting a nod my way, Zafir stalks out of the establishment and I beat feet to catch him, leaving a dumbfounded John in our wake, mouth agape, chin quivering.

We don’t stop walking until we reach the SUV—a nondescript white Yukon Denali, fully loaded. A comfortable ride to be sure, but as boring and as unassuming as the other fifty million white SUVs on the road these days.

The sound of slamming doors resonates through the parking garage as we settle into our seats. Craning my neck around, I check to see that the bags are still safely stored behind the seats before engaging the engine and backing out. We travel light, always stowing our luggage in the car. It increases the risk of theft some but ensures we are ready to leave at the drop of a hat, should the need arise.

Well, that was a waste of time, I say.

Yeah, a total fucking nightmare.

Pulling out of the garage we head to the freeway, Z begins popping is knuckles and grinding his teeth. He’s never been one for road trips. I turn up the radio, hoping to drown out his annoying nervous habits with some classic rock.

I’ll call it in the next time we stop, I tell Z, who nods before leaning back and closing his eyes. At least his fidgeting and foot stomping have begun to keep time with the music, I note.

Mile-markers flash by at consistent intervals, and still the desolate interstate stretches out before me. The monotony dulls the senses and my mind begins to wander. A series of freak lightning storms is what originally brought us to Arizona. Now, lightning storms are nothing out of the ordinary for this region, but this isn’t the typical season for them. The meteorological conditions that usually coincide with electrical storms were also missing. So Zafir and I were dispatched to determine if the root cause truly was Mother Nature or not.

During our first night in Phoenix, we drove through the outlying areas where the storms had been sighted. By retracing the path of the events and speaking with the locals of the small community, we turned over a couple slim leads, hence the time I spent trailing John Summers while Z checked out Wendy O’Connell.

Wendy, an elementary school teacher, had been visiting her sister during the events in question. John had merely been passing through. He’d stopped for gas and coffee on his way back to downtown Phoenix. The two humans have nothing more in common than their brilliant copper locks, which nowadays is the only identifiable trait that matters. Surveillance of the pair had been a dead end, which leaves Mother Nature as the leading culprit of the odd happenings—and the best outcome we could’ve hoped for.

Redheads, I mumble to myself.

Ain’t that the truth, Z says, perking up in the passenger seat next to me.

Remember the good old days when you could pick ‘em out with your eyes closed?

Yes, I reply.

These days, all that’s left of the old powers is that fucking hair and a righteous temper, Z says.

My laughter rolls like thunder, filling the cab. Even when my chest heaves and I struggle to catch my breath, I can’t stop laughing. You mean the righteous anger of the angels, Z?

Yeah, the reds’ genetic short fuse.

God, I wish the angels were around these days. I would love to witness Z boiling down the legacy they’d left their descendents to nothing more than a genetic short fuse. The extent of what he’s saying is true, though. The once mighty Nephilim, offspring resulting from the pairing of angels and the daughters of men, are no more. The bloodline has become so diluted the only traits that continue to endure are the lustrous red hair and the legendary temper. But it wasn’t always so.

In the beginning, the blood of angels made the Nephilim strong. They were larger in stature and fairer to behold than their human brethren. They also possessed differing degrees of supernatural abilities, which usually manifest as control over the elements. A tiny fraction developed the ability of foresight, an eternal plague of dreams and brief glimpses of what would come to pass.

Throughout mankind’s recorded history, the Nephilim have worn many names. The ancients called them demi-gods or heroes, their legendary deeds passed down and exaggerated throughout the generations. Those cursed with foresight most often bore the title oracle and were equally worshipped and feared. Sorcerer, mage, witch, and warlock—every society on earth has branded them something different. Nowadays, in a world where science has largely replaced superstition, Nephilim would probably be considered mutations, or mutants.

In the last hundred years, I am the only one of the twelve of us who has witnessed a Nephilim exhibiting the old powers. It was a decade ago and happened so fast that, although I recall the details with perfect clarity, I must admit even now, in the recesses of my own mind that I question if what I saw was real.

Chapter 2

If you take your shoes off, I will put you through that window. I glower at Zafir to emphasize my point.

His internal debate is visible on his face as he weighs his odds of out maneuvering me in the small space of the cab.

You have my word, Z—you won’t like the outcome.

Fine, he huffs, crossing the trees he calls arms across his chest before resuming scowling out the window. Conversation the last few hours has been light, thankfully. Being introspective by nature, I thrive on quiet times to think. I usually don’t get many of those around Z. The guy isn’t so much a conversationalist as a one-sided monologue. When you talk with Z he literally does all the talking.

Pull over.

What, why?

Turning a vicious eye my direction, Z says, Because I have something in my shoe.

What are you, a child? I admonish.

Look, you have to stop soon anyway to make a report. Do it now so I can stretch my legs.

Taking in his bowed shoulders and incessant foot-tapping, I admit to myself he looks pitiful—well, as pitiful as a brick shithouse can look.

Alright, next exit. Half a mile later we pull off the freeway and into the first gas station we see. Tossing Z the keys I head back behind the building, seeking a little privacy for the phone call I’m about to make.

Tapping the phone against my thigh, I hesitate, kick a rock across the pavement, and run a hand through my hair. Punching the contact, I wait. Glancing behind me I see Zafir in his socks shaking out his boots and choke off a laugh as the line crackles to life.

Kade.

Adil ... Phoenix was a bust. There’s nothing happening there.

I’ve heard nothing new. Makeen and Rashid are tracking a potential candidate in London. Maybe they will have better luck.

Gazing at the clouds, I release a deep breath slowly. Yeah, maybe they will.

Where are you headed now?

Back to San Diego.

Adil’s unease is palpable through the phone. Still chasing that lead, brother?

It’s not your concern, brother. Dropping the phone into my pocket, I trek back across the parking lot, pausing only to fill the Yukon up with gas. Zafir heads into the convenience store.

I forbid you from buying Funyuns, Z! I shout. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head he shoves his way through the front doors. Slamming the nozzle back into its resting stand on the gas pump, I grab my receipt and climb into the cab to wait.

A few minutes later Z emerges from the convenience store sporting a lopsided grin, arms full. Z pompously ambles across the parking lot. Rolling down the passenger window, I lean across the center console and shout out the window, Really, at your age?

Dumping his cornucopia of Hostess crap onto the passenger seat, he steps back, stretches his arms wide, and shrugs his shoulders. What? It looks great.

Seriously, you’re thousands of years old. Unable to look any longer at the red, brazen beer logo taking up real-estate on Z’s skull, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Still full of himself, Z relocates his stash and swings himself into the cab, pulling the trucker’s hat down tighter to his head as he does. In the air between us hangs a big no comment.

Straightening up, I stare ahead through the bug encrusted windshield. A random thought teases a wry smile out of me.

Do something about the glass. I can barely see to drive, I say.

Uh huh, Z replies, exiting the vehicle again. Biting back my laughter, I watch as what can only be described as an olive skinned-redneck-wrestling-trucker wields a modern day magic wand to scrape the corpses of dead bugs off our windshield. I completely lose it when a poorly calculated fling of the squeegee slops dirty water all over Zafir. Adding the dynamics of a wet t-shirt contest to the ridiculous display in front of me is just too much.

Grumbling, Zafir stalks back to the car door, rips off his graphic tee, tosses it over the seat, and climbs into the cab.

Without that shirt, all you need is a mullet, brother, I say, convulsing against the steering column. The well-placed right hook I’m expecting never falls.

Instead Z barks, Drive! His voice is dripping with venom. No further prompting is necessary and we hit the freeway in a flash.

What did Adil say? Zafir asks a little while later.

Makeen and Rashid are working a possible lead in London. Nothing new has crossed his radar.

We’re headed back to san Diego, Z states as fact, not a question.

I know what I saw, Z.

"I’ve never doubted