Winged: The Complete Box Set

By L.M. Pruitt

For the first time, all ten books in the international bestselling Winged series are available as a single set.

WINGED

I fell from the Talmadge Bridge the week before I turned thirty.

I was given a choice: Go to Heaven. Go back to my life in Savannah. Or spend eternity fighting evil under the direction of the archangels.

I chose the demons--and the angels.

I chose the Winged.

UPRISING

In the last year, Joanne Watson has died, fallen in love, fought demons and earned her Wings.

None of that compares to what's coming next....

Life as a member of the Winged isn't perfect--or easy. There's always some new camp drama. There's always a demon ready for a fight. There's always death.

And now there's the Resistance.

Joanne must choose again, this time between her fellow Winged and their burning desire for change or the archangels and the eternal vow she made.

Even in the afterlife, one truth remains--everything ends

LOST

In the last year, Joanne Watson has survived repeated attempts on her life, wholesale slaughter, and the dissolution on the cornerstone of her new existence.

And the hard times are only beginning.

As the line between right and wrong, friend and foe, and good and evil continue to blur, Joanne is forced to face another irrefutable fact.

The most dangerous demons to fight are the ones you can't see.

HUNT

The last six months have seen more death and destruction than any could have predicted.

And the war is only beginning.

With the fight taking Joanne and her friends from city streets to abandoned farms to the center of the earth, only one thing is certain.

The hunters are now the hunted.

ALLIANCE

The Fallen have one goal--storm the gates of Heaven and reclaim their heritage.

The Winged have one mission--to prevent it all costs.

From North America to Africa, Europe to South American, the stage is being set for the final battle, the one to end all worlds, and with it comes an ugly truth.

Keep your friends close--and your enemies closer.

BATTLE

Everything has led to this.

One final battle.

Truth. Lies.

Justice. Revenge.

Love. Hate.

At the very end–what do you fight for?

DUTY

After one hundred odd years of peace, the fate of the world once again hangs in limbo.

The First Horseman of the Apocalypse has been released.

The new generation must rise to the challenge before the millennia old dominos start to fall. And the Second Horseman is released.

Where does obligation end--and duty begin?

HONOR

The first domino has fallen.

Dissent in the military is spreading to the people--old, young, and everyone in between.

As the stakes grow higher, Olivia and her team must fight their own demons in order to stop the Second Horseman.

In war, only one thing is certain--blood will be spilled.

BIRTHRIGHT

Olivia is gone. Taken by Carestia. I had her in my hand but I couldn't hold on.

Maybe this is my judgment, my punishment, for denying the truth. For denying how much I love her.

So I'll hunt for her. No matter how long it takes, no matter where I have to go. I'll find her. I won't stop until I do.

And then--then, we'll finish Carestia.

Angus

LEGACY

1,750,000,000.

The number of people who will die unless we find and destroy Mavet once and for all.

Men. Women. Children. Old. Young. Rich. Poor.

Everyone--and everything--is a stake.

Failing isn't an option.

So we won't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SP Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516364602

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

First Editions 2013, 2014, 2015

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Copyright 2013, 2014, 2015 SP Press

All Rights Reserved

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Cover Art by Najla Qamber

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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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

Table of Contents

WINGED

UPRISING

LOST

HUNT

ALLIANCE

BATTLE

DUTY

HONOR

BIRTHRIGHT

LEGACY

To my family

Winged

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I have not lost faith in God. I have moments of anger and protest. Sometimes I've been closer to him for that reason.

ELIE WIESEL

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PROLOGUE

I used to think normalcy was overrated. I had normal. I had a mother, a father, the requisite sibling both annoying and funny. The boyfriend I’d had forever who was on the verge of proposing.

I had normal. And I wanted more.

I wanted adventure. Excitement. Anything to prove I wasn’t ordinary. Because in my mind, in my ignorance—or innocence, which term is correct would be debatable—being normal meant I’d failed. That I meant nothing.

I wanted to mean something. Anything.

I think I can safely say I was a fool.

You don’t appreciate normal until it’s gone. The same breakfast, the same lunch, the same dinner. The phone call that comes in right as you’re leaving work. The kiss good morning and the one goodnight. Complete and total normalcy.

You don’t appreciate it—don’t understand it—until it’s gone.

I died six years ago. Or six weeks. Depends on where you were, when it happened and after.

The after—that’s when life got interesting.

My name is Joanne Watson. And what I am is Winged.

SEPTEMBER

Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.

FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

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CHAPTER ONE

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David stumped his toe on the dresser. No matter how many years I live, I'll never forget that. He stumped his toe on the dresser every morning at roughly 6:35.

The alarm went off at 6:15. It took him twenty minutes to get out of bed. The dresser was right outside the bathroom door. And every morning David missed the door by half an inch and stumped his toe.

He'd done it since we moved into the apartment six years ago. He'd probably do it until we moved out.

I'd tried to rearrange the room before. The dresser wouldn't fit along any wall but the one next to the bathroom. And David refused to get rid of it, even though he couldn't remember which relative had given it to him. So the dresser stayed and every morning David stumped his toe.

Every. Morning.

I spent the next thirty minutes lying in bed, waiting for David to come out of the bathroom. I didn't have to be at work until ten a.m. but there was no way to sleep through David in the morning. So I studied my nails, debated which color I'd get when I had my weekly manicure this afternoon. And I checked my phone for new e-mails, glanced at Facebook and Twitter. And I stared at the ceiling.

At exactly 7:05 the bathroom door opened and David ambled back in. Time to wake up, Joey. Breakfast in fifteen.

I didn’t remind him not to call me Joey. I’d stopped reminding him after the first year. David would pinch my chin and say Joey was so much cuter than Jo or Joanne. It wasn’t worth the argument.

I threw the covers off, scrunching my toes against the hardwood floor. I threw the sheet back into place, my only concession to making the bed. I shut the bathroom door on the first whiff of coffee.

The mirror was still fogged up so I cleared it with a swipe of my hand. I took a moment to study my face, the complexion my mother had always called peaches and cream still flushed from sleep. No wrinkles, no laugh lines or crow’s feet. I was a week away from thirty. Battling back time was starting to become more of a job than a hobby.

I rubbed the sleep from my dark blue eyes, careful not to pull too hard on the delicate skin. I yanked the brush through my hair, thought again about cutting it. It was a good nine inches past my shoulders, a mass of dark blonde curls and waves. It was already unmanageable and took too much of my time. Every time I mentioned cutting it, David would sigh and shake his head and remind me how he loved long hair.

And when I went to the salon, I’d tell them to just trim the ends.

I pulled it all back into a ponytail, smoothed my eyebrows down. I spent another five minutes on makeup, liner, shadow, mascara, lipstick. By this stage in my life it was a polished routine, one I’d perfected over a decade before. I don’t think I’d gone a day without makeup since I turned sixteen. I brushed my teeth, did a quick swish of mouthwash.

I sat down at the table and David slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. I stifled a sigh, dumped brown sugar on it and stirred. Rain, shine, pestilence, birth, death—five mornings a week we ate oatmeal for breakfast. The other two we ate breakfast with either his parents or mine. David frowned at the brown sugar, sprinkled Splenda over his own bowl.

You remember we have dinner tonight at The Shrimp Factory with our families? He tucked away a tidy spoonful, took a small sip of coffee. No cream, no sugar. David liked to watch his weight. An overweight lawyer is a sloppy lawyer. Your sister is supposed to bring her new boyfriend, what’s his name?

Craig. I think. I took a small bite of oatmeal, pushed it around the bowl, glanced at the clock. Another five minutes before he left and I could actually eat. What time again?

Seven. Really, Joey, what would you do if I wasn’t here to remind you of these things? David ate a few more bites before standing up, smoothing his tie down. He dumped the last bit of oatmeal down the sink, hit the switch for the disposal. I have to get going. They’ve been starting the construction early. Snarls everything up.

He brushed a kiss over my cheek, squeezed my shoulder. I’ll see you tonight, honey. The door whispered shut behind him and I was alone in the apartment.

Just like I’d be for the next fifty or so years.

Why if it isn’t Joanne Watson as I live and breathe!

I pasted a smile on my face and turned around, the smell of magnolias swamping me. Mrs. Johnston moved in a perpetual fog of cloying scent, the cloud wafting ahead of her and trailing behind her. She’d worn the perfume for as long as I could remember. Possibly the reason I hated it.

No matter how big Savannah gets, it’ll always be a small town at heart, won’t it, honey? She patted my cheek, giving a little pinch. The other clerk at the library circulation  smirked but stayed three feet away. No one would interfere with a Southern matron reacquainting herself with an old family friend.

I swear I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Your mama must be so excited, what with all the wedding planning she’s going to be doing. Mrs. Johnston fanned herself, gave a laugh that attempted to tinkle like bells but instead sounded like a foghorn. Her bright red rouged cheeks creased with the effort, the little lines around her mouth deepening. I didn’t give anything away, did I, sugar?

Not a thing, Mrs. Johnston. I’d known about the ring, the proposal, the entire ordeal almost from the get-go. David had asked my parents for their permission to make me Mrs. David Roberts. After they said yes, they told my sister. My sister told at least half of Savannah. Everyone knew I was getting engaged tonight. I’ll be sure to tell my parents I saw you.

Only think, you’ll be able to stop working at the library. Stay home, start a family. She winked, fanned herself again. You are getting up there in years. And nothing cements a relationship like the pitter patter of little feet.

You have a nice day, Mrs. Johnston. I checked my watch, stifled a sigh. Only thirty minutes until lunch.

So tell me you’re excited! You are excited, aren’t you? Mary flung herself into the chair opposite mine, whipped a napkin open and spread it over her lap. Her hat was huge with a floppy picture brim. If I was dedicated to preserving my skin, Mary Whitney was fanatical. I so have to be a bridesmaid. I can be a bridesmaid, can’t I?

I nodded absently, tapping my fingers on the table. The street outside the Soho South Café was an odd combination of slow and bustling. September may have been drawing to a close but it was still almost brutally hot. Tourists found a place to hide until the sun went down. Locals went about their business.

"You have to send me a picture of the ring as soon as you get it on your finger. Mary tapped a bright pink nail on the menu. Maybe I’ll get something different today."

She wouldn’t. She was as stuck in her routine as I was. She loved it. I wasn’t sure how I felt anymore.

"Joanne. A moment of your time."

I didn’t glance up from the pile of books I was shelving. I’m working, Daddy.

You’re volunteering. You could walk out this moment and no one would think less of you, especially considering what today is. My father straightened his tie, managing to glower at me even as he leered at one of the other, much younger, volunteers. True to form, she giggled and batted her lashes before disappearing around the bookcase into the next aisle. I estimated my father would follow in the next three to five minutes. That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about.

For a moment I allowed myself to hope he would tell me I didn’t have to say yes. That I could buck tradition and expectation without parental disapproval. That I could do something other than spend the rest of my life fighting against ennui and losing.

This is a very important night for our family. David is very well connected. There are already rumors he may be encouraged to run for mayor in the next election.

I know. I blinked back tears, struggling to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Anything else?

You could pretend to be excited, Joanne. Your sister would be over the moon to be in your position. Heaving a sigh of frustration, he smoothed down his hair, running his tongue over his teeth. And more importantly, this will keep your mother happy—and busy—for quite some time.

I didn’t bother asking if my happiness mattered. I already knew the answer.

Hey, dollface. My sister breezed around the circulation desk, ignoring the signage asking patrons not to do so. She sank into an old, battered chair, crossing her legs and flipping her hair. Ready for tonight?

Julie. I thought you were working at the school today. Ignoring her question, I checked out a woman old enough to remember Sherman’s March to the Sea—or at least she looked old enough to remember. It’s Friday, isn’t it?

Ugh, don’t remind me. The little brats are always so wound up before the weekend. She pulled a compact from her oversized bag, powdering her nose with quick, efficient movements. Snapping it shut, she dropped it back into her purse, leaning forward and lowering her voice. I cannot wait to get married so I don’t have to do any more stupid charity work.

If I could trade places with you I would.

Careful, I may take you up on that offer. Julie wheeled the chair over to the counter, propping one elbow on the chipped laminate. You have no idea how lucky you are to not have to deal with the dating scene.

You love the dating scene. You and Daddy are too much alike. Meaning they both had hard-earned and well-deserved reputations for carrying on affairs both illicit and flamboyant. David said you’re bringing Craig tonight.

His name is Greg, not that it matters since I’m not bringing him. She pulled a face before quickly rearranging her features back into placid lines. Julie’s fear of wrinkles rivaled Mary Whitney’s. I told you, I’m tired of the dating scene. Be careful or I may steal David away from you.

I paused in the act of scanning a barcode, glancing over at her. Since when did you become so interested in David?

Oh, it’s just a figure of speech, Joanne. Don’t be ridiculous. Bouncing up, she slung her purse over her shoulder, propping a hand on her hip. You should take the rest of the afternoon off. Tonight’s going to be a major event.

I watched her flounce out of the library, mulling her suggestion over. An afternoon off suddenly seemed like the best idea of my entire day.

"Joanne, where are you? You’re going to be late for your own engagement." The line crackled for a moment before my mother’s voice rang in my ear. Are you trying to be difficult?

Of course not, Mother. I fiddled with the radio, glanced at traffic in my rearview mirror. The drive to the Savannah Wildlife Refuge had been impulsive and time-wasting and refreshing. And now I would pay for it. I’ll be there in a little bit. I’m on the Talmadge right now.

The Talmadge! What on earth are you doing way out there! Joanne Marie Watson, I swear you’re a trial. The line went dead and I tossed the phone in the passenger seat. Compared to Julie I was a trial. Something I was never allowed to forget for one moment.

I checked my watch. I was going to be late. At least fifteen minutes. Maybe more. I’d ruined David’s big evening before it’d even started. Some part of me was happy about that, as immature as it was.

The sudden blare of a car horn jerked me out of complacency. I slammed on the brakes, managed to avoid ramming the car in front of me. I took a few shaky breaths, gripped the steering wheel tight for a moment before relaxing my hands. My cell phone was ringing from the floor where my sudden stop had flung it. I ignored the ringing, shifted the car into park and opened the door.

A sudden gust of wind blew the hair around my face, destroyed the hurried bun I’d scraped it back into after I left the Refuge. Ahead of me the Talmadge was a sea of red lights, people popping out of their cars like moles. I walked a few feet forward, joining the edges of the crowd.

What’s going on?

A tall black man in a three piece suit answered me, his voice thick with the sound of Savannah. Car crash. Doesn’t look good.

Anybody call for help? I glanced around, saw people fiddle with their cell phones. Well?

Maybe. Service is spotty. A woman my mother’s age shrugged, her linen suit sliding  over ruthlessly toned shoulders. I’m sure someone did.

I pushed further into the crowd, asking the same question again and again. I couldn’t say why I was so interested, why this mattered. Maybe it was the impending doom of my engagement, the finality of the rest of my life. I’d been forced to accept I couldn’t call for help or be saved. But I liked to think there was still hope for others.

When I finally reached the actual crash, I sucked in a deep breath. A car hung half on, half off the bridge, dangling some thousand odd feet over the Savannah River. Two men held back a woman younger than myself. The way she struggled made me think it would have been easier with one more.

Her baby’s in the car. The old woman next to me wiped tears from her face with a lace handkerchief. The buckle on the safety harness jammed and now everyone is too scared to go back. Poor, poor woman.

I studied the car for a moment. Then I kicked my shoes off, my pantyhose snagging on the asphalt. It was stupid. And reckless. And if I didn’t try, I’d never forgive myself.

I took a step forward then stopped and turned to face the old woman. Joanne Watson. If anything goes wrong, my name is Joanne Watson.

I turned around before she could answer, darting the short distance to the car. I grabbed one of the men by his shirt, a big, brawny man, probably a dock worker. Push down on the bumper.

What? Lady, you’re crazy. He dabbed at his forehead with a bandana, stuffed it in his back pocket. His eyes slid from the car back to me. You’re serious.

You, one or two other guys, you can hold it down long enough for me to get that baby out. I put all my force into the statement. I had to make him believe it. I had to believe it. We have to try.

I’ll help. The man was almost shaking with fear and nerves, tugging at the tight collar of his shirt. He was hefty, either muscle or fat. I’ll help.

Me, too. I turned to see the black man I’d first spoken to shrug out of his jacket, drop it on the ground. You’ll have better traction without your hose, ma’am.

I yanked them down and off even as the three of them leaned on the bumper. The small car creaked under their weight, the nose making an effort to tilt up. The bandana wearer grunted, sweat starting to pop out on his forehead. He jerked his chin towards the car. Make a move, lady. This little thing is heavier than it looks.

I hesitated, a lifetime of beliefs and standards screaming through my mind. And then I looked at the young woman.

I squeezed between the men, shimmied over the trunk. The metal burned my hands, the buttons on my dress scratching the dull paint job. I heard the screaming of the baby over the roar of the wind.

I had to do this.

I leaned in through the busted back window, hissed at the slice and sting of glass cutting through my skin. If I twisted enough, I could reach the seatbelt buckle. I pushed my toes harder against the metal, scooted forward, held my breath when the car tilted a hair forward.

My fingers brushed the metal buckle, slipped off because of sweat. I strained, felt my arm start to rotate out of its socket. Grit my teeth against the edge of pain and pushed hard on the buckle.

The belt released and I grabbed the edge of the car seat, grunting at the sudden weight. I pushed up on my other elbow, belly crawled closer, felt the car tip further forward. I needed both hands to wrestle the car seat through the back window.

I didn’t look at the baby. I could hear it, screaming it’s lungs out. If I looked at the baby I might lose my nerve. I started to scoot around, spinning like a lopsided bottle, pushing the car seat ahead of me. Glass cut into my feet, blood oozing over my toes.

Take the seat. My voice sounded remarkably calm, at least to me. Take it.

The car will tip. The words came out through clenched teeth, veins on the black man’s forehead popping out. We can’t hold it with only two of us.

I know. Our eyes locked, understanding passing between us. Take the seat.

Bandana man braced his knee on the bumper, stretched his arms forward. Just keep scooting, lady. We can work this out.

Take the seat. I pushed it further forward even as the car tilted down towards the river. Glass cut deeper into my feet, made them slick with blood. Remember my name.

The car lurched forward and I shoved the seat one last time, Bandana man nabbing it as it slid over the edge of the trunk. The black man made a desperate lunge forward, his fingertips brushing mine for seconds before they slid away. One final screech of metal and the car tipped over the edge.

I think I prayed. I know every Sunday sermon I’d endured in my life screamed through my brain. God and death had always been abstract. In those last moments both hit me with a powerful finality. And so I think I prayed, either from genuine belief or genuine fear or entirely by rote.

I do remember thinking—At least I died for a reason.

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CHAPTER TWO

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Well, I wasn’t expecting company today. But it’s a nice surprise nonetheless.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the low glow of an oil lamp. Excuse me?

Take a minute and orient yourself, dear. Those first few minutes after the cross over are a doozy if I remember.

The woman behind the desk, old and faded as a good family Bible, busied herself with paperwork. There were mountains of it on almost every inch of the desk, stacked haphazardly on the floor, small piles tucked on bookshelves. From what I could see of the woman, more than one of the stacks was her height or higher.

She scrawled a pen over a sheet of paper, stamped it with a small square. I watched her do this for a few minutes, the piles never seeming to shrink or grow. Her speed never increased, never decreased. The same half-smile remained.

Where am I?

You’re in limbo, dear. Our waiting room of sorts. Do you remember what you were doing a bit ago? She didn’t look up from her paperwork, continuing to sign one page after the next. After a long moment, she glanced up briefly. You do remember, don’t you?

Of course I.... I trailed off as I realized I didn’t. I leaned back, my hands gripping the chair arm. I hissed at the sudden sharp pain, flipping my palms over, studying the cuts and slices. I wiggled my toes, felt the burn and trickle of blood from a dozen tiny cuts. Looking down, I noted the dark smears and stains over my pale peach sundress. No, I don’t.

I’m not surprised. Most people are confused when they first arrive. The more traumatic the entry, the longer someone usually needs to center themselves. She set her pen aside, crossed her hands neatly on the desk in front of her. You were on the Talmadge Bridge during rush hour traffic. There was an accident.

I was in a car wreck?

Not you, dear. Another young lady and her baby. A raised eyebrow. Is any of this sounding familiar?

It was and yet it wasn’t. I stared harder at my hands, as if the cuts and scrapes would tell the story I couldn’t remember. I scratched the palm of one hand, pushed against flesh until blood began to ooze.

Everything came rushing back, a deluge of memory and sensation. I gagged, bile rising.

Take a deep breath, dear. I’d prefer you weren’t ill in my office. The smell is always so hard to cover up. The words were close enough to what Mother would say that I automatically swallowed, pushing the nausea down. The first deep breath helped. Every one after was easier and my stomach gradually settled again. We’ll get those injuries looked at. But first we need to get this paperwork started.

I sat up straight, my spine aligning with ruler precision. Paperwork?

"Oh, there’s always paperwork. I can’t ever seem to catch up these days. I’m always told I’ll be getting an assistant but that never happens. An imperious sniff was followed by the opening and snapping shut of a desk drawer. Now, can I get your full name, please?"

Joanne Marie Watson. There was paperwork in limbo. I giggled at the absurdity, stifling the sound when the old woman peered at me over her spectacles. I’m sorry.

Please try and maintain your decorum. This is a serious affair. She made a notation on the paper in front of her. Date of birth?

September 28, 1982. My birthday was next week. I’d forgotten. Birthdays of a certain age were handled discreetly.

Occupation?

None. My face burned when her mouth fell open in shock. I volunteered at the library. Women in my family don’t work.

Hmm. Condemnation laced the simple sound. Religious orientation?

Baptist.

Another sniff. It was difficult to tell whether it was approval or derision. And are you an active member of your church?

I attend weekly services, volunteer with the women’s ministry and children’s church, help with fundraisers.

Her hand flew across the paper, the scratching sound filling the small room. Any special skills?

I’m good at research. If it was possible for my face to turn redder it no doubt would. I remember things.

Excellent memory. She scrawled one last thing before setting her pen aside. I must say, this is one of the few times I thoroughly disagree with the final recommendation.

Excuse me?

She opened a drawer, withdrawing something and sliding it over the desk. What do you know about angels, Joanne?

I leaned forward, pulled the object closer to me. I stifled a giggle when I saw it was a pamphlet. Tiny print edged the bound side: For Baptists Only. DO NOT DISTRIBUITE TO OTHERS. I glanced up at the sound of a throat being cleared. Excuse me?

Decorum, please. I snapped upright, ankles and knees together, hands clasped tight in my lap. I said, what do you know about angels?

I searched my mind for any information. Very little made itself available. They feature prominently in certain parts of the Bible, particularly in the Old Testament and at the birth of Christ. Only a few are named, among them Michael and Gabriel.

How many groups of angels are there?

Excuse me?

I’m not sure if you’re overly polite, deaf, or just stupid. She tapped her pen on her desk. How many groups of angels are there?

Not only was there paperwork in limbo, there were pop quizzes. Two?

"Wrong. There are nine groups or classes of angels. The old woman clapped her hands and a chart dropped down behind her, dust mites floating on the air. She waved them away before continuing. Each have their own separate function. Two groups, the Powers and the Archangels, are responsible for dealing with evil on Earth."

I glanced at the chart, the script so small and blurry reading it was an impossible task. I see.

Hmm. She clapped again and the chart rolled itself up, more dust polluting the air. As I’m sure you’re aware, being an active church member, we are in a never ending war against demons and other forces of darkness.

I nodded. Better to be quiet than be accused of being stupid again.

I’ll be quite frank. Evil is growing at an alarming rate. Much faster than we can control. She crossed her hands on the desk, leaned forward as if to share a secret. We need your help.

My help? I laughed. I’m a librarian.

Yes, I’m aware. I told you, I don’t agree with this recommendation, not even the littlest bit. She rolled the pen back and forth over her desk. One brave act should not qualify someone for service in the Winged.

The Winged?

Must you repeat everything I say? She shook her head, disgust apparent on her wrinkled face. Yes, the Winged. A special authorization came down a number of years ago allowing the induction of former humans into the army of God.

You mean people die and become angels? My pastor had neglected to inform me and my fellow congregants of this.

No, you foolish girl. Would you please be silent for a few minutes? She shoved another booklet at me, this one much smaller, the cover watermarked and dog-eared. The Winged are neither human nor angel. They exist in a perpetual state of limbo, if you will.

She settled back into her chair, fingers tapping on the desk. "They are trained to fight against demons and other dark forces, pledging themselves to perpetual service. They take their directions from the Archangels or in rare cases directly from the Powers.

As reward for their sacrifice, the Winged are given immunity to death through non-supernatural occurrences. One can still be killed by a demon or even a fellow Winged, both of which have happened before and are likely to happen again. The Winged also retain all their human emotions—anger, happiness, greed, hate, love, lust—and are allowed to act on them, within reason.

There’s sex in Heaven? Again, something my pastor had neglected to mention.

No, there’s no sex in Heaven, you foolish girl. Those in Heaven glory in the presence of the Lord Almighty and spend eternity singing praise to him. She picked up her pen again, tapped it rapidly on the desk. "The Winged do not exist in Heaven. They will never exist in Heaven. Entrance into the Winged is permanent expulsion from Heaven.

Now, you have a choice to make.

I beg your pardon?

Better than excuse me but I still wonder if you actually possess a brain. She dropped the pen, clasping her hands together again. "As I said, you have a choice.

You can choose to go to Heaven, enter into the presence of God and spend eternity there. She leveled a look on me that told me she believed this would be the wisest choice. "You can go back to your former life, with those last few seconds adjusted so you do not die and wind up sitting across from me.

Or you can join the Winged.

I don’t know how to fight.

That’s why they train you, you foolish girl. The old woman shut her eyes, took a deep breath. I would suggest you take either the first option or the second.

I looked at the booklet clutched in my hands. Something vague and not entirely familiar was welling up inside me. What was the recommendation? The one you were talking about?

"I told you my recommendation."

Not yours. For the first time in memory, I snapped back at an elder. From the look on her face, I assumed it had been the last thing she’d expected. The other one. The one you said you didn’t agree with.

She sucked a breath in, let it out through clenched teeth. It’s not necessary for your decision.

I want to know what the recommendation was. I must have died. There was no way possible I would be so disrespectful if I was still living and breathing.

Her lips pursed together, her wrinkles seeming to tremble with outrage. The recommendation from above—and don’t ask from where above, because even I don’t know such information—was for you to enter into the Winged.

I’ll do it.

Excuse me?

I said, I’ll do it. I’ll join the Winged. I tossed the pamphlets on the desk, watched her jaw drop open. I’ll do it.

She blinked a few more times in surprise. Nonetheless, she picked up a small square stamp, mashed it into an ink pad. Her hand hovered over my paperwork for a moment. Are you sure? Once you commit, you can’t change your mind. There’s no going back.

I laughed, the sound tinged with the faintest of hysteria. "Did you take a look at my life? Dying was the best thing to happen to me. I never want to go back."

She shook her head, thumped the stamp firmly onto the paper. Foolish, foolish girl.

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CHAPTER THREE

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Hey! I’m Poppy. I’m like your tour guide. The girl wrapped a long strand of blonde hair around a finger, sucked on the ends before spitting them back out. Tour guide, bunk mate, partner in crime, any and or all of the above.

I extended a hand, winced at the sight of blood crusting my palm and drew it back. Joanne Watson.

Old school. Totally far out. She shaded her eyes with her free hand, scanned the horizon behind me. So, you’re probably wondering where you are and all that jazz.

Hmm. I turned around, trying to not ignore the scene playing out in the valley. People ran screaming at each other, swords raised high, firearms raised to shoulders. Cannons boomed continuously, blue gray smoke wafting on the air. Even as I watched, a ball shot out, veered wide to the right. It caught a soldier mid-body, punching through them. Christ Jesus.

This is what the archangels like to refer to as a beginning training exercise. Poppy raised her voice, leaned in close. They like to give us the basics of a battle and see if we recreate history or change it.

How many people end up dying their first exercise?

Poppy laughed and started skipping down the hill. Her hair fluttered behind her like a streamer, arms swinging lightly. I stood in shock for a moment, watching as she ducked and weaved through retreating troops. Then the thought of being stuck on the hill without knowing a soul slammed into me and I scurried after her, apologizing each time I bumped into someone.

When I managed to catch up with her, I didn’t hesitate to grab her arm. Don’t leave me. I don’t have any idea where I’m supposed to go or what I’m supposed to do. I thought you were my tour guide.

She frowned, her nose wrinkling, brows drawing together over light brown eyes full of confusion. After a moment the confusion cleared and she beamed a smile at me. Right. Tour guide. I always forget the following and leading part.

I slid my hand down her arm, grasped her hand. I hadn’t held hands with anyone outside of church since elementary school. You never told me how many people die.

She laughed again, moving forward. I gripped her hand tighter, trailing in her wake. She seemed to have some hidden talent for finding holes in the crowd, sliding through them. I struggled to keep up, wincing as my feet endured more abuse from the rocky ground. Nobody dies. It’s a beginning training exercise.

She stopped in front of a tent, pulling up the heavy canvas flap and ducking inside, breaking free of my grip. With no other choice but to follow her, I lifted the flap, tried to ease inside. The flap slapped down, forcing me deeper into the tent than I would have preferred. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

You’ve got to stop wandering off, Poppy. And stop bringing strays with you.

I turned in the direction of the voice, deep and melodic, tinged with exasperation, affection and exhaustion. He was bent over a makeshift operating table, inspecting a leg wound. I gagged, bile rushing up my throat as I saw the gash opened the calf down to the bone. When he looked up, he scowled, dark brows drawing together. If you’re going to be sick, do it outside. I’ve got enough germs in here without you adding to them.

I shook my head rapidly, pressed a hand to my mouth. Breathing through my nose did no good. The air was ripe with the stench of blood and excrement, the mist of cannon smoke thicker and denser. I took a step back, then another, until I bumped against the canvas.

Stop being such a tight-ass, Gideon. Poppy pranced over the open space, apparently able to ignore the wounded men on plywood tables and fabric stretchers. She wrapped her arms around the man—Gideon—and pressed her face into his back. She’s totally cool.

How she knew this when she probably didn’t even remember my name did not increase my confidence in her.

Poppy. I’m working. Gideon shrugged her off, but it was done gently, more like  habit than true annoyance. And how do you know she’s totally cool? Maybe she’s a demon, with a very clever disguise.

"Oh! I so didn’t think of that. Poppy planted her hands on her hips, highlighting her overall curvy shape. I gulped when she turned her gaze on me, the previously guileless eyes laser sharp. Are you a demon?"

Poppy, she’s not going to tell you if she is. Gideon probed the open wound and I fought back nausea. Blood oozed, dripping down to the hard packed dirt floor. And considering the fact we’re in a beginning training exercise, I doubt she’s a demon.

Then why did you say she could be?

Gideon closed his eyes, took a deep breath. One of the other men in the tent shook his head, laughing silently. Poppy. Focus. Who is she?

Joanne. Joanne Watson. I answered before Poppy could open her mouth. I wouldn’t want to see this Gideon’s reaction if she was unable to remember my name. Like with Poppy, I held out my hand. Manners never die.

Gideon wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it away. He strode across the tent and I gulped, pressing further against the wall. When he reached out a hand, I assumed he meant to shake mine. Instead, he turned it palm up, his face darkening.

Where’d you get these? There’s no glass on the training field. At least not for this exercise.

I fell. I swallowed hard when he looked up from my hands, dark brown eyes intense in a golden face. Not here. From a bridge.

"A bridge? Gideon swung his head around to look at Poppy. Poppy. Why is she here?"

The Secretary sent her. Poppy began twirling her hair again, spinning tiny circles. I wasn’t sure which was more real at the moment, the tent full of injured men or the flower child dancing to music only she could hear. She’s new. Fresh from limbo.

"The Secretary sent her to you? Had her dropped directly into the Battle of New Orleans and chose you to be her mentor? Gideon turned back to me, lips curving upward. Exactly how bad did you piss the old bat off?"

I didn’t know how to answer so I kept quiet. The old woman—the Secretary—had cured me of saying excuse me to questions I was unsure about. Over Gideon’s head I watched Poppy’s face slide into a pout even as she continued to dance. He turned over my other hand, studied it for a moment before glancing back up. You fell off a bridge?

Yes. The Talmadge. He dropped my hands, motioned for me to lift my feet. He examined one then the other, shaking his head. Is there something wrong?

No, nothing more than the usual. Come with me, I’ll get you taken care of. Gideon turned, marching through the rows of men. I hurried behind him, eager not to fall behind like I had with Poppy. When I passed her, she stopped in her dancing to give me a thumbs up before starting to hum to herself.

The tent was huge. Massive. I would never have believed a portable building could be so large. I stopped counting after the twentieth bed, choosing instead to look at the people who occupied them. They were mostly men although I passed a number of women. Hairstyle and clothing ranged from last year to what I would have pinned as the early Renaissance if only I had the books to confirm it.

I was so focused on the beds and their occupants I wasn’t aware Gideon had stopped moving until I ran into him. I immediately jumped back, hands raised in apology. I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.

Relax. It’s understandable you’d be jumpy. Gideon pushed aside a flap, held it open for me. When I stepped through, he took my arm, guided me towards a chair. Like I said, you must have pissed the Secretary off.

It was quieter here, the small area lit by what I recognized as an oil lamp. A cot was pushed against one wall, the covers thrown back like its owner had woke in a hurry. The only other furniture was a small bedside table holding the lamp and a ragged book and the chair I sat on. I watched Gideon pull a bag from under the cot, rummaging around inside it.

Is this your room?

Gideon paused, pulling out a roll of gauze before returning to the rummaging. For this exercise. I expect it’ll wrap tonight. The British are losing again. As soon as Christopher dies, Michael and Gabriel will call the exercise.

I laughed, not surprised at the hint of hysteria I heard. Exercise? Dying? Is anyone going to explain anything to me?

Poppy was not the best mentor choice. Gideon pulled out a bottle of what I assumed was hydrogen peroxide and a set of tweezers. I blinked when he handed me the bottle. Go ahead and take a swig. You’ll need it.

I tipped the bottle back, keeping my lips pressed shut. I wasn’t going to drink something I knew nothing about. Gideon reached up and pinched my nose. I gasped, liquid flooding my mouth, and I choked as vodka spilled down my throat.

I said drink. He held the bottle to my mouth until I’d forced down two more mouthfuls. This is going to hurt.

Before I could ask for clarification, Gideon lifted my right foot, rested it on his knee. And poured vodka over my wounds.

I would have kicked him if he wasn’t gripping my ankle tight enough to bruise. I bit my lip, squeezing my eyes shut even as tears welled up and over, spilling down my cheeks. I clenched my teeth, breathed through them in short, shallow breaths.

I warned you. There was nothing to his tone. No mocking, no sympathy. Purely matter of fact. This is going to hurt more.

I flinched as he pulled the first shard of glass out. He was quick and methodical. And he was correct. It hurt infinitely more than cleansing the wounds had. When he finished with my right foot, he repeated the process on my left.

No bandages?

Your feet will heal before I finish your hands. Your hands will heal before we get back to the front of the tent. I opened my eyes, startled to find his face much closer than necessary. Now, what questions do you have?

Poppy said this is a beginning training exercise, so nobody dies. I bit my lip again when he drenched my palms in vodka. But you said it would be over when someone named Christopher died.

Both statements are correct. Nobody really dies in a beginning exercise. I hissed when he dug the tweezers deep into my palm, searching for glass splinters. The Secretary surely mentioned the only way we can be killed is through a supernatural weapon, either one of ours or one of theirs.

I nodded, wiggling my toes. They still ached but already they felt better. Gideon flicked a piece of bloody glass into a basin. I was surprised, and nauseated, at how full it was.

The weapons used in beginning training exercises are man-made. They can injure and kill us but instead of true death it’s more akin to a short coma. A period of time where the body can heal its injuries. Gideon reached for the bottle again and I flinched. Shooting a smile at me, one a thousand degrees warmer than any look I’d received so far, he set it aside. So while Christopher’s death—since he’s the British commander—will end the exercise, it will not end Christopher.

Why would training end because the commander died?

Gideon paused in mid-tweeze, head cocked. A very good question. I’d suggest you ask Michael, but he’s more likely to bite your head off. My best guess would be that in the original battle the British were defeated within an hour of their commander’s death.

A roar went up all around us, both inside and outside the tent. Cannons boomed repeatedly, the noise deafening. Gideon tossed one last shard of glass into the basin, rose from his crouch. And that would be it. I’ll send Poppy back to you. I’m going to be busy transporting the wounded and not quite dead back to camp.

Thank you. I flushed when his jaw dropped. I’m sorry, was I not supposed to say anything? It seemed rude to not—.

No, no, you’re fine. It’s been a long while since anyone thought to say thank you. Gideon stuck his hands in his pockets, studying me intensely enough to make me want to squirm in my seat. Before I could, he shook his head, turned towards the flap. New people are always interesting.

He ducked out, the sounds of victory blaring for a moment before the drop of the flap muffled them. I sat there, lacing and unlacing my fingers, digging my toes into the dirt. I closed my eyes, my head dropping back on a groan.

What had I gotten myself into?

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CHAPTER FOUR

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The pack out to camp was brutal.  I glued myself to Poppy, followed her as she twisted and turned through both the American and British sides of the training field. She knew everyone, or at least every man.

I suppose it was the flower child in her.

When a trumpet blared over the field, managing to be heard despite the din of hundreds of voices, there was a collective turn to the right. I grabbed Poppy’s arm before she could dance away. What was that?

Oh, it’s the call to head out. It’s an hour walk back to camp. Poppy slipped out of my grasp, sidled up to someone whose name I’d forgotten as soon as it was told me. Before I could rush after her, the crowd rolled and swelled and cut her off completely.

The crowd buffeted me left and right, pushing me forward against my will. Out of desperation I began pushing to the left, working my way to the edges of the mass. I gave up apologizing, all my air and energy going into not being trampled. Something behind me let out a shrill, high-pitched scream and I ducked, my arms covering my head.

Foolish girl! Watch where you’re going!

I started to stammer out an apology, my faint mutterings overshadowed by a booming laugh. You’re always in such a foul mood after a beginning exercise, Michael. When we get back to camp I’m setting you up with a bottle of Cuervo and one of Lucy’s friends.

Lucy doesn’t have any friends and I don’t drink tequila. The voice was low and rich and rough, reminding me inexplicably of my grandmother and pralines. It was also very irritated. Who are you?

I glanced up, took a hasty step back when I found myself eye to eye with an angry horse. I looked up further, an angry and impatient man coming into view. I, uh, I—.

Sometime today. Despite popular belief, we do not have all the time in the world to wait for you to remember something as simple as your name.

Michael. The girl’s terrified. A tall, blond giant of a man swung down from another horse, landing lightly on his feet. A pair of swords rested on his hips and the hilt of a third showed over his shoulder. Bright blue eyes raked me up and down. And very inappropriately dressed for the battle field.

I flushed, backed up another step. I just got here.

From? The man still seated on the horse, Michael, arched a dark eyebrow. Everything about him was dark. Dark hair, cropped close, skin tanned a deep, golden brown. Eyes so brown to almost be black narrowed at my silence. Well?

Savannah. Georgia. I gulped, both men continuing to stare at me. I fell from the Talmadge Bridge.

When? Michael snapped the question out, one hand resting casually on a sword that looked nearly as long as my arm.

I don’t know. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or how time works. I don’t know anything. I blinked back tears, appalled at how broken and lost I sounded. "The Secretary didn’t tell me anything and Poppy flits off and I don’t know."

Well, first things first. Take a deep breath. The blond man rested his hands on my shoulders, squeezed gently. Now, what did you do to the Secretary to have her drop you in a training exercise and have Poppy assigned as your mentor?

Why does everyone keep saying that? I swiped angrily at tears, gave into old habits and stomped my foot in frustration. I didn’t do anything. I mean, I didn’t do what she wanted me to do but I didn’t do anything to her.

You went against the Secretary’s recommendation? Michael snorted, the horse under him shifting restlessly. I was right to count you foolish.

Well, she didn’t agree with the recommendation sent to her, so what do you count her? I slapped a hand over my mouth even as the blond threw back his head and laughed.

Ah, the pieces of the puzzle begin to come together. The blond squeezed my shoulders again before stepping away. I’d say we’d find Poppy for you but there’s a good chance she’s flat on her back somewhere. Anybody else you know?

Gideon? I looked from one man to the other, prayed fervently my cheeks would stop burning in embarrassment. Although whether it was for myself or the man’s all too casual pronouncement of Poppy’s probable activities I had no idea. The doctor?

Gideon will be occupied with the wounded and dead. The blond, his name still unknown, sighed. In that case, Michael will see you back to camp. Won’t you, Michael?

Gabriel—

I’d do it myself but Lucy tends to become insanely jealous whenever she sees me with someone even moderately attractive. Gabriel rolled his eyes, a smile curving his lips. You’d think nearly ninety Winged years would assure her of my fidelity.

"Gabriel—"

Up you go. Before I could protest, Gabriel grabbed me and threw me up behind Michael with all the care a farmer would show a bale of hay. I flailed, fought to find my balance without touching the man in front of me. Gabriel patted my thigh, exposed now with my dress ruched up. Make sure Poppy gets you some more clothes.

Gabriel mounted his horse, bending low to whisper in its ear. With a toss of its head, they were off, weaving through the steadily moving crowd with the same ease and grace I’d seen from Poppy.

And then I was alone with Michael.

I was unsure which of us was more uncomfortable with the situation.

With a shake of his head, Michael pressed his heels gently into the horse’s sides. The animal lurched forward, throwing me off balance. Instinctively I reached out, clasped my arms around his waist. His sudden stiffening had me pulling back even as I started to slip to the left.

Hold on, girl. I won’t bite.

Oddly enough, I was not reassured. My name is Joanne. And I’m hardly a girl.

I’ve seen the passage of millennia. You are a girl.

I held my tongue, concentrated on finding the rhythm of the horse. To my dismay, I was as ill equipped to do so as I had been after two years of riding lessons. Does everyone travel on horses?

Scared?

Incompetent. I snapped the word out, already tiring of his brusque attitude. And smart enough to realize it.

But not smart enough to mind your tone when dealing with an archangel. Michael glanced over his shoulder, smirking. Surely you had an idea of who you were speaking with?

No. And now I prayed the ground would swallow me up. I just got here.

Hmm. We rode for a while in silence. I did my best to ignore the glances cast our direction, their tone ranging from curious to hostile to utterly disinterested. You say you fell?

Yes.

Michael shook his head. You truly fell? You can be honest.

I fell. I let go of him, crossed my arms over my chest. There was an accident. A baby in a car, half on, half off the bridge. In the end it was the baby or myself.

Your baby?

No.

A friend’s?

No.

You died for a stranger’s child? Michael half turned to look at me, the horse shifting in response. In panic I grabbed his waist again. I averted my eyes from his assessing look. Interesting. Why?

Someone deserved to be saved.

It took me quite a few moments to realize we were no longer moving. I looked up through the veil of my lashes to find him studying me with an intentness that was more than slightly disconcerting. The last of the crowd pushed ahead of us, laughter and music and loud voices dying away.

The horse whinnied restlessly, quickly silenced by a tongue click from Michael. I risked opening my eyes, gulping in surprise to find his face so close to mine. His gaze roamed my face, lingered on my mouth until I felt my cheeks burn. When he met my eyes I gulped again, did my best to not look away.

Interesting. I find you very interesting, girl.

Joanne.

Girl. Michael turned back around, nudged the horse forward again. Watching you adjust will no doubt be quite entertaining, especially with Poppy and Lucy as mentor and tent mates.

Gabriel’s Lucy?

Indeed. You’ll see quite a bit of Gabriel. Or at least of him coming and going. I wager you’ll see very little of Poppy outside of training. She tends to conduct her liaisons in the lucky man’s tent. Or wherever else she feels the urge.

You make her sound like a whore. Despite her flakiness and the fact she had deserted me, I felt the need to defend Poppy. She was as close to a friend as I had in this strange new place.

She is. Michael glanced over his shoulder, flashing a smile. Or do you prefer to think of it as practicing free love?

I bit my tongue, torn between the words my pastor had preached concerning fidelity and the very real fact I myself had not abided by them. According to my church the way I had lived was no better than what Poppy did now. I prefer to not discuss it at all.

As you wish.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, broken only occasionally by a cluck of Michael’s tongue to the horse. I kept my eyes forward, my mind occupied listing all the presidents of the United States followed by all the rulers of England. I had begun on the kings of France when I spied something on the horizon.

Camp. This is where you’ll spend the majority of your time, at least to start. Training fields are located within the perimeter. You’ll also find the mess hall, the armory, uniforms, the library—

You have a library?

Indeed. Did you think because we were soldiers we had no desire to read?

I shook my head even though I knew he couldn’t see. No, I didn’t...it just seems....

Enough, girl. Yes, we have a library, one I daresay will be sufficient for fulfilling your desire to read romantic fluff and other nonsense.

I bit back a caustic remark at his assumption of my reading preferences, starting on the kings of France again.

Soon, but not nearly enough to my way of thinking, Michael drew the horse to a stop in front of a moderate sized tent. I pulled my arms back and he swung to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. In contrast, I began an awkward slide, my hands simultaneously waving for balance and attempting to keep my dress down.

Michael caught me inches from the ground, righting me and setting me on my feet. His hands lingered on my waist, his fingers seeming to burn through the thin fabric of my dress. His eyes bored into mine and I fought the urge to look away. Finally, his hands dropped away and I stepped back, sucking in a deep breath.

You’ll have the next few days to get adjusted and outfitted. After that you’ll begin training. Try and remember how to have an intelligent conversation by then, girl.

Before I could recover, he’d mounted his horse again, kicked the animal into a gallop. I stood and stared, open-mouthed. Behind me, I heard a tent flap lift and a low, feminine laugh.

You’re making all sorts of new friends, aren’t you, darling?

Turning, I blinked in shock. The woman standing in the entrance looked as unlike a soldier as I did. More perhaps. Dark red curls cut in a short bob framed an expertly made-up face, light brown eyes rimmed heavily with liner, lashes long and darkened. Her mouth, a slickly painted bow, curved up in a mocking smile. I’m Lucy. You must be Joanne. And unless I’m mistaken, that was Michael.

Yes. I studied her for a moment, weighed her words and tone and what I could only call instinct. He’s an asshole.

Lucy threw back her head, laughed. Well, darling, he is an archangel.

CHAPTER FIVE

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I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. Each word was punctuated by the sound of glass landing in a basin, small droplets of blood flicking my knee. I bit my lip, fought the nausea, and continued to pull shards of glass from my lacerated palms. My hatred increased with each piece. He’s a horrible man.

I’ve told you, darling, he’s not a man. He’s an archangel. Across the room, Lucy rolled to her side, cradled her head in her palm. They’re not all despicable. But most of them are.

He is. He could give every crazy church lady a run for her money. Even as I finished speaking, pangs of conscience nagged at me. Not for him – for the ladies, most of them from a completely different era, one where my life would have been envied for its sheer perfection. Do you know what he did?

No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me. She smirked, lips curving upward. And to think when he first tossed you off his horse, I thought you would be such a small mouse of a tent mate.

He made me crawl through broken glass. Literally. Satisfied no glass remained in my hands, I turned my attention to my elbows. The sheer difficulty of the task only intensified my anger. On my hands and knees. Everyone else got to use protective pads. But not me. Oh, no, not me.

Darling, you’re taking this so personally. I’m sure there was a reason. She arched a brow, pushed to a sitting position. He did tell you why, didn’t he?

Because I have soft skin. I grasped a piece of glass, fingers slippery with blood. Air hissed through clenched teeth as I pulled. Because I have soft skin and I need to be toughened up.

Lucy shook her head, sighed. Between one blink and the next she crossed the room, knelt in front of me. She went to work on the shards in my knees, tsking and tutting, fingers flying. "Perhaps I was wrong.