His Sign: The Wait Is Over: A Serial Paranormal Urban Fantasy: His Sign, #1

By Mary C. Findley

In association with the Edge Books. In this serial paranormal urban fantasy, Drew Goddard's war against evil began long before someone tried to shoot him and he got a strange, lighted symbol bursting from his chest. Blacklisted from his intelligence contracting career, he thought paranoia or insanity explained his ruined life, until a golden-eyed woman with tattered wings and interdimensional powers helped open his eyes to a spiritual battle raging over him. 

A discouraged minister, a handful of manna, and a trip to Abraham's Bosom convince him that Christians waiting for a sign need to wake up and acknowledge God's working in the life they live every moment. Drew's world fills with powerful enemies and unlikely allies. 

Who or what are the Sethites and why (and from what) do they protect him? Why is a farm producing a miraculous bumper crop for the first time in years? Can he trust the person he suspects most of wanting him dead, and solve a puzzle that may save people marked for genocide from physical and spiritual foes? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Findley Family Video
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386915041

Mary C. Findley

Mary grew up in rural NY and Michael is from AZ. We met at college, taught school in AZ, MO and PA, homeschooled, and created curriculum and videos for church and commercial productions. We have three supposedly grown children and traveled the 48 states and Canada together in a tractor trailer.Findley Family Video Publications has the key verse “Speaking the Truth in Love” from Ephesians 4:15. We have four main goals:To Present a Biblical WorldviewTo Exalt the Lord Jesus ChristTo Edify BelieversTo Teach and to DelightMichael J. Findley has been on the road most of his life and his writings reflect that motion. From the rise of the ancient Hittite Empire to a generational saga of a Space Empire, the one constant is his desire to communicate the truth of God's Word through fiction and nonfiction. Homeschoolers, church leaders, and ordinary believers who want to go deeper into the Word and reach higher to put God in the exalted place where He belongs will find many answers here.They say write what you know. Mary C. Findley has poured her real life into her writing -- From the cover designs inspired by her lifelong art studies to the love of pets and country life that worm their way into her historicals. The never-say-die heroes in her twenty-some fiction works are inspired by her husband, a crazy smart man with whom she co-writes science and history-based nonfiction. These works were jump-started by a deep awareness of the dangers in our future if we don't understand ideological enemies rooted in the past. She's a strong believer in helping others and also has books about publishing advice and the need to have strong standards in reading and writing.She has traveled internationally and around the lower 48 and Canada multiple times. Anecdotes from her small town life, college experiences, European, Canadian, and south-of-the border travels, as well as adventures as shotgun rider in a tractor trailer fill her contemporary works. She has also donned the cloak of alt-Victorian adventuress as Sophronia Belle Lyon, steampunk writer with her own League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (and ladies) from the great 1800s novelists. In all her works you will find faith, family, friendship and fulfilling stories. Do come have a look!

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: A CALL

Drew Goddard spun almost full circle as the concussive force slammed into his chest. He didn’t know why he remained standing, or, more importantly, why no blood ran or even seeped from the hole penetrating his shirt. The car from which the gunshot had come screeched away around a corner. Drew had a bare glimpse of the shooter: a dark-skinned, bearded man, very thin and sharp-featured.

Who was that? Don’t I know him from somewhere? Drew caught hold of a nearby stair railing and got himself steady so he could stare at the hole in his chest, right over his heart, a little more carefully. Incredibly, a faint light seemed to be coming from within his shirt … scratch that, from inside my chest!

He felt both intensely achy and somehow exhilarated, even more energized than in pain, but both, to the point where he didn’t know whether to scream or … or scream, but for joy rather than pain. Another episode? Now?

He had experienced plenty of these emotional breakdowns, but nothing he’d consider a hallucination of dying or of … of leaking light. The sound of the gun had been real enough. The jarring blow too was real. He could not deny the debilitating ache, unusually intense even for a chronically depressed person to experience. A real bullet fired from a real gun had struck his body.

The street was strangely deserted. Forcing himself to analyze and separate his symptoms from reality was exhausting, but he compelled himself to do it one more time. Was that real? The empty street? Maybe this was planned, and people were warned away, because Drew Goddard was sentenced to execution today.

The list of people who wanted him dead was long, even allowing for his paranoia … another symptom he bitterly hated but this time could not begin to dismiss. This was a close-packed neighborhood and on a Saturday morning it was normally a busy one.

It had to be a planned and intentional shooting. Drew knew the face of the shooter but couldn’t put a name to him. Anyway, it was probably the work of Nomie Harker. Harker was fairly high up in the federal agency he had done the most intelligence contractor work for before all the craziness had begun. She was the one who had publicly had sworn he would pay for his supposed compromise of her information-gathering network. No matter that he had not done what she accused him of. Harker was not the type to waste time proving guilt. What she suspected was all the proof she needed to eliminate a problem. And Drew Goddard, you have become lots of peoples’ problem.

He looked around the street again, unable to ignore the deserted sidewalks and stoops. People were told I would be shot here today? Were they glad? Sad? Did they shed a tear for that crazy creep before shutting themselves away in safe places?

What is this under my hand? Cold, hard reality often re-anchored Drew when his episodes threatened to master him. He focused on the stair railing. Down went his eyes to the stairs, and up to the blue door they mounted toward.

What was this building? Oh. A church. Right. Had the pastor, too, been told it was Drew Goddard’s day to die, and was he hiding, perhaps consoling himself by praying for the soul of that poor man he wasn’t prepared to warn or help?

Why would anyone think they were helping you if they saved your miserable life? This voice was his old companion, the one he sometimes called Accuser. It sounded like Drew was talking to himself, even inside his head. And sometimes he couldn’t help saying the accusations out loud. If anyone doubted he was nuts, that cleared it up, when he would tell himself, in front of others, that he deserved to die, or that it would be a relief to die, or ... usually screaming by this point … Why don’t you just end it?

He climbed the stairs without knowing why and turned the doorknob. Quaint, and naïve, leaving a church door unlocked these days. Drew passed inside and shut the door. Leaning against it, he closed his eyes against the positive glare coming from his chest in the dim church entryway. Footsteps approached. He pulled his jacket tight and found the light mostly extinguished.

Can I help you? The man extended a hand but Drew was too busy pinning the light inside his jacket. He needed both his hands, he was sure, to do that. None to spare for a mere handshake.

This must be the minister, a big, bald, dark-skinned man with dark eyes that seemed to draw Drew in. After a moment, the big hand dropped to the man’s side, but the look in his eyes remained. He waited.

Drew had never been in this church before – hadn’t been in any church, that he could remember, anyway, in a long time. Drew was tempted to ask the minister if he had known about the plan to shoot him, but who would answer that question honestly? He pulled his jacket even tighter.

I need to ask you something, Drew said.

I can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer. The minister chuckled, soft, nervous.

How did you know you were supposed to be a minister?

What? Accuser mocked. What made you ask a stupid question like that?

Drew didn’t know. He didn’t even know why he’d come into the church. Some vague idea of getting help with his injury? Ministers were supposed to help people, right? But did he even have an injury? What had happened out there on the street? What was happening right now? It seemed as if some kind of miracle had taken place, that he was not dying, and that this light had appeared from inside him. Or maybe it was part of one of his episodes. He peeked inside his jacket. The light still glowed, and maybe was even getting brighter.

Well, I had a call, the minister finally said.

You mean, like, from God? God spoke to you?

I… it’s hard to explain. Not a voice, really, just Scriptures that came to mind.

Scriptures? You mean Bible verses?

Yes, and people confirming those verses in unusual ways. Lots of little things coming together over a period of time that convinced me I should go into the ministry.

God doesn’t speak to people? Only the devil does?

I’m sorry – What do you mean, the devil speaks to people?

Drew almost felt as if these words were leaking out of him like that trickle of light from his chest. He’d sometimes joked about that voice, Accuser, being the devil in his ear. But he’d never seriously said it aloud to anyone.

I hear … a voice. Telling me to … to do things. Bad things. The ... impressions are so strong, I feel like I’ve done them. Afterwards, it tells me I’m worthless. It tells me to kill myself. I want to do it, but … I’m a coward, I guess.

The minister edged backward a step or two. You have a voice telling you to do … wrong things? Do … you … do you … are you on medication?

Drew sagged.

He just thinks you’re crazy, like everyone else, Accuser said softly. You knew God couldn’t help you. What were you thinking? Time to go. Really go, this time. Maybe that shooter’s made it around the block by now. Maybe the gun’s already pointed this way, just waiting for you to open the door and walk down the steps.

I think someone may be trying to kill me, Drew ventured.

Was that what I heard? The minister went rigid. I thought it sounded like a gunshot, and tires screeching — Are you okay? Did they hit you?

Those eyes of his. That naked compassion, that selfless caring — Drew wanted to drown in it. He took a step closer to the minister.

Are you crazy? They might come after you, right into this church. You’re endangering him, just like you endangered innocents every day. Get out of here! Don’t let him try to save you. You can’t be saved. You can only hurt people. You can only get them killed!

Accuser’s words crashed like a flash flood against an overfilled dam inside his brain, and like that dam, Drew’s brain couldn’t hold them back. His head pounded and he was sure this man would see cracks appearing in his head. Maybe that light would start leaking out of those cracks, like it was out of the bullet hole in his chest. He couldn’t grab his head because that would mean the light in his chest would show. Drew knew he had to get out. He turned.

Wait. Are you sure it’s safe to go outside? Whoever shot at you could be waiting.

He believes me? Does he, or is he just trying to talk down the lunatic? Drew listened but heard no raised voices, no engine sounds, no evidence of a threat outside. He peeked out the curtain covering the entryway’s little window, pushing it aside with his head while keeping his jacket together. Things looked quiet. People had even started to fill the street, as if they’d gotten an all-clear signal.

I think it’s safe, he mumbled, wrapping one arm across his chest and calculating how to go for the doorknob.

Wait a minute, the minister said. He made a side movement and Drew saw a little wood rack with pamphlets in it. The preacher picked one out and handed it over.

Drew angled his body forward and managed to pinch the folded paper in between his forearm and chest. He could not let his jacket flop open. This man cannot be allowed to see that light.

I won’t force you to stay, the minister said. "But I want you to know that door is open, always, and I sleep on a cot in my office most times. Read that, and come back anytime you want to talk. Anytime.

Drew slid through a small crack he somehow created by levering the knob with his elbow and made a tinman stiff exit down the steps. He tottered off down the street as he fought the feeling that concrete had been poured into the empty shell that was his body and wondered if this paralysis was telling him he shouldn’t leave, but go back to the church and talk more with the pastor.

It wasn’t as if he had a crammed schedule, or any schedule. He had been on his way to pick up a carton of half and half when he had been shot and the convenience store was just two buildings down on the corner. After that, it was back to that dark little hole of an apartment and ... and nothing. Wait for the mail, hope for ... what?

Since he was a little kid, growing up poor, he had believed hope came in the mail. Usually that meant money to pay bills, but it was exciting when money did unexpectedly come. But as an adult, did he dare look for hope, coming in the mail, or any other way? What does hope even mean?

Surely not just money. Perhaps a letter of apology from Harker, with the official government letterhead. It was all a mistake, she would say. He was welcome back. The nightmare would be over. But was Harker even the real enemy? Why did the face of the man behind the gun seem familiar? Not someone who worked for Harker, but someone Drew had worked for. Who is that man? Why does he want to kill me?

Something fluttered to the sidewalk as he continued stumping along with muscles that refused to unstiffen. It was the pamphlet the minister had given him. They didn’t really call them pamphlets in church, did they? Pamphlet, pamphlet, pamphlet, a stupid, awkward, useless word.

Tract. It was called a tract. Drew bent down to pick the paper up. The front was covered with large words, but Drew couldn’t focus to read them at first. Finally they swam into his consciousness.

WAITING FOR A SIGN?  It shouted at him.

CHAPTER TWO: GASLIGHTING FROM HELL

Drew did not leave his apartment again for two days. After arriving home, still anxious about a real gunshot wound, he had made a mistake by peeling off his shirt with