The Eight (The Ghost of Lady Kathryn Series Book 1)

By B. J. Betts

Chance Belmont & Jillian Clayton were just children when the die had been cast by a man a half a world away that would cause the two to meet. Years later, a terror event that had been prophesized by the Angel Azrael, would find them turning to each other, along with Chance's four children, for their very survival. —Along with the help of a lovely ghost—Lady Kathryn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. J. Betts
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463216484

B. J. Betts

B.J. Betts has been writing stories for as far back as she can re-member. She was born and raised in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and now lives in the small rural town of Missouri Valley, a town nestled in a valley at the foot of the beautiful Loess Hills.B.J. has been an avid reader her whole life and never dreamed she would become a published author. She enjoys writing real to life stories, such as in her books, Saigon Moon and Echoes in the Night. Or if you’re in the mood for a bit of the paranormal, Belle’s Crossing and Mile Marker 59 will be what you crave.Do you enjoy historical romance? By the Break of Dawn and A Valentine Promise are stories you’ll be sure to enjoy. Contemporary romance—Snowflakes & Teardrops is a great read.Whichever title is the genre you enjoy, all her books are sure to make you fall in love again.

Book preview

Preface

The hallway to the apartment was dark as the old man limped in. Arthritis and age had gnarled his hands, making him clasp the package he carried even closer to his chest.

He opened the door to his apartment and stepped onto the tiled floor. His dusty, brown leather sandals made no sound as he walked into the great room.

At last I have it! said the old man, his mouth breaking into a huge, nearly toothless smile.

Praise Allah! he spoke to the eight figures that were seated on cushions on the floor around a lamp that sat on a low table in the center of the room.

All eyes were upon him. This is what they had waited ten long years to hear. They had been chosen at a young age to fulfill the prophecy of what was to happen.

They looked at the old man, dressed in his white thwab. He wore a red and white checked keffiyeh and a white ghutra fastened with a corded coil on his head. He wore his white hair in a ponytail that hung down his thin back. Although his face was a wreath of wrinkles, his brown eyes sparkled like that of a young man.

Carefully, he bent and opened the package he carried. Slowly he lifted the first vial. This is it! This is what will fulfill our destiny!

Inside the vial was what they had worked for most of their young lives.

He lifted the second vial—

"Now listen tullab, this is very important, and you must do exactly as I say. If you don't—it will mean your certain death."

"Yes Murshid," the eight students answered in unison. It wasn't a mistake that the eight young students had been chosen.

It has begun, my children.

Praise Allah!

THE EIGHT

PART ONE

Chapter 1

The afternoon sun glowed like an orange ball high in the sky above Chance Belmont's head as he streaked across the soccer field. At seven years old, he was all knees and elbows. He was tall and reed thin, with a thatch of black hair. His dark blue eyes flashed as he spotted the black and white ball as it flew high across the field.

He dashed after it and let the ball bounce from his head and then executed a perfect kick into the goalie's net. The ball flew high above the goalie's head. Parents of the other boys on the team, friends and family, sat on the benches at the soccer field and cheered. It was like any other Saturday afternoon in small town America on that early spring day in Bixby, Oklahoma.

Meanwhile, across town, five-year-old Jillian Clayton followed her mother into the lobby of the Grandview Hotel, the heels of her new white patent leather shoes making a soft clicking sound as she skipped across the tiled floor. She was dressed in a soft, peach-colored skirt and jacket that matched her mommy's outfit. She carried a little purse covered in silk flowers in her white-gloved hand. A band of silk baby roses decorated her wide-brimmed hat. Her shoulder length blond curls bounced as she skipped across the room, holding tightly to her mother's hand.

Today was her mother's garden club's mother and daughter tea. She had been so excited the night before that she had barely slept. This was the first time her mother had brought her along, now that she was a big girl.

She walked among the vases of beautiful flowers strategically placed around the grand room. Music flowed softly throughout the room from a man who sat on a leather bench and played a grand piano. The scent of flowers and scented candles filled the air.

The tables had been set with white damask tablecloths and fine china place settings were placed on every table. Jillian looked around the room. A sea of mothers and daughters sat at their tables dressed in matching outfits.

Out of nervousness, she started to grab the hem of her skirt. A quick look of censure from her mother's eyes had her dropping the hem of her skirt and smoothing it back down at her sides. Today was a day for acting like a big girl and she knew if she misbehaved, her mother would never bring her again.

She sat quietly at the table by her mother's side, only speaking when spoken to, with her linen napkin placed neatly in her lap. A soft breeze drifted across the room making the crystal on the fine chandelier tinkle. Jillian looked up. A woman stood across the room. She was dressed in a fine ball gown of sapphire blue that whispered to the tiled floor. Her long, wheat-colored hair was pulled back at the sides and held with combs that sparkled like diamonds. Her long curls cascaded down her back. She smiled and waved at Jillian. A soft scent of roses whispered across the room.

Jillian smiled and waved shyly back at the woman.

To whom are you waving, dear? asked her mother.

The lady. The one that's dressed like a princess, Momma. She's so beautiful.

Where dear? asked her mother, looking around the room.

Right over there, answered Jillian pointing to where she had seen the lady. A look of confusion filled the young girl's face—she was gone.

Put your hand down, dear, whispered her mother. It's not proper to point.

Yes, ma'am, answered Jillian, folding her gloved hands in her lap.

But in a foreign land a world away from the small town of Bixby, Oklahoma, the die had been cast. The futures of Chance Belmont and Jillian Clayton had already been determined by the fate of a man they would never meet…

Raheem followed the thousands of men dressed as he was, in two white seamless sheets, as they circled the black stone counter clockwise They would point as the stone would come into view as had been tradition for thousands of years.

Men had been coming to Mecca to perform their Hajj since the beginning of Islam.

It was said that Adam built the first Kaab, and then many years later it was rebuilt again by Abraham and his son Ishmael to house the sacred stone. A mosque had been built around it.

It was the hope of every man there, that they would be the one to kiss the stone just as Abraham had.

The Kaaba was said to be the center of the world, with the gates of heaven located directly above it. The Black Stone was part of a meteor that had fallen from the heavens, becoming embedded in the earth, further symbolizing the linking of heaven and earth.

Raheem gazed at the twelve-inch stone, now encased in a silver frame. He pointed at it as he circled it for the seventh time.

He had left Baghdad nearly two weeks ago to make his journey to Mecca. It was ordered that every man must make this journey in his lifetime. The trip had been long and tiring.

Mecca was the most holy city in all of Islam. The Holy Mosque of Mecca was a beautiful sight, rising out of the desert sands and standing majestically in the morning sun.

On this day a sea of tents surrounded the city. Raheem looked around him. All he could see for miles was a sea of white sand. The land was arid and dry. He longed for his city of Baghdad, where Palm trees and beautiful flowers grew along the Tigris River that flowed through the center of the city.

Hours later, Raheem sat around the campfire with some of the men who had traveled with him to this place. The men sipped their cups of Turkish coffee made sweet by the sugar added to the coffee as it brewed. His stomach rumbled in response to the scent of grilling meat that filled the evening air. He picked up a piece of khobz, unleavened bread, and dipped it into the bowl of hummus. The spicy concoction made his mouth water as he dipped his bread again and again into the serving dish. After their meal, the men bid each other a good night and retired to their tents. The journey home would be just as long and tiring.

Raheem fell into a deep sleep on the soft blankets and pillows he'd brought from home. He was awakened during the night by a loud voice.

Raheem, awaken! the voice boomed.

He sat up and looked around, but he saw no one. Lying back down he started to fall asleep when he heard the booming voice again.

Awaken!

Glowing before him stood a tall, golden angel with four sets of wings. His long flowing blond hair shimmered as if it were on fire. A long white robe covered his body. The light that radiated from his body was so bright Raheem had to shield his eyes as he looked up at him.

From the time he was a young boy, he had dreamed of Allah sending him one of his angels to deliver a message. Now, here stood an angel before him. Sweat poured from Raheem's face and he trembled.

I am the Angel Azrael.

The angel touched him on the shoulder. Do not be afraid, I have come to share with you what you are to do.

Somewhere in the back of Raheem's mind a voice whispered, He is the angel of death.

The sword the angel carried dripped with blood, and fire shot from its point. Raheem could see fire bursting from the marketplace not far from his home. He could see people screaming in anguish and pain as they ran through the streets of Baghdad. Raheem's wife and children ran through the streets beside him, then, suddenly they were gone. Everywhere there was death and sickness. Women sat in the streets of Baghdad and rubbed ashes on their faces and wailed.

In the vision, he was much older than his thirty years. His hair was white, and his body was starting to stoop. How could this be?

It is coming! the angel spoke. He pointed with the sword, making a half arc with it. Eight faces appeared. Children, they were all children, Raheem didn't recognize any of them.

Whose children are these? I do not know them.

They are your students. You are to seek them out one by one and teach them. Prepare them for what is to come. You will search for them in all of the Middle East.

But how?

Do you dare question Allah? What will be will be!

The angel again took his sword and pointed it, only this time he made a full circle with it. Fire spewed from its edges. In the center of the circle the angel formed a sideways number eight.

Raheem could see many people screaming in anguish once again. Blood ran down their faces and covered their hands. They weren't from Islam. The men wore no Bedouin outfits, but were dressed in trousers and three-piece suits. The women wore dresses that showed their legs or jeans. All the people in his vision wore western clothing.

Just as quickly as the angel appeared, he disappeared. Raheem fell into a deep sleep and dreamt no more. The next morning, he crawled from his tent, the vision totally forgotten.

When he joined his friend, Joshua, for breakfast, his friend stared at him in amazement. Raheem's hair had turned white overnight and his face glowed golden.

What has happened, Raheem?

What are you talking about?

Wait here. His friend hurried into his tent and came back carrying a hand mirror he used for shaving.

Look!

Raheem took the mirror and looked at his reflection. He gasped when he saw his own face staring back at him. His hair was as white as the wool of the sheep that grazed on the hillside.

But how? How could this happen?

In shock, he turned to his friend.

Did you have a dream? A vision? his friend questioned him.

No. I remember nothing. I slept. That is all.

Praise Allah! said Joshua, as they prepared to answer the Adhan's call to prayer.

The two men recited the Salahi as they lay prostrate on the ground facing Mecca.

Chapter 2

When Raheem returned to Baghdad, his beautiful wife, Rania, was waiting patiently for him. His two small children stood with her, their little arms wrapped around their mother's legs. She was dressed in her best abaya. It was a soft lavender color, and her long black hair was covered with a matching scarf that was edged with sequins.

The sunlight captured the sequins and made them sparkle. She wore a necklace of gold with matching earrings and bangle bracelets that graced her slender wrists.

When she saw him approaching at first, she didn't recognize him. She stood and stared.

Raheem called to her, Rania!

When she heard his voice, she ran to him.

He could smell the musky scent of her perfume as she went into his arms.

She ran her hands through his hair. Raheem, what has happened?

Looking softly into his wife's upturned face, he answered her.

I do not know. When I awoke the morning after going to the Kaaba, my hair had turned white. I have no memory of why.

It is a sign from Allah, his wife said softly.

Then let's not speak of it, said Raheem, picking up their children and carrying them into the apartment where they lived.

His wife had been busy preparing a feast for his return. The scent of roasting lamb, cooking vegetables, and freshly made pita bread filled the apartment.

Come. Sit, his wife, urged him, as she picked up a large pillow and set it on the floor beside a low table.

She hurried off into the kitchen and brought back a tray of fresh oranges, dates, apricots, and nuts. She poured him a cup of spiced Turkish tea. Leaving him once again, she brought bowls of hummus, and moutabeli. His mouth watered in anticipation as he picked up a piece of pita bread and dipped it into the hummus. It tasted so good.

Rania and their children joined him in their meal. The two children were small. His son, Malik, was the very image of himself.

His daughter, Isis, a tiny replica of her mother, graced with the same dark hair and eyes. Even at just two-years-old, Raheem knew she would be a beauty when she grew up.

After their meal was finished, Rania quickly prepared the children for their beds.

Raheem had been gone for weeks and she wanted badly to feel his arms around her. She still puzzled about his hair turning white but put the thoughts out of her mind. Tonight, was a night for celebrating. Her husband was home.

He picked her up and carried her to their bed. He laid her upon soft satin pillows and sheets. She lay there, her long black hair, as dark as a midnight sky, sprawled across the silken pillows. Her skin was as soft as the morning dew. Her almond-shaped eyes were as dark as the night. She reached up and pulled him to her. She had loved him from the moment she first saw him.

Raheem was so kind, so honest. Of all the boys she could have married, he was the one who had captured her heart.

His hands roamed over her supple, firm body. Bending down, he kissed her forehead, and then her eyelids, and finally her lips. His hands slid down and cupped one of her full breasts. He stroked the tip with his thumb until it became firm, pebble-like at his touch. Bending his head down, he took the hardened nipple into his mouth and suckled. Rania writhed in pleasure in response to his loving touch. Her blood ran hot as he continued to touch and taste every inch of her. He hadn't made love to her like this since the night they'd wed.

He was drowning in the feel of her. In the heat of passion, a sudden urge came over him to memorize every inch of her body. To memorize the touch of her hands, the scent of her skin, the feel of her silky hair. Even as the thought came into his mind