Soul Stealer: Book Ii of the Guardian Angel Series

By Kurt R. Sivilich

In this second tale of the Guardian Angel series, it has been a year and a half since Michael was sent on his quest for redemption and things arent getting any easier.

As the assignments from Jacob continue to roll in, Michael teeters on the balance of becoming homeless once again and is still no closer to finding his path. But theres no rest for the battered, world weary, and righteous; now a mysterious woman has stolen the soul of a person Michael was supposed to save and Jacob has told him he must track her down. To complicate matters, Michael begins to experiment with his powers and take on a self-made assignment that may jeopardize his redemption and begin his downward spiral into corruption.

At least his life isnt boring; he has to save construction workers, little girls and drunken bikers, all while focusing on the most important goal stopping the Soul Stealer at all costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469780474

Kurt R. Sivilich

KURT R. SIVILICH ha s practiced architecture in Indianapolis, Indiana, for over ten years, working on two of the city’s three megaprojects. When he is not target shooting or driving one of his corvettes, Kurt enjoys spending time with his wife, daughter, son, three cats, two dogs, and a shark named Casca.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I was standing in a bank. It was nearly noon on a beautiful spring Saturday. Put that information together and you get a bank close to closing time, and as you might expect, everyone and their obscure relative of choice was trying to cash a check, make a deposit, or conduct some other business, all hoping to get in and out quickly so they could go out and enjoy the day, and that just added to the air of frustration and anxiety that was floating around the lobby from the two dozen patrons and handful of staff behind the counter. To make matters worse, only two stations were open, which caused the line—bordered by those inane pylons with the nylon cords—to look more like a queue at Disneyland than a working line at any bank. In fact, the only person not trying to get in a last bit of business was a petite, young-looking blonde woman sitting on the padded bench directly behind me, reading a magazine. She must have been waiting on someone in the line and was just along for the ride, looking like she had all the time in the world.

I, however, was stretched for time and was unintentionally making it obvious to anyone who looked my way. After all, there is only so much time you can stand at a bank’s writing counter without drawing attention to yourself. I had done a fairly plausible job of faking filling out a deposit slip, but the security guard had started taking an interest in me as the minutes ticked by, and his not so covert glances were getting nastier. I tried to stave off his suspicions a little longer by smiling at him and then shrugging as I shook the pen I was pretending to write with, but with the way his glare was starting to bore through my leather jacket, I had little hope the ruse was going to work.

I broke eye contact with him as I took a quick peek down at my watch to get a good look at the time and was relieved to see I just needed another minute. One more minute, and then the fun would really begin.

I returned to my pretend writing, moving my eyes to the photo I held pinned to the counter with my left elbow. The picture was of the guard who was currently sizing me up, but taken at some unknown time, apparently in the recent past. In the picture, the guard was standing outside, with the bank building acting as the background. He was in his uniform, standing as if he were talking with someone just out of sight of the camera. His right hand was raised slightly, as if he was reaching up to point at something, like he was offering directions or pointing out a landmark in the distance. The billboard sign, visible in the upper right corner, showed the time to be twelve o’clock, and given that the picture was taken during daylight hours, I could safely assume that it was noon and not midnight.

Trust me, this is an important assumption; it’s never good to show up twelve hours too early, and showing up twelve hours too late usually results in the people in the picture going to the morgue.

Anyway, given this information, I knew I needed to be here at noon and that this man was going to figure prominently in an event that would happen at that time.

Why did I know this? It’s my job to know—I’m a Guardian Angel.

How I got the job is a bit of a long story, but basically, this is my second chance at getting into Heaven. About eighteen months ago, I died and was found lacking by the Powers That Be, but I was considered to still have the seeds of salvation within me. To get into the Kingdom, I now had to earn my passage the hard way, and that meant accomplishing something called Finding My Path. During my life, there was something important, some critical bit of information, that I had missed, and this was my opportunity to discover what that was. In the meantime, I would be given assignments—much like this one at the bank today—that I had to take on as part of my end of the bargain.

So that’s how I ended up in a bank this close to closing time with a security guard watching me suspiciously as I pretended to fill out a deposit slip.

I glanced up one more time, and noticed that the guard had reached the end of his patience and was walking rather briskly towards me. Although it wasn’t part of the plan, it would work out well for me, since if the guard was close at hand he’d be easier to keep an eye on. Some days I do catch a lucky break.

I met the guard’s stare as he drew closer to me, and I smiled at him in a friendly manner as I shook the pen again. Yes? I asked cheerily.

Is there some problem, Buddy? he asked as he planted one hand on his hip, the other resting gently—and obviously—on the butt of his handgun. At least it was still in the holster; generally, when I have to deal with people holding firearms, they are in their hand and often pointed in my direction. This was a pleasant change.

The pen seems to run out of ink after every other word, I replied as I kept the smile on my face and pretended not to notice his hand on his weapon.

Is that right? he responded skeptically.

Well, yes, it… I began, but was interrupted as tires screeched at the main entrance, drawing everyone’s attention to the source of the sound.

Looking through the glass entrance, I could see an old, beat up four-door Oldsmobile rocking to a complete halt, white smoke curling from around the wheel wells. At one point in its life, it had been painted green, but time and rust had taken their toll on the vehicle, making it more maroon and orange than its original paint color.

The passenger doors flew open and two people erupted from the interior and dashed across the short sidewalk to the glass doors. They were holding what appeared to be shotguns and were dressed in black, looking like a paramilitary force, complete with ski masks and dark goggles. They threw open the doors and burst into the main part of the lobby, the one in the lead halting long enough to discharge one blast into the ceiling, causing people to scream in fright and duck for cover. My ears rang as the shot tore through one of the overhead fluorescent lights, making the fixture bounce wildly as it sputtered electrically. A shower of sparks and shattered glass followed a dusting of white powder from the ceiling tile which sprinkled over the shooter’s head and shoulders.

It was my guess that they weren’t making a last minute stop before an afternoon of duck hunting.

The guard next to me was frozen in place, his hand clamped on the butt of his pistol but holding it in place, not drawing it from its holster. He was watching the two apparent robbers intently, his eyes wide, mouth open slightly as he sucked in breath after ragged breath.

Everybody hit the damn floor! the first robber shouted as he worked the action on the pump shotgun, the unmistakable racking sound ringing clearly through the sudden quiet of the bank as the spent cartridge bounced away across the floor with a hollow plastic sound. His partner jumped nimbly onto the service counter and pointed his shotgun at the tellers who were staring up in shock.

People practically fell down in their haste to obey the nut with the gun. The guard and I exchanged a quick look and then slid to the floor like everyone else.

Well, almost everyone else. I noticed the gal behind me was continuing to read her magazine, which was not something I’d be doing after someone blew a hole in the ceiling and told me to get on the floor.

Get down, I hissed at her, but she continued to remain interested in the glossy pages she held in front of her. Given that her nose was buried in that magazine, it struck me that she could have been deaf, and therefore unaware of what was going on. I was about to nudge her ankle with my foot to get her attention when the bank guard muttered, I gotta do something. I can stop this.

I turned my head so I could look at the guard around the legs of the writing counter. Waggling my fingers to catch his eye, I made sure neither of the robbers would hear me before I spoke.

Don’t be a hero, I advised softly. They’ve got the drop on you if you do something right now. Let’s see what happens.

The guard studied the situation a moment longer before he nodded reluctantly in agreement. We both turned our heads to look for the lead thief and found him standing where he was when he discharged his weapon earlier, looking over the lobby and making sure everyone was obeying his order. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed the presence of the guard, or so I assumed since he had taken no steps to approach the guard to ensure passivity or remove his weapon. Maybe the writing counter was blocking his view of our area of the bank, because he didn’t seem to notice the woman sitting on the bench behind me, either. Again, fortune was with me today.

The smaller of the two robbers had tossed canvas bags at each of the tellers; they got the message without a word being spoken, and they immediately began emptying their trays of bills as quickly as their shaking hands would allow.

The leader glanced at his watch hurriedly, briefly taking his hand off the pump of the shotgun to do so. We’re almost two minutes in; we gotta wrap this up fast, he muttered to his partner standing on the counter, who nodded in acknowledgement without a turn of the head.

I heard rustling clothing to my right and looked over to see the guard easing himself up to a kneeling position, his service weapon already drawn from its holster. He moved slowly, doing his best to use the counter as concealment so as to not draw attention to himself.

Get back down! I hissed, trying to put as much emphasis in my voice as possible without being heard beyond our area.

The guard ignored me, getting braced on his knees and raising his weapon to a firing position, squinting as he looked down the barrel and put the front sight on the leader. I had to admit he had the benefit of surprise.

Rob! Look out! the smaller criminal shouted in a distinctly female voice, causing me to look up. I could see she was pointing right at the guard. Apparently she had turned away from her task to look over the room and immediately noticed the threat.

Don’t move! the guard shouted, and everyone froze in place. I think everyone stopped breathing, it was so quiet. I was beginning to think that maybe the guard had managed to pull off his own rescue.

Then the other thief—Rob—quickly crouched and brought his weapon up to his shoulder in an attempt to take out the guard. He had to know that he had very little chance of making it; all the guard had to do was squeeze his trigger and Rob was going to be well on his way to having a really bad day. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the female thief wasn’t bringing her weapon to bear.

Things started moving in slow motion, the guard simply kneeling there, weapon pointing at the guy with the shotgun, finger on the trigger but making no move to squeeze off a round that would save his own life. The robber had almost gotten his weapon into a firing position as he crouched, a low growl starting to emit from his throat.

I kept willing the guard to pull off a round, hoping that he would be able to take out the bad guy before the worst could happen, but he was frozen in his kneeling position. Maybe he was hesitating because he knew that with that squeeze of his trigger, he’d take a life and wouldn’t be able to reverse that decision once the weapon bucked in his hand. Maybe he was paralyzed with fear. Maybe he was waiting for some other option to magically appear and take the decision to fire out of his hands.

From where I lay, it was becoming apparent that he wasn’t going to shoot. He just didn’t have it in him to do it. I got my arms under my chest and jammed my toes against the floor, getting ready to jump forward to pull the guard down and, if all things worked in my favor—a rarity—out of the way of the coming blast. Hopefully nobody else would get hit, including me, and then I could get the guard to give up his gun to try and calm the robber down. It was a long shot, but things had already gone a lot further south than I had believed possible.

As the bad guy firmly seated his shotgun against his shoulder, I launched myself with all my arm and foot strength—and something snagged my ankle, keeping me from moving more than a few inches. The shotgun roared, and I watched in horror as things sped up again. The guard’s chest pulped from the close proximity of the pattern, and blood sprayed from his back as the shot tore through his body. He spasmed and flopped backwards, releasing his grip on the pistol, which clattered to the floor unfired.

Movement to my side caught my attention and I was surprised to see the blonde woman slip around the check station and walk over to the guard. I was even more surprised to see that the thief didn’t seem to notice, he just racked the slide of his shotgun to chamber another round, staring at the twitching corpse that, just moments before, was a living, breathing human being.

The woman knelt by the guard and lightly rested her hands against his ruined chest a moment. Suddenly, her hands sunk into his body and after a long exhalation, she pulled her arms upward, a nearly transparent image of the dead guard coming up with her hands, as if she was propping him up to cradle him as he lay injured. She looked up at me, gave a sad little smile, and then was just … gone.

The shooter didn’t appear to notice any of this, as he simply walked over to the dead guard and picked up his pistol from where it lay on the floor, sticking in behind his back, dispassionately. He evaluated the corpse before looking around and spied me lying nearby. Stalking over, he set the very warm muzzle against the top of my head, letting the weight of the shotgun push my face back into the floor.

You’re not going to give me any trouble now, are you? he asked in a barely audible voice.

CHAPTER 1

It’s never a good thing when you’re lying on the floor next to a dead body with a bad guy holding a big gun to your head. The muzzle of the shotgun felt like it was the size of a jet engine intake against the top of my skull. Come to think of it, they have warning graphics on the aircraft so people don’t get close enough to get sucked into the things; they should put warning labels on guns, too.

It’s also not a good thing to keep said bad guy waiting for an answer when he’s just blown someone away, and I was about to answer him when we were all distracted by the sounds of tortured tires from out front. Everyone looked up to see that the getaway vehicle was living up to its name and was getting away at a high rate of speed, tires spewing white smoke plumes before they got traction and hurled the car away from the bank. The reason for the car fleeing the scene before its passengers returned became clear as the sounds of rapidly approaching sirens grew louder as the tire squeal got quieter.

Shit! the female robber exclaimed, jumping down off the counter. To my immediate relief, her male counterpart left me alone and ran over to the main doors, throwing the thumb lock shut as he glanced outside to watch several police cars come screaming into the parking area.

Rob, what are we gonna do? the female asked, clearly panicked.

God damn Dave, I just knew he’d pull something like this, Rob seethed.

The female glanced back to the corpse. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, Rob; you kept telling us that.

Rob spun on her in anger. What was I supposed to do, let the bastard shoot me? I didn’t have a choice! he shouted.

Outside, the police were still arriving in droves, taking positions behind their vehicles to take advantage of the cover they would provide. I could see several of the officers had deployed rifles from their trunks, the weapons leveled at the bank.

I started to look around the interior again, and the guard’s upturned foot came into my range of vision. I couldn’t help but glance at his still form; he had seemed like a decent enough guy and had only been doing his job, really. I had to wonder how many other people would have done what he did, had the courage to even get into a shooting position. The only thing he did wrong was hesitate to take a life, and that hesitation had cost him his own.

I could analyze this as much as I wanted to, but the bottom line was that I failed. I failed my task. I failed me. I failed God. But most of all, I failed the guard.

The whole thought of that made me want to throw up. I failed. My first failure. I had no idea what the ramifications of that would be, but I suspected they wouldn’t be pleasant.

What do we do, Rob? the female asked again, her voice pitching closer to the range only dogs could hear and pulling me out of my self-reproach to focus on the present.

I don’t know! Hang on a second and lemme think! he replied, panic creeping into his voice, as he backed away from the door. Craning my head for a better view outside through the vestibule glass, I could see what was fueling their panic; at least five officers stood behind two cars, with each officer staring over the sights of their weapons. If they unloaded now, they’d vaporize the main entrance—and anyone standing on the other side of it.

Nobody moved. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the back wall behind the teller stations. Rob stood silently, staring out the doors at the police. The female was alternately looking out over the customers—I guess we should call them hostages now—and at Rob, waiting for some instruction that would get them out of this mess.

I reached out with my empathy and found nothing but extreme fear in the vicinity. I wasn’t surprised; with all the hostages on the floor that had just witnessed a murder, how could it be any different? Needing more information to go on, I dialed in to focus on Rob; I could feel he was afraid too, but also angry with an undercurrent of pain in the mix. Pain? From what?

Dismissing that as unimportant to the current situation, I changed my focus to the girl and discovered she was terrified. With the level of fear she was exuding, I was amazed she was holding herself together at all.

Then a phone rang at a nearby desk, breaking the quiet, and I almost jumped out of my skin. Rob did jump a little as his head snapped around to stare at the offending device. Still attuned to the female’s anxiety level, I could feel it spike dramatically as the phone rang, to the point that she dropped her weapon and clutched her lower abdomen reflexively.

God, Rob! she cried, and I eased my head around to see that she was trembling involuntarily. This was odd—I understood being startled from the sudden sound, and being on edge given the circumstances magnifying the issue, but to the point that you’d lose it entirely? That was a bit much.

Christ, Meg, get it together! Rob barked, trying to sound gruff to hide the tremor in his voice and failing. Pick up the gun before someone else gets any ideas. I cast my gaze back to the floor as Rob tilted his head in my direction and walked over to the ringing phone. He picked up the handset and immediately replace it in its cradle, bringing silence back to the bank once more.

Lying on the floor, I began to wonder if my being attuned to someone’s emotions also allowed me to affect them. I had jumped when the phone went off, too. Perhaps my emotions projected onto her as I was taking a reading. With no other options, it was an idea worth pursuing. I may not have been able to save the man I was sent here for, but I could at least help the other people around me. That had to count for something.

Watching the two robbers carefully, I decided Meg was the most vulnerable, and continued to tune into her while allowing more of my helplessness and fear to come to the fore; it was harder than it sounds—I had spent a long time learning how to push my emotions back and not let them show. Releasing that control, even a little bit, was a challenge. I forced myself to focus on my own fear of the situation and thought of a conduit to her, thought of her fear building to a greater intensity.

Meg suddenly began to hyperventilate as she knelt to pick up the gun, nearly falling to her knees before a stumbling step kept her mostly erect. She looked up at Rob, her mouth working, but no sound coming out. From my point of view I could see her visibly shaking, shaking so hard that I could guess her fingers wouldn’t work to pick up anything.

You! In the bank! This is the Indianapolis Police Department! a tinny sounding, over-amplified voice cut through the silence. I could feel her anxiety spike again and I jumped on it, forcing more anxiety into Meg and watching for another reaction. I was rewarded this time as Meg not only dropped to her knees, but threw up, great heaving spasms that spewed her stomach contents halfway across the bank entrance to hit the floor with a wet smack.

Jesus Christ! I heard Rob exclaim, his head whirling to watch Meg empty her guts onto the terrazzo floor. His pants were shaking as he stood there; his legs were trembling. He was feeling my emotional pulses, too. I felt a vengeful smile creep across my lips; I had them now. If I could affect them to this degree, I was willing to bet I could overload them, reduce them to little quivering puddles of emotionally charged flesh.

We know you’re in there! We have your driver in custody! the metallic voice boomed. Again, I felt the feedback of the robbers’ fear-charged emotional surge at the unexpected sound, and I fed into it, like pushing a small ripple in a bathtub, causing a larger wave to form and crash over the two thieves. Rob reacted most strongly this time, dropping to his knees, trying desperately to hold onto his shotgun as he fell to the floor, his legs unwilling to hold him up any longer. I could see a growing wet spot on the front of his pants, and judging from the odor that suddenly assaulted my nose he had done something else to defile himself, too. He knelt there, eyes closed, his lips moving in a silent, prolonged babble.

Hearing a soft, wet smack, I looked to see that Meg had fallen over face first into her own vomit. She was twitching involuntarily, her weapon all but forgotten on the floor.

We’re going to call the bank’s phone again, please pick up and let us talk to you! Nobody needs to gets hurt! the outside voice said again, and I gave my assailants all the emotional overload that I could muster. This time, Rob threw up, the liquid contents spraying in a bile-colored arc as he toppled over sideways and out of my line of sight. The good part was that he finally let go of the shotgun, which clattered to the hard floor and skittered away a small distance.

The odor of urine and defecation got stronger in my nostrils as I lifted my head slowly to look around. Across the room, Meg’s twitching had subsided and she was lying almost perfectly still, making soft whimpering sounds, like a child that was on the verge of falling asleep after a long crying spell. Checking Rob again, I could see he had curled up into a fetal ball and was shivering, but it was apparent that his voluntary muscle control (and some of the involuntary—yuck) was all but gone. I slowly pushed myself erect, watching both robbers carefully, ready to hit the deck again if they were able to regain some level of control. The phone started to ring, and I decided to ignore it rather than have myself misidentified as a bad guy by picking up the handset.

Thinking quickly, I figured that it would be better for me to neutralize the threats inside and then let the police in. Looking for their weapons, I saw that they had remained close to where the robbers lay, which made the pair still very dangerous. Fortunately, all the other hostages were keeping their heads down, even after Meg and Rob had their induced emotional meltdowns.

Rob made no sound when I slid the guard’s revolver out from the back of his pants and emptied the cylinder of cartridges before tossing it a decent distance away. I then picked his shotgun up from where it had fallen to the floor, my fingers sliding along the slime coated stock. My stomach did a little twist of its own, but I grabbed the weapon like I meant business regardless of the goo and kept the muzzle pointed in Meg’s general direction as I made my way around the other prone hostages to get to her.

I could see through the glass of her goggles that Meg’s eyes were closed, her eyelids mashed together so hard they were wrinkled and quivering, indicating that she was still conscious and in a state of severe terror. Feeling a small level of grim satisfaction, I secured her weapon and stepped around another puddle of slime as I moved quickly into the glass-surrounded atrium.

With a better view of the outside world, I could see numerous police officers practically shoulder to shoulder outside, their weapons drawn and pointed at the bank. Marked and unmarked vehicles were parked haphazardly across the lot and out in the street, left where they had squealed to a halt. The authorities had already blocked traffic, and I could see a SWAT vehicle down the street with officers deploying in an orderly fashion along the adjacent sidewalk. It took me a moment to realize that the officers closest to the bank had noticed me standing in the atrium and were aiming their weapons my way.

No wonder, I was holding two shotguns.

I dropped them onto the floor mat like they were poisonous snakes, and sidestepped away from them towards the door, where I undid the thumb latch. With my heart slamming against the inside of my rib cage, I opened the door and stepped outside with my hands raised high above my head. The police officers on the other side of their impromptu vehicular barricade kept careful aim on me, and I could feel the middle of my chest itch suddenly, as if affected from the multitude of guns aimed at it. I thought it best not to make any sudden moves to