Archangel

By Misa Buckley

Small time crook Gabriel Kemp is only trying to make a living when a hit-and-run leaves him for dead. Waking up in hospital to an angel at his bedside gives him a second chance, but one that comes with a condition.

 

Fleeing San Francisco doesn't mean he can evade the deal either – he still manages to meet Abigail Harris, the woman he's promised to protect. He might not believe in the psychic visions she claims to have, but he knows even the chance of her identifying the serial killer terrorizing downtown L.A. puts her in danger.

 

The only way to keep Abby safe is to find and stop the killer. If that means taking on the devil determined to turn the City of Angels into the City of Hell on Earth, then so be it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misa Buckley
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201522810

Book preview

ONE

Most stories start at one’s beginning. Mine starts the night I died.

The background – if anyone cares – is a Catholic mother too good to stand up to her abusive husband, and a child that crept out of the house so he didn’t have to listen to it all. The older I got, the further I went; ending up on the wrong side of the city, talking to the wrong sort of people.

Hitting my teens was where I started getting into trouble. Minor infractions such as smoking weed and shoplifting morphed to grand theft auto, though I’d a preference for motorcycles over cars. Easier to steal and hide. Quicker to sell. Though even they got boring after a sixteen-month stint in juvie.

I managed to stay on the beaten track for a few years, going from one mindless job to another, never settling in one place for long. Then I got wind of someone needing a courier for a package containing less-than-legal things. Five hundred dollars, no questions asked. I took the job. Then an acquaintance needed something else delivered, so I took that. Before long, I’d a reputation as someone reliable and remarkably uninterested in what I was carrying. I knew better than to ask. The money spent regardless.

Now, at a little over forty, I have a widowed mother – and I won’t go into how my father’s brakes failed on San Francisco’s unforgiving hills – something of a rap sheet, a steady job couriering things that I never questioned, and a decent pay that paid for an apartment in Laurel Heights.

Perhaps I should have asked about what I was carrying. I knew that I crossed the invisible borders between the various gangs. Sooner or later, I was going to run into trouble – after all, if you play stupid games, then you win stupid prizes. No man’s luck can last forever. No, I wasn’t worried that death came knocking.

What worries me is that I never saw it coming.

I’D BEEN UP TO WESTWOOD Highlands, a bit off my usual routes, but I went where my clients sent me. A small district under Mount Davidson, it’s all large houses and curving streets. Very rich. I’m not keen on place like that – a guy such as myself tends to stand out, no matter how discrete he tries to be. I kept the noise down, but figured that a large, black motorcycle had been noticed anyway, especially since it was after dark.

The rain started as I was getting back on, the delivery made. I glared at the sky. I hated riding when it was raining. On unfamiliar roads? Yeah,

all I wanted to do was get home. I put on my helmet, settled on the seat, and started the engine. If curtains twitched as I pulled away, I ignored them.

What had started as a light drizzle turned into a full-on deluge. As it was after ten pm, there was only the odd car on the road, driving slow with their windscreen wipers going. Lucky them – my visor had rain dripping down it, and fog from my breathing on the inside. The world was a haze of light and color; the streetlights haloed, car lights watery lines, with the one bright spot the golden arches of a certain drive-through. And everything reflected in the soaked asphalt.

I might have appreciated the beauty more had my jeans not been soaked. So was my jacket, but that was leather and easier to take off than drenched denim. I should have checked the weather forecast. Had I known it would rain, I’d have put on my cargo trousers. I didn’t have to peel those off.

Some might claim what happened next was my own fault, since I was so distracted by my discomfort. Some might know fuck all.

The SUV shot across the junction. I got that it was black, unlit, and traveling at more than the posted speed limit. Then it smashed into me.

Pain exploded in my left leg.

I was flung upwards, then came down on its windshield.

Glass shattered.

Metal scraped as my motorcycle spun out across the road. I heard its engine screaming, then die into silence.

I rolled over the SUV’s roof, then dropped off the back. I hit the asphalt hard. My head bounced. Thank fuck for my helmet. Still, the impact was more than enough to daze me. Pain sparked through the haze.

Tires spun on the wet road, then the SUV sped off, disappearing into the night.

Although I was already wet, it seemed that my clothing soaked up more water from the road. Everything felt cold. My vision grayed and cleared as I drifted in and out of awareness. My hearing buzzed, the white noise of an untuned radio. That couldn’t be good. Neither was the fact that, despite conservative efforts, I was unable to move.

There was a voice. I was vaguely aware of being shaken. I couldn’t manage a response. My body was numb. Common sense told me that my leg was broken, but the pain was distant. Unconnected.

I thought I might be dying. The idea didn’t frighten me. Actually, it pissed me off since I’d just paid a month’s rent on my apartment, and that wasn’t cheap. Like I would need the money if I did die.

Whoever had come out to me, must have called an ambulance, because the silence of the night was broken by the wail of siren.

Hope, ever stubborn, sparked. I fought to stay conscious and alert, but my body had other ideas. My life did not flash before my eyes. There was no bright light. I simply slid into unconsciousness with the dim notion that this was it.

I was going to die.

I CAME TO IN INCREMENTS, to the tune of a steady beep. I cracked my eyes open. Between the white walls and the stink of antiseptic, I gathered I was in hospital. More, it was a private room rather than a ward. Who the hell had decided that? My insurance sure wasn’t going to cover it.

I hitched myself up the bed a little. There was a drip feed into my right wrist and pads stuck to my chest. The latter were hooked up to the beeping machine that monitored my heart rate. A plastic tube ran under my nose, supplying me with oxygen. I yanked it away. Someone made a sharp, disapproving cough. I jerked my gaze to the corner of the room and blinked.

An African-American woman stood, a clipboard in one hand, her gaze steady on my face.

She could have been anywhere between forty and sixty as her brown skin was smooth and wrinkle-free, yet there were touches of gray in her black braids. These were swept into a complicated up-do that, along with her crisp, white suit, gave her the appearance of a business woman rather than a doctor or nurse. Probably one of the hospital administrators. Given the clipboard and the irritated expression she wore, I guessed at accounting.

Or I’d done something wrong, though God only knew what.

Yes, He does, she said, consulted the clipboard she held in one hand.

What?

God knows what you did.

I stared at her. Was she a priest or something? Was I that far gone?

Who are you?

My name is Jophiel. I’m here to make you an offer.

Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all.

I hitched up the bed so that I was more or less sitting, and folded my arms. It probably wasn’t as intimidating as I might have liked, given I was wearing a hospital gown.

And what offer is that, exactly?

It’s a choice. She lowered her clipboard and looked at me. You have a choice, Gabriel. You can choose to live...or you can choose to die.

Oh, let me think about that a moment, I said sarcastically. If you’re just going to make threats–

She lifted a hand and my ability to speak fled. I could not say a damn thing.

Panic gripped me and I stared at her. How the hell had she managed that? It had to be some sort of drug. Anger simmered just below the fear banding my chest. If the woman had noticed either, she gave no indication of it.

It is not a threat. Nor is the choice a simple one. If you choose the gift of life, then there will be recompense to make. She canted her head. Are you ready to listen?

I nodded. Her eyes narrowed and she stared at me for a moment. Then she waved and hand and, when I tried to speak, I found that my vocal cords worked again.

Some trick, I muttered, rubbing my throat. I met her gaze. So, what sort of recompense are you talking about? What do you want me to do?

Her lips twitched into a small smile. You are to protect someone in need of guardianship.

You want a babysitter? Look somewhere else.

There’s always the alternative.

Her tone was saccharine sweet, reminding me that t

he alternative was death. Assuming that I believed her ability to control my fate. With her little trick with my vocal cords fresh in my mind, it was harder to dismiss. I decided that playing along wasn’t going to do me any harm.

Who am I protecting?

She gave me a long, steady look, then took a small piece of paper that, when she handed it to me, turned out to be a photograph.

The quality was dreadful, grainy and a little blurred, as if the photographer had been hidden. Or using a really shit camera. There was a smudge of a crowd, with the focus – such as it was – on a woman several years younger than myself. Her back was to the camera, though she’d half-turned, her attention on something out of shot. Honey-blonde hair corkscrewed down her back. She wore a dress that left her slender arms bare, the floral pattern at odds with the ankle boots on her feet. Even with the lack of focus and her angle, I could tell that she was very beautiful, but there was a delicacy to her that sparked a sudden, fierce protectiveness within me.

I blinked at the surge of emotion, then looked up at Jophiel.

Who is she?

Her name is Abigail Harris. Something is about to happen, something that we cannot interfere with. At least not directly, which is why we need you.

I frowned up at her. Who’s ‘we’?

The angels, of course.

She said it offhand, as if I was supposed to have realized that. Angels. Right. So, she was crazy. I scoffed and tossed the photograph back at her.

Okay, if you’re just going to fuck about, then you can fuck off.

She sighed and touched my arm. When she spoke, she used that soft, gentle voice people tended to use with children when something awful had happened.

Where do you think you are, Gabriel?

I gave the medical equipment that surrounded me pointed looks. I’m going to go with at the hospital.

Her smile was small and sympathetic.

Try purgatory.

Looks more like a hospital to me, I returned, my tone dismissive. Maybe someone can show you back to the psyche ward you’ve clearly wandered off from.

Your body is in the hospital, sustained by the machines that you see. Your mind, though – that is beyond the physical realm, along with your soul. You are at the threshold, Gabriel. Which way you go is your choice.

You mean I’m dead?

Not quite, but you will die without my assistance.

And that depends on my choice?

Between the peace of death, or life as something more than human, but not quite at my level.

What?

"You’d be an angel. Specifically,