Atheist's Angel: Celestial Series, #1

By A Velfman

The day Gabriela saves a stranger, her life changes forever. Armed only with sarcasm, can she help her celestial patient gain his freedom and save his soul?

She only has to find an ancient weapon, avoid an insane God of punishment, try not to restart an inter-realm war and not fall for the charming and handsome dark angel.

Simple!

Atheist's Angel is the first book in the captivating Celestial series. This action-packed, simmering tale of a world where nothing is as it seems, will leave you breathless for more.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Velfman
• Release date: May 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201904104

Book preview

Chapter 1

The War Ends

He’d never had to kidnap children before. Tararus had done many things in his time as herald, but he’d never had to take the innocent.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the branch he perched on sighed in the warm, humid breeze. The burning prickle on his skin of the holy power could not distract him from the memory of their faces.

Wide eyed, they had hushed their sobs as he’d scooped them from their beds with a threat of killing their grandmother if they made a sound.

His fingers dug into the trunk of the tree, splintering the wood to bite into his skin.

‘My god demands – I follow,’ he whispered. What was left of his celestial heart didn’t understand. Innocent lives did not deserve punishment, especially not children. His god had grown worse over the last century, punishing any he deemed worthy.

Which was why Tararus stood again in his old home realm. There was one here who should have been punished centuries ago and now all knew it.

Tararus swallowed the lump in his throat. The host would know of his presence, but they were far too preoccupied to hunt him today. Below him, an endless ocean of grass stretched out to the horizon. The wind rippled over the jade expanse; shafts of bright white sunlight illuminated patches as the clouds raced across the pure blue of the sky. He wished he could fly away. Leave all this behind. Gods, wars, sinners – he was so weary of it all. His black wings drooped behind him.

Upon the meadow, thousands of host warriors gathered in ranks, awaiting orders. Blinding white armour shone so bright his eyes ached to look at them too long.

Once, he’d stood in those ranks. His free hand clutched at the black leather breastplate strapped over his chest. He’d never worn the host white with pride. Now he no longer felt pride in the black that covered him.

Across from the host, hordes of djinn gathered into groups, probably ordered by clan and family. Their tan-and-grey armour contrasted with the silver of the clawed weapons attached to their hands. Moasars were as deadly as they looked. Tararus shuddered.

Celestials and djinn had been at war for centuries. This was supposed to be the greatest battle so far in the conflict, but both sides had disengaged just after Tararus’s arrival. Blood and burned feathers seared the air.

Bodies lay piled under the merciless sun. White, celestial blood splattered over the muddy ground of the battlefield like fallen snow. The screams of the injured replaced valiant battle cries. Metallic claws no longer rang against enchanted holy blades.

He’d come to witness a decisive victory, either for the race that exiled him, or for the djinn. The demons opposed everything celestials stood for.

The arrival of the Patriarch of the celestials had changed everything. Hydaoshi had ruled his people for millennia, always striving to reflect the perfection of their god – which apparently meant hunting demons and provoking a confrontation that had endured for over a thousand years.

Tararus’s lips curved up into a near feral grin. Dark power throbbed under his skin, hissing at the harsh light that contained it in this realm. When the Patriarch landed among his warriors, all could see his wings were glossy black.

Black wings marked an outcast, a sinner against their god. Hydaoshi had fallen, and that threw the host into chaos.

The djinn forces continued to pull back. Deep black and vivid green marked out their princes at the front of the horde.

The ranks of the host shifted, hundreds of faces turning to the Patriarch. Mutters of confusion drifted to Tararus, muted to wordless nonsense by the distance. Snarls of the djinn, layered over the celestial voices, displeased but held in check by their leaders.

Hydaoshi straightened and folded his ebony wings. He pointed at a strapping blond celestial, head and shoulders above any of the warriors.

Tararus’s stomach dropped. Orias.

His perfect and powerful brother, Primus of the host. Loyal to his quills, Orias followed orders no matter what. Even if he could refuse, compulsion would ensure Orias did as he was told – no one could disobey the Patriarch. Tararus growled in frustration and pulled his wings tight to his back.

Hydaoshi pointed to Orias again, his black wings snapping as he gave the massive Primus an order Tararus couldn’t hear.

Orias turned, and his fist met the Patriarch’s face with a sickening crunch that echoed across the grasses. Tararus’s eyes widened and his heart leaped into his mouth, the plumage of his wings puffing out.

His brother was fighting the Patriarch!

It shouldn’t be possible, unless—

‘He’s lost Lord Beakon’s favour,’ Tararus said to the scene below. The wind whipped his black flight-twisted hair around his face. The Patriarch had no control anymore. His god had abandoned him. Whatever had blackened his wings had cost him his powers.

The host swirled around the fight, shifting as if they were a dazzling storm cloud and Orias and Hydaoshi fought in the eye. Tararus itched to get closer.

But something wasn’t right. Tararus had trained as a scout since his first moult. His observation was as sharp as his tongue. Orias’s movements grew sluggish, laboured – swinging and blocking far slower than Tararus knew him capable.

Tararus narrowed his eyes, hopping from foot to foot on his branch, feathers ruffling.

‘Move faster, you self-righteous lout.’ His words came out in a rasping growl. ‘You gone soft?’

Orias had never shown him mercy when they’d met. They’d nearly killed each other in their last encounter.

A blade flashed in Hydaoshi’s hand. A cry went out from hundreds of celestial throats.

Dishonourable! Blades were forbidden in a leadership challenge.

A smart move in Tararus’s opinion. Orias had a greater reach; Hydaoshi needed to even the odds. Yet, that was his brother down there facing a blade and one of the most ruthless of celestials.

He wiped his palms over his night-black leathers. Even after all these years of hostility between them, he still worried about his brother.

The opponents circled each other, neither taking to the air. After a feint to the left, Hydaoshi ripped open Orias’s giant ivory wing. Orias backed off, leaving a trail of white blood across the mud of the trampled meadow.

‘Synn’s breath,’ Tararus said. ‘Move your feet.’

He could stand it no longer, even if he was hated, even if this was nothing to do with him anymore, he had to act.

Tararus shook out his ebony wings and jumped into the air, using the branch as a springboard. He shot skyward, the wind tearing at the flight twists of his hair. His hands fell to his sides, extracting twin daggers. With a smirk, he twisted and angled his body, heading for the fight.

Chapter 2

Truce

Tararus rolled his eyes. Fools, all of them.

A small flock of celestials towered over him, surrounding his slighter form. Eight against one after all that masterful flying he’d done? Hardly fair.

Faces of perfection gazed down with sneers.

Tararus flicked the sweat from his forehead, his pulse hammering. Smacking Hydaoshi into the ground so Orias could pound him had been worth it. Leaving the host behind after his little stunt – that was proving tricky.

‘I’m sorry to tell you, but the war is over. Looks bad if we fight amongst ourselves,’ he said as he spun his blood-smeared daggers between his fingers. ‘Or am I a substitute enemy now the djinn are going? Never thought the host so bloodthirsty.’

‘Hold your tongue, traitor!’ a male to his right hissed – all shining armour and pale skin.

A supporter of Hydaoshi? Probably. Young, hardly more than a juvenile, impressionable, easy to radicalise. Hydaoshi’s rule had produced many like this squawking chick.

‘Or what? You’ll kill me?’

They would do that anyway.

What a prize, the death of the Herald of Synn!

It was just unfortunate for them that the Herald of Synn was stubbornly hard to kill.

‘It might have escaped your notice, but your leader fell.’ Tararus jerked his thumb at his own black wings. ‘But you all just stood around and let my brother and I do something about him. Don’t I get the same courtesy?’

He felt his wings pull tight to his back. Sweat dribbled down his spine. The wounds on his arms and legs were closing slower than usual, and his flight muscles burned across his shoulders. The hair at the nape of his neck stiffened as his abdomen tensed.

He narrowed his eyes and dug the balls of his feet into the churned earth. Feathers and the occasional broken blade littered the ground. He would have to watch his step.

To think, he’d played in this meadow as a pash. Part of him wept to see what his home had become, even though Enochia had not been a home to him for over a millennium.

‘I don’t want to harm you.’ His voice dipped to a dangerous chill few ever heard and lived. ‘Stand down.’

His armour squeaked as he slipped his daggers into their sheaths at his hips. A gesture of good faith, but he already knew from the way they crowded him that they wouldn’t listen.

Gods, where was Orias? How long did it take to get made Patriarch? He should hurry and get his host in order.

‘Hydaoshi was our light and hope!’ a bulky male roared to his right, spittle flying from his bruised lips. ‘What gave you the right to attack him? The leadership challenge had nothing to do with corrupted vermin like you.’

Tararus’s chest throbbed with sharp pain, the comment cutting him as much as any holy blade. These were his people, but he had abandoned them.

To the host, he would always be a sinner.

‘I’m the Herald of Synn and I carry out his will.’

Not true in this case, but they didn’t have to know that.

Several of the celestials took a step back. Perhaps the mention of Synn had cooled their lust for vengeance? One twisted her battle-distorted pike, her snowy wings marred with djinn blood splatters, as black and thick as tar. Another rocked on his toes, his yellow eyes haunted. Silence stretched between them until it turned paper-thin. Tararus winced as the torn muscles in his abdomen throbbed in protest.

The flock pounced as one. No waiting to attack one at a time; the Herald of Synn deserved no such honourable pleasantries. Eight angry, battle-trained celestials charged.

Idiots. He could snap them in half, but he didn’t want to kill host warriors and give the new Patriarch reason to hunt him.

A blade whistled past his cheek to bite at his shoulder, hitting his armour with a bone-splitting crack. Tararus rolled to the side, lacking space to take off. An axe grazed his primaries, leaving severed black feathers fluttering to the ground.

‘Time to leave,’ he said, licking at his dry lips. He wouldn’t die like this.

He laced his fingers together and with a push of power, a portal opened below his feet, a berry-red wound in the fabric of space and time.

Tararus allowed its clammy, warm embrace to claim him, sucking him into the abyss. He slammed the gateway closed by ripping his hands apart, but not before a blade snaked through to lacerate the back of his arm.

He tumbled out the other side, where chill air smacked into his face and caught at his wings. Below, an endless expanse of blue water. Waves rolled, frothy and white. He hurtled towards the surface, the wind screaming, no time to spread his wings. His heart beat so rapidly it hurt.

Tararus braced himself before icy water slapped into him, the air forced straight from his chest in a cascade of bubbles. Sodden wings pulled him down into the inky depths.

He dismissed the dead weight, burning his power reserves to a trickle as he shrank the giant appendages to a fraction of their actual size. Treachery of his kind came with a boost in his transformation skills. Few celestials could hide their wings.

He battled his way to the surface, to the light, to the air, but swift currents tugged at him and refused to yield. Tararus faltered, slowing before he became motionless. He’d done too much – his body was shutting down after all he had asked of it. He drifted into semi-unconsciousness as his head broke the surface.

Time played tricks; flashes of heaving waves, tumbling, and rolling white water. Tossed around like a feather in a hurricane, helpless against the swirling tide. He could have been at the sea’s mercy for moments or days.

Finally, sand scraped against his jaw. Abrasive, wet, smearing over his cheek and entering his nose.

His nearly numb mind persuaded him to crawl forward, coarse grains slipping under his questing fingers. The scent of salt and seaweed filtered through the fuzz in his head, his breath coming in shallow, rasping gasps. Sodden, matted locks of hair fell heavy around his face.

Trembling, he collapsed, his body pushed beyond endurance.

Chapter 3

The Body

Gabriela pulled the bedsheets from the washing machine with more force than necessary. The fresh, soothing scent of lavender fabric softener did nothing to ease her dark mood.

A large house spider scuttled into a crack in the yellowed kitchen ceiling. Another spike of irritation speared through her. Everything would irritate her today; she may as well accept it. Even after five years, her mother’s death still felt like a slice cut from her heart.

Balancing the wicker laundry basket on her hip, she marched through the living room, her feet scuffing the worn carpet. How long had it been since she’d redecorated the cottage? Long before her mother had sickened.

Wedged into a corner, a rickety desk built of driftwood bore the considerable burden of Gabriela’s computer. The screen flickered, a permanent rose hue staining the display. It wouldn’t last much longer, and she couldn’t afford a replacement. Being a florist paid little.

The blinking of a new email alert brought a smile to her face. Anna.

The laundry basket bounced as it hit the sofa, the sheets half escaping to trail over the cracked tan leather.

She pulled out the yellowed plastic lawn chair that accompanied the desk, ignoring the slight wobble in its legs as she sat. A couple of clicks later and text filled the screen.

Hey Gab, hope all is well in the sunny south-west. London is a confusing place but the uni has been great putting things in place to help me. I have a text phone and a new computer. I joined a student support group too. The traffic is a nightmare and everyone is in such a damn hurry.

Gabriela’s heart clenched. The thought of her little sister in the pitiless and harsh capital still twisted her stomach with worry.

I just wanted to check in with you today. I’ll be sad too. Everyone in my tutor group is going clubbing tonight. I made an excuse. I don’t like it much and today I’m bad company. Make sure you look after yourself and take your meds. There’s no shame in a pyjama day, and it’s not like you have to do my laundry anymore.

Gabriela’s lip wobbled and the screen blurred to a pinkish haze. Her sister had left home last month to go to university. Anna was academically brilliant, and Gabriela was determined to support her.

She glanced around the small room with its thick walls, low ceiling and tiny windows. Five years – she and Anna had lived here alone for five whole years.

Gabriela had never felt so left behind. Not even when her engagement had broken down after her mother’s death. The cottage was so empty, and she was more than a little heartbroken.

Through everything, no matter how shitty things got, they had at least been together. But now Anna was making her own way in the world, and Gabriela had only wretched sadness and a house that no longer felt like a home.

Tears burned in her eyes. She sniffed and pressed a hand to her chest as if she could ease the empty ache there. No more tears. She’d cried enough.

‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine,’ she reminded herself. Deep breath in, hold and out. Regulating her breathing came naturally after long years of practice. At least her anxiety didn’t make her want to vomit anymore.

On opening her eyes, the laundry basket called to her with a promise of purpose. Better than self-pity and grief.

She took the damp sheets outside and shook them out. Working with vigour, each made a satisfying whip-crack before she pinned it to the washing line.

The sight of the undecided, hazy blue of the sky pulled a ghost of a smile over her lips. Spring sun warmed her back and shoulders, and she moved her gaze past the rough grazing that bordered her garden – stunted shrubs, wind-twisted trees and yellowed tussocks of grass at odds with the green oasis of her well-tended haven.

Her pocket rattled as she moved to grab a towel turned grey by too many washes. Biting her lip, she ignored the sound but dropped the towel back into the wicker basket. Breathe, just breathe, she told herself – she had to take her mind off all she didn’t want to think about.

Her eyes drifted away to the cliffs and the endless expanse of the Atlantic. Diffuse rays of sunlight streamed between gaps in mottled clouds, and the colours in the water shifted from grey to green and back again. A salt-laden breeze brushed her red curls around her face. But the unspoiled glory of her little pocket of coastline couldn’t lift the dull sapping ache in her chest.

Her hand slipped into the pocket of her stonewashed jeans and she frowned as her fingers slid over the disposable plastic bottle. With a yank, she pulled it from her pocket. Lurid yellow-and-lime-green capsules clattered inside. Did she need any? The numbness would be welcome, but who cared if she was upset and angry? There was no one to be affected by her mood.

Gabriela sighed, and the brisk breeze snatched her breath away, leaving her nose filled with the scent of seaweed and brine.

No one needed her. The idea sank in after weeks of denial. It left her empty, with nothing but her own thoughts and long nights alone.

Her lip wobbled, and she gripped the bottle till the plastic cracked. With a snarl, she tossed it towards the shining blue line of the horizon.

The driftwood garden gate slammed shut as she sprinted down the steps cut into the cliff and down to the deserted beach, hair streaming behind her like a russet banner.

After a race down the pebble-studded backshore, her sandals flicked from her feet to bounce along the flat expanse of honey-brown sand. Shoe impressions morphed into bare footprints that arced straight towards the waterline.

Salt wind whipped at her, chilly Atlantic water pulling at her ankles. Days of self-imposed cabin fever fell away as she ran. Her arms moved like pistons in a steam engine. The burn in her lungs and the ache of muscle were a reminder that she lived, and for one moment, Gabriela thought she may fly. Her mood rose as fast as a spring tide, the bottle and its chemical stability forgotten, for now.

Then her foot hit something fleshy. It writhed beneath her sole. With a squeal, she lifted her leg, and the eel swam away through the sand-laden water unharmed.

Gabriela tried to prevent herself from toppling backwards, arms pinwheeling.

Another wave and she landed rump first in the water, her jeans soaking up the brine. She sat for a moment, mouth open as the cold penetrated her flesh, then hauled herself to her feet, muttering, and dragged herself out of the surf, her jeans squelching with every step, sticking to her legs in a clammy embrace. The spring air slipped over her wet skin, sucking the warmth from her limbs, and sand rubbed her in the most awkward places.

She rolled her eyes at her stupidity, and the giddy high of a moment ago dissipated. Was this karma for stepping on the eel? Not that she believed in that nonsense.

Something caught her eye, and she battled to pull frizzy curls from her face. A near formless shape at the other end of the bay, lying in the tideline. She squinted, not understanding what she was seeing. Seconds ticked by until her mind puzzled it out.

A body lay on the beach.

Breath burst from her in a gasp as ice raked through her stomach. If a boatload of refugees took a wave broadside, people died by the dozen. The Atlantic was a cruel bitch.

For a moment, all she could see was her mother’s eyes as they dulled. Life slipping from them into glassy nothing.

Gabriela ran, sand spraying behind her, shells and pebbles scuffing at her bare feet. Falling to her knees, she levered the body over.

Her hands moved into well-rehearsed actions. No breath, no pulse, but the skin still warm. She tugged at his clothing, but the leather-like fabric was strapped in place. That left her with few options. Her mind scrabbled to remember her single year of a medicine degree, her throat narrowing as she pulled at the leather with shaking hands.

Enough.

She forced down the rising fear with a slow inhale. If she had a panic attack, he would die.

The shore and sound of the waves faded. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. She knew what to do.

Gabriela formed a fist and slammed it into his solar plexus, intending to deliver a jolt to his inert lungs and heart through the thick leather encasing him.

No response.

Her fist numbed with another blow. Anger sparked, bright and hot, and her heart pumped jet fuel round her veins. Gabriela’s body shook as her mother’s lifeless face flashed before her eyes again – sallow skin, the chill of death sucking her warmth away forever.

‘No!’ Her wavering shriek echoed off the towering black cliffs behind her. She grabbed at his broad shoulders and snarled at him, ‘Breathe, damn you.’

Leaning over, she tilted the man’s head back, her fingers fluttering over his death-pale cheeks.

This had to work.

Her gaze fixed on his lips, near blue from asphyxia.

No phone, no one else for miles. He only had broken, burned-out her to save him.

She pinched his nose, cradled his neck, covering his mouth with her own, and forced air and life into his lungs.

Chapter 4

Sailor

Under Gabriela’s hands, the man’s body sprang to life. A gasp ripped through his chest, sucking air from her throat, and the sudden movement knocking her back from him. Her rump landed in the surf again. Wincing, she ran her fingers over the base of her collar, pulling the now soaked green checked shirt from her chilled skin.

The man wrenched himself up, resting his weight on his elbows. His face kept its grey pallor even as his chest heaved. His dark gaze darted around the windswept expanse of beach from behind sand-dusted hair that hung in tiny twists.

‘You shouldn’t be sitting up, please…’

The man opened his mouth, his chest shuddering. Saltwater gushed from his blue lips, and he turned, vomiting over the sand.

Gabriela let out a sigh as tension flowed from her body into the cold water around her knees. The sound of the gulls, deprived of their easy meal, seeped back into her consciousness as the waves tugged at her jeans, her feet numb as her body heat drained away. The poor guy would be freezing.

He was larger than she’d first thought – head and shoulders above her five-foot-six. A whisper in her mind froze her blood as she took in his long limbs, broad shoulders and the muscles bunching in arms, bare from shoulder to elbow. Shouldn’t she worry about being alone with him?

That was her mother talking. In her last days, Emma Marsh had refused to leave the house, anxiety eating her sanity as the cancer ate her stomach.

Shoving those thoughts away, Gabriela pushed her lips into a thin, crooked line. He may not be dying anymore, but he still needed care.

Breath rasped through him with reassuring shudders. The man settled his coal-black eyes on her from behind his knotted hair. His gaze clouded, then refocused before eyebrows as dark as ravens’ wings drew together into a ridge above his straight nose.

‘Thank you.’ The words came out in a croaking gasp, as coarse as the grainy surface they sat on.

His throat must feel as if he’d swallowed razor wire.

Flinching at his wheezed thanks, her shoulders dropped, grateful for a small mercy. He spoke English, though with an odd accent she couldn’t place. Gabriela pushed her wind-torn red curls away from her eyes, offering him an uncertain half-smile.

‘You are most welcome.’

He braced his elbows on the shifting ground and attempted to push to his feet.

‘No, wait, don’t get up!’ Gabriela’s mouth dropped open, and she scrambled to her knees, kicking water over herself.

He let out a hiss, and his body slapped back down on the beach. The man groaned, a muscle in his jaw tightening as his long fingers dug into the wave-tossed sand.

‘Please, don’t move yet.’

Her patient ignored her advice and pressed upwards. Her fists clenched, the crescents of her nails biting into her palms.

A shaking explosion of coughs rocked through him, and the man growled as he spat into the surf. He tried again, grunting as he curled his spine and pushed his palms on the ground.

Keep away – large, scary.

The hair rising on her arms had nothing to do with the cold. Those large hands could leave marks, break skin. Her stomach dropped, and the muscles in her legs tightened. He was alive. Someone else could take care of him now.

The man inhaled and shoved a booted foot into the sand. Why was he still trying to stand in his condition? All her sense of self-preservation vanished; her reserve melted.

Did he want to die?

‘Slow down there, sailor.’

She crawled forward and grabbed his leather-bound wrist before throwing his heavy arm over her shoulders. His brine-soaked leathers stank. A nasty gash cut down the back of his upper arm. It looked like a knife wound, clean and straight over his greyish skin. Was his circulation affected? His weight settled over her back and pressed into the nape of her neck.

This man wanted on his feet, and she lacked the strength to stop him. But she was no delicate twig. She’d grown up above this bay and tackled these waves every summer. Taking a swim in the Atlantic was less technique, more trying not to die. Riptides and freezing temperatures hadn’t deterred Gabriela or her sister. Their bodies adapted – strong limbs, lungs, and an acute sense of balance.

Gabriela’s arm wrapped over his upper back, and she fastened her fingers round a leather strap. The leather clothing had long slits in the back. Was that deliberate?

He glanced her way, blinking sand-crusted eyelashes. Lifting his long, solid frame was out of the question, but she could support him.

‘I live just up the cliff.’ She spoke at a measured pace; English might not be his first language. ‘It’s important you get warm, dry, and drink fresh water.’ She could have run home, got what he needed while he rested, but he seemed determined to move. Best he moved towards something that helped him, rather than stumble around like a New Year’s drunkard.

She peered up at his too-grey face and gave a winning smile. ‘I have medical training. I can help you.’ Not exactly true. A year of university did not qualify her in anything.

‘Yes.’

She frowned at his feeble response; her chest tightened. She had to keep him awake and talking.

‘S-Sailor?’ He slurred over the question.

She gave her best smile, concealing her worry. ‘Yes, sailor – what boat did you fall off? People will be looking for you.’

How else could he have been cast adrift at sea? A surfer? No, not dressed in leather. Had he partied too hard on a yacht? Theories of increasing complexity tumbled through her mind. If only she could identify the odd twang to his words.

Holy hell, he was heavy. He was a big man but still heavier than she expected.

‘I’m Gabriela,’ she said softly, letting him lean on her further as he found his balance. ‘How about you?’

‘Tararus,’ his voice rumbled where her ear pressed against his shoulder.

What was that? Greek? She nibbled her bottom lip, pushing away another wave of unease.

He tensed and using her as halfway between a walking stick and a crutch. She winced and locked her knees, straining to remain upright; her abdominal muscles burned, and her spine felt like the vertebra were about to telescope together.

Tararus found his feet, and thick dark boots with rounded toes scuffed the sand. At last, he straightened, rising to his full height with a low groan.

She wasn’t even at his shoulder. His chest pressed into her cheek as she bent to support him. That would make his nipples at her eye level. Gabriela