Protect Her: The Celestial Service, #3

By J L Wilson

Hey – my name's CiCi Pendleton and I'm a guardian angel. I'm sort of new to the guardian game which I suppose is why Upper Management sent Henry Montrose to help me (not that I needed him or his help).

 

My job is to stick close to Jack Harkin. I'm an Advisor, so I'm available if Jack needs pointing in the right direction. But all of a sudden Henry showed up, and before you know it, we've got demons running around, putting me and Jack in danger (I blame Henry for that).

 

Henry's useful, though. He knows how to cook (gourmet stuff). He knows how to fight demons (he's got a wicked cane that scalds a bad guy). And he knows what Upper Management wants me to do—the real thing, not the cover story I was given.

 

The problem is, Henry won't tell me. He's hiding a lot of secrets. One Huge Secret is about his own past and his entrapment by a demon witch. Henry still hasn't recovered from that. Upper Management is making him pay the price for going over to the other side, albeit briefly.

 

It turns out that I'm the price he has to pay.

 

If he's going to be rescued, I have to do it. I need to put on my Big Girl Panties, grab my squirt gun filled with holy water, and step into the demon's den.

 

I just hope I come out of it with him and me alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J L Wilson
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201581213

J L Wilson

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Book preview

Chapter One

ARE YOU CONSTANCE PENDLETON?

I turned. The man facing me was more than six feet tall and slender with the kind of build I associated with runners. He had long arms and legs, deceptively thin but probably muscular. His pressed dark blue trousers were paired with a blue-gray sports coat over a blue dress shirt and a black bow tie.

His clothing choices matched his physical appearance: thick silver-and-black hair parted precisely on the right and brushed back; flat gray eyes; a long, oval face. He was the epitome of British Schoolteacher on Holiday, complete with accent.

I'm CiCi Pendleton, I corrected. Who are you?

The man held a beautifully engraved cane in his right hand, the top embossed with what looked like silver. He rested it against his leg then pulled a silver card case from his suit coat pocket, extracting a card and handing it to me.

His right hand was smooth and supple. The left hand holding the case appeared damaged, as though the fingers were bent or twisted.

I examined the card lest I be caught staring at his hands. HENRY MONTROSE was embossed in precise, tidy capital letters.

Underneath was printed in italics, Discreet Inquiries and a phone number under that.

I have no need of discreet inquiries. I held out the card.

He put the case back in his pocket. I've been assigned by the Service to assist you with your project. When he turned his head, I saw his celestial symbol on his cheek.

It glowed in a red, shimmery fashion, that told me he was at Protector level, far above my own Advisory level.

I jammed the pasteboard card into the back pocket of my jeans and crossed my arms on my Ghostbusters T-shirt. Why do I need help? I'm in place and things are going along fine.

We have schedules to keep and deadlines to meet. His gaze swept the cafeteria. It was full of employees from the three companies sharing this high-rise building in the Eden Prairie suburb of the Twin Cities. We stood near the doorway.

The full noise of the place was a muted hum in the background. Perhaps we can go somewhere and chat.

I'm joining Jack for lunch. Perhaps you can wait. I smiled perfunctorily. Jack Harkin. My assignment.

His attention came back to me. I know what he saw: a short woman, late forties. Stocky, with thick curly blonde hair unsuccessfully bundled into a messy French twist. I wore an old T-shirt, faded cardigan and equally faded jeans.

Are you familiar with what a Protector does?

I shuffled my sneaker-covered feet, knowing I was treading on dangerous ground. They intervene if needed to keep specific humans safe.

He appeared pleased I was able to answer such a basic Celestial Service question. That's part of what we do. However, you're an Advisor. Advisors do not intervene. Therefore, Upper Management felt that you may need a Protector to assist you with this case.

He tapped his cane on the tiled floor as though emphasizing that point. I suggest we go somewhere quieter and discuss it.

Hey, CiCi. Are you coming in? Jack paused on the threshold of the cafeteria. Several other people from our company moved past him.

For an instant he was highlighted in a shaft of sunlight streaming in from the skylights. His thinning, dark blond hair seemed to glow with energy.

I waved him off. An old friend showed up. You guys go ahead.

Okay. See you later. He went inside, heading for the sandwich bar. I smiled when I saw him laugh at something one of the others said. Jack was so easy-going and affable.

I had no idea why I was assigned to him. I couldn't imagine him having an enemy in the world.

There are enemies everywhere, Miss Pendleton.

What? I jerked my attention back to the man standing next to me.

Shall we go? There are people you need to meet.

My purse is upstairs. I should get it.

You have no need of a handbag. Please, come along. Montrose didn't wait for an answer. He strolled across the huge interior lobby, his cane tapping on the faux marble floor.

I considered ignoring this preemptive summons. However, he was several levels above me in the hierarchy. Ignorance might be foolhardy. I followed, wondering why Somebody from On High was bothering with me.

I was relatively new to the angel business. My original death occurred in the 1920s. I was brought back as a Helper in the 1930s, during the Depression. I died during World War II then was incarnated in late 1960s for my latest role as an Advisor.

Now here I was, decades later, still an Advisor and rather enjoying it. I liked all the humans I'd been drafted to assist through the years even if I didn't know why I was assigned to them.

Most of them went on to live relatively uneventful lives. A couple became rather well-known political movers and shakers.

I couldn't figure out Jack Harkin, though. He was twenty-five, married for three years, and a project leader for a software company. There was nothing to set him apart from any other young up-and-comer in the software world.

Miss Pendleton?

Montrose regarded me from just a foot away. I had somehow almost run him down where he paused at the massive bank of exit doors.

Sorry. I guess I was daydreaming.

I would suggest you refrain from that. There are demons around us. They'd like nothing better than to distract you from your duties. Shall we go?

Demons? My head whipped from right to left. I had never seen a demon up close. I spied one once in the distance.

At least, I think it was a demon. It might have just been a drunk concert goer who took umbrage at my slipping ahead of him in line.

There are demons everywhere if you just learn to see them. After you. Montrose gestured to the revolving door. I preceded him, the door automatically moving forward when it sensed my presence.

Our presence. Montrose had entered the section of door with me. I baby-stepped forward, acutely aware of his nearness.

The man radiated cool disdain. I was hard-pressed not to trip over my own feet when the opening widened and I pitched forward to the outside.

Brilliant April sunlight made me blink while my eyes adjusted from the relatively gloomy interior.

This way. Montrose went left, moving down the stone steps, leaning briefly on his cane while he walked.

If demons are around us, shouldn't I stay with Jack? I paused, looking back into the building.

I doubt if your presence would prevent wrongdoing.

Wrongdoing? I skipped ahead of Montrose to beat him to the bottom of the steps. Is that what demons do? They do wrongdoing? I shot him a wide-eyed, innocent look. It bounced off his austere façade.

Obviously you've never encountered a demon. He rapped me sharply on the shin with his cane. Do not underestimate what you don't understand. Please get in.

Ow. I turned. A black Benz coupe sat at the curb. Are these your wheels?

He went to the opposite side. Yes, Miss Pendleton. This is my ride. He slid into the driver's seat.

Where are we going? I dropped into the passenger seat. It seemed to reach up and caress me with its soft leather and polished wood appointments.

Angels at his level definitely had better bank accounts than I did. I managed quite well on my celestial stipend and my salary as a writer for a software company. I wasn't in the Benz category.

I've made a few shrewd investments. Montrose drove away from the curb, smoothly blending with the flow of traffic.

Can you read minds? That's rude. I shot him a glare which left him as unruffled as before.

I cannot read minds. However, I can read people. You are remarkably easy to read. He downshifted smoothly.

The car surged into the heavier traffic on the highway bisecting the suburb. We are lunching with associates who have information regarding our assignment.

Our assignment?

Upper Management has assigned me to you for the duration of this project. He drove easily and quickly, sliding in and out of slower-moving vehicles.

Classical music played on the infotainment system. It had a lot of harps and violins gliding as seamlessly as we did in traffic.

It is a far more complex piece of music than you know. He held up his hand when I started to speak. You were frowning at the name on the display. You apparently didn't understand what was playing. And I detected a faint aura of disgust, as though such music was beneath you.

I settled back in the seat and stared through my window. I would not give him any more opportunities to dissect my emotions.

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

I apologize. I'm unaccustomed to working with an associate. I've worked alone for decades. His precise British accent, combined with his deep voice, sounded very sincere.

I work alone, too. So I don't understand why I have to work with you.

Perhaps our lunch companions can explain it to us. He made a left turn, leaving the busier streets for those surrounding the small suburban retail mall.

Who are they?

Florence Pruitt and Thomas Boyd. I believe they've been given information that will help us with your project.

It's not a project, I snapped. It's a human being. His name is Jack Harkin. He's a nice guy. He just got promoted and he takes his job seriously. His team all like him.

It isn't prudent to become attached to the clients you advise. Montrose let the car purr to a halt behind a minivan. If the stickers on the back window were true, it held at least five children, a dog, a man, a woman, and possibly a dinosaur.

Attached? I'm sorry, but if I'm supposed to be helping people, it makes sense that I would get to know them.

What I meant was—

I know what you meant. This isn't my first assignment. Jack isn't just a project. He's a human being with a loving wife. He's a member of the company's bowling team. He jogs and works out at a gym. He and his wife have adopted a couple of cats.

The car moved forward again, Montrose deftly steering past the laden minivan to a faster lane. I'm sure Mr. Harkin is interesting and a very nice person.

Montrose's tone of voice clearly said, Humor her, she's acting like an idiot. I considered arguing more.

A little warning voice in my head said not to pursue it. I was only a lowly Advisor. He was a Protector. I may be new to the Celestial Service, but even I knew it didn't pay to argue with Upper Management.

We turned onto a relatively quiet street, stores and businesses set back from the road. I saw the sign ahead.

I'm sorry, but I'm not dressed fancy enough to eat at The Bur Oak. The restaurant was one of the pricier ones in this suburb and was a hangout for upper-level business types.

I assure you, your attire is acceptable. However, I don't believe your corporate lanyard will be needed.

I looked at my ID badge, dangling from a bright red ribbon. I pulled it off and stuck it into the pocket of my sweater.

Montrose parked the Benz in a spot off to one side. I applauded his common sense to try to avoid any dents and dings.

Maybe they'll give me a necktie to wear, I muttered.

That would be an interesting adornment to your couture. However, I doubt it will be necessary. We walked through the parking lot, his cane tapping in time to our steps. I hope you don't mind that I didn't take one of the nearer parking spots.

We reached the massive oaken front door that hid the interior from the hoi polloi. I always feel it's best to park at a location that gives one a clear and quick exit, in case that's needed.

A clear exit?

Yes. Montrose held the door for me, looping his cane through the twisted fingers of his left hand. It's always advisable to think ahead, especially where demons are concerned. Please. After you.

I stumbled into the foyer, tripping on the heavy rubber mat at the entryway.

A maître d' was ahead of me, positioned behind a lectern like a guard at the gate. He was a short, chubby man with a starched white shirt, black tie and eyewear perched on the tip of his nose. His bald head gleamed in the subdued lighting from the depths of the restaurant behind him.

He regarded me impassively, his eyes raking me top to bottom. Then his gaze moved to Montrose.

Your table is ready, he murmured. And your guests have already arrived. He gestured.

A woman appeared as if by magic. She was young, long-legged, and had flawless skin, pale and translucent as though lit from within.

Excellent. You may serve the hors d'oeuvres as soon as convenient. Montrose put a light hand on my back to nudge me to a room on the left.

You already ordered? I followed the swaying young woman wearing black patent leather stilettos.

Yes, I did. They make gravlax that is second to none.

Gravlax? What was that? I suppose you've eaten here before. I eyed the woman leading us. Her tight black pencil skirt and white blouse were similar to the attire on the servers.

However, their footwear was more practical than her towering heels. She led us to a booth in a small room. There were just seven or eight booths along the wall of windows, none of which were occupied.

Yes, I have eaten here. Several times. I can recommend any of their seafood dishes. They fly their wares in daily.

I suppose they would since we're in a land-locked state.

One can acquire seafood by other means which are not as fresh.

Our guide paused by a booth, inclining her head while I slid into one side of the booth, Montrose sitting next to me.

Please let me know if I can be of any assistance during your visit, she said softly.

I shall. Thank you. Montrose rested his cane between us against the plush seat then regarded the two people opposite us. Miss Pruitt and Mr. Boyd, I presume?

The man, Boyd, was short and stocky. I was relieved to see he was as underdressed as me in a somewhat wrinkled powder blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He sipped a beer, the glass in his left hand. His right hand, sitting on the table, had crooked fingers, as though they'd been broken and perhaps set incorrectly.

The woman was petite and small-boned. Her gray hair was swept back into a braid that wrapped around the crown of her head like, well, a crown.

It was hard to tell her age because she had no telltale lines or wrinkles. I envied here because my own skin was starting to show the signs of wear.

I'm Flo Pruitt and this is Tommy Boyd. The woman, Flo, sipped a martini, a drink I would never have paired her with. Her attention switched from Montrose to me. I believe we have an acquaintance in common. Emma Jackson.

Emma? I leaned back when a male server, dressed in black pants and white shirt, set a glass in front of me. It held a pale pink liquid with a cherry bobbing in it.

A pomegranate martini. My favorite drink.

I slid a sidelong look at Montrose, who had been served what looked like bourbon or whiskey in a heavy tumbler. The waiter then set down a big platter of sliced fish.

How do you know Emma?

We're in a book club together. Pruitt set her drink down. She surveyed the salmon slices decorated with dill and surrounded by tiny bits of bread.

Why are you in a book club with Jack's wife? I demanded.

Montrose took one of the little bread slices and ladled on mustardy-looking sauce. He garnished it with a few sprinkles of dill then added salmon on top.

He laid it on a tiny white plate and set it in front of me. Miss Pruitt was instructed to find a way to interact with Miss Jackson, a task she did quite admirably.

But why Emma and Jack? I watched Pruitt load up a slice of bread. I noticed Boyd didn't appear as enthusiastic.

We were told to try to find a way to meet her and I did, Flo said complacently. Tommy goes to the same gym she uses. He's seen her there, but they've never spoken. We decided it might make more sense for me to meet her.

It might be creepy if I talk to her at the gym. Boyd had a low, deep voice with a bit of a Bronx or 'city' accent, unusual here in Minnesota. He faced the front of the restaurant.

I noticed how his gaze kept moving, as though he was looking for someone.

Montrose spread relish on a slice of bread, his long fingers grinding up the dill to sprinkle evenly over the top.

What did you think of Captain Booker? He paused in the act of sliding a slice of salmon on the bread to regard Boyd.

Career Army. Solid guy. Very career focused. Smart and disciplined. He follows the rules but he's not rigid. I get the feeling he's thinking all the time, evaluating things. He's not a guy to go into a burning building just because somebody above him in the food chain tells him to go.

Boyd sipped his beer and met Montrose's steady gaze. Somebody has their eye on him. He's gotten good promotions. All of them were deserved, but someone's been noticing him. They're making sure he's in the right place at the right time.

I wondered about that. He's young to be a Captain. Montrose tapped my plate. You haven't tried the gravlax.

I'm not much for raw fish.

Amen, Boyd muttered.

Montrose shook his head. It isn't raw. It's been cured in a special mix of dill, pepper, salt and sugar.

It looks raw.

It's good, Flo said. It's like lox.

No thanks. I looked at each of them in turn. Why do you care about Emma and Jack and this Bookman?

Booker, Boyd corrected.

Whatever.

As I said, we have been asked to assist.

You know as well as I do that's an incomplete answer. A slender woman with long red hair stood next to the booth, smiling at Montrose.

She wore a pale green lightweight sweater and dark green slacks. Something about the outfit reminded me of ladies at the golf course, sipping their gin drinks and playing cards.

But the flinty look in her green eyes told me that she'd be a card shark among the fishes.

But I don't believe I should—I thought we couldn't— For the first time since I met him, Montrose looked flustered.

I took advantage of the moment to grab one of the menus on the table. I pretended to study it while I listened.

Like I was told once, Boyd said. We're in the Service. We do as we're told. Kind of like the Army.

Except people volunteer for the Army. I peered at him over the menu. I didn't exactly volunteer for this.

Oh, really? The woman regarded me with bright