Angels Rising, page 1
Angels Rising
By
Harriet Carlton
Copyright 2017 by Harriet Carlton
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
A big thank-you to my two editors who helped me polish the rough edges of Angels Rising: Gail Higgins for streamlining the story, and Kim from Kover to Kover Editing for putting on the finishing touches!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Prologue
The baby's nursery was still and quiet. The windows were latched tightly shut, and outside a small flurry of midwinter snow settled on the windowsill. On a dresser near the baby's crib was a monitor. The device was dormant. There was no sound in the still nursery, save for the small breaths of the sleeping infant.
A soft whoosh of air did not trip the monitor, nor did the muffled footsteps that followed. There was little more than a whisper of wind as a figure crossed the room from the window, and made its way toward the baby's crib. The footsteps and the figure belonged to a man, who seemed to be in his early thirties. As he walked forward, he was illuminated by the child’s nightlight. While somewhat taller than other men, with unusually striking, pale green eyes, it was neither his height nor was it his eye color that marked him out as being different. It was the pair of huge, powerful, green-feathered wings that curved up from his shoulder blades and arced high above his head.
When he was next to the wooden crib, the man looked around the nursery, getting his bearings. He took note of the baby monitor on the dresser near the door before looking down at the child in the cot.
“You are all such funny looking things at this age,” mused the winged man, sounding as though he was talking to himself.
In the crib, the baby woke crying as though taking offense to the man's words. The winged man glared at the baby’s monitor as it squawked and lit up. The device, though unable to catch his quietly spoken sentence, had detected the baby's sharp cry.
“It seems that this is my cue to leave. How insensitive you are to the fact that I have only just arrived,” said the winged man with a small, gentle smile. Very softly, he touched the tips of his index and middle finger to the baby's forehead. There was a momentary glow of low, white light that wavered between the man's fingers and the baby's brow. It lingered for only a heartbeat then dissolved, allowing the room to return to muted darkness once more. The man's smile faded as the handle of the door to the nursery twisted slowly. A soft rush of air swept through the room, stilling only when the door swung open.
A woman clad in a white nightgown entered, rubbing her eyes, she seemed to have just woken. She crossed the room to her son's crib. When she looked down, she saw that he was once again sleeping soundly. Tiredly, she checked the room for anything that may have woken him. There was nothing amiss.
“Must have been a bad dream,” she mused quietly. The woman sighed softly and made her way back to the door.
“Sleep tight, honey,” she whispered pulling the door shut.
The infant's mother had not noticed the single emerald feather resting next to her son's pillow.
Chapter 1
It was half past seven on a Friday morning when seventeen-year-old Imorean Frayneson raced out of his house toward his vehicle. He was built like an athlete. Tall without being lanky, and slim without being thin. He had dark brown eyes, eyes that seemed much darker than they really were as they contrasted with the stark, prematurely white hair that just brushed the tops of his ears. It was Imorean’s bright, white hair that drew the most attention to him. Attention which was often unwanted.
Imorean launched himself into the front-seat of his pickup truck. He hated being late for anything. It didn't matter whether it was for work, school, or an appointment. Ever since childhood, his mother had told him that being tardy was disrespectful, and Imorean often prided himself on his ability to be polite and courteous. Another reason Imorean tried his best not to be late was because of his white hair. It was much easier for people to forget a brown-haired person walking into an event late, than it was for them to forget a prematurely white-haired person. Truthfully, it wasn’t his hair that he hated, it was being noticed, standing out.
“Come on. Come on,” he pleaded, turning the key in his truck's ignition. The engine sputtered and turned over, refusing to start. Imorean gripped the steering wheel in frustration. He cursed himself for buying a used vehicle. The fact of the matter was though, that this truck was all that Imorean had been able to afford.
“Why must you do this to me?” groaned Imorean, pulling the key out of the ignition and reinserting it. “I really hate you sometimes.”
Imorean took a deep breath, rested his foot on the brake and turned the key. He whooped in gratitude as, after some deliberation, the truck's engine grudgingly started.
“I take back what I just said,” he said, putting it in reverse. As he pressed the accelerator and backed the truck out of his gravel driveway and onto the road, he glanced down at his watch. The watch itself was nothing special, but it had belonged to Imorean’s late father, Christian Frayneson, and Imorean valued it more than anything else.
“Oh, great,” Imorean murmured, frustrated. If he didn't hurry he would definitely be late for school. Today of all days. He had a presentation due in his first class, and at nine thirty he had an interview with two representatives from a scholarship company. He couldn't afford to be late. Quickly, Imorean glanced in his rearview mirror. There were rarely speed traps on this road. With that in mind, Imorean stamped on the accelerator.
“I'm surprised that junk heap is still going,” said a voice as Imorean grabbed his backpack off the backseat. His truck was parked crookedly in the last space he could find, but then again, many of the other cars in the student parking lot were also skewed. A majority of the other high school students were in their first years of driving, and were still random with their parking effort.
“Thanks, Roxanne. I know it needs to be held together with duct tape, but you don't have to rub it in,” replied Imorean dryly, slamming his truck's door and turning toward the speaker. Leaning on the back of an old, pale blue car was his best friend Roxanne Daire, better known as Roxy. They had been friends with each other since they were both small children.
Roxy was naturally dark-haired, and typically wore it loose around her shoulders. She constantly dyed her hair different colors and because of it, reminded Imorean of a parrot. She enjoyed showing her individualism by dyeing her hair, but something about it also helped Imorean feel less alone for having an unusual hair color. Imorean had often warned her that, as a result of the dyeing, one day it may all fall out. Roxy never seemed too concerned. It was Roxy’s general lack of concern that made Imorean more comfortable with her than with most other people that he knew. Imorean knew that she didn’t care what people thought as far as how she dressed or looked. Roxy was shorter than Imorean by more than six inches, and her short stature made her look heavier than she actually was. Another thing Imorean liked about Roxy was the dynamic of their friendship. It was quiet and uncomplicated. He was her best friend, and she was his.
“I just thought I'd point out the obvious,” she shrugged, tossing this week’s hair, black, tipped with pale brown, over her shoulder. “And don't call me Roxanne. It makes me sound like I'm seventy not seventeen.”
“I just do it to annoy you,” said Imorean, elbowing his friend in the ribs as they walked toward the school doors.
“It's something you do very well. You always have,” replied Roxy, trotting quickly next to him. She looked at him fondly. “You forgot to brush your hair again this morning, you airhead.”
“I did?” asked Imorean, reaching up to touch his short, white hair. He ran his fingers through it in horror as he felt knots. “I can't go in for an interview with bed hair!”
“Calm down. You’re so lucky your best friend is a girl,” said Roxy with a grin, reaching into her purse and passing him a comb.
“Thank you, Mother,” said Imorean, gratefully taking the comb and running it through his pure white hair. As a child he had brown hair, but at age twelve it began to go gray, and then at fifteen, his hair had become completely white. Now, at seventeen, Imorean had adjusted to the odd color of his hair, and thought that the color complemented him quite well. When it had started graying, he’d dyed it back to brown. It had taken him a few years to come to terms with the fact that he would have white hair for the rest of his life, and would always stick out like a sore thumb in crowds. After that, he hadn’t bothered dyeing it again. He ha d learned to accept and live with it. In an odd sort of way, he liked it.
“Shut up. You have English first period, don't you?” asked Roxy, holding the door open for Imorean.
“Yeah, with Ms. Dillard. Thank God we're graduating in June. I don't think I could stand much more of her. I heard next year she's going to be teaching English for juniors and seniors,” said Imorean, not bothering to conceal his dislike for the teacher as he passed Roxy’s comb back to her. He glanced down at his watch and his heart leaped into his mouth.
“Yikes. I pity them,” said Roxy, shaking her head. “When's your interview?”
“Nine thirty,” said Imorean, glancing at his watch again anxiously. “Rox, I have to go, I'll meet up with you at lunch, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” replied Roxy, waving her friend on. “Good luck!”
Imorean grinned at her and jogged away quickly, desperate to make it to Ms. Dillard's class before the tardy bell rang.
Imorean’s foot was just crossing the threshold into her classroom when the bell rang. He looked at Ms. Dillard, wondering if she would make him go to the front office and get a late pass. She generally ruled that students had to be seated when the bell rang.
“Just go and sit down,” she snapped, glaring at Imorean.
“Thank you,” said Imorean, breathing a silent sigh of relief.
“Imorean,” said Ms. Dillard as she turned to the board.
“Yes, Ma'am?”
“The front office has asked me to remind you about the interview that you have at nine thirty.”
“Yes, Ma'am, I remembered.”
As Imorean placed his backpack next to his desk and got out the notecards he needed for his presentation, he couldn't help but hope that this upcoming interview would help him get a scholarship of some sort. He had been to several interviews for scholarships so far, and had always come away empty handed and disheartened. It was frustrating – and strange – to say the least. After all, he was in the top ten percent of his senior class and his grade point average was one of the school's highest. He was pretty sure that he should have received a scholarship long ago.
“Mr. Frayneson,” said Ms. Dillard sharply, jerking Imorean out of his thoughts. “We're waiting. Your presentation.”
“Yes. Sorry,” said Imorean with an apologetic smile.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Imorean walked into the front office, tucking the pass Ms. Dillard had grudgingly written him into his pocket.
“Good morning, Imorean,” said Mrs. Parker, the school's friendly receptionist.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parker. I'm here for the interview with …” Imorean's voice trailed off. He couldn't for the life of him remember what his interviewer’s name was. He had applied for so many scholarships already that they all seemed to blur together.
“The representatives have been talking to students all morning,” replied Mrs. Parker in a knowing voice. “They're in the conference room behind me. Just go in whenever you're ready.”
“What's the name of the scholarship again? I can't remember,” said Imorean, lowering his voice and grimacing guiltily.
“I believe it's called Saving Grace. Go and talk to them. I'm sure they can tell you much more than I can,” replied Mrs. Parker, offering Imorean a reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” replied Imorean, giving Mrs. Parker a broad grin and walking toward to the conference room. The door to the room was ajar, so Imorean knocked lightly, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Two men sat next to each other at the conference table, talking quickly and covertly. From the body language, it appeared to Imorean that one of the men was irritated. They both seemed to be oblivious to his presence.
“Good morning,” Imorean said, wanting to get their attention. The two men fell silent and looked up when they heard his voice.
Imorean was slightly taken aback. They were almost identical in appearance. Each had dark brown hair, but where one had green eyes, the other had hazel. There was a slight difference in height, but it was barely noticeable, as both men were sitting down. They were both broad shouldered, and seemed athletic. Both had fine, angular features that made Imorean feel somehow heavy and clumsy by comparison. There was also a hardness to the way they held themselves that he couldn’t place. The shorter of the two had a thinner, more youthful face, and shining hazel eyes. The taller one was slightly darker, as though he had spent more time in the sun, and his squarer face was lined with the beginnings of early onset wrinkles. His pale eyes were still slanted in annoyance.
“You must be Imorean Frayneson. Please, sit down,” said the smaller of the two with a broad grin. “My name is Gabriel Archer and this is my brother Michael. We're representatives from the Saving Grace Scholarship.”
“Thank you for offering the interview,” replied Imorean, taking a seat across from Gabriel. “I first applied for Saving Grace back in December. I can't say I know too much about it though, only that it is a full ride.”
“Good, good. That’s a start,” Gabriel replied with a broad smile. “Saving Grace is relatively new. It was founded only a few years ago, so naturally not many people have heard of it. Tell us, have you applied for any other scholarships?”
“Well, several, yes, but so far I haven't had any luck with them,” said Imorean, glancing between the two brothers. Gabriel seemed quite open and friendly, whereas Michael was positively glaring at him. The taller brother was holding a pen between his fingers and was fiddling with it, taking it apart and putting it back together. He seemed to be doing it absentmindedly. Imorean pressed his back against his seat, squirming slightly under that aggressive, pale green stare.
“If you don't stop glaring, you're going to get wrinkles,” said Gabriel, glancing at his brother. Michael's eyes darted away from Imorean for a second as he listened to his brother, then he looked out of the window, freeing Imorean completely from his uncomfortable jade stare. The absent twiddling of the pen continued, but Imorean had a feeling that he was still listening intently.
Imorean fought the odd urge to smile. He understood the close relationships between twin siblings all too well. His younger half siblings themselves were twins.
“So, Imorean,” said Gabriel, bringing Imorean's attention back to the present. “What scholarships have you applied for?”
“All the scholarships I could really. Any that have been available to me,” replied Imorean. “Like I said, I haven't had luck with any of them, so now I would do just about anything to get a scholarship. God knows I need one if I'm going to be able to go to college.”
“Is that so?” asked Gabriel, inclining his head. “Would you mind if I asked why?”
“My financial situation isn't the best. My mother is a single parent, working and trying to support three children,” replied Imorean. He wondered for a moment if he should have added more or less to his statement when Michael quickly looked back at the papers in front of his hands.
Imorean frowned slightly when the two brothers glanced at each other. Michael's glare vanished for a brief moment, but he still did not stop fiddling with the pen. Imorean furrowed his brow. Perhaps Michael was just someone who had nervous energy.
“Well then, Imorean,” said Gabriel. “I think Michael and I might have something that you'd be interested in.”
“The Saving Grace Scholarship.”
“Precisely. That is what we're here to talk with you about,” said Gabriel, his tone turning businesslike. “Saving Grace is a full ride scholarship. It'll pay all your college bills for four years. Housing, meal plans, tuition, uniforms. Everything.”
“What do I have to do? These kinds of scholarships are rare,” asked Imorean, giving Gabriel a half smile.
“I like him,” said Gabriel, glancing at Michael. “The scholarship itself is highly competitive. This year, Saving Grace is only available to Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina students. Only a hundred of those who apply will be chosen for the scholarship. Those hundred students will then be given the opportunity to continue their academic careers abroad. Saving Grace is based on need and merit, and nothing more. We're looking for clever students, those who are driven, work hard, and who can think for themselves. The minimum grade point average to apply is a 3.7 and for the remainder of your senior year those numbers must be maintained. Those chosen must remain in good academic standing with the university that they will eventually attend. Imorean, what is your grade point average as of right now?”
