Ember X (Death Collectors) - By Jessica Sorensen Page 0,42
his body radiating all over me. “What about her?”
“Are you two like, dating or something? I’ve seen you a ton of times around town together.” My elbow bumps the shelf and books topple over.
“We’re just friends.” He crosses his arms and casually leans against the bookshelf.
“Yeah, but you guys won’t be, if you go out with me,” I say and he fakes a befuddled look. “Oh, don’t pretend like you haven’t heard what people say about me: cult member, Satan worshiper, murderer.”
“And haven’t you heard that I like to spend time in the cemetery, digging up graves.” He dips his head in toward me and his warm breath embraces my cheeks. “Say yes, Ember. Please.” There’s a begging to his tone that causes my heart to miss a beat.
The back of my mind screams that it’s wrong, that something is off about the whole situation, but there’s a pull toward him, like he’s a magnet and I’m welded of metal.
“Okay,” I say, startled by my answer. “It’s a date, then.”
He backs toward the door. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight.” He flashes me a grin of perfection and then pushes out the door.
***
“I hate this,” Raven complains later that day in the library. I made her stay with me at the library while I looked for a book about Grim Angels and then she could give me a ride home. I haven’t told her yet about my date with Cameron, because I know she’ll freak out and make a scene.
“I won’t be too much longer,” I say, searching through the index of a book. “You can survive a few minutes longer.”
“Can’t you just search the internet?”
“I already did.”
“Fine. I’m walking next door to get a soda. When I get back, you better be done.” Raven grabs her purse and a magazine and walks outside.
The book has nothing I’m looking for so I shut it and walk up to the counter. Ms. Kinsley, the middle-aged librarian with auburn hair and green eyes, looks up from her computer.
“Can I help you?” Her standoffish tone probably means she knows who I am.
“Do you have any books,” I say, “that perhaps focus on the more uncommon creatures of mythology?”
She types something on the keyboard. “There might be some in the back, in the mythology section, but I don’t know what they focus on.”
“Thanks,” I say and walk for the bookshelves. At the back, is the mythology section and I pull out the heaviest book I can find, and camp down on the floor with it. The index has nothing titled Grim Angels, however there is a section on “The Curse of the Angels.”
The curse of the Angels is a result of a battle that took place a long time ago. Most refer to it as the battle between good and evil, but during the era, people believed the only theme to be evil.
The battle allegedly started from a dispute over souls. Angels of Death were the carriers of the innocent souls, and Grim Reapers the carriers of the evil souls. However, when the Reapers became greedy and began stealing the souls of the innocent, a battle broke out between the two. As a form of punishment, Michael, the ruler of the Angels of Death, and Abaddon, the ruler of the Grim Reapers, cursed the warriors to Earth and bound them there with a breed that carried both group’s blood.
Grim Angels—half Grim Reaper, half Angel of Death—have walked the earth for centuries undetected by humans. Only would they be free when the last Grim Angel made the choice between good and evil.
The next section switches to Legend of Faeries. I thrum my finger on top of the book, having no idea what to do with what I read. I start to put the book back on the shelf when wet droplets trickle down the back of my neck.
I wipe them away, looking behind me, and then at my hand. “Blood?” I glance up at the ceiling and blood splatters against my forehead. I quickly smear it away and jump to my feet. Hanging by a rope from the ceiling is the body of Farrah Taverson, her medieval dress soaked with blood and her eyes are bleeding.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, backing away. What do I do? What do I do? I rub my eyes, but she stays there, her feet swaying from the breeze of the vent next to her head.
I back away toward the edge of the shelf, when I crash into someone.