Destined to Fall (An Angel Falls Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Flying Fire

  Chapter Two: Empathy

  Chapter Three: Floating and Crashing

  Chapter Four: Playing with Fire

  Chapter Five: Keeping Secrets

  Chapter Six: Karmic Trails

  Chapter Seven: Moral Compass

  Chapter Eight: Arrows and Osmosis

  Chapter Nine: Circles

  Chapter Ten: Conspiracy

  Chapter Eleven: Bruises

  Chapter Twelve: Past Payments

  Chapter Thirteen: Desert Directions

  Chapter Fourteen: Shifting

  Chapter Fifteen: Near Death

  Chapter Sixteen: Walls and Trust

  Chapter Seventeen: The Female Species

  Chapter Eighteen: Moving On

  Chapter Nineteen: Teasing

  Chapter Twenty: On Our Way

  Chapter Twenty-one: Jinxed

  Chapter Twenty-two: Sacred

  Chapter Twenty-three: Ridding the Monster

  Chapter Twenty-four: Oaths

  Chapter Twenty-five: Hope

  Chapter Twenty-six: Fantasy Becomes Reality

  Table of Contents

  Destined to Fall

  Copyright

  Other Works Available

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Flying Fire

  Chapter Two: Empathy

  Chapter Three: Floating and Crashing

  Chapter Four: Playing with Fire

  Chapter Five: Keeping Secrets

  Chapter Six: Karmic Trails

  Chapter Seven: Moral Compass

  Chapter Eight: Arrows and Osmosis

  Chapter Nine: Circles

  Chapter Ten: Conspiracy

  Chapter Eleven: Bruises

  Chapter Twelve: Past Payments

  Chapter Thirteen: Desert Directions

  Chapter Fourteen: Shifting

  Chapter Fifteen: Near Death

  Chapter Sixteen: Walls and Trust

  Chapter Seventeen: The Female Species

  Chapter Eighteen: Moving On

  Chapter Nineteen: Teasing

  Chapter Twenty: On Our Way

  Chapter Twenty-one: Jinxed

  Chapter Twenty-two: Sacred

  Chapter Twenty-three: Ridding the Monster

  Chapter Twenty-four: Oaths

  Chapter Twenty-five: Hope

  Chapter Twenty-six: Fantasy Becomes Reality

  About the Author

  The Misplaced

  More From Jody A. Kessler

  On the Back Cover

  Destined to Fall

  An Angel Falls - Book 4

  Jody A. Kessler

  Copyright

  © 2017 by Jody A. Kessler

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator.”

  Please visit:

  www.JodyAKessler.com

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  ASIN: B075HZ3F76

  Edited by

  A. Campbell and C.P. Bialois

  Cover Art & Design by

  Soxsational Cover Art

  Ebooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Other Works Available

  An Angel Falls series

  Death Lies Between Us #1

  Angel Dreams #2

  Haunting Me #3

  Destined to Fall #4

  The Call (A subscriber exclusive novella)

  The Misplaced

  Historical Time Travel series

  The Night Medicine

  Witches of Lane County

  Heart of the Secret

  A Witch’s Fate

  Granite Lake Romance

  Unwrapping Treasure #1

  Chasing Treasure #2

  Book #3 coming soon

  &

  A new adult coming of age novel

  When We’re Entwined

  Dedication

  To Amber, Nugget, and Samson.

  My summer writing pals.

  Chapter One: Flying Fire

  Nathaniel

  I don't smack my clients for their stupidity as much as I might like to.

  My new case receives at least ten points for visual effect, another ten points for creativity, and a slap upside the back of his head for recklessness. The roof is an interesting place for target practice — I have to give him some credit for that ounce of ingenuity. The view of the Milky Way streaming across the night sky is clear, brilliant, and infinite. Why can't my client see that hanging above our heads is a vast universe full of astounding mysteries? Wondering and dreaming about what is out there and how we fit into the grand scheme of things is a perfectly acceptable reason not to end one's life. But it doesn't work that way, does it? People who contemplate their own destruction aren't thinking about what the world or universe around them has to offer. They're too busy justifying why they don't fit in to this world.

  Steven Kroller walks to the edge of the roof and stares at the backyard. Do I stop him now? The underwhelmed look in his eyes, the way he takes a drag off his cigarette, it’s as if he’s getting ready to put his boots on instead of setting fire to the backyard. I don't think he's going to jump, but my latest assumptions haven't exactly been spot on. I remain vigilant. At least, until I get to know my new client better.

  The hunting bow lies discarded on the roof shingles. Steven used his last arrow with his previous shot after lighting the end with a lighter. The arrow cut the night air with a zing and stuck in the upright target at the edge of the lake. The flames were instant and impressive. He’d soaked the target with combustible fluid. I watched it burn and begin to crumble. Bits of paper and ash drifted to the small wooden dock over the lake. Steven didn’t seem to notice or care that the deck could erupt into flames. He takes a last hit off the cigarette and flicks the butt over the edge of the roof into space. Steven retraces his path and grabs his backpack. He settles down again near the edge, facing the backyard and the water beyond. His hands are steady and precise as he folds five paper airplanes by starlight. Lights from inside the house provide a faint glow across the lawn. Crooked shadows from trees and bushes reach for the still water of the lake behind the house.

  I gauge about a twenty-foot drop to the flowering shrubs below the eaves of the house. Not much cushion, really, should say a teenaged male accidentally fall off the roof and land in the yard. I glance back to my client. Steven flicks the metal lid open on the cigarette lighter, thumbs the igniter, and the airplane wings catch fire. He throws.

  The plane doesn’t glide with much, or any, grace over the yard. The wings shrivel into curling, charred paper as the plane spirals and crashes to the lawn. My client watches with the same indifference he showed toward the burning target on the dock. There's no apparent joy or pleasure from his actions, but he must be getting something from this destructive behavior, because he throws another one. This time, he only lights the back of the paper plan
e. He aims toward the patio and the plane circles slightly before landing on a hot tub cover. It singes the vinyl and burns out. Number three is another calculated throw, and I get a sense of what he’s going for. We watch together, even though he has no idea I’m his uninvited guest. Angels of Death are rarely ever acknowledged by the living. It’s how this gig works.

  The third plane burns out before it lands in a copper fire bowl at the back corner of the patio. Steven holds up the fourth plane and stares at it for a long quiet moment. With another turn of the thumb wheel, his lighter flares to life. He places the tip of the flame to the corner of each wing before aiming at the fire pot. It's a direct hit and the tinder inside the large bowl catches with a whooshing gust of orange and yellow flames. The small explosion raises my eyebrows and I pass Steven the contemplative side eye in an attempt to understand what this young pyromaniac is thinking and feeling. He's finally showing some emotion. His cynical gaze is narrowed and there’s a slight smirk twitching the corner of his lips.

  The back door of the house slams open. A screechy female voice yells, "Steven! You are in so much trouble.” Her head tips upward. “Get off the damn roof right this instant."

  There’s more yelling from below, but I tune her out and stick by my client’s side. He backs away, grabs his pack and bow, and heads to the open window in the dormer on the other side of the roof. With the bow in front of him, he aims toward the bed and chucks it inside. Something slips from either his hand or pocket. There’s a small clink and a scraping sound as the item slides down the roof shingles. Steven lands on his knees and dives after the fallen article. A flash of silver glints in the starlight before Steven’s hand clasps around it. He falls forward, sprawling across the roof with his head hanging over the edge.

  I react before thinking about the consequences of my actions, and grab ahold of his ankles. I heave backward until he’s able to clamber onto his hands and knees. Steven jerks out of my grip and scrambles through the open window, where he collapses into a tangled heap on the floor.

  "Steady there," I say as I climb in after him. With little regard to his shock, I not so gently heft him off the floor and deposit him on the bed.

  The thudding of determined footsteps rattle the walls as someone pounds up the stairs.

  "Your father is going to hear about this!" The same shrieking female voice from the backyard is outside the bedroom door. "I am so sick and tired of your crap. Don't ignore me. I know you're in there."

  "Is she your mom?" I ask in a low voice.

  He's staring at me like an open-mouthed numbskull as he recovers from the fact that I miraculously materialized from thin air and saved his butt from falling off the roof — which I did, but he needs to snap out of it.

  "Is she coming in?" I ask.

  "It's locked." He pries his gaze from mine to glance at the rattling doorknob.

  "You're not going to get away with this! You're a canker sore on my ass, you know that?" she says.

  With a final jerk of the door handle, the foot stomping retreats back from where it had originated.

  "I’ve got to get out of here." Steven glances around his bedroom. His tongue passes over dry lips before he rises from the bed. He retrieves the fallen backpack from the floor and begins to stuff it full of clothes and personal items from the dresser and closet.

  At the window, he turns to ask, "What were you doing on my roof?"

  "Watching you shoot flaming arrows."

  "Are you going to have me busted or something?"

  "Wasn't planning on it," I say.

  He appraises me with a cool unreadable glare before ducking through the open window without further ado.

  There’s two reasons I follow him outside. One, so I'm not left standing alone in a stranger’s house, and two, because it's my job. I'm the lucky Angel of Death who babysits suicidal head cases and shows them the way to the afterlife should they need it. I shouldn't complain. This afterlife job has given me something I never thought I would have: the missing half of my soul and the entire contents of my heart. Her name is Juliana Crowson, and if it hadn't been for my angel duties, I wouldn't have met her. I also wouldn't currently be seeking my replacement, either.

  You see, love has a way of finagling itself into every crevice of your being. Love weaves millions of ultra-fine iridescent threads tightly together so you are utterly and forever bound to the person who holds your heart. I accept that I am bound to Juliana. I chose her the first moment I saw her and I vividly recall the feeling of the first strings being tied around my heart. She is my light. She is my dark. She is everything worth living for. Which is why I'm looking for someone to take my place as an Angel of Death and trade for his life. Trading would give me the opportunity to live with Juliana as a man and not as a spirit. How am I going to find this person? That's my quandary, isn't it? Eternity in servitude isn't exactly most people's idea of heaven.

  But there must be a way. I need someone who is just bizarre and unconventional enough to agree to trade places with me. I’m determined to find this oddball person. Liam, a former Angel of Death, succeeded at falling. I have to assume he forced his replacement to submit to him, but unlike Liam, I'm not a violent person. I won't make someone trade with me, but I will find a way to make it happen. To have my life back and be with Juliana in the flesh would be worth any and every sacrifice. As far as I can tell, Steven hasn't realized I'm not a living human, and for the sake of keeping things simple, I'm not telling him. Not yet.

  Steven crouches next to the southwest corner of the roof. He rolls over onto his stomach and lets his legs hang over the side before sliding over the edge. I follow his lead and lower myself down. My foot finds the brackets for the drain spout, then a lower window ledge, and finally the railing on the front porch. He lands on the deck below with a light thump of soft-soled shoes, but not knowing the way, I stumble into a large pot of flowers. The decorative pot tips and spills pink and white flowers and potting soil onto the porch.

  Steven shakes his head with contempt at my clumsiness before turning and hurrying off the porch into the driveway. With hurried movements, I scoop up the mess and right the sideways flowerpot. The front door opens and I decide a little of my angel powers can be helpful in certain circumstances. I release my physical form so the angry woman doesn't see me.

  She steps outside. Her gaze zeroes in on the spilled dirt and her nostrils flare. In the wash of yellow-tinted porch light, she appears not only pissed off but also frazzled with her fluffy blonde hair askew and dark smudges below red-rimmed eyes. Her voice screeches into the phone held up to her ear. Every word echoes across the yard as she rants into the phone. I hurry to catch up with Steven.

  "He's sneaking out of the house again. I know he has nowhere else to go, but I can't live with your son anymore. You need to make him leave."

  The engine turns over and starts as I stand next to the car door. I let myself in and sit on the passenger seat.

  "Why are you following me?" Steven asks.

  "I need a ride," I say.

  "You don't want to ride with me," he says.

  "Sure, I do."

  "I appreciate the save earlier, but get out."

  "Your mom’s headed this way," I say.

  The blonde lady comes into view, waving the phone in front of her.

  Steven glances up, sees the crazed look on her face, and shifts the car into gear.

  “You’re going straight to hell if you don’t talk to your father!” she yells.

  We pull out of the driveway, leaving a spray of gravel in our wake. When we're out of sight of the house, Steven pulls over. There are a few other lake houses, but they sit far from the road and the street is void of any light in this remote, but exclusive subdivision. The glow of red dash lights illuminates my client’s face.

  "I gave you a ride. Now, get out."

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter and a box of cigarettes. He lights one and then fiddles with the metal lid of the lighter case. The repetitive
clicking sound fills the otherwise quiet interior of his two-door coupe. Steven cracks his window before switching on the car stereo.

  "Where did you learn to shoot a bow like that?" I ask.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Nathan," I say. Until I get to know my client better, I'm hesitant to give him my full name. Once he knows it, he can call me to him whenever he chooses. Being able to summon me is powerful. For now, I'm uncertain he’s earned the right and responsibility. Tonight is my first meeting with Steven and I'm still new to these cases. Having worked with only a handful, I don't have any point of reference or much experience with suicidal clients. Being the newbie on the job is about as sucky as it sounds.

  "Are you some kind of stalker or something? I'm not into that shit, so go away."

  "I'm new around here. I saw you on the roof and thought I'd check it out."

  It wasn't a lie, but there were some critical details left out. Steven gives me a look that says he isn't buying my story.

  "Your mom's a piece of work," I say.

  I have to try something to get Steven to relax and talk to me. Maybe stalking him isn't the best decision I've ever made, but like I said, this is all new to me. The four other suicide cases were completely different from one another. Two died before I could do anything about it and the other two were journeys of misadventure. Not fun. So far tonight, this is resembling the latter.

  "She's not my mother."

  "Sorry. I didn't know."

  "She's my nightmare."

  "Apparently so," I agree. At least he's talking and not insisting I leave.

  The thought came too soon as he says, "I don't owe you anything."

  "Never said you did."

  "But you're thinking it, right? Save the neighbor from falling off the roof and maybe he'll hook you up or something?" Steven stares through the windshield, fingers wrapped stiffly around the wheel.

  "No," I say.

  "I don't care if I fall off a stupid roof. You should have let me."