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  DESCENDANT

  L.J. AMODEO

  DESCENDANT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright @ 2010 by Liana J. Amodeo

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN: 978-0-9859161-1-4 (print)

  ISBN: 978-0-9859161-0-7 (eBook)

  [Angels and demons – Fiction. 2. Paranormal – Fiction

  3. Romance – Fiction 4. Saints – Fiction]

  This text is set in 12 -point Times New Roman

  Book cover design by Albert Noce

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  For my beloved mother, my angel, Maria Epifania Venuto, whose love, strength and beauty has always encouraged me to be brave and never stop dreaming.

  Acknowledgments

  To my husband Damian, who has supported my project from the very start and who has magically kept the house quiet during my countless hours of writing and creating––thank you for your dedication, love and encouragement. You always told me I had something special in me to share. You are my rock. To my children, Joseph, Victoria and Juliana, for all your love, help and insight with each developing character and for your wildly imaginative suggestions. Victoria––my beautiful poetic writer . . . you have a passion for writing and creating music. I hope that one day, you too, will find it in you to create something so brilliant that it opens up doors you thought would never be possible. To Franny, you have been my biggest supporter and cheerleader reading every edit and change made since day one. You never gave up on me. To my family Francesca, Amanda and MisterGio, thank you for always believing in me. Tony Gaudio, thank you for the endless emails for copies. Mike Massa and Al Linea, I admire your passions for the arts and thank you for your encouragement. Albert Noce, I could not have done this without your support, talent, computer expertise and dedication. Thank you! Finally, to an amazing woman and her team, my editor Erica Orloff and Editing for Authors. I am so thrilled I had the opportunity to work with you. You are an inspiration your encouragement, advice and dedication helped turn unlikely dreams into realities.

  Descendant

  Chapter 1: Broken

  They stood on the edge of the ocean; storm clouds still loomed overhead . . .

  A Message from Archangel Michael

  Iawoke again with a headache and the same dream. Visions of my father sitting beside me as I played Beethoven’sSilenceon the baby grand. “Brava” he’d applaud, kissing my hair with a grin as big as the sun. I missed him.

  I peered out my bedroom window, squinting at the sun occasionally peeking through the pasty clouds. Feeling sluggish from a restless night’s sleep, I thought about my father and my dreams, reliving the last time I ever saw him. It was getting harder to remember him as the kind, loving father who nurtured me as a child. Now, my memories were of a man who freaked out in front of me; a man who shouted obscenities instead of praises. He had become a stranger who spoke in obscure languages that he’d never spoken before. Languages that haunted me, as well. I was broken. I sat motionless on my bed, wondering why a man who walked out on us eight years ago still haunted my dreams.

  I made my way down to the kitchen. "Come on, Prince, let’s go, boy!" I called to my shepherd. Mom clanked plates in the kitchen, cooking bacon and what smelt like burnt toast for breakfast. A fresh pot of coffee brewed on the stove. I stood quietly in the doorway watching Mom, a petite, slender woman with chestnut eyes and bobbed caramel hair, fuss at the stove, while Prince sat motionless at my side.

  “Mornin,’ Mom.” I said hoarsely, rubbing my temple and breaking her concentration. She gasped, caught off guard at the sound of my voice, “Oh! “You startled me,” she said, turning her attention back to the sizzling bacon.

  I settled at the kitchen table looking out the bay window. Fixated with the grass that swayed leisurely in the late summer breeze to music that strummed through our small kitchen radio.

  “This arrived for you this morning.” Mom whispered, pulling an envelope from her apron pocket. Avoiding my eyes, she handed me an envelope that appeared nearly ancient. I stared at her for several seconds, waiting for her to say something more. Instead, she sat at the table, eyes staring blankly down at her hot cup of tea. I wondered who the letter was from or what news it delivered. I stroked the delicate, creamy envelope written in neat calligraphy and addressed to me,Elizabeth Anne Morgan.

  With a heavy heart, I hoped it was from my father, congratulating me for my scholarship or telling me he was sorry for leaving, or perhaps writing to say he was coming home. I opened the sealed envelope carefully, so as not to tear its contents inside, and found a note written on delicate papyrus, inscribed withOHT on its letterhead. But it wasn’t a congratulatory letter. It was a curt note informing me of my father’s untimely death. It simply stated that he had died, without a signature, less a mention of empathy.Is this a joke? I thought, as my face flushed with fury––staring questioningly at my mother, who could only look down at her hands, now a thin layer of delicate skin coating her fragile bones. Indignantly, I examined the envelope, turning it from front to back and front again, looking for something more. The envelope bore no return address, not even a stamp of origin.

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but . . .” Mom whispered. I was infuriated. I didn’t know what to say or how to feel.

  “Don’t be!” I choked, crumbling the note in my fist, and throwing it across the floor before storming out of the house. My life went from bad to worse.

  “Beth! Wait, talk to me. Beth, I’m so sorry!” She yelled out the front door as I ran to my car.

  The Jeep’s engine roared to life and I sped off toward the town of Angelica leaving only a cloud of pebbles and dirt in my wake. Wiping away my tears, I was mad as hell. Who would be so insensitive to send such a cruel letter?I wondered how long Mom had known about this. Dad had broken her heart, but I was his daughter and deserved to know, just as well, if he was dead or alive. I wiped away strands of hair that flapped freely across my face as the wind swirled through the window, causing lose strands to stick where tears had stained my cheeks. My head pounded, while my vision blurred beneath pools of tears. Recklessly, I accelerated my speed as I steered the Jeep around a bend in the road. Suddenly, without warning, the words “eam adventum” hissed in my ear. Frightened, I turned to the empty passenger seat, as if someone unsuspectingly was seated next to me. Chills rippled down my back at the sound of the steely voice, when out of nowhere, an image in the likeness of a deity stood unmoving in my path, like a deer in headlights. On the empty road ahead, he stood beautifully against the brilliant painted sky.“It’s coming,” the voice hissed again, but this time from somewhere outside the car window. My foot jammed on the brakes, and my tires screeched against the tarred pavement to an abrupt halt. The pungent smell of burnt rubber quickly replaced the scent of the Cinna-Berry air-freshener that dangled from my rearview mirror. I strained my eyes, blinking to get a better look at the incredible vision up ahead. He looked toward my vehicle but then vanished. Instantly, my eyes darted left and right, scouring every inch of the desolate street. Stunned and unable to move, I gripped the steering wheel while the engine purred quietly on the vacant roadway. Slowly, I pressed on the locks, making sure the doors were securely bolted as fear slithered up my body. Again, my eyes scoured the area for the divine figure, but it was clear, I was alone. I rubbed my eyes, steadying my breathing, convinced it was a hallucination or maybe some kind of sign. An inter
vention.

  Growing up, I believed in guardian angels. My grandmother Anne, God rest her soul, always said that we each have one. That these angels guide and walk among us every day. That they look the same as you and me. When I was a little girl, she’d tell me stories about the chosen ones specially selected by a higher power, who were given a gift to speak with spirits. These intimate conversations were a connection between our world and the paranormal one, granting only the gifted with an ability to hear messages from departed or lost souls. These messages came in many forms. For some in words, for others in symbols, images, dreams, and even voices. She’d tell me that it took an exceptional kind of person to hear or see these entities for who or what they truly were, whether it is good or evil. Not just anyone could expose them. At first, I believed my grandmother was a wonderful storyteller. I never believed any of it to be true. But, I’m no longer a skeptic. It took me a long time to figure that out. I knew that there indeed were chosen ones with a gift to communicate with spirits. I knew this, because I was one of them.

  Pressing on the accelerator I pulled away, wondering if this celestial seraph who crossed my path today was my angel, and perhaps my angel was my father.

  Chapter 2: Tabula Rasa

  We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.

  Joseph Campbell

  With a knot in my stomach, I headed toward Angelica’s Public Library. It was the closest place to find solace, allowing me some time to think of the sudden news of my father. I had planned to visit the library, anyway, due to a research paper I had to complete for my summer college prep course. I opted to take summer classes since Mom hadn’t planned a vacation for us again this year. The course got me out of doing tedious house chores or gardening work for my neighbor, old Mrs. Lynbrook. The town of Angelica was not far from where I lived. My home was in Caneadea, a town in Allegany, that got its name from the Seneca Indians meaning "Where heaven’s rest upon the earth." It’s a fairly small town with a population of about 1,000. The undisturbed beauty that surrounded Allegany County was a painted canvas against the bright northern sky, while silvery nights shimmered across Rushford Lake with brilliant splendor.

  I parked in front of the library and grabbed two aspirin from my bag hoping to quiet my pounding headache and tension. My nerves began to ebb as I gazed over the tranquil beauty of this quaint town I admired from the library steps. I sent my mother a text that I had arrived; knowing she’d be worried about my abrupt departure from this morning’s upsetting news. At times, her insistency to know my every move irked me, and I desperately wanted to rush time so that I could go off to college and be on my own, far from Caneadea. However kind and generous Mom was, there just came a time in my day when I looked forward to being alone: me, my journal, and my music.

  The library looked like any other brick structure of its time; square, massive, and very much like the Old National Bank. Four limestone steps cradled between six massive columns led to the doorway entry. I stepped inside when, unsuspecting flickers of an ancient warrior flashed before my eyes. I stood frozen in the foyer, unsure of what I had seen. It was so sudden that I wouldn’t have been able to describe him clearly, but I knew he was magnificent. I considered the vision to be that of my recent interest for the antiquities, similar to Homer’s, Odysseus. I planned to note the vision in my journal along with the encounter I had on the road earlier today.

  Still shaken, I rubbed my throbbing temple, hoping the aspirin would take effect soon and get rid of the nagging pain. Yet another gnawing feeling surfaced, this time in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps, it was school jitters or the unsettling reality that summer was almost over and I’d be starting yet another year of high school. The idea of going back to a stodgy Houghton Academy sickened me.

  The library was dimly lit and musty. Ornate pillars stretched up to the fifteen-foot ceilings allowing the soft glow of sunlight to stream through its massive windows. Intricately carved bookshelves made of dark ebony were well stacked with books of all genres.

  I searched for books about twentieth-century composers, finding several interpretations on the account. Removing two books from the shelf, I walked over to a large mahogany table and sat alone, taking out my journal, writing pad and pen. Freely, my pen moved in formation, drawing the same pattern that was engraved into the fine leather of my journal. The symbol floated in my mind frequently, giving me the strangest feeling of having a remarkably powerful meaning. I set my journal aside, making no attempts to begin working on my research paper. Instead, I scoured the room noticing an elderly gentleman holding Morrison’sBelovedin his thin, creased hands, while he slept peacefully upright in his seat. A fifty-ish woman dabbed her tears while reading,The Shack,saddened by the murder of a young girl, and a man of thirty-something seemed intrigued by two things: Camus'sThe Stranger—and me.This middle-aged pervert intrusively peered over his book, ogling at me in a creepy way––I could almost read his offensive thoughts. I glared back at the pervert for a few long seconds before turning away, startled at the sudden transformation of his meddling eyes. With unsettling thoughts of him floating in my head, I forced myself to look away, wishing I were somewhere else.

  I had no desire to open a book or begin scanning through the pages of useless, boring information. I would have much rather been swimming at the lake, riding my bike through the wooded trails, or sitting under a tree at the park, writing. I would have preferred to be anywhere but here. As an incessant procrastinator, I wasted time dreaming about my senior year at Houghton. I was never much of a socialite in school. It wasn’t easy for me to make friends, especially after my father left. I knew I wasn’t like the other kids. I was different. It took a while for me to understand why, until the moment I heard the voices. In the beginning, they scared the hell out of me. They still do at times. At first, I thought I was going crazy––like my dad. I didn’t know what to make of them or how to handle it. The voices began shortly after my mom bought me the beautiful leather journal with the symbol of trinity nodes on its cover. She hoped that the journal would help me express my thoughts, anger, and pain that I kept bottled up since the day my dad left. Instead, the journal triggered the voices that first came as soft whispers, like a gentle wind at night. These muddled whispers became louder, making it impossible to sleep or focus. I couldn’t tune them out. They wouldn’t let me. I’d cry myself to sleep, shivering under the comfort of my blanket, never mentioning these voices to anyone. Not even my closest and only friend, Freddie.

  Over time, as the voices became a constant presence in my life, making friends was even harder. I learned never to look into the eyes of my schoolmates. I didn’t want them to know my secret. I didn’t care to know theirs. So I shut down, pushing away anyone who tried to become my friend. Houghton Academy was a boarding school, as well as a day school for sixth to twelfth graders. Each year new students enrolled into its drama, art, publishing, or music programs. In middle school, I applied for the academy and received a full scholarship to Houghton’s music program. I didn’t plan to continue my high school education in a private academy, especially since tuition was costly. Had I not received a full scholarship, I would not have been able to afford Houghton Academy after dad walked out. I never found anyone at the Academy to be of much interest. They were mostly rich, spoiled kids coming from all parts of the east coast, driving their fancy cars or showing off the latest versions of the iPhone. I didn’t drive an expensive car, and I used my mom’s hand-me-down cellphone. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about fitting in with the clones at school. I kept to myself.

  Since the start of high school, I’d sit alone in the back of the classroom, taking a desk closest to the window. The window was my outlet, an escape from my own painful reality. Staring out at the road, I’d wonder what life was like outside of Caneadea’s town limits. Outside of the voices that haunted me. I promised myself to one day follow that road that would
eventually lead me out to a world of endless possibilities. To a place where nobody knew my name or my secret. Besides, most of the students I’ve gone to school with considered me a freak, a loner. It was by choice that I didn’t have any friends, mostly acquaintances, apart from one—Freddie Albrizio.

  For most of the fourth grade at Rushford Elementary, Freddie sat next to me. He volunteered to be my only friend, never bothered with the other kids that continuously teased me at school. He probably pitied me at first, but nonetheless, I didn’t have the heart to shoo him away, so I just let him leech on every now and then. Over time, Freddie became my protector against the bullies who’d tease me about being a freak or laughed at my mismatched clothes. He’d be the one I’d cry to whenever I was upset about my dad or complaining about my mom’s obsessive need to protect me. I wasn’t always a despondent kid, not until my father left, anyway. At first, my reluctance to tell Mom about my new friend Freddie, was biting at my nerves, knowing she’d find something wrong with him. Praying she wouldn’t. To my surprise, she liked him. And so did I.

  By middle school, Freddie and I were inseparable. We made a pact to run away together to our favorite sanctuary on the planet, the Middle Falls in Castile, if life became overwhelming or too disappointing. Middle Falls was one area in Allegany that was still as untouched and natural, as it was for the natives that occupied it centuries ago. The land had never been altered or tampered with by loggers or homebuilders. We went there often on trips with Freddie’s family and my mom when we were younger. It had become my sacred covert, my sanctuary for writing.