The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR AARON PATTERSON

  AIREL

  “Move over, Twilight! Here comes Aaron Patterson!”

  —Joshua Graham, bestselling author of Beyond Justice and Darkroom

  “I was surprised by how much I really, really liked this book. I have not jumped on the whole ‘fallen angel’ bandwagon, just as I didn’t jump on all of the vampire stories that came out after Twilight. This is not your typical fallen angel story. It is one that has left me breathlessly waiting for the next one in the series. Hurry up, please!!!”

  —Sandra Stiles

  “It takes rare talent for a man to write a novel from a male POV and have it published to great critical and commercial acclaim. But it takes a miracle for that same male, or in this case, males, to write a novel from the POV of a teenage girl and have it turn out as incredibly as did the new StoneHouse YA by Aaron Patterson and Chris White, Airel. From the first sentence, I felt compelled to dive into this young woman’s story, and just as importantly, I felt like I personally knew her, which means I laughed, stressed, and cried right along with her. A beautifully written and crafted fiction about teenage innocence, faith, loss, and love. A must read for teens and adults alike.”

  —Vincent Zandri, international bestselling author of The Remains, The Innocent, and Concrete Pearl.

  “An amazing story that will captivate audiences ranging from young adult to the young at heart! Airel crosses boundaries in a fascinating and unforgettable way to engage readers within a story that will not soon be forgotten!”

  —Amazon Reviewer

  “I am happy to say that this novel is one of my favorites of its kind. I never thought I could read a novel like this and be so swept away. I am always willing to try new books, but I usually steer clear of this kind of novel. Not anymore. Not when I can be so engrossed into the character’s story, like I was with the beautiful Airel, that before I know, it’s over. I kept turning the pages, wanting, no, NEEDING, to know what was going to happen next.”

  —Molly Edwards, Willow Spring, NC

  “The word ‘enjoyed’ somehow doesn’t express, in a positive light, what this book, The Airel Saga, Book 1, gave me. I loved the book and can hardly wait for the sequel! Though the storyline is about Airel’s teenage experience, I, at 75, truly enjoyed the read and was able to identify with her. As it happened to Airel, I felt it was happening to me.”

  —Amazon Reviewer

  ACCLAIM FOR CHRIS WHITE

  THE MARSBURG DIARY

  “Yikes. This is one well-written and very strange book which will pique your interest from beginning to end. The author does a masterful job of moving you between centuries as you read two different point-of -view stories about one very unusual book. The telling of the tale, as found in the father’s diary from the 1800s, is very well portrayed and the writer has you believing you are actually back in that time period. Stepping forward to today, you experience the son’s horror as he reads both his father’s diary and the unusual book, and discovers it is currently driving him into the same mindset it created in his father... near insanity. This is one roller coaster of a read and is sure to delight fans of the occult, supernatural occurrences, and mystery. A solid 4 1/2 star read.”

  —POIA, Top Amazon Reviewer

  “A story that conjures mystery, suspense, and dark evils, THE MARSBURG DIARY is a page turner. White calls on the spirit of Steven King, Jules Verne, and Edgar Allen Poe to create a contemporary story that is as compelling as it is enduring. Marsburg learns of his father’s past through a diary, a past filled with horror and mystery. But history doesn’t stay in the past and visits Marsburg, sending him into his own thrilling adventures. THE MARSBURG DIARY is to AIREL what Torchwood is to Doctor Who: a grownup, stay-up-late, dark theme on a masterful series.”

  —Peter Leavell, Meridian, ID

  “I really love Chris White’s writing. He’s extremely talented and he is quickly becoming a favorite of mine.”

  —Michelle Vasquez, Life in Review

  Also by Aaron Patterson

  Sweet Dreams (Book 1)

  Dream On (Book 2)

  In Your Dreams (Book 3)

  Breaking Steele

  Twisting Steele

  Melting Steele

  Airel (Book 1)

  Airel (Book 2)

  Michael (Book 3)

  Michael (Book 4)

  Uriel (Book 5)

  Uriel (Book 6)

  19 (Digital Short)

  The Craigslist Killer (Digital Short)

  Zombie High (Digital Short)

  Elena’s Secret: A Vampire Diaries story

  Also by Chris White

  Airel (Book 1)

  Airel (Book 2)

  Michael (Book 3)

  Michael (Book 4)

  Uriel (Book 5)

  Uriel (Book 6)

  Kreios (Book 7)

  The Marsburg Diary (Book 1, an Airel Saga novella)

  The Wagner Diary (Book 2, an Airel Saga novella)

  The Falkenhayn Diary (Book 3, an Airel Saga novella)

  The Great Jammy Adventure of the Flying Cowboy (a children’s book)

  LAMENT

  Fell from paradise immortal race

  Fell from heaven stars, fell grace

  Fell from love’s presence for beauty

  Buried with beauty be

  Fell from eternity, shackled in time

  Festering fouling deception sublime

  Under sun words of cursing crashed

  Consequence immortality smashed

  Yet survived in blaze of love

  Secret offspring rooted above

  Rift began, a new race ran…

  PROLOGUE

  IN MY DREAMS I was always in control. I was always the person I wanted to be. There were no limitations—there was nobody to tell me I couldn’t. I could be myself, beautiful by my definition—the only definition that mattered.

  But those were my dreams.

  Real life was different. Being seventeen, I was old enough to suspect that adults were lying to me when they told me to “shoot for the stars” or that “you can be anything you want to be.” I knew there was something behind the scenes that wasn’t being said, and it was the same thing that was going on behind the eyes of most boys in my school when they happened to see anything walking the halls that was even remotely feminine.

  Secrets, in other words.

  Adults had secrets. I had the feeling that only experience was going to unlock these mysteries.

  I was unable to fit in anywhere—and it wasn’t from a lack of trying—so it was hard not to feel like any dreams I had were just a cruel illusion that life had been busily counting down all this time just so that it could explode on the launch pad.

  All I wanted was to be left alone, to be free to live my own life. It pissed me off that life was already so unfair.

  I was walking on a path in a huge wooded clearing, a high alpine meadow. My dad had taken me on lots of camping trips before, up into the Idaho mountains, up to Redfish Lake and the Sawtooths. Though I knew some of those unpeopled landscapes like the back of my hand, the place in my dream was better. It was familiar, but also insupportable somehow, like it didn’t belong, and I was both dreaming it for the millionth time and for the very first time all at once.

  The path I walked was in the shape of a big ring, a perfect circle, bigger than the football field at my school. The path cut deep through tall wildflowers, its shape beckoning me onward to the next part of the circle, just out of sight. I was ambling on the circuit of the path and there wasn’t much to it, which made me happy. I
t was simple, like walking around this circle was what I was made to do. My existence meant walking along this dark rut, my hands brushing along through the bright petals of wild daisies.

  But then the dream changed. It darkened.

  There were people. They were shadows, ethereal. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew they were standing, watching me. I couldn’t tell who they were, but I knew them nevertheless. The images skipped and popped and shuddered and it was clear to me that their haziness was because of me, because of something I hadn’t yet done but was going to do soon. It was clear that whatever was decided, whatever was done, would determine which of each of these shadow identities prevailed.

  That’s when I felt him.

  And that’s when I knew that the something that was different in this dream was bad. Dark. I wasn’t in control here. There was someone who … or something that … wasn’t supposed to be here.

  I felt him draw nearer to me, and then I could see him flickering and shimmering like the others—two identities fighting over one body. I could see his eyes clearly. They terrified me; they were an emulsion of love and murder.

  He was impossible.

  One of his faces was a death masque. Destruction pooled under it, ebbing outward in heavy ripples of blackness like tar.

  His second face was light and love and power, and the juxtaposition of these two overwhelmed me.

  He moved swiftly, cutting into my circle and standing before me on the path. I stopped, overwhelmed, and looked at him. And then I understood. It was just as plain and inescapable and final as it had felt when we buried my grampa. This man, the man with two faces, was going to be the man who killed me.

  CHAPTER I

  Boise, Idaho—Present Day

  I WOKE WITH A horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it never really occurred to me to ask why. My eyes still closed, I lay there in the non-moment of time between dreaming and waking, feeling the familiar tension. It was familiar because I always felt it. Why, though … why that feeling? It was like I was missing something. What is it?

  But then I saw the clock and snapped out of dreamland.

  I smacked the alarm button. It had been buzzing for half an hour—half an hour that I could have used, dang it, but sometimes it takes a girl a while to gather her strength. It was time to finally drag my sorry butt out of bed.

  I always had trouble waking up for school, because school was the last place I wanted to be. The last place I fit. Since the weather had been playing nice lately in a refreshing little reprise of summer, I dreaded being cooped up in pointless classes all day long.

  My feet hit the carpet, and I sat on the edge of the bed with zombie eyes. I must have slept weird. Or dreamed even weirder. My body was refusing to respond; it was like waking up as a cotton ball in an unopened family-size package of them. My numb limbs wanted nothing to do with this morning business. Come on, Airel, no time to be dragging. If you hurry, you can stop for coffee, I promised myself.

  I stood up and looked in the mirror that hung on the wall next to the bathroom door. Its unflinching honesty shouted at me that I was really two people—my idea of who I was contrasted strikingly with reality.

  My eyes were puffy and red, and my hair was down around my shoulders in frizzy brown tangles. I dared to look closer. Dark circles anchored dull brown irises. “Ugh.” I rubbed them, trying to wake up. On an impulse I cracked a salesman’s smile at my reflection, watching my face light up with artificial enthusiasm. That made me laugh out loud. I would have looked ridiculous to anyone watching me. I felt ridiculous. “Whatever,” I said to the mirror girl. “I have a great smile. If I have to use it to wake myself up, you can just get over it.” But whoa, my breath sure needed help.

  “Airel, are you up?” Mom was chirping up the stairs at me.

  “Yeah,” I yelled through the door.

  “School is in twenty minutes, honey. You need to eat something today. If you keep skipping breakfast, you’ll ...”

  The words trailed off in the same mom-ish rant I heard every day on the importance of breakfast. I grabbed my toothbrush and yelled back, “But I’m not hungry, Mom,” hoping that would end it, knowing it wouldn’t.

  After my breath had become nontoxic, I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans, putting them together with a dark-blue shirt that my buddy Kim had picked up the day before at the mall. “If Kim’s not gonna wear it, then I will.” I pulled the tags off, sealing the deal, checking my look in the mirror. I ran a hand through my hair a couple of times, pulled half of it back, and held it in place with a funky clip I’d bought years ago at a small boutique downtown.

  I checked the mirror again. “Darn you, zit. Looks like it’s a foundation day.” I brushed it on quickly, figuring I could maybe finish the job with some eyeliner in the parking lot before class. At times like these, I was a little jealous of how easy life could be for guys. All they had to do was throw on whatever clothes were lying around and walk out the door. But girls practically had to create a masterpiece.

  Oh, to be a guy. But then I’d have to be a guy.

  As I pulled back my curtain and looked through the glass into the front yard, I was glad to see the sun would be making an appearance again. The good weather was holding—for today, anyway. Around here, the weather was about as reliable as the people who reported it. I checked my bag for the requisite books, makeup, and extra clothes—just in case we had a stupid track day in gym. We were forced to run once a week, and all it did was make me sweaty and gross.

  Five minutes from the time my feet had hit the floor, I slid them into my customary flip-flops and zipped out the front door. I was in my trusty Honda and on my way to school, or as I liked to call it, hell. Okay, I didn’t really think it was hell, but it had days that felt like it. I turned the radio on. I was in the mood for music this morning, which had its implications. That either means today’s gonna rock, or that it’s gonna suck. It all depended on what the DJ was playing right then. Happily, it was easy for me to take the first option as my favorite band came through the speakers, and I tapped my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

  I was running a little late, even though I’d clocked a record time getting out of the house. But I had a wicked craving for a coconut latte, and I had promised one to myself. I checked the time on my phone again and decided my coffee obsession would be worth a tardy.

  I pulled into Moxie Java, my car shrieking to a stop in the parking space—the line in the drive-through was too long—and the obnoxious squeal reminded me once again that I needed to have Dad do my brakes. I should have asked him to do it last weekend, but it rained the whole time, so the job got bumped. Plus, my dad was out of town more often than most dads were, so there was no telling when I’d be able to drive my car without suffering at least a little embarrassment.

  I was a diehard fan of Moxie Java. Coffee, coconut—what wasn’t there to like? The gunko they served at Starbucks could peel the paint off walls. I liked good coffee—not burnt gunko, and not creepy green mermaids. As I ran to the front door to get in line, I found to my dismay that the place was packed. Looks like late just turned to criminally late. I looked behind the bar and saw that Lacey, my latte buddy, was working today. She smiled at me, feigning a panicked look and nodding to the line of groggy people she was trying to serve. I was a regular, so she knew my drink. We had a good system worked out: she would have my drink ready before I made it through the line to the register, and I always gave her a nice tip for her extra-speedy work.

  I didn’t want to look at the time, but thankfully, the line moved quickly. With latte in hand, I turned, flipping my hair out of my eyes. It was part of the grab-pay-and-go move that Lacey and I had so carefully worked out and I was late for school, so I was in a Big Fat Hurry.

  As I took that first step toward the door, a boy was coming in. I couldn’t help but notice him. He was unlike any other person I had ever seen. It wasn’t just his appearance, though my brain registered that he was strikingly gorgeous. There w
as more to him than that. Something magnetic. He was tall, and his short blond hair stood up on his head in soft spikes above his icy blue eyes. Those eyes were looking right at me, and I felt my heart jump as I realized I was staring.

  I could feel my face flush, my heart pounding in my chest. He smiled at me as he passed by and got in line.

  I kept moving—blindly—and crashed into some poor old man, dumping my precious coconut latte all over both him and me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Oh, no. I, uh …”

  The poor, innocent man looked at me in confusion that turned to amusement as I pawed clumsily at his soaked overcoat, apologizing. I looked around for some napkins. My heart raced faster as a hand reached over my shoulder with about ten of them. I turned and followed the hand up the arm, and at the other end of that arm was him. He was standing behind me, and my mouth went dry.

  I then promptly did something I never did: turned to a puddle of mush. I was a fumbling idiot. The boy with ice for eyes smiled at me, and I felt my face grow hot. “Let me,” he said.

  Like a moron, I gawked at the napkins and did nothing. I wanted to die. The unfortunate man took the napkins and sopped the coffee from his coat. He insisted that it was no big deal. “Happens to the best of us,” he said.

  My legs were shaking; I was freezing. I wanted to get out of there. I was losing it. I looked around, then down at my feet. Mr. Napkins was wiping splattered coffee off my naked toes. He handed me my empty coffee cup.

  Finally, I spoke. “Thank you. I, um …” There they were, the only words I could manage—nice, Airel. What brilliance. I held my empty cup and he rose, nodded with a smile, and before I knew what had happened, he was gone. Poof. Whoosh. Just gone.

  I managed to make it out the door and into the driver’s seat of my car without killing anyone. What was all that about? It was as if I turned into one of those silly, boy-crazy girls everyone avoided at school. At least I would never have to see him again. Thank God for small miracles.