Love Bites Then it Sucks by Julie Steimle (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

“Now, this does not mean that only evil people run and good people stay and greet us. Not at all, actually,” George explained, quickly getting out of the seat when a nurse dropped into it to take the weight off her feet. George headed towards me, gesturing we leave the room now as the job there was done. “But that those people who feel guilt are most likely to run. I have meant plenty of sociopaths who think that they will be rewarded in Heaven for their misdeeds, not even thinking they were misdeeds. And I have met a number of good people who are just overwrought with guilt whom I have had to chase down and reassure that God will be fair.”

I choked on a chuckle. I actually knew people like that last group. My best friend’s mother, Mrs. Bennetti, was actually like that. She fretted about small things and felt guilty rather easily, though she was a decent lady. But I also had met the sociopaths. I had killed one once. He had gone demon. But I wondered if he had greeted death or had run from it as he had been seeking immortality through killing women and drinking their blood. I shuddered, remembering the moment when his still beating heart was in my hand because I had ripped it out to stop him. I had not seen any death angels then, but I had also been in shock so I really wasn’t seeing much of anything.

George seemed to follow my thinking when he said, “He ran.”

Blinking at him, I stared. “How do you do that?”

Smirking at me, George folded his arms and said, “You are easy to figure. Your emotions are all over your face, and you personalize nearly everything you take in. Neither are useful when you want to have the upper hand on others, but it is a sure sign that you have a human soul.”

I stared more. It gave me chills.

“Demons are passionate, but not emotional,” he said. “Same with most immortals.”

I frowned, wondering if he meant ‘emotional’ in a bad way, the way some men said women were ‘emotional’ when it implied they lacked logic or reason.

“Humans are emotional creatures,” he continued. “They feel and reason, and sometimes get them mixed up and confused.”

“And you say it is a bad thing,” I voiced.

He shrugged at first, but then nodded. “Yes. When emotion rules you, you stop thinking and start to ignore the facts. And ignoring facts is dangerous.”

I stiffened. I knew he had a point about that last bit. Ignoring facts was dangerous… like ignoring that I was allergic to garlic. Or ignoring my intolerance to sunlight. Or ignoring the existence of vampires in certain places. Dangerous. It was the same as ladies ignoring that it was foolish to walk around alone at night, or men ignoring that same fact, as they were statistically more likely to get mugged and shot.

“Now let’s get you situated so I can leave,” biker George said.

I followed him. “Situated? Leave? You’re not my guide?”

Chuckling, shaking his head as he walked through the closed door to the other side and I followed, George said, “I am a temporary guide. I don’t live here. My territory is back West.”

I stared after him as he dodged quickly around nurses, doctors and patients to an empty spot in the hall where he beckoned me to follow him. I lifted off the ground and went over their heads with a midair flip, landing next to him.

Someone in the hallway yelped, staring at me. I glanced over. She stared wider, drawing in a breath. She had no mark on her forehead, but she was in a green robe for some kind of hospital stay. George tugged me over, hissing in my ear, “I told you, act normal. Some people can see us.”

I blinked at him, frowning. “But I’m half imp. No one sees them except extremely rare—”

“You are now a reaper,” George whispered tightly. “Different rules apply.”

I rolled my eyes, nodding. However I brought the subject back to point, “So you are here only temporarily to show me what I am supposed to do? Why you? Why not the gray angel? He seems to be in charge of my situation.”

Nodding approvingly, glad that I understood what had been going on, George replied, “Well, first, I volunteered. And second Asahel doesn’t trust you in the least. I almost think he hates you—but God commanded him to do this and he is, if anything, obedient to God.”

My mouth dropped open involuntarily.

“Personally,” George continued, “I think God wants him to let go of old hurts. Folk like me have a saying: ‘God is more forgiving than the angels’.”

I stared more.

“Remember, the word angel means messenger, it does not mean saint,” George explained.

That confused me. I could have sworn Hanz thought of angels in a higher way—those beings of light with no wings at all.

And George, seeing my confusion, seemed to follow my thoughts pretty well. He began to nod then nod stronger. “Yeah… I supposed if you are talking about those angels, they would be saints. But you gotta understand, there are different degrees of angelic beings. Mortals on earth can even be angels in some instances, and often are. But whenever I talk about angels, I am talking about our kind only. Us minor angels.”

Minor angel. Ok.

Biker George took me to the hospital lobby. There were police down there, lots of traffic in and out, and a group of people waiting to be helped. I noticed a chill in the air the moment we stepped into the space. George was saying to me as we entered, “Your territory is this hospital and this neighborhood. You will know where your territory ends when you meet another reaper. You’ll know them by their wings. It is sort of our badge of honor and identification.”

I nodded, my eyes raking over the room. I could feel the ghosts, but I could not see them.

“Now, you should choose a place for rest,” he said. “Not that you will need sleep, but it is good to have a central roost so-to-speak where you can recuperate emotionally—as you will need it soon enough. Since you still feel, you’re going to feel grief and pain doing this—because none of the dead ‘deserve’ it.”

I nodded again, my eyes taking in a tall police officer with dark hair who reminded me a bit of Deidre Johnson. They had the same eyes. And he was staring right at me.

“Oh, and before I go, avoid entanglements with necromancers and palm readers,” George said.

Startled, I looked at him. “What?”

Nodding, George said, “You heard me. Necromancers, after summoning so much dead, can probably see you and would do what they could to use you. Just avoid them. As for palm readers—you know, professional mediums that claim to talk with ghosts—some of them are legit. And that woman in the hall probably was one. Leave them alone.”

“What? Because reaping near them will ruin their business?” I laughed, imagining angels caring about such things.

He raised his eyebrows at me. “No. But those mediums can be slick talkers and have been known to keep ghosts from passing over to keep up business.”

That just meant that I should visit them, just to reap ghosts.

Seeing that in my eye, he shook his head. “No. They’ve been known to slick-talk reapers into letting ghosts linger. They have good arguments. If you come across a medium, you pass through quickly. You do not linger. They will play on your loneliness if you hang around them for ghosts. They will use you and make you feel like they are your only friend.”

Closing one eye, I examined his grim expression. “Did one manipulate you?”

His cheeks colored a little (though how that was possible being dead, I’ll never know), and he said, “You learn lessons the hard way.”

 I nodded. That was a truth. My eyes rested on that dark haired cop again. He was still watching us.

George saw where I was looking. He snorted. “And then you get weirdoes like him.”

I raised my eyebrows at George.

Seeing me, George said, “I think they call themselves ‘ghoulies’.”

Ghoulies. I knew that term. Technically, I was a ghoulie. So was Rick Deacon and his pal Tom Brown—people affected by the supernatural realm in some way.

“I’d steer clear of them too,” biker George said, leading me on. “Just to make their lives easier. They already have it bad enough.”

Following George, I nodded to myself. That was a true enough statement.

We went outside through the door glass where we stepped aside on the curb as another gurney was being hauled in from an ambulance. The mark on this person’s forehead was white but turning pink rather rapidly.

“Ok, this is where I leave you,” George said, turning around to face me. “Any last thing you want to know?”

“Would I get in trouble if I ever left my area where I am supposed to do this thing?” I asked, feeling the weight of my scythe within my palm as well as the immediate loss of my life again.

Laughing, George nodded at me. “Of course you would. You should never leave your jurisdiction without summons or permission.”

“How do we get a summons?” I asked. “Are there angel postmen?”

He laughed louder. “You’ll just know. Trust me.”

Then in a snap, he was gone. I could see him zip into the sky above the building then out of my line of sight entirely.

Turning around, surrounded by people who could not see me, all of them rushing about their lives, some trying to save their lives, I felt so alone. The weight of what had happened to me once more piled onto me and for a moment I stood as a statue made of lead.

What if I left right then? What if I tried to go back to California to find Hanz? Or what if I sought out Deidre who undoubtedly would be able to see me, or that Tom Brown who might be able to see me as I had been able to see biker George before he had altered my ability to materialize? What if I did that and got them to find a way to get me back to my life? I still was not entirely resigned to being snatched against my will like this. I thought God allowed free will—

But a tiny voice in my head said that I still had free will, it was just that my circumstances had changed. But an angry feeling in me screamed that changing my circumstances like that was unfair. I had not chosen it. But as another ambulance pulled up, heaving out another bloodied person on a gurney into the hospital and rushed past me, I chastised myself for being such an idiot. That person there had not chosen to have whatever it was that had happen to him. We don’t choose our circumstances, only how we react to them.

Hanz frequently said that.

And coming from a guy who grew up with next to nothing, I did not question it.

I walked back into the hospital, figuring I might as well relieve those who were suffering—at least until another option showed itself.

*

Hanz sat down opposite his parents and the McAllisters. He did not want the rest of his family in the room as he explained the circumstances and shared the letter Eve had written him. He didn’t need the overwhelming flood of misunderstanding condolences as he explained what was really going on.

Mr. and Mrs. McAllister read and re-read the letter

My Dear Hanz,

I only have a minute before they drag me away. The long and the short of it is that I’ve been claimed by a group of what can be best described as death angels. I am not dead, but I am no longer able to live in the mortal world. What they tell me is that I am being given a shot at redemption—though I