White.

Everywhere I look. Pure, undiluted, untouched.

Colorado in December.   

Banking left, the tip of my wing disturbs a snow-laden pine bough, scattering ice crystals. The mountain forest is peaceful this late in the afternoon, though the threat of a storm lurks in the gray sky. A gust rolls in from the north, and I snap my wings, letting the airstream guide my path toward home.

How long will this peace last? This morning’s message from Elias served as an eerie reminder of my time limit. Four months. Tucking my wings, I shift, free-falling toward the ground, dodging trees as I dart in and around the woods. Freedom. I arch skyward, shooting high above Mount Alexa. The ground, the falls, the trees—they are blemishes on a snowy white canvas.

A scream penetrates the peace. I twist, levitating among the clouds, my gaze narrowing on the ground far below.

The crimson trail, smeared for yards before the dense forest covers the evidence, is hard to miss.

Blood. Thick, human blood.

This is Havenwood Falls—it’s not an abnormal occurrence in the forest. But . . .

I dive, lured by a scent that burns my nostrils and confuses my senses.     

I’m on the ground within moments of her scream. Her keening death cries prick at my skin, sending an unfamiliar sensation skittering up my spine and across my wings. Angry snarls join her moans. I should leave, yet I press on—following the blood trail. The creature drags her instead of making a clean kill. Most shifters kill, rather than play with, their food. I maintain distance, preferring to remain in the good graces of the other supernatural beings within Havenwood Falls. Angel or not, minding my business keeps the peace. History has proven this. The world is a better place when all creatures, good and evil, play nice together. That type of thinking will be my downfall in four months, if I’m not careful.

An unnatural calm claims the still woods, and my senses sharpen. I move forward as an ache builds up in my chest. Her cries diminish, but her scent strengthens. It’s familiar. The spicy combination of ginger root and mint. I duck beneath low branches and break through thicker brush, my steps quickening as I track them. Another growl disturbs the woods, and I pause. Twenty feet ahead, a shadow of fur and menace crosses my path—retreating. The feeling in my chest intensifies like a fist crushing my heart.

Ginger, mint, and something—more. They inundate me as I maneuver around a thick tree and come to a stop.

She is bathed in blood. Her long golden hair spreads around her head, a silken halo on a snowy pillow of white. From my vantage point, I cannot see her face, but her scent—her perfume—gives her away.

Vivienne Freeman.

And above her lifeless body, he is ageless and brings with him the kiss of death. A reaper. His corporeal existence remains unseen to the human eye.

Her name begs to be spoken. A kick to the gut, it is an urge unlike any other. The image of her, two desks in front of me in chemistry for the past few months, is superimposed on the gruesome scene before me. The wisps of hair framing her face, her elegant profile, the way she hunches over her desk while she works. Movement breaks the memory. The reaper’s swirling mixture of light and dark extends toward her face, and a thread of black touches her forehead reverently. The perceived intimacy compels me across snow and blood, my wings bared as a warning to this angelic host.

“Leave her be.”

Reapers have no affiliation with Heaven or Hell. They’re vessels of Death. Wardens sent to usher souls from this life into the next. I’ve had limited interaction with others of my kind, but I know about egos. I’m the son of an angel, with a human soul, thanks to the woman who gave me life. One of the Nephilim. In hierarchy alone, I win.

Dropping to my knees, I take in Vivienne’s shredded jacket and blood-soaked clothing. Her face matches the snow—pale, deathly. Her lips colorless. Her heart? My hand presses against her chest. The pulse is faint, but it beats. Barely.

The reaper hisses as a ripple shocks the air, shattering the calm. His cloaked form floats back as though pushed by the disturbance. He turns, and his piercing blue eyes hold my gaze. She is mine, son of angels. His voice does not speak for human ears. He has no body, no face—only a mist-like outline and blue eyes.  

“She isn’t dead.” My hands rip at her clothing, searching out her injuries.

Her heart beats. He can’t kill her. Reapers don’t kill. They reap souls once the earthly bodies die, nothing more. I can save her. Grabbing my sweatshirt from where I keep it tucked into my waistband when I fly, I staunch the flow of blood from her wounds. The fabric soaks through immediately. A call to medics won’t help. She’ll be dead in minutes.

As though he’s read my mind, the reaper reaches out once again, straining for her. This is Death. I have no part in it. I barely know Vivienne. She’s a classmate, not even a friend. A beautiful girl I’ve known my entire life, but who has never been impressed by me or my antics.

“Don’t take her.” The words pour from my lips as the falls pour through the rocks of Cooley Creek. “Can’t you spare her? Does she have to die?”

My questions are futile. Reapers don’t decide these things. There is a larger plan. We all merely follow it. My fists slam the ground. Why can’t I walk away?

She is special, the reaper speaks in my mind, soft and low. Lovely. Her soul was meant for more.

He rambles like someone in awe. His little, obsessive words click through my head. I want, I want, I want, he murmurs. So special. So different.

Rage builds within my chest as his chattering continues. Spots flash in my vision, and my stomach hardens as bitterness coats my tongue.

“She is mine!” I shout the statement within my soul and out of my lips.

No. She is mine, son of angels.

Low, guttural anger rips from within, snapping my control. My hands burn as my muscles bunch and flex, and the world around us dims, blackness snuffing out the afternoon sun. Shadows grow long, branches creak, and the reaper drifts away once again.

I mock his pitiful presence. “Yes, I am the son of an angel. I do not cower before a warden of Death.”

“You are a boy,” the reaper says aloud, his shroud waving in the wind as the heat consuming my hands creeps up my arms.

The light of a thousand fires burns at the tips of my fingers pressed against Vivienne’s wounds. Heal her. I call upon an ability I possess, but have never tapped into. My teeth grind in my tight jaw.

The reaper’s hisses are nonstop. He is furious. I’m saving his prey, taking his prize. His electric eyes flash as he lowers to the ground and assumes an upright position, hovering above the snow. He remains nothing but spirals of mist, taking the loose shape of the classic specter of Death humans are used to visualizing.

A cold touch shocks my side, and I flinch. Vivienne’s hand. It slides down my bare ribs, searching for purchase. Her fingers curl around a belt loop of my black jeans as her back arches off the ground. The intensity in my palms grows, and pain contorts Vivienne’s features. Her brows draw above her eyes, her mouth forming a voiceless scream as a dribble of blood coats her bottom lip. Her free hand digs into the snow. Her suffering torments me, and yet I hold tight, healing her as she writhes. Her heels scrape against the wet ground as her legs bend and stretch. She’s missing one running shoe.

Then it’s done.

The light dies. The weak, gray sun reappears.

Vivienne’s eyes flutter, offering little glimpses of watery blue nirvana before they close, and her head falls to the side.

With a smug grin, I lift my gaze to the reaper.

I want her, he says with his mind, his eyes.

My lip curls. “You can’t have her.”

I will. His black head tilts, a subtle nod, then he’s gone.

The forest awakens, the calm of death no longer holding life at a standstill.

My coarse breaths come quickly, my pulse racing as I gather Vivienne close. Leaning over her, I press my lips to the frozen edge of her ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Her heart beats, strong and steady.

My muscles relax as I survey the forest. It’s nearly nightfall. The temperature dropped rapidly in the last several minutes. The air is ripe with the scent of the gathering storm. It’s a mile, possibly two, north. Tucking my ruined sweatshirt between our bodies, I search the ground for evidence of what transpired here. Her blood is everywhere, but nothing else. The storm will cover the blood from human eyes, although the scent will drive the supernaturals in town crazy. Nothing to be done right now. I need to move Vivienne someplace warm.

Cradling her close, I leap into the air and snap my wings wide. I’ll take her to my house, clean her up, and make sure she’s okay. I’ll figure out my next move after that.

Unanswered questions bombard me. What happened in the forest? Why did I react with such savagery? Will the reaper be back? Should I worry? Tell Elias? Speak to Father? No. I won’t call upon him. I have four months, six if I can convince him to let me finish out school, before I take my place at his side. His or another’s—the decision has yet to be made, and I need all the time away from him I can get.

My forehead lowers, pressing to Vivienne’s temple as my hands tighten their grip. Her lips have regained a pink, human tone. I inhale a shaky breath as the emptiness, the nothingness, I’ve lived with disappears. She replaced it in an instant. Her scent fills me. Her warmth, her life, digs into my soul with gripping talons, anchoring in and refusing to let go. These emotions are unexpected and unwanted. I’ve never felt much of anything for anyone.

Is this feeling human or angelic?

* * *

The first snowflakes appear before I reach home. Staying low, I fly above the tree line and cloak us from sight as we soar over Havenwood Heights. If I were alone, I’d be home already, a perk of angelic birth, but Vivienne is vulnerable. Especially in her current state. Her pulse remains strong, her heartbeat steady, but her color is pallid. She lost too much blood, and I don’t know how my healing abilities work. Should I take her to the medical center? Her mom works there, but what would I say? Maybe I should bring her home? The feathers between my shoulder blades twitch. Yeah, I’m not a fan of that idea either.

We land on my back deck, and I head straight for the nearest guest room. Forcing my arms to cooperate, I release Vivienne onto the bed as I shift pillows beneath her damp head. I carefully work off her bloody jacket, ruined shoe, and wet socks. She’s dressed in athletic gear—thick, waterproof running pants, a sweatshirt, a thermal—and it’s all ruined by blood. She’ll have to forgive me for the skin I see as I rip at her shirts. Her side is injury free. Smeared blood and mottled bruising the only proof anything happened.

Clenching my jaw, my fingers slip into the waistband of her pants and work them down her hips. At the sight of her running tights, I release a relieved breath. I leave them on—they’re clean, dry, and modest. When I finish, I sweep the dirty comforter away and cover her with a thick blanket. My fingers linger at her temple as I brush her hair from her face. Her skin is warmer. And soft. So damn soft. It’s an effort to remove my hand and leave the room.

Once in my room, I swipe my hands through my hair and curse. Even from across the house, she tugs at me, wanting me to return. I press my palm to my chest as though I can press her out. What is going on? I change into clean sweats and a T-shirt, splash my face with cold water, and head for the kitchen, my thoughts on making Vivienne something warm, when my cell goes off.

The screen flashes: Elias.

“Hey man,” I answer nonchalantly.

“Hey man?” Accusation laces his words.

Crap.

“Your silence is telling. What happened?”

Did he notice it, too? The bizarre shift in the air, the release of my abilities, the reaper’s presence? “To what are you referring?”

I stick a milk-filled mug in the microwave.

“I’ve suspended service for the night. Should I come over? Or call your father?” he asks meaningfully.

“I used my abilities.” I slam a cabinet shut. “It was unintentional.”

A tirade of colorful curses serenades me. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know.” I chew on my lip and contemplate my words. “There was a reaper.”

Okay then, forget a well-thought-out explanation. Let’s lead with the biggie.

“A reaper?” Elias repeats. “Who died?”

“No one.”

“No one?” His breath hitches. “You healed? Why in the hell would you do that?”

His anger raises my hackles. “Because I can.”

“Breckin.”

“Don’t lecture me, Elias. I need to go. I’ll explain everything later.” I end the call and toss my phone on the counter.

When I return to Vivienne, she’s on her side with one hand resting beneath her cheek and the other clutching a down blanket to her chest. The thick bedding swallows her. She’s tiny, a foot shorter and seventy-five pounds lighter than me. The weight of her in my arms lingers.

Splotches of red mar her fingers and smear her chin. Leaving her drink on the bedside table, I head toward the bathroom and return with a warm washcloth. I’m aware of each swipe of the cloth, like I’m washing my own hands. Vivienne sighs and flinches when I set her hand down and rub her jaw. A whimper releases from her throat, making me pause.

She brushes her chin against her shoulder as she shifts restlessly. Her forehead creases as she fists the blankets and draws the edge to her mouth, tucking her face in before settling down.

The wind howls as a thick veil of white comes down fast outside my windows. I move from the edge of the bed to a chair across the room, my heart slowing as hers does, and I wait. There’s nothing more I can do.