Angel Blade: A Preview for the Fans

It's official:  the book page is up and ready!  The publisher has announced that pre-orders are now available for hardcopy and e-book, ready to be released in March. Just click the link (or copy and paste to your browser) and get ready!
http://christophermatthewspub.com/angel-blade/

And check out and like the publisher's facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/Soul-Fire-Press-205447136173714/

But some of you just can't wait long enough, so I am giving you an early present:  a preview of the story, starting with Chapter One.
Don't say I never gave you anything.

Chapter 1

S

HE WAS NO LONGER AFRAID OF DEATH.

There was a time when she wouldn't have thought that, but things had changed so much, and now, she was here.

She couldn't move; that made the pain so much worse. Only small, quick respirations would do for now since taking in a deeper breath caused a piercing pain through her ribs. Because the pain affected her ability to breathe, the nurse had affixed an oxygen mask to her face with a flimsy elastic band that wrapped around her neck. The air drifted across her nose and lips in a continuous breeze that dried every bit of moisture in her mouth.

And these were just the few minutes of consciousness she remembered today.

It was too difficult to keep her eyes open anymore; not with all the morphine running through her veins. Nikka let them drift closed, but she could still hear the low whispers in the room. It was her mother's voice speaking to another woman, probably the nurse, but it was too difficult to tell.

"The oxygen is there to keep her comfortable," the nurse spoke, barely loud enough to hear over the flow of the air. "But if she has another episode, we will have to talk seriously about your other options."

"Options?"  It was her mother's voice. "You mean a ventilator?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But Dr. Taylor said that if she was put on a ventilator, then she may never get off of it," her mother said with a slight crack in her voice.

Silence. Nikka could envision the nurse nodding her head.

"I . . . I can't do this right now. I need to speak with my husband first. He'll be back soon. He just ran home to take a shower and he said he would be right back."

"Of course. I'll call Dr. Taylor," the nurse said.

Nikka forced her eyes open when she sensed her mother approaching the bedside and settle into a chair. Mom grasped her hand; the flesh of her palm so warm against her skin. Nikka turned her head and gazed at her over the oxygen mask. There were tears sparkling in her eyes, illuminated by the gray shaft of light that shone through the window.

The daylight seemed unnecessarily harsh, and it was times like these that she missed her eyelashes. Something as simple as eyelashes could make such a difference in light like this.

Her mother placed a hand on top of her head and forced a smile. Nikka could feel her skin against her smooth, bald scalp. Normally she would have a bandana or a stocking cap on her head to help maintain her body temperature, but the nurse had removed it when placing the oxygen mask on her. It must have been interfering with the elastic band, or she had forgotten to replace it.

It wasn't long ago that she would have taken these things for granted. Even a year before, she would never have thought she would be in this situation.

She was seventeen years old when she first got the diagnosis of leukemia. Everything had been going well up until that point. Senior year had just started and she was looking forward to the prom when one day she just didn't feel well. Two weeks later, what she and her parents thought was mono became much worse. A year of doctor visits, chemotherapy and radiation therapy turned into hair loss and plenty of vomiting. After several setbacks, the doctors recommended a bone marrow transplant, but even that didn't seem to work.

And now, a year later, she withered away, a mere 82 pounds of atrophic muscle and thin skin stretched over bones, trying her best to breathe and to stay conscious, and even that was becoming quite difficult.

All those chemotherapy sessions and the nausea that ensued, her mother would often cry to her father about how difficult this was for all of them. They didn't realize it, but she could hear them through the walls of her bedroom.

"Why did this have to happen?" her mother would say to him.

It doesn't matter why, Nikka remembered thinking. It happened. That's all. You can't go back and change it.

People always seemed to wonder about the why of everything. You will never really know why something happens to you. She now realized that, in the end, it is how you deal with it. Sure, everyone will have their struggles, fighting against the inevitable. Heaven knows that she was frustrated with the vomiting, the pain, and the fatigue. But the course was set all along. She understood that now.

Her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open any longer, and she let them drift closed once again. This time she would sleep; she knew it. The combination of the painkillers and the other injectable medications into her IV line were too powerful to fight against. No matter how much she fought to stay awake, there was no winning against the pharmaceuticals.

But there was the problem of the dreams that seemed to plague her sleep now. She didn't know if it was a side effect of the medication or progression of the cancer, but the images in her mind grew more terrifying each time she slept. Sometimes she saw fire that burned the flesh off her bones. At other times she found herself in a vast, cold, empty darkness where she could sense a thousand eyes staring at her as if they were waiting in anticipation. And with each dream, she was naked— not the kind of naked where you think you forgot to wear clothes to school. No. It was the kind where you are cold and helpless and shivering. And she still had no hair; not a single strand anywhere on her body. Naked and hairless, standing in the dark while something sinister watched from the shadows.

This time she could see a chilling fog that surrounded her in a gray blanket. The moisture adhered to her skin. Something moved in the dense cloud, slithering and creeping over the uneven ground. Every time she attempted to move, the fog would thicken, wrapping around her legs and arms to hold her in place.

The thing continued to circle her, its body scraping against rocks or  twigs in the soil. A low growl rumbled through the fog. She could feel it in the center of her abdomen as it reverberated back into the haze.

A faint, orange-red glow began to show through the fog. Was the cloud thinning? She wasn't sure, but the hold it had on her seemed to slip. The glow became stronger, and she realized it was a pair of eyes gazing at her. The growl came again, and this time she could smell its rancid breath, like the decay of an animal on the roadside in the summer heat.

Then its voice rumbled toward her. "I will find you."

When she awoke, she felt her father's hands against her arms as he called her name.

"Nikka," he said, a hint of fear in his voice. "Honey, you're okay."

She had tried to scream in her dream but now she realized that she had merely grunted and thrashed around on the bed. This was enough to startle her parents and the nursing staff to try to intervene.

The nurse lifted Nikka's eyelids and shone a bright light into her pupils. Then she checked the monitor.

Nikka opened her eyes again and saw the wave of relief pass over the nurse's face.

"It . . . was . . . just a dream," she spoke, but her tongue felt so dry.

The nurse nodded. "Well, your oxygen saturation is stabilizing for now. We need to keep an eye on that blood pressure. It's still a bit low."

Why was she telling her this? There was nothing she could do about it anyway. But then Nikka realized the nurse really didn't know what else to say. Honestly, what could anybody say in that moment that would make this any better? Wow, you about died there. Good thing you didn't. Well, keep trucking on.

She caught a glimpse of her mother's face, still lit by the gray light in the window. There was deep worry etched into the lines above her eyes and around her mouth. And it was because of this look that she didn't tell her mother about the dreams.

"Hey, kiddo," her father said and planted a kiss on her forehead. He was the only one that didn't always treat her like she was about to break in two. "I picked up the next issue of X-men for you."

Graphic novels and comic books: her guilty pleasure. Even her closest friends didn't know that she was such a freak over these simple books. It was something that she had shared with her father ever since she could remember. When she was little and still couldn't read, she sat on his lap while he read through each panel of The Amazing Spiderman or The Hulk.

While her friends were all talking about which guy was cuter or where they wanted to go to college, she could only think of being a graphic novel artist. And she had been serious about it. Serious enough that she had been accepted into the Art Institute of Chicago. But then the cancer struck, and she was lying here instead of attending her first semester. Just another of so many things that she had to let go, and she always knew she would never get them back.

He withdrew the latest X-men issue from his bag and slipped off the clear sleeve. With his chair sidled up next to her bed, he opened the book and started to read. She could barely see the panels, but it didn't matter. Just hearing him speak in Dr. Xavier's voice was enough.

Wolverine had just come across the source of a powerful evil when another voice echoed from the doorway of her ICU room. Her father stopped reading, and she could hear him rise from his chair.

"Mr. Connors," the voice said. It was Dr. Taylor. He shook her dad's hand and turned to her mother. 

"Mrs. Connors. How are we doing today?"

We? He had nothing to do with them in that sense. The doctor was not involved in the we of this situation.

"Things are about the same," her mother spoke in almost a whisper.

"Blood pressure has been unstable," the nurse said, "but O2 sats in the 80's as long as we keep the face mask on her."

There was a moment of silence between the four of them as the doctor reviewed the graph of her vital signs. Nikka forced her eyes open again to see him escorting her parents out of the room and to the hallway, where she could still see them through the window. Great. More adult talk that we can't let the child hear. But they didn't know that she could hear some of the conversation from where they stood in the hall.

"Well, I think it is time to discuss some difficult options," Dr. Taylor started. "Her blood work is—well, frankly, it's not good. Her numbers keep decreasing. Her body is just shutting down."

Her mother took in a small breath. "But what about another round of chemo . . ."

"That would only suppress her numbers further. It could kill her outright."

Her shoulders slumped. "What else can we do?"

There was a pause that seemed to last longer than it should have. "Well, it's time to start thinking of comfort measures."

"Comfort measures?" her father's voice echoed into the room.

Ah, there it was. That phrase. Comfort measures. The two words that are at the end of every brochure and book you read about having cancer. The thing you talk about when there is nothing left to talk about. She figured it was coming, especially the way the nurse had been behaving over the last several days, always looking away when Nikka tried to speak to her.

"Yes. You need to decide soon how aggressive you would like to be with her care from this point on. If we place her on a ventilator again, she may never come off of it. We can supply her with morphine for the pain, but she's not able to eat much anymore. There is always the possibility of a feeding tube, but . . ."

"But, you're saying that we need to think about how long we want to prolong her suffering," her father whispered, but she could hear every word.

Dr. Taylor slowly nodded his head. "Morphine and oxygen can keep her comfortable throughout this stage. Have you looked into hospice care?"

"A little." Her mother's voice cracked.

"I can have someone come and discuss hospice with you in the morning. At least that way she can be in the comfort of her own home."

Her father nodded. "Thank you."

Dr. Taylor forced a smile and placed a hand on her mother's shoulder just before he walked away to the nursing station. Her parents didn't return immediately, though. Under heavy eyelids, she could see them in a quiet embrace in the hallway.

She wanted so much to say something to them right now, but there was nothing she could say that would make this any better. But the thought of it continued to rattle through her drug-addled brain: It's okay. I'm not afraid to die anymore.

Alright, Bladers!  There you go!  Just a taste of what's to come.  

And, as always,

I wan't one million dollars!

Dr. Evil

(aka Carrie Merrill)