Last Light Falling Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Jay Plemons

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author. Email to [email protected]

  First published by Dog Ear Publishing

  4010 W. 86th Street, Ste H

  Indianapolis, IN 46268

  www.dogearpublishing.net

  ISBN: 978-1-4575-2706-7

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications Data

  Plemons, J.E.

  The Covenant / J.E. Plemons. — 1st ed.

  p. cm. — (Last Light Falling series ; bk 1)

  Summary: The prophecy of the end is near and it’s up to Gabriel and Arena to help prepare the world’s demise by the wrath of God. Souls will rest in the providence of these ordinary twins put in an extraordinary situation, but when fate chooses them, they will have to accept their destiny changing their lives forever.

  I.Title.

  [Fic] — dc22

  First edition, December 2013

  Dedication

  To Melanie, Gabriel, and Mikaela, my loving family, for their encouraging and unyielding support. Thank you for bearing with my relentless and sometimes intolerable labor over this series.

  And so it began…

  When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

  — Revelation 6:7-8

  Part I

  The Gift

  CHAPTER 1

  I wake up startled yet again, sweating and horrified by the recurring nightmare that haunts me in my sleep. I’ve suffered too long to accept this, and unless God Himself reaches down with His hand and changes my fortunes, I’m afraid the nightmares are here to stay.

  My bedroom door slowly cracks open, and before I can fix my squinting eyes on it, the sunlight creeps through the dusty curtains and blinds me.

  “Wake up, Arena,” says a tired but anxiously optimistic voice. “I believe someone has a special day to enjoy.”

  “Thank you, Myra,” I gratefully respond, still half-asleep. “Is Gabe awake?”

  “I think he’s still in the bathroom. He’s been in there for quite some time now,” she says. My brother has been spending an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom lately for reasons I would rather not know.

  Yes, this is a special day, because it’s my fifteenth birthday, but I don’t really feel all that special. Not only is my birthday shared with my twin brother, Gabriel, but it’s also the same day as the accident— another year, another reminder.

  “I made something very special for you this morning. Also, don’t forget that you and your brother will be spending the day with Daniel,” Myra says enthusiastically.

  “Great,” I say desperately, trying to be excited about the idea. If it were legal for me to drive, I would, but since I’m only fifteen, I guess being chauffeured around is better than the alternative.

  I was born Arena Danielle Power, and to my mother’s delight she was graced by the presence of my twin brother, Gabriel William Power, four minutes later. Technically I’m older since I was introduced to this world before my brother, though I don’t think he finds it to be too amusing whenever I mention it. I wouldn’t trade Gabe in for anybody in the world. He’s all the family I have left, and I love him dearly.

  Myra and Daniel Merryman are our foster parents. Even though they can be annoyingly protective sometimes, I really do believe they care for us, and I truly respect them for taking us in. They feed, clothe, and love us. What more can you ask for from what some may call “strangers”? Biological or not, they are loving parents. The two-story house we live in is modest at best, and their financial resources are quite limited, but for the last three years, they have provided us with more than what we had growing up.

  Every birthday that comes and goes leaves me more depressed and bitter. I can’t tell if it’s the idea of living one more year without our parents, or that I start high school in two days. The idea makes me break out in hives. My fifteenth birthday, a milestone in a young woman’s life, is the one day I should be excited about, but all I can think about is how I’m going to cope with another school year filled with half-witted socialites.

  I slowly get out of bed and dawdle my way to the bathroom, knowing my twin brother is still in there. I delay as much as I possibly can before I knock. There are just some things I don’t want to know about boys, especially my brother. I’m sure there is a good explanation as to why he stays in the bathroom for so long. Whether or not it’s my obligation to restrain myself from the curiosity as a sister, I can no longer stand here waiting to relieve my bladder.

  Enough is enough. I turn the doorknob just enough to feel whether it’s locked. Surprisingly, it’s not, which leads me to believe nothing shameful is going on in there.

  As I open the door, I’m shocked. My brother is standing in front of the mirror, vainly staring at his reflection, making sure every gel-soaked piece of hair has been evenly placed, as if he were doing surgery on a Rogaine client. Gabe is not one to groom himself in the hopes that someone will notice him. He spends more time observing others than worrying about himself, which is why I respect my brother’s astute behavior.

  Gabe engulfs himself in advanced encryption algorithms, mathematical principles, laws, and theories. Wow, I’m bored just saying that. But if anything, it’s the mundane observations and normal teenage experiences that really keep my brother’s brain under duress. If there’s a problem, then he’ll surely find a solution, but not without the common hormonal stress that comes with being a teenage boy. He’s never had a girlfriend, unless you count the imaginary Anime characters in the books he frequently drools over at night. Let’s face it, my brother is a geek, but I love him just the same. He is family, and I would protect him at all costs.

  Gabe is extremely smart, caring, sincere, giving, and selfless. He always wants to do the right thing and would sacrifice his own agenda to help others. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be any more the opposite. I’m moody, blunt, selfish, and have no fear. Gabe turns the other cheek when someone knocks him on his ass, whereas I will put my foot up theirs, but I’m slowly trying hard to be more like him.

  “Gabe,” I say, “what are you doing?”

  Gabe looks at me, startled, responding rather shakily, “I … uh, just thought I would do something different since, you know, I’m one year closer to manhood.”

  “Manhood?” I snicker. “Judging by the nicks on your face, I see a careless boy with a razor he shouldn’t be using yet.” I could have saved him the trouble by plucking that rogue chin hair with my tweezers, but I can see now why he nicked himself—he’s using my razor, the one I run up and down my hairy legs every two weeks. If it weren’t so socially unpopular I would never shave my legs.

  “Deride if you must, but when it comes time, I’ll be the one playing the field while you wallow in sadness with your boyish looks.”

  “Wow, did you really just say playing the field?” I say with a churlish eye roll. Gabe knows no more about the playing field than he knows how to be a player. I pinch his arm.

  “Ow! What did you do that for?”

  “Just making sure you’re real and not some android pretending
to be my brother.”

  There must be something in the air causing these delusions of his, because I’ve never known my brother to go to such great lengths to groom for the opposite sex. He’s a shy wee lad with the girls, but I guess I should be happy that he’s making a concerted effort to change that, even though I’m not too delighted about the boyish looks comment. Big deal, so I don’t paint my face up like a clown, masking the truth underneath. Who am I hiding from, anyway?

  After I wait patiently for Gabe to leave his vain state of mind, I take advantage of the little hot water he so kindly left for me. I quickly bathe the important parts before the cold water forces me to scamper from the shower and into a warm T-shirt and a pair of shorts—my normal attire. I’m not much for fashion, nor do I usually wear makeup—unless it’s a special occasion, of course. Although today may be special, it’s too damn early in the morning to get all dolled-up.

  When I head to my room to brush my hair, I gaze upon a small locket lying on top of a wooden music box. I pick it up and open it as I often do, staring sadly at the picture of my mother inside. As I look at myself in the mirror, I notice some of the same traits I share with her. I sigh. It’s all I can do to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.

  My hair is the color of midnight, and my milky-white skin has turned a light olive from the summer sun. I have my mother’s pouty bottom lip and hazel eyes that soften under dim lighting in a continuous spectrum of caramel and green shades. The only feature I don’t share with my mother are my thick, dark eyebrows. I really get tired of plucking these hairy caterpillars. I would pluck them for hours, as tears roll down my face from the pain, just so I would fit in with the other girls—but they grow back so fast, it just wasn’t worth the pain. I figure it makes me unique, at least that’s what I often tell myself. Some days it just doesn’t seem too convincing.

  I place the locket around my neck and hurry downstairs to meet the other family members. I call them family even though we are not related in any way. Our foster parents really have done a lot for us. Since no one has yet adopted us, I feel as though this has been our chosen home.

  When I reach the living room, I’m surprised to see Niki sitting at the table. She is Myra and Daniel’s biological daughter, who has been a special comfort to me. I’m so excited to see her, especially since we’ve shared a close bond over the last couple of years. I love my brother, but I really needed a big sister in my life to help me through my awkward pre-teen years. I usually hang out with her when she is home, but she is five years older, and work and college have taken much of her time away from the family. Maybe things would be different if she still lived at home.

  I wrap my arms around Niki. Whatever bitterness I had this morning has quickly dissipated.

  “So, tell me, how does it feel to be fifteen?” Niki asks.

  Normally I don’t care about my birthday (since the accident), but for some reason, today feels quite special, as if something in my life is about to change. “Feels like I can’t wait to turn sixteen so I can get my driver’s license,” I say, wide-eyed.

  As I take a seat at the kitchen table, I fix my eyes on the beautifully decorated strawberry cake topped with fifteen silver sparklers and frosted in red, white, and blue. It looks like Myra went to a lot of trouble to make this for Gabe and me. I have to admit, something does feel different about this morning. This is the first birthday cake we’ve had since we were nine years old. But I don’t much care for cake anymore— not since our parents died on our ninth birthday. Even when Myra and Daniel took us in three years ago, we never celebrated our birthday with a cake. Maybe Myra knew that it would conjure up bad memories because we always started the morning with a birthday breakfast and ended the day with a birthday dinner, but never a cake, which was perfectly fine with me. Why we have one now is puzzling, but I’m not about to ruin the festivities that Myra has so graciously prepared.

  When she cuts into the cake, the aroma of fresh strawberries fills the air. As much as I want to eat, I let the slice sit on my plate for a minute, while Gabe devours his. Gazing into that strawberry cream-filled confectionery display extinguishes any thoughts of hunger I had; instead, it conjures up haunting memories I wish I could erase. These recurring nightmares have haunted me for the last six years.

  Our ninth birthday couldn’t have been more depressing. We had no grandparents to go see that year. My dad lost his job, my mother’s sister, Angela, revealed her recent miscarriage, and my parents’ lives were taken from us in a car crash. The only thing remotely memorable about that day was the sweet chocolate frosting on the cake. The only present I got to open was a locket that my mother passed down to me from her mother. Gabe and I never had a chance to open any of the remaining presents, and from that point on, my life completely changed.

  I don’t remember uttering a single word for an entire year. We stayed with our Aunt Angela until I was eleven, but she had a nervous breakdown and became incapacitated, from what I can only assume was a deep depression. Her husband was killed overseas during an undisclosed military training accident, and she hadn’t been able to bear any children since her miscarriage. Couple that with the burden of raising two young kids who lost their parents, and I can understand why her life was unsettling. The courts ruled that she was unfit to care for us, so we were sent to a foster home. After a year in the system, we were taken in by Myra and Daniel, our new, and hopefully our last, foster parents. I don’t know how Gabe responds, but when I’m asked about my parents, I just hastily say they died. I keep it short and simple. I try to erase the details in my head, but sometimes it’s just impossible. Gabe and I were in the car with my parents when it happened. I can recall every detail of that moment. It replays in my head over and over.

  That day, the hospital called to tell my father that his mother had a heart attack and was in critical condition. At that moment—when your eyes are open, but you don’t see anything except what’s rolling through your mind—I had a premonition of a man dressed in black standing in front of a blood-red flag with seven black stripes. Nothing has ever been so tattooed on my mind. My heart suddenly sunk to the floor. I had no idea what it meant or where it came from. That vision was quickly derailed by the scampering of my parents panicking about our grandmother’s condition. They insisted we stay at home, but we desperately convinced them otherwise. I couldn’t bear the thought of staying at home and waiting impatiently to find out if my only living grandparent was okay.

  We quickly ran out the door and raced to the hospital. Imagine what five seconds can do to alter the course of your life. That is all it would have taken to avoid the unthinkable.

  My father never ran the old, battered stop sign across the railroad tracks on Wright Street. It was an on-going joke about his Boy-Scout nature when it came to traffic laws. But that day, he raced as fast as he could past the rusted sign. And out of nowhere, we were plowed on the driver’s side by a fully packed cement truck. In that one instant, time stopped.

  My mother and father turned almost completely around from the sheer brutal impact. My dad’s glasses stuck to the ceiling of the car, and I could almost see every bead of broken glass suspended in the air. The car flipped over and over, tossing us like rag dolls. Fortunately, for Gabe and me, our seatbelts secured us tightly.

  The impact of the truck was too great for our vehicle to protect my father from his fatal injuries. The airbags failed to deploy, and my father’s head smashed into the steering wheel, breaking his neck, and killing him almost instantly. I turned to see if Gabe was hurt; he was disoriented by the crash, but he seemed to be intact, without any visible injuries.

  As adrenalin pumped through my veins, I crawled out the shattered window to get to my mother. The ceiling was caved in, and I couldn’t reach her in the front seat. As I opened the smashed-in passenger door, I saw her eyes fighting to stay open, as blood dripped down from the side of her head and ear. She was almost unrecognizable. I knew right away she sustained severe internal injuries by the way she
was grimacing and holding her side. I knew she was dying.

  My insides shriveled as my mother gasped for one last breath of life. I tightly held her face, sobbing until my tear ducts ran dry and irritated. The adrenaline was quickly wearing off, and so was my will to sit up. My body couldn’t stabilize me anymore, so I collapsed to the ground and stayed there until the ambulance came.

  The choices we make decide the fate of our destiny. Today is the beginning of mine, and it’s all too depressing to try and understand the significance, if there is any.

  As I continue to gaze intently at the colorful festive cake on the table, it dawns on me. I remember what Niki told me last summer during the Fourth of July festival.

  Myra had another daughter named Grace, Niki’s younger sister. Grace was the perfect student and model citizen. She was the most caring and giving individual in her community. She gave up every bit of her spare time, helping others even when she didn’t have to and asking for nothing in return. She had the fervor and vigor to take on the world with compassion, and she didn’t care what it took to do it. She sacrificed every ounce of her life to change people with her kindness, even if it meant changing only one person. I truly believe she was chosen for a much-needed cause in this world that many of us so seemingly avoid— selflessness.

  On the early evening of July fourth, Grace’s fifteenth birthday, she finished a long day of volunteering at the homeless shelter and couldn’t wait to go home for her family’s annual firework festivities. On her way back to the car where Niki was waiting, Grace fell lifeless on the pavement. A gunshot to the head killed her instantly. It was a useless act of bloodshed that had nothing to do with her—it was collateral damage resulting from a gang dispute. An innocent victim plagued by yet another string of street violence.

  Myra never mentioned anything about Grace’s death, nor did I feel the need to ask. I feel somewhat cold and hardened inside every time I think about it, and it’s all I can do to muster up a quick smile before anyone notices. While I try to enjoy the rest of the morning birthday celebration, I can’t help but notice Myra’s glassy eyes as she smiles. Could this specially baked gesture actually be a broken memory from the death of her daughter? As I stare at her right now, it saddens me to imagine what’s going on in her mind. I too have that broken-heartedness. Ever since Niki told me about Grace, I prayed deep inside that Gabe and I could stay forever with Myra and Daniel. Regardless of how Gabe may feel about wanting to be adopted, I allow my selfishness to terminate any of those hopes because of the kinship of brokenness I share with Myra. She loves me just as much as my real mother loved me.