Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga)

Praise for
ARISE
and
THE ARSON SAGA

“Estevan Vega’s dark fantasy bristles with malignant energy and throbs with ideas, bringing to mind the early work of Clive Barker crossed with the magical realism of Jorge Luis Borges. Sensual, sexy, and surgically precise, this is
Harry Potter
for the thinking person. Highly recommended!”

– Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling co-author of
The Walking Dead: Fall of the Governor

“
ARISE
is fast-paced, edgy, and—in typical Vega style—just a bit bizarre. His characters are complex and lovable, even when they aren’t very likable. I found myself lost in the story, turning page after page to try to keep up with Vega’s intense storytelling. What began four years ago as the coming-of-age tale of a kid with fire-making abilities has now become so much more. And I’m fully along for the ride.”

– Josh Olds,
Lifeisstory.com

“Estevan Vega captured creative fire with
ARSON
, and that spark is still going strong in the third book of this inspired series.
ARISE
is a searing story of love, loss, betrayal, and redemption—all set against the backdrop of a new world order that threatens the very existence of humanity as we know it. Vega is at his absolute best here, fully realizing characters that will burn themselves into readers’ minds for a long time to come.”

– John Valeri,
Hartford Book Examiner

“Vega’s writing has matured and brings to us a world of horror, betrayal, and mystery.”

-PJ Carroll,
Lytherus.com

“Not for the faint of heart; ARISE delivers the next chapter in THE ARSON SAGA. Fans of the paranormal will find Vega’s latest novel enticing, and long awaited. A true page-turner to the end, this promises to be an edge-of-your-seat story, one that will leave you questioning what’s around you and looking over your shoulder every step of the way.”

– Shondra Brown,
The Christian Manifesto

“
ARISE
expands the story of Arson and Emery in both a depth and scope that I never expected. Estevan Vega has crafted a story that explores the extremes of good and evil and every bit of the gray in between. This book will leave you desperate for the next book as soon as possible.”

– Tom Farr, Writer,
tom-farr.blogspot.com

“Vega is flat-out amazing!”

– Aaron Patterson, bestselling co-author of
The Airel Saga

“
ASHES
left me speechless. The whole thing was like an Edgar Allen Poe poem, lovely and creepy all at once.”

– Abigaile Reale, Blogger,
Reading Teen

“Vega’s storytelling skills make
THE ARSON SAGA
a must read. I have a feeling Estevan Vega is going to be a major force in fiction.”

– Robert Liparulo, bestselling author of
The Dreamhouse Kings

“Creepy, dark, and shocking,
ASHES
is a fantastic and twisted follow up, truly a nightmare brought to life.”

– Kari Olson, Blogger,
A Good Addiction

“
ARSON
is not to be missed. It is densely layered, tense, packed with surprising compassion, and written with great courage…Groundbreaking!”

–
Salt Lake City Examiner

“Prepare to lose sleep when you enter Vega’s dark literary landscape.”

– Scott Nicholson, author of
The Red Church

“Basically,
ARSON
and
ASHES
are two of my favorite books. That is all.”

– Asheley, Blogger,
Into the Hall of Books

“Take my word for it and read this series. It just keeps on getting better and better.
ARSON
is a build up story to
ASHES
, which leaves a burning impression on your hands. Yes, the book is that hot.”

– Savannah, Blogger,
Books with Bite

“It has been interesting watching
THE ARSON SAGA
morph from what I thought was a paranormal romance to more of a psychological thriller. It is a genre all its own.”

– Gabby, Blogger,
What’s Beyond Forks

Other published works by

Arson (Book One in The Arson Saga)

Ashes (Book Two in The Arson Saga)

The Forsaken

Winter Sparrow

When Colors Bleed (Short Story Collection)

Baby Blue

Vanilla Red

The Man in the Colored Room

Music Box (Short)

The Borrower (Short)

Arise

Copyright © 2014 by Estevan Vega. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

Capulet Entertainment

First Paperback Edition 2014

First eBook Edition 2014

Cover Designer: Damon @ www.damonza.com

Editor: Audra Marvin

Layout Designer: Benjamin Carrancho @ www.damonza.com

Cover Photography: Exposures by Joey Jones @ www.exposuremax.com

Cover Models: Matt Bennett and Nicole Brown

For those who live and breathe hope. For the ones who’ve believed in this character since the beginning. For the ones who would fight to the end.

We are arson. Spread the fire!

Chapter One

“The end is coming,
my friends. And it will come like a thief, like an unforgiving storm. A day of reckoning when all that we know, everything that we love…and trust in…will be consumed. Are
you
ready for what dark and terrible things the future has in store?”

The sanctuary was hushed. A sea of captivated faces now sat mystified by Joel Phoenix’s grim introduction. The members of his congregation stared up like children waiting in fearful anticipation for some sort of satisfying climax to the bleak story. Never before had one of his sermons been delivered in such a fatalistic and hopeless way. He’d no doubt lose a few parishioners come twelve o’clock.

In response to the painful silence, he cleared his throat. In truth, a new perspective dripped out of him, and the bottle that perspective belonged to was currently tucked inside the left pocket of his pinstripe suit. He liked keeping her close. The liquor gave him new eyes, somehow bridging a divine gap, as if with every drop his mind became a little more illuminated, capable of understanding the greater schemes of God. Then again, he was very much aware of the material of which men who walked the thin line of faith were made, and how such broken vessels so often needed a reason to remain on the path. Lately, he wasn’t sure if he could.

Look at them. All the lost faces.
Friends.
No, not even close. Can you even stomach it? Look how they sit with their arms folded, scratching at itches on their necks, all of them anxious for another sip from your tainted chalice.

He’d kept his chalice so very clean over the years, but the rust was beginning to show clearly.

Joel glanced down from the platform and saw his wife. Aimee sat in the front row, her usual spot. Ever since he could remember, she’d been there, waiting and wide-eyed, whenever he delivered a sermon. During his forty minutes of preaching, he usually took pride in how she took notes and asked Emery to keep from scratching at her face. He liked that kind of devotion in a wife. And he needed Aimee’s input, especially when it came to their daughter. Emery had become challenging since the accident, and rarely played the role of obedient child. Knowing full well that burn scars had left her once beautiful face mutilated and changed, Joel could more than sympathize with the attitude. Emery had reason to be bitter, but did she need to take out so much of that bitterness on a father just struggling to cope? No matter how many times he’d offered to play chess, she seldom acquiesced; his requests that she let go of that wretched mask were met with disdain and refusal; and Emery had gotten careless with her tongue as well, forcing out a curse or two whenever possible.

But maybe she was safer inside that other world of hers, inside the mask of whom she
wanted
to be instead of whom she
had
to be. He hated seeing her so broken. But what he hated more was how some of the eyes in the crowd were so disturbed that his daughter still wore a mask at all, given all the time that had passed. Her determination bothered them, he believed, the misguided enjoyment she got from creeping out little kids, kids who’d grow up to be pretty.
You are disturbed by it too, buddy;
let’s not forget
. It only took another blink for him to realize that neither Aimee nor Emery was even listening.

Schemer! Where will you hide when they find you out?

He’d never gotten drunk before a sermon, and now that his vision started to split, he knew it had been arrogant and stupid to even risk it. But it was the only way to quell the shaking nerves for a few hours. Arriving early on Sunday morning permitted him some alone time. In his youth, he had spent that time seeking wisdom from above, but now he spent it seeking a new addiction. The lust was birthed long ago, and he’d kept the sick child asleep for years, but lately he’d grown weak to the infant cries.

“I know that this message isn’t what many of you want to hear,” Joel continued. “I mean, who really wants to hear about a God who may be pissed off at them? A God seeking vengeance? Who comes to church because they’re looking for an
un
happy ending?” Joel tilted his neck to the side, feeling the bones crunch underneath frail skin. He was tense. A sliver of sweat soaked into his tight collar; his suit jacket constricted him with every flexed joint, and all of it added to the tension. Stepping away from the podium, he droned on, “But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t give you the truth. God” —it was a challenge to keep his recent sarcastic notions of the divine to himself— “
is
up to something. He is coming to the end of his story, and from my point of view, the Boss seems to be fed up. With all of it. But one cannot study Scripture, or marvel at the wonders of heaven, without also asking if
we
are the problem.”

Silence. So silent he could hear slight static from the microphone.

“Don’t just sit there like you have no idea what I’m talking about. Mankind has played the villain, church. We murder. We steal. We whore ourselves to one another.” His eyes roamed around for women in his congregation who had, on several occasions, offered to get to know him a little more personally, advances he’d regretfully refused. “Wicked little things our hands have done. But did we honestly think we’d get away with it? None of us can escape the schemes our deception has set into motion. Since the beginning, we have chosen to follow
our
way. To run from grace, to spit in the face of mercy.”

Do you believe a word of it? Do you
really
believe there’s anyone on the other side of those long-winded prayers? Like he’d still listen to the likes of you!

“But then, you might think, as I often have, that our Father deserves our spite, our bitterness. He made us this way. He took our love, our trust, our hope, didn’t he? Come now, let’s be honest. This is sanctuary. If we can’t tell the truth here, where can we?” He swallowed hard, spread his tongue over parched lips. “Is this God the same abusive deadbeat we’ve seen in our fathers past? Is he a similar frail, broken child? Maybe he’s lost his way in all of this.”

Tone it back. You’re starting to sound confused. And you’re losing them.

“Take me, for example. I’ve served him most of my adult life, yet he hasn’t made me rich or famous. Still, I am called to preach about
his
riches week after week. You’ve probably grown numb to words of hope.” He could feel the weight of his eyes, heavy. The vile taste of regurgitated liquor had climbed his throat, and he almost choked. Close call.

“Is there still a God in the universe keeping this all in order? Has he kept his end of the deal? Has he given you the desires of your heart or protected your loved ones…from harm?” Joel glanced at Emery, and he knew she was uncomfortable. She hated being a topic in his sermons, but her tragedy fit his purpose, so he used her anyway. When his eyes left hers she folded her arms and got up, storming out of the sanctuary. He didn’t even flinch. “Still, we are to say that he is good, right?” Joel asked with a smirk, a piece of himself refusing to stake true confidence in his claim. “His eye is on the sparrow—isn’t that what we just sang, friends? That he loves us? That he suffered and died for us? That he is to make us his bride? But I stand before you now to ask if
she
has been faithful, or has she just played the frivolous whore? Selfish, unbridled, covetous, cunning, depraved.”

His words and accusations were sporadic and wandered. The liquor coursed through him with a vengeance. He exhaled and clumsily walked back toward the podium, his throne for the moment.

“I thought it’d get quiet in here. We’re all a little uncomfortable with the truth. But this bride has some spots on her, doesn’t she? Maybe she likes the beautiful lie instead. The pretty little lie. The one that tells her everything is going to be all right in spite of the darkness we see all around us. In spite of the horrible things we’ve experienced or the wicked things we’ve brought on others. What a bunch of horse shit.”

Several members gasped. They couldn’t believe he had uttered a curse during his sermon.
What’s gotten into him?
he imagined them saying, pinning remarks to a number of elderly faces. Maybe the teens were rooting him on, happy that he’d pushed the envelope. It was also likely that a handful of middle-aged members were secretly chanting his praises, thankful that somebody finally noticed the elephant in the room. The harsh economy had left so many jobless, homeless even, feeling like rejects and failures.

A young boy seated next to his mother in the back came into focus just then. Joel blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. They had to be visitors because he’d never seen them before. Joel glided down the center aisle and stopped when he reached them. The child couldn’t keep still, his shakes coming and going in minute trembles. It was heartbreaking to see someone so young confined to a wheelchair; it looked like a prison for a human body. Hoses connected to the child’s veins, and mechanisms that cradled feeble arms and kept a weak neck tight. Joel scanned the boy’s lower half to find twisted, deformed legs.

The mother’s lost stare pierced. He half expected her to storm out the door at any second, like his Emery had done. But she stayed, hand gripping her son’s hand like the last breath. What a sad, depressing painting they created. He eyed the boy, swore he was looking into a soul, and then he turned again toward the mother. She was husbandless. The boy was fatherless. Yet both remained, stuck perhaps, and waiting for a new hope.

“Why do we do it?” he said in a hush. “Why do we hang on with such faith? Why do we believe? Why do we have hope?” He chewed his lip, tearing at loose skin. He tasted a bit of his own blood. “Why stay in a marriage where the candle is now just a faint, dim glow?” He toyed with his ring. “Why insist on living as if we have all the time in the world? Have we not read it already? Do we not know that the end will come?”

“We do,” several shouted in agreement.

He was finding a bit of focus, and in a few moments, he would attempt to back up his sentiments with some Scripture.

“We speak it as truth, but we do not believe with our lives in this true reality. The reality that can admit that we are just barely alive, barely hanging on to what is left. We hope—” Joel paused and gently stroked the arm of the trembling child whose disease had stripped his ability to speak. “But we are stuck.” He leaned over and touched the shoulder of the boy’s mother. “Give this woman new hope,” he whispered in a prayer
. If you can.

“Hope. Should we have hope in a sick world? In a world spinning so out of control? By our own hands, yes, but also by the hands of the wicked?” Joel paced back toward the altar, where he was the most gifted of actors. “The final book of the Bible, known as John’s Revelation, is pregnant with mysteries and horrors, and that is where our message lies this morning. Yes, at the finishing of all things, there will be redemption…for some. But before it, there will be pain, friends. There will be blood spilled in our Father’s name. Death will roam the fields, the streets, the cities. Division will arise. Mothers will suffer and weep. Children will be deceived and corrupted. Fathers will abandon their sons…those who remain. Husbands and wives will betray one another.”

Aimee crossed her legs and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked so pretty when she didn’t try, even when she wasn’t
with him
. But he felt, however faint a feeling it was, that a part of her still was.

“Take a look around you. We’ve seen these things with our own eyes.” He waited, allowing his analysis to grip them. “Turn on the television. Every godforsaken news story tells of vile deeds we’ve dealt to one another. Evil running rampant. Evidence of darkness is all around us. Hopelessness. The peculiar mechanics of a manufactured world. But, dear fr—friends, do we have reason to believe?” He prayed no one caught him slurring his words.

“Yes,” a voice echoed from his right.

Maybe you’re safe for now
.

“Always,” another cheered from his left.

Definitely safe.

Joel flexed his jaw muscles. “You cheer and shout as if you have full knowledge of what that word means, friends. I hope we do. I hope that when all is said and done, our Maker’s bride outgrows her filthy rags, and becomes more than the whore I see day after day.”

Whose side are you on?

“Hallelujah!” members roared.

Joel licked his index finger and opened the worn-down Bible he’d received from a gifted professor upon completing seminary. Usually, he opened his sermons with a reading then carried out a monologue with clear-cut points. But the rulebook didn’t exist today. He flipped all the way to the back of the Bible, stopping when he got to the final book. “‘And I looked,’” he began, “‘and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and hell followed with him.’”

Another hush spread over the blank stares and worried mouths—the faces of the people he had been called to minister to. A path he’d chosen but one he was also led to, he had once believed. But where was this hope he boldly spoke of? Where was the stuff that made men legends in the records of heaven?

Where was he?

He continued, “‘The second angel sounded, and something like a great mountain burning with fire was thrown into the sea; and a third of the sea became blood.’ I still get chills when I read that part. Hear me. We can’t live our lives in this world blindfolded any longer. Believe me, times are coming that will test the very fabric of our being, times that may break our faith.” Joel wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and took a sip of water. Finally, true focus had come. “This message is truth. Hear it, understand it. Believe, if you can.”

But the skeptic in him was still alive and ill.

“You
are
my family. All of you.”

What a sick, pathetic father you’ve put on display. Your mentors would be horrified.

“If the horseman came storming through our church doors right now, would you be ready to embrace the end? I can promise you one thing: You are not strong enough for what will come. No man, no woman, no child is. The earth may shake. The seas may boil and run red. The skies may fall. But though this world passes, the human soul and this word…” Joel lifted up the threadbare book, “…cannot die. Take heed of what I say. The days of playing games with your soul are over.”