Imperial ((Imperial) Web of Hearts and Souls)

 

 

 

Imperial

 

By

Jamie Magee

 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to any real people or event is purely coincidental.

 

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Jamie Magee

 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express consent of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

 

Other Books by Jamie Magee

 

All series mingle at some point creating a “web of hearts and souls”

 

Insight (Book 1)

Embody (Book 2)

Image (Book 3)

Vital (Book 4)

Vindicate (Book 5)

Enflame (Book 6)

 

 

See (Book 1)

Witness (Book 2)

Synergy (Book 3)

Redefined (Book 4)

 

Rivulet (Book 1)

 

 

Where To Find Jamie Online:

 

http://authorjamiemagee.blogspot.com

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“Anger Is A Gift
”―
Aristotle
For one of the kindest Leo’s I’ve ever met ...Sabrina Wells.

 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chap
ter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

Death; a journey we all must make, more than once, is just as riveting—if not more so—than life. The aftermath is, anyhow. The process, I admit, is by no means a pleasant stroll into the sunset. It’s as confusing as it is terrifying. Sadly, a vital decision must be made by your soul at this juncture. I’ve seen it so many times, I can almost call it every time—which way they will choose: to rise, fall, or sustain.

I’ve died twice. The first time, I never made it to the Veil. I was…well, I guess I was claimed. Claimed by someone who surely grew to regret that decision. The second time I chose death, I chose it to protect my closest friend, Mazing. I chose death to protect my line, too. Not to mention the human souls that will never know my name or my role in the grand scheme of things. But that is not really the point, now is it? The point is that the second go around, Sirius chose not to let me pass. I was rejected. No surprise there.

I wasn’t bitter. The Reaper had grown to be a wise advocate of Mazing and me. He welcomed our offer to guard The Fall, the one and only passage that led to the twin reality. The one point that every Escort was fighting to pass through. We all wanted to go home. To the other half of our life. We wanted the power in, around, and behind The Fall. It was the next frontier. Or, well, the old frontier that got wise and burned the bridge down. Now we are all stuck here. Fun.
Not.

I always kept my gauge on the procession of death. When it was massive, there was not a doubt that somewhere in the mix of mayhem there would be an Escort or two. I was in the mood for a good hunt. It had been days since I was given a solid release of power. Days since I’d been fed properly.

The procession began when dusk reached the Veil. Those that did not pass into the calling light or felt they should plead to continue their path were granted permission to speak with the Reaper, to approach his throne and humbly state their reasoning—reasoning that rarely made sense when fear and confusion were seizing their soul, reasoning that had no meaning in the larger scheme of matters. More times than not, by the time they reached the Reaper's throne the people they left behind had either passed on or were a few feet behind them in line. They were all blind to each other in this state of existence.

Often the Reaper would offer a glance or a simple word that would convince the souls to move on. Yet, there were others that remained, stubbornly refusing his persuasion. Some lingered in the enormous cathedral that I call home. Others ventured into the Veil, seeking to find their own way home. More often than not, those were the ones that became haunts, or worse, nourishment for my kind: Escorts. But hey, we all make our own choices now, don’t we?

The throne the Reaper sat upon would change—as would his appearance—with each new soul that was brought to him. I asked why once. If the way I saw him was even real, he grinned and very politely told me that I was one of very few that knew his true form. The change was made for the comfort of the soul, to frame the beliefs their energy was emanating. When I thought about it, I realized it was a foolish question to have asked in the first place. The soul is in a constant state of manifestation. Sees what it wants, hears what it wants to, and feels what it wants to.

I was standing one story up and a few feet in front of the Reaper. From here I could not only watch him and his gracious decisions, but also keep a weathered eye on The Fall.

I leaned against the white marble column as I gazed out at the wonder of The Fall. It was just that, a fall of liquid, yet there was no beginning and no end. A solid wall of what looked like water but was pure energy, stretching in each direction as far as the eye could see.

Sirius, the majestic star, rested in the center of this wall, only a few thousand feet above the highest peak of the cathedral. At least that was what I was told. I see nothing when I look up.

All I see is the overgrown, dark, mystic forest that precedes The Fall. I’d stared at this forest for so long that I knew every branch on every tree. I knew how the wind teased them with a sway. How the moonlight caressed each branch.

I knew exactly when the soul of an Escort was lurking. I didn’t see one now, but I felt the air. I felt that drawing sensation. The energy moving to one source. It wouldn’t be long now.

The pungent odor of a pipe singed my nose, causing me to glance to my side.

“Cowboy,” I stated with a slight nod as I stood from my lean.

Cowboy had been in the cathedral for all of seven moon rises, yet I’d grown familiar with him. He was inquisitive in a simple kind of way.

“Glory,” he stated gruffly to acknowledge me.

“You remembered. The Veil is accepting you. Bravo,” I said in the same absentminded tone he offered me.

Chances are, if the souls remembered who they were and how they died they would become lifers. Not really a good thing, but I guess it was better than being a mad haunt.

The grant the Reaper offered those who were determined not to move on was only a transitory stay. A stay that had the underlying clause that the moment you were forgotten by your previous life, you moved on. It was a pretty cut and dry deal, one that most wanted anyway. If they were forgotten, that meant one of two things: either their family had passed on as well, or there was no one holding on to them anymore—both good reasons to move on to the next dance with life.

The only mishap with that stay was when parks, benches, or buildings were established for souls to be remembered by—great in the real world, not so awesome in the Veil if you took that deal. It put you way off track, real fast and for what could conceivably be a really long time. It’s best just to move on. Honestly, souls should never even see the Reaper. They should follow their guide and move on. Easier said than done, I suppose.

“Hard to forget your name, pretty lady,” Cowboy said as his aged sky blue eyes slanted at me and he tipped his overgrown tan cowboy hat. I was pretty sure I knew what century he died in, along with what dimension.

Time is funny. It loops. So at any moment, a soul from each century, each dimension would be in the procession. It was a glorious history lesson. Interesting the first time around. The thousandth, it became a bit of a bore.

I’d learned to alter my words with each soul I bothered to speak to. That act had given me a well-rounded range of slang words to use, to say the least.

The Cowboy’s eyes were trained on the procession below. Most of the souls in line tonight were soldiers. My guess, they were from the Twenty-First Century, far ahead of my cowboy friend’s time. It wasn’t odd to see soldiers before the Reaper. Soldiers took the meaning ‘no man left behind’ quite literally. Each was vanishing into light as they approached the throne. The Reaper graciously assured them their path was complete with a nod of appreciation.

“Looking for someone?” I mused.

“Perhaps.”

“These souls are not from your time, Cowboy.”

“Oh, sweet lady, I’m aware. I’m in waiting.”

“Special girl,” I assumed.

“What lady would not be?” he offered with a wink. “Just looking for an old friend I made a promise to.”

“You do realize they could have moved on?”

“Not my first walk into the sunset. We agreed to meet at this point in her existence.”

“Some promises are forgotten within the dance of life,” I grimly offered, knowing all too well how true those words were.

“No man of worth would have forgotten you, Glory. I swear to that.”

I grinned, wishing I were what he assumed I was: a pure soul.

“Tell me. Are there no children?” he asked as his eyes moved through the procession.

I offered him a humble glance before I spoke. “We are all children.” I let my words settle for a moment. “The young question everything, with the exception of thine own heart. They always go with their guides. Well guarded. Cherished and protected each step of the way.”

“Good to know,” he responded with a sense of relief, letting me know he was pleased not to see any young before him on this night or any other.

Mazing manifested at my other side at that moment. She was dressed as I was, tight dark jeans, tall boots, a leather corset and a dark jacket. It was a universal outfit. The dead do not care much for changing their attire, I’ll grant you that, but all we had to do to become more formal was shed the jacket and wrap a long skirt around our waist. Warrior to lady in under a second.

Mazing looked like most of my line. Auburn hair and eyes that held the color with a hint of gold, pure skin that would glow when we were appeased.

Always wanting to be different, Mazing had thick streaks of blonde racing through her long, thin dreads. I could never figure out why she liked that style. It was too constricting for me.

“Lordy, now the second hymn has arrived,” Cowboy said to her.

Ah, so that was how he was remembering our names, through association. He wasn’t far off the mark with Mazing. Her real name eons ago was Gracelend. I suppose the family she had before my line claimed her and added ‘Amazing’ as a nickname. Had to do with a song the Cowboy was obviously familiar with. I’d always called her Mazing, and so had everyone within our line.

‘Glory Glory Hallelujah’ was some song he had sung to me not long after I met him. Smart man. That is, if he was trying to change his address to the Veil. It was better to forget. Let this place be a dream.

Mazing offered him a nod, then glanced at me. “You feel the air?”

“I do.”

From her tight leather jacket, Mazing pulled out a velvet pouch and offered me the salt within it. I took a handful and slowly rubbed it across my hands, feeling chunks of it settling in each crease and behind each nail.

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