Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5)

• Title Page
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• About Airicka Phoenix
  

©2012 by Airicka Phoenix

All rights reserved.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and/or the publisher of this book, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover Design: Airicka Phoenix

Interior Design: Airicka Phoenix

Editor & Formatter: Kristy

Beta Reader: Krystal

ISBN-13: 978-1481221245

ISBN-10: 1481221248

Published by Airicka Phoenix

Also available in eBook and paperback publication

WARNING: PLEASE READ

Due to sensitive matters portrayed throughout the novel, Touching Eternity (Touch Series, book 1.5) is
rated 18+ (Adult)
.

Although a part of the Touch Series, Touching Eternity is a standalone. This book does not need to be read in order to understand the others in the Touch Series or vice versa. You can skip this book altogether if necessary. Touching Eternity is the story of Amalie. For those who have read Touching Smoke — and I advise strongly that you read Touching Smoke before Touching Eternity — already are aware of her story to some point. This book is about her.

I, Airicka Phoenix, in no way, shape or form condone the violence shown in Touching Eternity. For those sensitive to matters of abuse (mental, emotional, substance (unwilling) and sexual), torture, suicide and mental instability, this is not a story for you, please do not read. All images are not projected graphically, but I believe strongly that my younger readers should not read this.

Please be aware that the rest of the Touch Series (Touching Smoke, Touching Fire, Touching Embers & Touching Ash) will continue to be Young Adult.

Touching Eternity is ADULT. It may not be suitable for all readers.

Please read with caution.

Novels

Touching Smoke (Touch Series, Book #1)

Anthologies

Whispered Beginnings: A Clever Fiction Anthology

Midnight Surrender Anthology

To Steve, Kristy, Krystal, Kimberley, Chris,

For listening. For caring. For being there when the darkest corner was becoming home.

Touching Eternity was a powerful ride full of tough moments, hard decisions and lots of head-meet-desk moments. I would never have gotten through this without a few very key people. In no real order;

Hubby — I know it can’t be easy being married to an author who spends more time in her head then reality. Thank you for accepting my weirdness, my imagination and my life in the other world.

Kristy — not all angels have wings, but yours would be trimmed with gold. Thank you for spending all hours of the night and day hashing with me. Thank you for your patience, your unwavering friendship and your dedication to make Touching Eternity the best it can possibly be, and thank you for loving my characters as much as I do.

Krystal — you’re not just my twin, but my best friend. You’ve stood by me, supported me when I wanted to cave to pressure. Thank you for not being sane. Thank you for being the other half of my twisted sense of humor and for always having my back. When all else fails, we will always have the chair.

Christy, Kimberley, Chris — support is not just words spoken through honey smiles. It is a shoulder when the world becomes crushing. It’s a hand in the dark. Thank you for being all of those things.

My readers — friendship can bend time, change worlds and turn the weak invincible. Your friendship has shown me galaxies. Thank you for standing by me and supporting my work. May you always flourish and bathe in happiness, health and love.

Love all of you!

~Airicka

Isaiah

A year hadn’t changed the impenetrable walls of ivory. His shadow draped over the marble steps, a dark carpet of rigid hesitation as he stood torn between running and claiming the distance. The front doors gaped, unhinged jaws, a foreshadowing of his awaiting demons glaring, accusing him of his crimes and deeming him guilty.

He was guilty.

Memories he’d fought to drown prowled to the surface, goading him, mocking him…piercing him. Every stab drew blood. Weakness claimed his knees, threatened to cripple him.

God, he didn’t belong there. The year away should have been enough, was supposed to be enough, but it hadn’t been. Nothing could ever take away what he’d done, the things he’d said. Nothing would ever erase the blood on his hands. The heart he’d broken and left shredded and tattered, dragged by its strings from his boots. That agony, the suffering he’d unleashed, was unforgiveable. It was unforgettable. He could die a million times with slow, torturous glee, and it wouldn’t be enough.

The stone archway was a hollow void of her bright smile, her happy squeal of his name as she bounded down the steps, auburn curls a thick cape flying out behind her. She didn’t meet him. He doubted she ever would again. Those days, those single moments of sunlight breaking into his otherwise shrouded existence were mere memories of what could have been, what he’d destroyed.

Unconsciously, he crushed the heel of his hand into the pain cutting through the center of his chest. His jaw set as he willed back the urge to give in to his feet and bolt. The leather straps of his bag squeaked beneath the flex of his fingers.

You’re not a coward!
He told himself, only to snort in self-disgust. He was nothing if not a coward. He was weak and stupid and heartless. He was evil and selfish. He should never have come home. He had no right to darken that doorway, to darken her life. She’d probably already moved on. Probably didn’t even care anymore. It was better that way, he told himself, assured himself. He had no right to want anything else. No right to ask. An angel didn’t belong with garbage.

“Isaiah my boy!” Wavy brown hair sprinkled with salt and pepper, Terrell Garrison appeared over the threshold, arms open wide and a brilliant smile crinkling the lines around his mouth and eyes. He’d aged in the six months since Isaiah had seen him. The strong, proud man sitting front row center at his graduation had a stoop to his shoulders and a tired glint to his green eyes. But that didn’t stop him from hurrying down the steps with the speed and grace of a man much younger. In an instant, Isaiah was jerked into a fierce embrace. Out of habit, Isaiah stiffened at the contact, having never been embraced by anyone, but her. The mangled scent of ink, tobacco, old parchment and disinfectant choked him as the other man’s familiar presence surrounded him. Air rushed from his lungs, momentarily unclogging the doubt weighing heavy on his chest. For a split second, he regretted not coming home sooner.

He drew away, cutting a smile onto his face, like standing there wasn’t slicing him to ribbons. “Still keeping yourself cooped up in the library, sir?”

The heavy whacks of Garrison’s hand on his shoulder muffled the man’s rumbling laughter. “You know me, always trying to better the world,” He motioned Isaiah to follow as he turned away. “I hope you’re hungry. Supper is waiting in the dining room.”

Dread coiled sharp and glacial in the pit of Isaiah’s gut at the thought of passing through those doors, at the possibility that she would be there, that he would see her. He wanted to ask, wanted to know, but he bit back the questions.

Damn it! He had no right to think about her!

“All right, Isaiah?”

Slipping seamlessly back behind his mask, Isaiah nodded. “Yes, sir. Just excited to be back.”

Garrison turned back to the sprawling columns of polished ivory, teetering walls of gleaming glass and lavishly nursed lawns. “Come along. I’m starving.”

Isaiah adjusted his grip on the bag, squared his shoulders and marched into what was surely to be his death.

Nothing had changed. The foyer sparkled beneath the pools of sunlight cascading through arches of glass cut into the ceiling, into the walls. It sparked off the dazzling chandelier in brilliant splashes of color. Paintings of medieval lords and ladies peered back from ornate frames of gold. At the far end, the extensive stairway hooped to the second floor, and his last memory of standing on them while he punched a hole into the chest of the only person he’d ever truly loved made his insides hurt. He turned away.

“Ira, take Isaiah’s bag, please.”

A slip of a girl with mousy brown hair and brown eyes shuffled forward. She kept her head down, hands clasped in front of her as she waited for Isaiah to pass over his luggage.

He hesitated. “It’s kind of heavy,” he said.

“I don’t mind, sir,” she whispered to her feet.

Unsure, but seeing no other choice, he held it out to her. Her fingers were a cool brush against the warmth of his. He released his hold and she nearly capsized forward on her face as the weight of his bag settled on her slight frame. Isaiah grabbed her, steadied her.

“My apologies, sir.”

“Maybe I should take it up.” He reached for the bag.

“I’m all right, sir.” She staggered back, out of his reach. Her cheeks grew rosy with exertion. Her breaths came out in puffs. She waddled back, sideways and then forward towards the stairs.