Indigo Skye: Ink and Art
Welcomes Author J.S. Wayne!
I'm thrilled to feature an excerpt from J.S. Wayne's latest Noble Romance release, Angel of the Morning. Aurora, the Angel of the Morning, has received good news: her husband, Benoth, banished from Heaven for joining with Lucifer, has been granted a temporary pass from Infernus. The Angel of Death, Azrael, has sought an audience with Benoth regarding the renegade assistant, Moradiel, and his mortal lover.
Benoth, never one to pass up an opportunity, manages to arrange his time so he can have the entire day with his beloved and dearly missed wife. As the two reunite for the first time in decades, they discover their passion burns just as hot and bright as ever.
But time flies, even for angels and demons. And sundown is coming . . . .
Angel of the Morning
by J.S. Wayne
At 10:23 a.m. on a bright but chilly and blustery Chicago Saturday, the usual teeming hustle and bustle of the weekend packed Michigan Avenue. Crowds thronged the sidewalks, hurrying to and fro, and the Magnificent Mile moved along bumper to bumper.
She materialized out of thin air into a gap that should have offered no camouflage and reached up to smooth a strand of cornsilk blonde hair out of her face as she looked around. Since her most immediate companions were a woman swaddled in furs, scowling and shaking her wrist impatiently at the bejeweled watch upon it and a man in a blue, pinstriped, three-piece suit yelping furiously into a Bluetooth headset, her arrival went unnoticed.
Not so her appearance; even the irate businessman broke off his furious diatribe as he realized she stood near. Her regal bearing was not unusual on the Avenue. Plenty of upper-middle-class women affected the same haughty air. The difference was she made it seem as though notice and admiration were nothing more than her due; there was nothing artificial about her demeanor. Quite to the contrary, she made it seem as natural as air and sunlight that people should notice and bow before her, sure that she inspired the envy of all women around her.
Heedless of both the admiration and the admonishment she drew, she navigated to the sanctuary of an open doorway, out of the flow and crush of the crowd. After consulting a delicately made timepiece on her left wrist, she peered down to ensure her white skirt and jacket remained unmussed. Assuring herself they did, she flicked an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and pursed her lips in thought. She turned to look first one way then the other as she got her bearings. Finally, she nodded resolutely to herself and began walking purposefully north.
Her destination visible, she zeroed in on the spires of the elegant Gothic cathedral that had loomed over Michigan Avenue since horses and carts filled the Chicago streets, and gaslights had punctuated the nighttime darkness. She swept toward the cathedral, and the throng of people appeared to part before her without conscious intent.
For several long blocks, she savored the peculiar odors of any large city. Cooking food mingled with vehicle exhaust and blended with the various fragrances, perfumes, and base scents of the bodies around her to create an ever-shifting,odd, but not entirely unpleasant aroma. The ear-bending shouts and calls of the swirling mass around her, the roar of a thousand motors, the occasional shriek of brakes or blare of horns, and the babble and arrhythmic cadence of footfalls formed an aural wall of cacophony that echoed off the towers and skyscrapers forming the walls of this unnatural steel and concrete canyon. One particular car pulled to a stop at the curb, its speakers blasting a song she didn't know.The only words she could pick out clearly were Angel of Harlem.
In short order, she covered the distance at a speed faster than an average walk but not quite a lope. She arrived at the immense oaken doors without a hair out of place or her breathing even slightly elevated. Placing her palm to the nearer door, reverently, she took a moment to savor the peaceful feel of the building.
Unlike the jagged emotional shards that reverberated all around her, the huge church pulsed with a quiet, calm power. There had been great joy and sadness known here, as unions had been made before God and broken by death. The prayers and faith of those who had worshipped here for generations saturated these walls, and that aura of sanctuary now permeated the air surrounding this place, seeming to dampen the noise of the traffic and the droning din of humanity.
She smiled to herself; what she sought was indeed here. Grasping the worn, ancient handle, she tugged the door open. It moved easily, despite its massive size, sending a blade of brilliant sunlight stabbing into the dim interior.
Born in Amarillo, Texas, J.S. Wayne has lived, worked, or traveled in approximately two thirds of the North American continent and has amassed a resume that could kindly be described as “eclectic.” He currently resides in the Texas Panhandle with his wife, a vicious attack cat, and a terrier puppy who believes socks are a threat to national security. In his laughably sparse spare time, he enjoys reading, scary movies, strategy games, and collecting obsolete weapons. His professional writing credits include two current novels, Shadowphoenix: Requiem and Wail; a short story, “Angels Would Fall,” which has been contracted by Noble Romance Publishing and is due out in April; and a host of poetry and work-in-progress novels and short stories, including a nascent graphic novel with artist extraordinaire Bill Fish, who created the covers for J.S.’s first two novels, his website, and took the photos J.S. uses for various publicity needs. He maintains a home page at http://www.wix.com/jswaynesite/herebemonsters and a blog at www.jswayne.wordpress.com.www.jswayne.wordpress.com.