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PARANORMAL PROTECTORS: ATLAS
AN ON GUARD PREQUEL
MICHELLE FROST
Copyright © 2023 by Michelle Frost

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Natasha Snow
Proofreading by AlternativEdits
This book contains adult language and situations, and graphic violence.
It is intended for a mature audience.
 C O NT E NT S

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

A Hellhound Called Derek

Connect With Michelle Frost
Also by Michelle Frost
 1

“A tlas!” the barista called.

Gavin, Atlas thought, happy to have finally caught the cutie behind the counter on a day when he was
wearing a name tag. Making his way to the counter, he tried to paste a pleasant look on his face.
Gavin’s blue eyes only widened a tiny bit as he approached.
“Atlas?” Gavin asked, setting the cup on the counter. The dim lights of the coffee shop made his blond
hair shine gold. He couldn’t be more than five and a half feet tall and slim enough he pulled his apron
strings to the front to tie them. Atlas felt like a towering oaf next to him. Even with the counter
between them.
“I’m Atlas.” He reached for the cup.
“Have a nice night,” Gavin said, already turning away to make the next drink.
Atlas watched him go. “You, too,” he whispered before returning to the small table he’d claimed near
the back. His phone buzzed in his pocket as soon as he sat down. Pulling it out, he sighed at the sight
of his brother’s name on the screen. Hitting accept, he put the phone to his ear and took a drink of his
latte.
“How’s your barista crush this evening?” Lark asked in lieu of a greeting.
Heat rushed to Atlas’s cheeks. He grunted. “None of your business.”
Lark laughed, the sound warm and comforting despite him being an asshole. “I hate to cut your drool
session short, but the seers had a vision. They need us all in.”
“I’m on my way.” Atlas hung up, grabbed his latte, and stuffed his phone in the pocket of his leather
jacket on the way out the door. He only paused for a moment once he hit the sidewalk, looking back
into the shop at Gavin behind the counter. Maybe in another life he’d ask Gavin for his number, but in
this one, Gavin was a normal human guy. Atlas was anything but.
Thankful he’d only ordered a small, Atlas tipped up his latte cup and sucked down the burning liquid
with a wince. Moving toward where he’d parked his motorcycle down the street, he tossed the cup in
the trash and waited at the crosswalk for the light to turn.
A revving engine caught his attention. Coming down the road toward him, several motorcycle
headlights made him squint against their brightness. The lead biker flipped on his turn signal and
coasted to a stop next to where Atlas was standing. The rest of the bikes drove on by.
“Derek,” Atlas said, giving a single nod to the Hellhound Alpha. Derek was a big man—not as bulky
as Atlas, few people were—but he had a presence that seemed to fill up the whole street.
Derek killed the engine and settled back in the seat, letting his hands rest on his thighs. “Atlas.”
They stared at each other for a moment. This city, Solston, like most cities in the world, was a blend
of the mundane human world and the paranormal one. The humans had their own government, and
while the paranormals were expected to abide by human laws, they were also governed by the
Paranormal Council of the city. The council worked in tandem with the humans to keep Solston’s
paranormal citizens in check, to protect the humans, but to also protect paranormals from humans.
Derek and his hellhounds were some of the council’s main enforcers. They represented the demon
presence in the city.
“Did you need something?”
“You hang out in this area a lot?” Derek tilted his head. He had inky black hair, pale blue eyes, and
dark stubble on the square set of his jaw. One of his hands clenched into a fist, and Atlas wondered
what he was really asking.
“I do.” Atlas indicated the corner coffee shop. “That’s my favorite coffee shop.”
Derek inhaled, likely trying to parse the truth from Atlas’s scent. After he stared for a few more
seconds, he seemed to make a decision, and his posture relaxed…a little. “We’ve heard rumors that a
paranormal hate group is plotting something in this area. Have you seen anything suspicious?”
Atlas frowned. Had he been so focused on Gavin that he missed something like that happening right
under his nose? “No, I haven’t. But I just got a call that one of the seers had another vision.”
Derek nodded. “I’d appreciate a head’s up if the target’s in this area.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good.” Derek started up his bike—a hulking beast of a Harley—and rocketed off into the steady
flow of evening traffic.
Atlas watched Derek’s tail lights disappear before moving to his own bike. Once he was in the seat,
he spared the coffeeshop—Gavin—one more glance. He needed to stop coming here. Gavin was a
beautiful daydream. A beautiful human daydream. He allowed himself one solitary moment to mourn
the death of that dream, then he gripped the throttle and turned his eyes toward the road ahead.

“AWW, YOUR HUNKY LOVEBUG DIDN ’ T HANG AROUND THIS TIME?” CHARLOTTE ASKED WITH A WINK.
She was standing at the espresso machine, getting ready to pour up the next customer’s order.
Gavin frowned. “First, he’s not my anything, and I’m guessing lovebug wouldn’t be on the approved
term of endearment list. Second—”
“That was two already.” Charlotte laughed, shooting him a grin over her shoulder. Her curly brown
hair was putting up a valiant effort to escape the elastic band she’d used to put it up before they left
their apartment. They’d been roommates for two years, best friends for longer.
“Second,” he said again, raising his voice over her cackling. “He doesn’t hang around. He drinks his
coffee, and then he leaves.”
Charlotte placed the order she’d finished on the pick-up counter, shouting the customer’s name before
turning back to Gavin. “He orders a tiny latte, sits with his back to the wall, and stares at you while
he drinks it.”
Scrunching his brows, Gavin moved to the sanitizer bucket and pulled the towel out of it, wringing out
the excess liquid. “He doesn’t stare,” he grumbled as he started to wipe down their work area.
They’d had a steady stream of customers this evening, but it was slowing down. That’s one of the
reasons he liked the evening shift better than the morning. Not only was he absolutely not a morning
person, but the evenings in the coffee shop were much more laid back than the crazy rush of people
trying to get their caffeine fix before they headed to work in the mornings.
“I wonder what kind of shifter he is,” Charlotte said, refilling the cups and lids from the stock they
kept below the counter.
Gavin stood up straight, towel dangling from his hand. Secretly, he’d wondered if Atlas was
paranormal, but he hadn’t said it out loud. Not even to Charlotte. “You think he is?”
She shot him a side-eyed look. “He definitely is.” She lowered her voice a bit. “I just can’t tell what
exactly.”
As far as Gavin knew, no one else at the coffee shop knew Charlotte was a witch. In her own words,
she wasn’t uber badass or anything, but she did always have a sense about things that had proved
true, time and time again. “And you don’t think he’s dangerous or anything, right?”
Charlotte stopped what she was doing and glared at him.
He cringed. “Sorry. That was rude. I’m sorry. I just…he does stare sometimes.”
“I’ll forgive you just because I know you’re not actually an ass.” She tilted her head, obviously
thinking through her words. “He is dangerous.”
Gavin frowned. He knew that somehow. He’d felt all kinds of things when Atlas was there and
looking at him, but in danger had never been one of them.
“Not to you,” Charlotte said, quickly, catching the look on his face. “Or me.” She huffed. “Let me start
over. He’s good. Righteous. But he’s also dangerous. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a cop or works
for the Paranormal Council.” She shrugged. “He just has that feel.”
Gavin could imagine that. What he couldn’t imagine was why the giant, apparently dangerous man
was interested in him. Rolling his eyes at himself, he went back to wiping the counter. Who said that
Atlas was interested in him? Maybe he thought Gavin looked shady and needed to be checked up on.
The bell above the door rang, and Gavin looked up. A man he’d never seen before approached the
counter. He was stocky with light red hair and matching scruff on his face. Charlotte called out a
greeting, but the man ignored her, never looking away from Gavin.
He dropped the towel he’d been using back in the bucket and walked toward the register. The man
watched him every step of the way.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
Pursing his lips, the man glanced at the menu but immediately brought his gaze back to Gavin.
“Coffee. Black.”
“Sure.” Gavin rang up the coffee and took the bill the stranger handed him. All the while feeling the
burn of the man’s eyes on him. It didn’t feel the same as when Atlas looked at him—friendly,
appreciative. He imagined this must be what it felt like to know someone was looking at you through
crosshairs.
Charlotte poured the man’s coffee and set the cup on the pick-up counter.
The man picked it up, never once looking anywhere but at Gavin, and moved toward the door. Gavin
breathed a sigh of relief when the man finally turned and reached out to push the door open, but before
he stepped out, he looked over his shoulder. “Thanks, Gavin. I’ll definitely be back.”
The hair on the back of Gavin’s neck stood up. Atlas may have been dangerous, but this man—who
hadn’t actually done a damn thing—was terrifying.
 2

A tlas hadn’t even pulled away from the curb when his phone started buzzing in his pocket again.
With a sigh, he turned the bike back off and got his phone out. Lark’s name flashed across the
screen. He frowned. Why would Lark be calling him back when they were all supposed to be heading
in for the meeting?
“Lark? What—”
“Have you left yet?” Lark cut him off, voice hard. He only ever sounded that way when shit was about
to go down.
“No, I just got on the bike. I ran into Derek. He said they’d had a tip that a hate group was planning
something in this area.”
“Shit,” Lark said before he took an audible breath. “Look, Atlas, you’re not going to like this. The
target is Gavin. He’s a carrier.”
Atlas’s head snapped up, wide eyes focused back on the coffee shop. He was off the bike in half a
second and running back to the shop.
“Atlas? You still there?”
“I’m here. I’ll get Gavin.”
“Ok. We’re on our way to assist.”
“Call Derek. Him and the hounds are already here.” Atlas reached the coffee shop’s door. He hung up
the phone and stuffed it back in his pocket, letting his gaze track Gavin behind the counter. Taking a
second to settle his heart, he pulled open the door.
Gavin had his back to the door, refilling something along the back wall, but the dark-haired woman
smiled at Atlas.
“Back again already?” There was a teasing glint in her eye. Atlas didn’t have the patience or capacity
to figure out what that meant at the moment. When he didn’t respond, her expression changed to
concern. “Is everything okay?”
“I need to speak to Gavin.”
Her eyes widened. Behind her, Gavin looked over his shoulder at them.
Atlas stepped up to the counter, catching Gavin’s eye. “I need to talk to you.”
The woman—Charlotte, her name tag said—stepped in front of Atlas, eyes narrowed. “Who are
you?”
As irritating as it was, she was right to be worried. “I’m Atlas Mordaunt. I’m an agent of the seer’s
guild.” He reached into his pocket and produced his ID. The seer’s guild was a private organization,
but they often worked in tandem with local government when needed. “It’s imperative that I speak to
Gavin right now.”
Charlotte studied his ID before looking back up at his face. She leaned over the counter, keeping her
voice low. “You’re a mage?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?” Gavin asked, coming to stand beside Charlotte and looking between the two of
them.
Atlas held his gaze, hating that the first real conversation they’d ever have was probably going to
scare Gavin half to death. “Gavin, I need you to come with me, please.”
Gavin took a step back. “What? No, I have to finish my shift.” He looked at Charlotte only to stop
speaking when he saw she hadn’t moved, but was still just standing there staring at Atlas. “Char?”
Charlotte shook herself and took a step back, finally turning to Gavin. “You need to go with him,
Gav.”
“What?” Gavin nearly screeched, looking completely betrayed.
Atlas wanted to jump the counter, wrap Gavin up and try to soothe him somehow.
Charlotte grabbed Gavin’s hands and pulled him closer to her. “Trust me. He’ll explain everything,
and I’ll come to wherever you are once I close up.” At those words, she turned fierce eyes on Atlas,
daring him to deny her.
He nodded. “That will be fine.”
The bell above the door chimed. Atlas turned, pulling his power to the surface as he did, only to let it
go back to dormancy when he saw who was walking through the door.
Derek came to stand beside Atlas. “He the one?”
“Yeah.”
Derek nodded, eyes scanning the windows. “Shit, get down!”
The glass door shattered. Two things happened at once, Atlas jumped the counter, grabbing Charlotte
and Gavin and shielding them with his body. Derek grabbed the smoking canister someone had thrown
through the door and launched it back outside.
“We need to move!” Derek yelled over the screaming of the other coffee shop patrons.
Atlas looked down at Gavin, meeting wide blue eyes. “Gavin, we have to go now.” He looked at
Charlotte.
“Hang on.” She pulled herself away from Atlas and ran for the back.
“Charlotte!” Gavin yelled, trying to go after her, but Atlas kept a tight hold on him. There was no way
he was going to let Gavin out of arm’s reach until he was safely behind him. “Let me go!”
Charlotte came running back a second later with a jacket in her hands. “Here,” she said, shoving
Gavin’s arms into the sleeves. She looked up at Atlas as she did so. “It’s got a protection charm on
it.”
“Perfect.”
“Atlas!” Derek yelled. He and the other hellhounds were outside the shop now, fighting off a group of
men in masks. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Come on, Gavin.”
“Oh no, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” Charlotte interrupted. “Go with him. I’ll tell the police what happened, and then I’ll
see you later.”
Atlas didn’t wait for his answer. He gave Charlotte a nod, lifted Gavin into his arms, and jumped
back over the counter.
“Holy shit,” Gavin gasped, arms flying around Atlas’s neck in a near choke hold.
Atlas conjured a shield, letting the glowing green barrier flow over him and Gavin like a second skin.
All mages were born with an affinity to at least one element. He was solidly an earth mage—strong,
durable, and excellent at defensive magic.
Just as Atlas cleared the door, a black SUV came to a screeching halt at the curb. Between them and
the SUV, Derek and one other hellhound were wrestling two men to the ground. The back door of the
SUV opened, and Lark stuck his head out.
“Need a lift?” his brother asked, smile a little too bright for the situation happening around them, but
Lark did enjoy a fight. He hopped out of the SUV and posted himself with his back to Atlas, facing the
stretch of sidewalk leading away from them, and brought the pulsing orange glow of his magic into his
palms. “These suckers are coming out of the woodwork.”
Atlas glanced to the side, still holding Gavin tight to his chest. More men in masks appeared on the
street. Where the hell were they coming from? He couldn’t think about that now. He made it to the
SUV and set Gavin down on the seat. “Lark, let’s go!”
“Go on,” Lark called over his shoulder, sending a blazing streak of mage fire at a line of masked men.
“We’ll clean it up.”
He didn’t argue. Jumping into the backseat, he slammed the door. “Go!”
“Hang on, kids,” Pike said from the driver’s seat. The SUV sped away from the curb, bouncing one of
the masked men off the front right fender.
Atlas turned his attention to Gavin. He was huddled in on himself, breathing fast and looking pale.
“Hey,” Atlas said, voice gentle. “It’s okay, Gavin. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I
promise.” He slid himself over until he was pressed to Gavin’s side and draped an arm around his
shoulders. He was afraid Gavin would pull away from him, but instead, he leaned in harder, turning
enough to bury his face in Atlas’s shoulder.
Atlas pulled him closer and vowed to himself that was one promise he’d make damned sure to keep.
 3

G avin pressed his face into Atlas’s shoulder, trying to get his breathing under control. The car
beneath him continued to speed away from the coffee shop, engine revving and pressing him
harder to Atlas as they took turns at too high a speed.
What the hell was happening?
“Gavin?”
He lifted up, focusing on Atlas’s concerned green eyes. Had his eyes always been that green? He
couldn’t figure out what to ask first, so he just stared.
“You’re going to be okay,” Atlas said, pulling him closer. “It’s the adrenaline wearing off. That’s why
you’re shaking. I promise I’ll explain everything. Right now, just breathe.”
Looking down at himself, he realized he was shaking. He made himself sit up and take controlled,
deep breaths. Atlas didn’t try to hold him in place, but stayed close. First things first. “Where are we
going?”
“To the seers guild. We call it the Hub.”
“Why?”
Atlas tilted his head. “Why are we going there, or why do we call it the Hub?”
Gavin scowled, the question breaking loose the fear that had latched on to him. “Both! And who were
those men? Why did they attack the coffee shop?” Darkness descended over the car, making Gavin’s
heart rate kick up again.
“Easy,” Atlas said, reaching out a hand to him. “We just entered the tunnel.”
Looking out the window, Gavin saw concrete walls racing by both sides of the car. The only reason
he could see them was because the driver had turned the headlights on. Shit, the driver. He snapped
his head around to look at the man in the front seat. Who was he? “Who?”
The man met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Pike. Water mage. Nice to meet you.”
“Gavin,” he said faintly. He’d never met a mage in his life. No one he’d ever met had, and now he
was in the car with two of them, apparently. He’d known they existed, of course, but mages weren’t
something that came up in everyday conversation unless someone was bad-mouthing paranormals.
Charlotte frowned on that. Afterall, paranormals were also people…or people-ish. Some had been
completely human at some point in their lives. Like vampires. Vamps were made not born.
He didn’t know how mages came to be. As far as he knew, no one did. Maybe that’s why people
didn’t like them.
The darkness of the tunnel retreated as they entered an underground parking structure. Overhead
fluorescent lights lit the space in intervals, reflecting off a small fleet of shiny black vehicles. Pike
pulled the car smoothly into an empty space, shot them a wink through the rearview, and hopped out
of the vehicle.
“Why did you bring me here?”
Atlas met his gaze, brows drawn together. “To protect you. Those men weren’t there just to attack the
coffee shop. They were after you, Gavin.”
“But—”
Atlas cut him off. “Let’s go meet the seer. She’ll explain everything. I promise.” Gently, Atlas took his
hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re in no danger here, Gavin.”
He knew that. Somehow. It didn’t make the questions building up in his mind like a house of cards
feel any less precarious.
Atlas opened the door and stepped out. When Gavin didn’t immediately follow, he leaned down,
looking into the car and holding out his hand.
Gavin looked from that outstretched hand up into Atlas’s green eyes. Taking a breath, he slid his hand
into Atlas’s and let himself be pulled from the car. Once his feet were on the ground, he expected
Atlas to let him go. He didn’t.
“The elevator is over here.” Moving toward the front of the garage, Atlas kept his pace slow enough
that Gavin didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. The top of his head only came up to Atlas’s
shoulders. The difference in their sizes was extra apparent without the coffee counter between them.
When they reached the wall, Atlas poked the up button.
“Did Pike take the elevator?”
Atlas looked down at him. “No, he usually takes the stairs.”
That must be what the large door farther down the wall was. The garage didn’t seem as big as a
standard parking garage. The dark concrete walls were actually comprised of individual stones
making the building seem a lot older than the cars and sleek silver elevator suggested.
The doors slid open. Atlas led him inside and pressed the top button on the panel. There were five of
them, but they weren’t labeled.
Gavin frowned. Atlas’s hand was warm and encompassing. As the elevator started to rise, he stepped
a little closer to his protector. How many times had Atlas sat in the coffee shop, sipping his drink and
sending little smiles Gavin’s way? It’d never felt creepy. Never felt threatening. He supposed if Atlas
had wanted to hurt him, he could have done it a hundred times over by now.
The elevator came to a smooth stop. There were no floor numbers displayed. No electronic voice to
tell them what destination they’d reached. Gavin held his breath as the doors slid open.
White marble floor with gray swirls greeted them. The walls were lighter, too, an off-white that made
the narrow hallway they entered seem less cramped. There was only one door. Atlas pushed it open.
Inside, the room was large and circular, and there must have been more than ten doors fighting for
space along the curving wall. In the center, a round fire pit made up of light-colored stones filled the
space with crackling warmth. Gavin wondered where the smoke went until his eyes landed on the
woman standing on the far side of the fire. She wore simple clothes—white leggings, an oversized
sweatshirt, and cloth, warm-looking house shoes. Her hair was violet, a shade he’d only ever seen in
the sky during truly spectacular sunsets, and long enough the ends dragged the ground as she moved
toward them.
“Gavin,” she said, voice like velvet. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
As she got close, Gavin realized she was older than he’d originally thought. Deep lines surrounded
her eyes when she smiled. They didn’t take away from her ethereal beauty, though. He knew deep
within himself that this was a creature of magic the likes of which he’d never come into contact with
before.
With a soft smile, she held out her hands to him. “Will you come sit with me, Gavin? I can see that
you have many questions.”
“Can Atlas stay?”
Her eyes, the same color as her hair, glanced over at Atlas before coming back to Gavin. “Of course.”
He took the hand she offered. Her skin was like ice. Atlas gave his other hand a squeeze and let him
go, but followed right behind them. Gavin wondered where they’d sit as he hadn’t seen any furniture
in the room when they’d entered, but as they approached the fire pit, he saw two couches sitting
around it now. He blinked. Those couches hadn’t been there even a second ago. And they hadn’t just
appeared. He’d been looking at that space, and surely he would have seen couches materialize out of
thin air! But he hadn’t. They hadn’t been there, and now they were.
He swallowed hard, his heart rate picking up speed again.
The woman sat in the corner of one of the couches, tucking one leg up underneath herself, and
motioned at the seat beside her.
Sitting, he half expected to fall right through the mystery cushions and end up on the floor, but the
couch was plush, comfortable, and warm like it had been sitting there long enough to absorb the fire’s
warmth.
“I’m sorry this is all so overwhelming. Typically, we try not to throw everything at a carrier at once,
but I’m afraid the Humans Against Paranormals group—the men who attacked you—have made
easing you into this impossible.” She smiled again, apologetic.
“Carrier?” Why in the world would she think it was the Humans Against Paranormals who had
attacked him? He wasn’t paranormal. Oh no. What if they knew about Charlotte?
“Gavin.” Her voice, changed from the soft tone of before, pierced through him like an icepick,
stopping his runaway thoughts. “Please. Allow me to start at the beginning, but trust me, as sorry as I
am to say it, those men were there for you and you alone.”
He looked at Atlas, watching him settle on the other couch while those words sank into his bones.
Was that why Atlas always watched him? Because the seer knew those men would be coming for
him? That thought, more than anything else so far, turned his stomach sour. Dropping his eyes, he
cleared his throat before focusing on the seer.
If she could read his mind right now, she didn’t give it away. “A carrier is someone, a human, who
carries mage magic in their blood. You’re a carrier, Gavin. That’s why those men were after you.”
“But…I don’t have magic! I’m a barista!”
“You don’t have magic at the moment, but if you chose to, you could. The magic is in you. Passed
down through the generations of your family.”
His mind whirled. “That doesn’t make any sense. If I am a carrier, or whatever, how would they even
know? Is there a blood test for that?”
She shook her head. “I wish I had an answer for you about that, but I don’t. We don’t know how
they’re discovering carriers. Only that they’ve begun targeting them. The power I have to see carriers
has always brought them to my attention only when the universe sees fit. Now that HAP is targeting
carriers, however, it seems to be bringing me visions when carriers are in danger.”
“You said, if I chose to. What does that mean?”
“Exactly that. I believe one of the reasons HAP has taken such an interest in carriers is because you’re
human. Fully human, but you can choose not to be.”
 4

A tlas wished he’d squeezed onto the other couch beside Gavin. Watching his face as he
absorbed the truth about carriers, about mages, was hard. The disbelief, the denial, and finally,
the resignation.
Something sharp twisted in Atlas’s gut. Would these truths drive Gavin away? He’d never been able
to fully explain why Gavin appealed to him the way that he did. A random stop at a coffee shop on a
cool, rainy day had changed his life. Gavin hadn’t treated him differently than the half dozen other
customers in line, but Atlas had been transfixed by his warm smile all the same.
Rhea was being gentle with Gavin. Atlas was thankful for that. The seers were generally amicable,
but sometimes their visions left them in dark moods.
When Gavin sat for a full minute without saying anything after Rhea’s last statement, she turned to
Atlas. “I think that’s enough for now. Will you show Gavin where he can rest and feed him?”
“Of course,” Atlas said, climbing to his feet. Before he could stand up fully, Rhea was already gone.
Atlas scowled. Gavin was in enough shock without all the theatrics. Of course, the seers didn’t see
their strange comings and goings that way. They didn’t operate on the same wavelength as everyone
else, so expecting them to act human was moot.
Gavin startled, staring at the empty cushion where Rhea had been. “How…”
Giving him a gentle smile, Atlas moved to stand in front of him. “Sorry, they do that. Come on, let’s
get something to eat.”
Climbing to his feet, Gavin stepped around Atlas and moved a couple feet away. “If there are other
things you need to do, I’m sure I can figure it out if you’ll tell me where to go.”
Atlas frowned, hurt that Gavin already wanted to be away from him. “Gavin…”
“It’s just,” Gavin said, voice low and not meeting Atlas’s eyes. “You don’t have to babysit me
anymore, you know? I’m here now and…safe. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Atlas’s thoughts spun. Insecurities he’d held for a long time tried to rise up out of his chest to choke
him, but he beat them back. Gavin was scared right now—vulnerable—and he thought he’d been a
burden to Atlas all this time.
Reaching out, he gently took hold of Gavin’s chin and urged his face up. Once their eyes met and held,
he took a breath and bent lower so their faces were close to the same level. “Ask me when I found out
you’re a carrier.”
Gavin searched his face, gaze sweeping from Atlas’s eyes to his lips and back again. “When?”
“Today,” Atlas said succinctly. He moved the hand he still had on Gavin’s chin to cup the side of his
face, rubbing a gentle line just beneath Gavin’s bottom lip with his thumb. “About two minutes after I
left the coffee shop.”
Gavin’s breath caught. “Then why—”
Atlas smiled. “Isn’t it obvious? I have a crush on the cute barista.”
A blush rose in Gavin’s cheeks, and he gave Atlas the sweetest little smile. “You’re not the only one
with a crush.”
Thundering hope spread through Atlas’s chest. “Yeah?”
Gavin’s gaze dropped to Atlas’s lips again. “Yeah.”
Leaning forward, Atlas brought their mouths together. It was a simple press, the soft, warm skin of
Gavin’s lips molding to his like they were finally where they belonged. He pulled back all too soon,
but he needed Gavin to really understand. “You’re not a burden,” he said into the warm space
between their faces. “You could never be.”
Gavin swallowed hard, eyes suspiciously shiny. “The lady said something about feeding me? I’m
starved.”
“Come on.” Atlas stood up straight and reached out for Gavin’s hand. “I’ll give you the tour on the
way to the kitchen.”
“What are all these doors?” Gavin fell into step beside him.
“This room is one of the reasons we call this the Hub. They’re gateways. Doors to other cities where
the seers and mages have a presence.”
“Wow.” Gavin’s head swiveled around, looking at the different doors. They weren’t labeled in any
way, but they were each unique. He’d passed through several during his time here, going to assist
other mages or using a door as a means to travel quickly. It certainly beat standing in line at the
airport.
“So, the other cities, do they have rooms like this, too?”
“No. We really are the main Hub. Seers, mages, and others pass through us if they need to go to a
different city where we have a presence.”
“Others?”
Atlas bit at this lip, afraid he’d said too much too soon. New carriers didn’t always take the news of
some of the mage affiliations well. “Allies.”
Gavin hummed. “How many mages work here?”
“Live here, really. There are only three of us right now. Me, my brother Lark, and Pike. We each have
quarters in the building. There are also common areas. A big kitchen, a gym, and a rec room. The
seers have their own space, but sometimes they join us for dinner and movies.”
“Sounds nice,” Gavin said as they reached the door to the hallway. “Charlotte is my roommate. We’ve
been living together for a couple of years now.”
“You’re close?”
“Oh yeah, she’s practically my sister. Will she be able to come here after she finishes up at the shop?”
Gavin shook his head. “I still can’t believe that. I can’t believe they’d just attack the shop like that. I
haven’t even done anything.”
They made it to the elevator. Atlas pressed the down button. “I know. Hate makes people do senseless
things.”
“Charlotte will be alright, won’t she?”
“Yes. Lark and Derek will stay with her and help deal with the police and getting the coffee shop
secured. I’m sorry that I dragged you away, but—”
“No, I get it. Please don’t apologize for saving my life.” Gavin squeezed his hand. “Thank you, by the
way.”
Atlas squeezed back. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that.”

GAVIN SETTLED ON A STOOL AT THE ISLAND IN THE LARGEST KITCHEN HE’ D EVER BEEN IN . THE
appliances were all shiny stainless steel, and he’d never seen a bigger refrigerator in his life. The
ones in the back of the coffee shop weren’t even that big. “How many people live here, again?”
Atlas shot him a smile over his shoulder. “Three of us mages and two seers full-time, but lots of seers
come through here.”
Gavin frowned. “The seer I just met…she never told me her name.”
Atlas’s gaze turned apologetic. “Yeah, sorry about that. They don’t give their names away easily. It’s
a seer thing. You can call her Violet. That’s generally what she tells people.”
“What do you have to do to learn her name?” Gavin leaned his elbows on the island, more curious
than he’d imagined feeling when they were on their way here. It was like a whole other world. A
world that had apparently always existed right here, but he’d been clueless about it. Now, he might be
a part of it.
Atlas turned from the fridge, setting deli turkey, cheese, and a couple condiment bottles on the island.
“If you choose to unlock your power, she’ll tell you. The other one, though…he’s a little more finicky.
We call him Fred.”
“Is his hair a normal color?”
Atlas chuckled. “Not exactly.”
“It’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs, you know.”
Gavin jumped at the sound of a voice behind him. He spun around on the stool just in time to catch a
short man with fire engine red hair gelled into spikes heading into the pantry.
Atlas sighed. “Fred, I was only telling Gavin who lived here.”
Fred popped back out of the pantry, a box of crackers and a canister of cheese whiz clutched to his
chest. Gavin tried not to stare and was pretty sure he failed miserably. Fred must have been shorter
than Gavin, who was only 5’8”. He was wearing Squishmallow slippers, tube socks, neon blue
basketball shorts, and a white tank top underneath a knee-length leopard print robe.
The outfit alone was enough to warrant a second look, but it was his eyes Gavin couldn’t look away
from. The man didn’t look a day over twenty-five until Gavin met his gaze. The same deep lines
framed eyes the color of pennies in Fred’s pale face. Gavin wondered what his real name was and
how old he really was.
Fred tsked at him. “Sorry, Gavin. You’re a nice guy, I can tell, but I prefer to keep my secrets. Atlas,”
Fred said, turning to the mage. “We’re out of cheese whiz.” Then he was gone.
Gavin blinked at the empty spot Fred had been standing in. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”
Atlas chuckled. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Gavin watched while Atlas went about making them some sandwiches and pulling packets of chips
and cakes out of several different cabinets. His phone buzzed in his pocket. As he was reaching for it,
he asked, “Why do you keep things all over the place?”
Atlas leaned over the island and said in a whisper, “Because seers can’t see objects. Just people.”
Ah. Gavin chuckled. Poor Fred. He must have more than just a cheese whiz addiction. Looking down
at his phone, he saw a text from Charlotte. A picture. He opened the text. Charlotte’s face, tear-
streaked with a piece of duct tape over her mouth, looked back at him.
Charlotte: You’ll meet us where and when we tell you. Tell no one. Come alone. Fail to follow
these instructions, she dies.
 5

S omething was wrong. Atlas couldn’t say exactly how he knew because Gavin was putting up a
pretty good front, but ever since he’d looked at his phone earlier, he’d been…off.
Not wanting to pry, Atlas carried on as if everything was okay. He made sandwiches and answered
Gavin’s questions about the building. Strange that Gavin hadn’t asked a thing about how to unlock his
power or what would happen if he chose not to.
Looking down, Atlas carefully placed their dirty plates in the dishwasher. He didn’t want to think
about what it would mean if Gavin chose to let his power remain dormant. With HAP knowing who
Gavin was, they’d have to move him out of the city. Atlas swallowed. Their connection was too new
to say he’d follow Gavin anywhere, but that’s how he felt.
“Atlas?” Gavin asked, voice subdued.
Atlas turned from the counter to find Gavin standing beside the island.
“Um, would it be okay if I laid down somewhere? I’m pretty tired.”
“Of course,” Atlas said, feeling off balance. “We’ve got guest suites. You can stay in one of those.”
He led a quiet Gavin back to the elevator. Their hands brushed together in the hallway, but Gavin
didn’t reach for him. Atlas tried not to read into it. The day had thrown more than a couple surprises
at Gavin. He probably just needed some time to sort through it all.
When they made it to the guest floor, Atlas walked Gavin to the first suite. He pushed the door open
and reached in to turn on the lights. “There’s a house phone you can use to reach any of us, but if you
want, I can give you my cell. That way you just text if you need anything.”
“That’ll be good.” Gavin pulled out his phone and poked around, then looked up at Atlas expectantly.
Atlas rattled off his number. “Will you text me so I have yours, too?”
Lifting his face from his phone, Gavin had his lips pulled into a little smile. The first one since after
Fred had shown up in the kitchen. “Of course.” He swallowed as his gaze swept over Atlas’s face
like he was searching for something.
“Gavin—” Atlas started only to be cut off when Gavin lifted up on his toes and wrapped a hand
around the back of Atlas’s neck, bringing their lips together. Atlas kissed him back, half startled by
the desperate way Gavin’s lips moved against his and the demanding entrance of his tongue, caressing
against Atlas’s.
Reaching up, Atlas slipped his hands up Gavin’s back and over his shoulders to cup his face. He
tilted Gavin’s head, getting a better angle and slowing the kiss. Making it deeper.
Gavin sighed into it, both hands wrapping around Atlas’s shoulders and holding on like he never
wanted to let go. But he did. All too soon, he pulled back, pressing one last kiss to Atlas’s lips.
With a strangely shiny blue gaze, he looked over Atlas’s face again. “Thanks again for saving me.”
“Gavin,” Atlas said, voice still rough from the kissing. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He smiled and pulled away, stepping into the room. “I’m fine. Just tired. Goodnight.”
The door clicked closed between them.
Standing there, Atlas pulled out his phone. Gavin hadn’t sent a text. Pulling up his contacts, he
pressed Lark’s number.
“Hey, bro,” Lark said a moment later.
Atlas pressed the phone harder against his ear and moved back toward the elevator. “Hey. How’s it
going? Will you have Charlotte back here soon?”
There were sounds of movement through the phone. “Charlotte? She’s not back yet? The police took
her down to the station to make a statement and were going to give her a ride to the Hub after. I was
getting ready to head home, but I’ll stop there and see what the hold-up is. I really thought she’d
already be back.”
Atlas frowned. “Did Derek go with her?”
“No. Him and the hounds got called to another disturbance. Charlotte asked me to stay at the coffee
shop and wait for the guys coming to board up the windows. Don’t worry, I’ll spring her from the
police.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“How’s Gavin?”
“Quiet. He seemed fine, but I think it’s all starting to set in.”
Lark made an understanding noise. “Yeah. It’s a lot. Which one gave him the rundown, Violet or
Fred?” Lark knew Rhea’s name, but since he was in public, he wouldn’t use it…just in case someone
was listening.
“Violet, but Fred popped in while we were in the kitchen. Their teleporting freaked him out a little
bit, I think.” Bypassing the elevator, Atlas pushed open the door for the stairs and down a floor.
Lark snorted. “I bet. The crew is almost finished with the windows, so I’ll be heading out soon. If
Charlotte shows up, shoot me a text.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
“Yep.” Lark disconnected.
Biting his lip, Atlas stood in the stairwell and stared down at his dark phone. He had a bad feeling.
He wished he knew if something was actually wrong or if Gavin was having a hard time adjusting.
And wished again that Gavin had texted him so he’d have his number.
With a sigh, he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and headed for his own quarters. There was
nothing he could do right now except give Gavin the space he needed.

THE SUITE WAS NICE. GAVIN STOOD JUST INSIDE THE DOOR, LOOKING OVER THE SITTING AREA. THERE
was a couch, TV, and coffee table. An arched opening to the left revealed a bed with plush-looking
bedding, bracketed by bedside tables and a dresser.
He walked to the dresser. On top, there was a laundry basket with an unopened pack of underwear,
socks, sweats, t-shirts, and all manner of toiletries. All the clothes were his size. Had the seers been
able to see that, or had someone made a really good guess? With a shake of his head, he went into the
attached bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.
It didn’t matter if they’d bought clothes his size. He had to go save Charlotte, and he knew he
wouldn’t be coming back. Tears stung his eyes again. Fuck, it wasn’t fair. He’d only just found Atlas.
Just found out about this whole secret world of mages and seers. A world he could be—was—a part
of, and before he’d even really had any of it, someone was taking it away. Worse, they’d hurt
Charlotte and damaged the coffee shop to get at him.
He sucked in a hard breath, the edge of the counter biting into his hands where he gripped it so hard.
His phone buzzed.
Standing up straight, he reached for the towel hanging beside the sink and dried his face. Staring at his
reflection showed him a man with too-bright eyes and nervous blotches trailing up from under the
collar of his shirt. He took a couple more deep breaths, finger-combed his hair somewhat back into
order, and reached for his phone.
Charlotte: The fountain in bloodsucker park. One hour.
The image they sent this time showed all of Charlotte tied to a chair with duct tape still over her
mouth and a dark strip of cloth covering her eyes. The park they meant had to be the one named for the
vampire leader of the city, Lenette Cabot. It was a nice place, but usually completely empty at night.
Fear spiked through Gavin. He was in way over his head, but all he could do was what they asked.
Somehow, he knew they’d know if he told someone. Knew they’d see back-up coming with him from
a mile away.
He was on his own, and he didn’t have a moment to waste. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure
where the Hub was located exactly. He’d been too worked up to pay attention on the drive here.
Lifting his phone again, he pressed the icon for one of his rideshare apps. While it calculated his
location, he headed back to the door. Opening it a crack, he peeked out into the hall and breathed a
sigh of relief at finding it empty.
He typed in the name of the park into the destination address on the app and waited for it to calculate.
A ride could be here in five minutes. Perfect. He selected a driver and headed for the stairs, crossing
his fingers that he wouldn’t run into anyone.
He couldn’t think about Atlas. Or a future that could have been his. He needed to save Charlotte. That
was all that mattered now.
 6

“F ucking hell, Fred! I thought we talked about you not teleporting into my room whenever you felt
like it.” Atlas pressed a hand to his thundering heart and coaxed his magic back under his skin. A
shield had automatically ripped itself out of him, forming a barrier between him and the intruder in
his space.
“No, no,” Fred said, hands out in front of him. “You said unless it’s an emergency. I know how to
respect boundaries, thank you very much.”
A chill rushed over Atlas like he’d plunged into a frozen lake. “What emergency?”
“Gavin left the building,” Fred said with a frown. “I can’t see where he’s going. Actually, I didn’t see
anything at all, but I did catch him walking out the front door on the security cameras.”
Hurt swamped Atlas in an irrational wave. Why would Gavin leave? Had he been so freaked out and
afraid that he felt like sneaking out was the only option? That kiss must have been a goodbye. Atlas
grimaced. Now wasn’t the time to let his emotions get the best of him. He needed a cool and clear
head. Because regardless of how Gavin felt about him or being a carrier, he was still in danger, and it
was still Atlas’s job to protect him.
“Which way did he go? Can we call the Saint cover for a locator spell?”
“Better,” Fred said, pulling out his phone. “Nix is already on it.”
Nix was their IT person. She’d be tracking Gavin using the city’s CCTV network.
Atlas’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and pressed it to his ear without looking at the name. “Gavin?”
“Nope, just your brother with bad news.” Lark took a deep breath. “Charlotte isn’t here. She gave her
statement and then was handed off to a uniform for a ride to the Hub. Except no one seems to know
who she left with.”
“Shit. They’ve got her.”
Lark’s voice turned grim. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Gavin left. He was acting strange when I left him in one of the suites. He walked out the front door
not five minutes ago.”
“Double shit,” Lark swore. Atlas could hear movement through the phone, then a car door closing.
“I’m on my way. Call Derek. The hounds are already out. Maybe they can help us find them.” He hung
up.
Trying to keep his breathing even, he lowered his phone enough to maneuver to Derek’s contact. If
they hurt Gavin, he’d bury them so deep beneath the earth no one would ever find their bodies.
“Easy, big guy,” Fred said, staring at him with wide eyes.
The room was shaking. Correction, the building was shaking. Atlas took a deep breath and pulled his
power back in. The shaking stopped, at least on the outside. Inside, he felt like his bones were
vibrating with the need to unleash a tidal wave. The sheer force of his rage scared him a little. He had
excellent control, but the thought of those HAP bastards taking Charlotte and using her to lure Gavin
from the safety of the Hub made him want to pry himself open and dump enough power for the earth to
open up and swallow the city whole.
“Sorry,” Atlas grunted after several more deep breaths, forcing himself to put a lid on it. He needed to
keep his head. A total loss of control for a mage meant death and destruction for everything around
them. There was more than one reason humans hated them, and other paranormals tended to be wary.
“Nix’s got him,” Fred said, coming to stand beside Atlas and tilting his phone so Atlas could see the
screen. On it, Gavin was stepping out of the back of a light-colored sedan and looking around. “He’s
at Cabot Park.”
Atlas was moving before the last word left Fred’s mouth. “Call Lark and Derek. Tell them to meet me
there.” He pulled open the door to his room to find Pike there with a hand raised to knock.
“What’s going on?” Pike asked, looking past Atlas to Fred.
“Gavin’s gone. They took his friend to lure him out.”
Pike’s gaze lingered on Fred a moment before coming back to Atlas. “Shit. Let’s go.”
Behind him, Fred was already talking to someone. Probably Lark. He didn’t waste another moment.
With Pike on his heels, Atlas ran down the hall toward the stairs.

COOL WIND WHIPPED OVER GAVIN , RAISING GOOSE BUMPS ON HIS BARE ARMS AND TOUSLING HIS HAIR.
He walked along the park’s paved walkway, every nerve on high alert as he scanned the open grass
and groupings of trees around him. The park was beautiful during the day—green grass, young trees,
and fragrant flowers spilling out of their beds. At night, lit by intermittent lampposts and the silver
shine of the moon, it took on an eerie vibe.
The fountain was directly ahead of him. The path opened up to a big circular area made up of flat gray
stones. Out of the middle of a wide, shallow basin, the statue of a woman in a flowing dress with
fangs peeking out from her smiling lips poured water from the palms of her open hands.
Gavin walked the circle around the fountain, peering down the different pathways leading to other
parts of the park, but didn’t see anyone. He was alone. His phone buzzed.
Charlotte: Good. You can follow directions. Throw your phone in the fountain and take the middle
path to the river overlook.
Gavin let his phone dangle at his side, fear and helplessness rising up in his chest and trying to choke
him. The phone buzzed again.
Charlotte: Don’t keep us waiting.
Fuck. They could see him right now. He swallowed hard, his breath speeding up until all he could
hear was the thunder of his own blood rushing in his ears. Gritting his teeth, he threw the phone and
all his hope into the fountain. He took off at a jog down the middle path. The river overlook was a
good distance away, and if he tried just walking, he knew he’d never make it. Fear would curl him
into a lifeless shell, left fetal and pathetic on the ground. He needed to be strong. Had to be strong.
For Charlotte.
Fred appeared in the space right in front of him and grabbed his arms. Startled, he shrieked as they
both went tumbling to the ground.
“No!” Gavin said, scrambling back to his feet. “Let me go! You can’t be here!”
“Stop,” Fred barked in a voice far deeper and older sounding than the man in the leopard print robe
from the kitchen should have been capable of. “I can’t hold this illusion for long.”
“What?” Gavin was panting, sweat gathering in his hairline even though he felt cold and his arms
absolutely frozen where Fred gripped him.
“I created an illusion. No one can see us right now. Not even the cameras. Anyone watching will think
you tripped, and now you’re just standing here catching your breath.”
“Oh.” Gavin’s eyes went wide. He’d known the seers were powerful, but damn.
“The mages are waiting for you. They’re in the river directly beneath the center of the overlook. Play
along with HAP and stay alive. They’ll do the rest.”
Fred was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving Gavin standing there doing exactly what the
illusion had shown—catching his breath. The hope that exploded through him brought tears to his
eyes. He squashed the smile that wanted to bloom on his face and wiped his eyes and forehead with
the tail of his shirt.
He started jogging again, feet moving faster. Atlas was up ahead. He didn’t have to face whatever
was waiting at the river alone. Maybe that made him selfish, but it also gave him the strength to put
one foot in front of the other.
As he approached the overlook, he slowed his steps. The overlook was paved with more of the same
flat gray stones as around the fountain and arced out over the water in a half circle. This side of the
park had a safety fence running the length of it. Past the fence, the slope down to the river wasn’t
insanely steep and there was another concrete barrier keeping the river from washing away the park’s
edge.
Gavin wasn’t sure how it all worked, but the park was well-liked for its river views. During the
warm months, the grassy areas surrounding the overlook were always crowded with people.
He glanced toward the railing along the overlook’s edge. If a person went over the railing there, it
would be a straight drop down into the water. Where were the mages hiding? Surely Fred hadn’t
meant they were actually in the river?
“Stop there, Gavin,” a man’s voice said from the shadows between two of the lampposts.
Gavin stopped, still twenty or more feet away from the overlook’s edge. “Who are you? Where’s
Charlotte?”
“I’ll be asking the questions.” The man walked out of the shadows. He was of average height and
build and covered head to toe in black clothing. Even his face. Gavin couldn’t make out a single
distinguishing characteristic. When Gavin didn’t say anything else, the man gave him a single nod.
“Good. You know how to listen. Question one, did you allow those mages to access your tainted
blood?”
Tainted blood. “Um,” Gavin said, trying to parse out how the man made every single syllable drip
with disdain. “I haven’t allowed anyone to do anything with my blood.” Movement behind him made
Gavin look over his shoulder. More men in black were moving among the trees. Calmly. Slowly. Like
they didn’t have a care in the world and weren’t each carrying a large gun. Gavin glanced to the other
side and saw the same. There had to be a dozen of them.
He turned his face back to the first man. “Charlotte was never here, was she?”
There was a smile in the man’s voice. “Oh, she’s here. Don’t let it concern you, though. You’ll never
see her again.” He lifted his gun and aimed it at Gavin.
A loud rushing sound filled the air a second before a huge wave of water crashed over the overlook’s
railing, knocking the man off his feet.
Shouts and gunshots rang out from all around Gavin. He dropped to the ground, cold water coating his
front as a transparent green dome formed over him. Sweeping his gaze around wildly, he finally
landed on Atlas.
With a bubble of green magic around him, Atlas plowed through a line of the men, using his fists and
magic to lay them out. Bullets struck the sphere around Atlas, sending splintering lines of deeper
green racing over the sphere’s surface. On the other side of the overlook, Pike was making similar
strides, a dazzling blue vortex swirling around him like water. Their magic was beautiful.
“Demons!” Men further back in the trees screamed as another line of men started shooting at Atlas
and Pike.
On instinct, Gavin slammed his eyes shut and covered his head with his arms.
“That won’t save you,” the first masked man’s voice said from above him.
He looked up into the barrel of a gun pressing against the green shield of magic covering him. The
masked man moved his finger to the trigger, but a tree branch connected with the back of his head with
a crack.
“Asshole,” Charlotte said, standing over the crumpled body and holding a stick thicker than her arm.
“You okay, Gav?”
“Am I okay?” He scrambled up to his feet, shield moving with him, and tried to hug her only for the
shield to keep them apart. “Are you okay?” She looked like she’d been roughed up—dirty, clothes
torn in places, a split in her bottom lip, and her hair an absolute mess.
Lark, Atlas’s brother, who Gavin had only seen in passing, chuckled. “Yeah, you’ll have to get my
little bro to drop that shield once he’s done smashing skulls.” He stood beside Charlotte with the man
in black’s gun in his hand.
Charlotte looked over at Atlas, then raised an eyebrow at Lark. “He’s your little brother?”
“Yep,” Lark said, popping the P and rocking back on his heels. “Isn’t he cute?”
At that moment, Atlas let out a savage war cry and threw his arms straight out in front of him. Green
lines of power shot out and down, running beneath the ground and causing a contained earthquake. All
the men in the blast zone were thrown off their feet, landing hard in every direction.
Sirens screamed in the distance. A second later, red and blue lights flashed through the trees. Two
police SUVs came tearing through the park toward them. The HAP men that were still conscious tried
to scatter.
“Oh, that’s my cue,” Lark said, dropping the gun he’d been holding. He stood with his arms at his
sides, face of a mask of concentration. When he lifted his arms, two walls of fire rose up out of thin
air, one on either side of the clearing where HAP had been making their stand. The heat and sudden
appearance of giant fire walls drove the men back.
Cops poured out of the two SUVs even as two more police vehicles approached. Behind them, two
motorcycle headlights maneuvered around the cop cars and drove dangerously close to one wall of
flame. They parked on the stones near where Gavin, Lark, and Charlotte were standing.
“Looks like y’all got this shit handled,” one of the men said, setting his kickstand and getting off his
bike.
“Ah, I’m sorry we didn’t save you some, Bacchus,” Lark said. He turned to the other man. “Derek, it
was a man in a cop uniform that took Charlotte.”
Derek. Gavin thought he looked familiar. He’d been at the coffee shop, too.
Derek got off his bike and walked to them, stopping in front of Charlotte. “Can you identify him?”
“Hell yeah, I can,” Charlotte said, not missing a beat. “I’d be glad to.”
“Good.”
“Gavin?” Atlas was suddenly there, big arms wrapping around Gavin’s waist and lifting him
completely off his feet.
He wrapped his arms around Atlas’s neck and held on just as tightly. “I’m okay,” he whispered
against the skin of Atlas’s neck.
Atlas squeezed him tighter before setting him back on the ground. He looked at Charlotte. “You’re
okay?”
“I’m good,” she said, sliding an arm through Gavin’s. “Starving, but good.”
Lark chuckled. “Come on, let’s help the police round up the trash. Then dinner’s on me.”
 7

“T hat’s him,” Charlotte said, pointing to one of the handcuffed men kneeling at the side of the
police wagon. Atlas stood close at her side. Derek on the other. They both knew that some of the
police officers in the city weren’t to be trusted. They’d proven that when the police commissioner
himself had tried to use Derek’s mate to acquire private information about the paranormal residents of
the city.
“Stupid bitch,” the man spat as two uniformed officers hauled him up to his feet. The cops
maneuvered him into the wagon.
Wanting to keep Charlotte from any more vitriol, Atlas slipped an arm around her shoulders and
turned her toward where Gavin, Lark, and Pike were waiting. Derek shot him a nod over Charlotte’s
head and moved to help the police load the rest.
Gavin had already given his statement. He’d have to go to the police station tomorrow to make it
official, but for the moment, they were done. Atlas was more than ready to get Gavin and Charlotte
back to the Hub.
As soon as they got close to the others, Atlas let his arm drop from Charlotte. Gavin slid in where
she’d been without a second of hesitation. A feeling of peace settled over Atlas at having Gavin
settled against his side. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss into Gavin’s messy hair. “You okay?” he
asked quietly.
Gavin looped his arm around Atlas’s waist and squeezed. “Better now.”
“Oh my god, you two are adorable,” Charlotte said, with way too much squee in her voice.
Gavin huffed a laugh. “Char, we are not.”
“Oh, you totally are.” Lark cut in with a smile.
Atlas sighed and looked down into Gavin’s upturned face. “Might as well get used to it.”
With a smile, Gavin lifted up and pressed a quick kiss to Atlas’s lips. They parted with a smile,
ignoring Charlotte swooning in the background.
“Alright, kids,” Pike said, ever the adult in the room. “Let’s go.”
Derek and Bacchus waved when they called their goodbyes. Atlas had never been happier to get back
to the SUV and climb inside. He was exhausted. Between the fear, the fight, and the sheer relief of
having both Gavin and Charlotte safely with them, he felt wrung out and ready to sleep for ten years.
Lark ordered pizza on the way, getting everyone’s preferred topping requests. Pike drove like he
always did—fast, but safe—and had them back at the Hub in record time. They didn’t bother with the
elevator, instead taking the stairs up a level to the kitchen and rec room.
As soon as they entered the kitchen, Atlas saw Fred slumped over the island, head laying on his
folded arms.
“Fred,” Pike said, rushing forward. He gently laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder.
“Owww,” Fred moaned, not moving at all from his slump.
“Bad hangover?” Pike asked him quietly.
“So bad.”
“Okay, come on.” Pike put an arm around Fred. Fred lifted up, keeping his eyes closed, and wrapped
his arms around Pike’s neck. Slipping his other arm underneath Fred’s knees, Pike lifted him into his
arms.
Atlas stepped forward. “You got him?”
Pike shot him a look that made Atlas lift his hands in surrender. “I’ve got him.” He carried Fred from
the room.
Gavin looked up at Atlas with confusion written all over his face. “What happened? Did he really
have a hangover?”
“In a manner of speaking. A magic hangover. Seers are powerful, but they’re also…fragile?” Atlas
looked to his brother.
Lark shrugged in agreement, like he couldn’t think of a better word either.
“And sometimes,” Atlas continued. “When they use a lot of energy, it drains them and leaves them
feeling pretty rough.”
“Will he be okay?” Charlotte asked, taking a seat on one of the barstools at the island.
“Yeah. Rest, some meds, and a little pampering will put him to rights.” Lark pulled a stack of plates
from a cabinet and grabbed the roll of paper towels off their holder. “Now, the question is, do we
want to eat pizza in here or on the couch?”
“On the couch,” Gavin and Charlotte said at the same time before looking at each with smiles on both
their faces.
“Although,” Charlotte said, looking down at herself. “I’m kind of a mess.”
“There’s a bathroom to the left if you want to freshen up, but don’t worry about the furniture.” Atlas
steered them back out of the kitchen and toward the living room. “Faux leather. Dirt wipes right off.”
When they got to the living room, Charlotte veered off to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed,
Rhea was standing beside the coffee table with a stack of pizza boxes in her hands.
Beside Atlas, Gavin startled. “I will never get used to that.”
Rhea smiled at him. “You will. Trust me.”
Gavin’s eyes went wide before he let out a bark of laughter. “Guess I should, huh?”
“Yes,” she answered succinctly and set the pizza boxes on the table.
From there, it was a flurry of passing plates and inhaled slices. Charlotte came back with clean hands
and face, and her hair pulled back in its usual ponytail. Atlas sighed in satisfaction when Lark killed
the overhead lights and turned a movie on once everyone had a full belly. Pike even came in at one
point, loaded up a couple plates, and disappeared back to whichever room he had Fred resting in.
Gavin leaned back, warm against Atlas’s side, and laid his head on Atlas’s shoulder.
Lifting his arm, Atlas wrapped it around him, pulling him closer. He knew if they stayed there they’d
both be asleep before the movie was half over. He nudged Gavin and whispered, “Wanna go cuddle
in bed instead?”
Gavin tensed for just a second before smiling up at him. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
No one said a word as they got off the couch and left the room. Reaching out, Atlas took Gavin’s hand
and led them to his room. It was more like a small apartment than a room. The door opened to a little
living room with a kitchenette in one corner, really just a counter with a sink, mini fridge, coffee pot,
and electric kettle. There was an open hallway to the left that led to the bathroom and bedroom.
Atlas loved his space. He’d taken care to paint, furnish, and decorate it in a way that brought him
peace. From the art on the walls to the bookshelf full of all his favorites, everything felt like a piece
of him.
“This is nice,” Gavin said, looking around.
“Thanks.” He walked to Gavin, taking him in his arms and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I wasn’t
trying to lure you away for sex, you know.”
Gavin smiled, small and sweet. “I didn’t really think you were.” He fiddled with a wrinkle in Atlas’s
shirt. “We haven’t exactly had a lot of time to explore this.”
“We haven’t.” Atlas swallowed and rubbed his thumbs over the small of Gavin’s back. “I’d like to,
though.”
“So would I.” There was no hesitation in Gavin as he held Atlas’s gaze with his own. “I’d also like to
unlock my power. Watching you all tonight…” He shook his head. “It was amazing. Being strong
enough to help and protect people that way. I want to do that.”
The thought both thrilled and scared Atlas. Of course he wanted Gavin to embrace his power and stay
there, but Gavin becoming a mage meant Gavin being in the line of fire. His own protective instincts
flared, but this was Gavin’s decision, and he’d support him no matter what. “You’ll be an amazing
mage.”
Gavin’s cheeks filled with a beautiful pink blush. “Thank you.”
Leaning down, Atlas claimed his lips in a passionate kiss, trying to convey with lips and tongue all
the words he wasn’t sure how to say. I’m here. I want you. I can’t wait to discover how we’ll be
together.
Gavin pulled back some minutes later, eyes bright and blush deeper. “I seem to remember someone
mentioning cuddles.”
Atlas chuckled and rested their foreheads together. “If I can promise you one thing about the future,
it’s that you’ll have my affection and all the cuddles you can handle.”
Gavin beamed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’ M PLEASED YOU’ VE DECIDED TO JOIN US , GAVIN ,” VIOLET SAID AS SOON AS ATLAS AND GAVIN
walked into the kitchen the next morning.
Shooting a look at Atlas, Gavin raised an eyebrow.
Atlas chuckled. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh,” Gavin muttered, cheeks heating. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to being around the seers.
To Violet he said, “Thank you.”
Violet smiled at him. “There’s several steps to prepare for the ceremony and a waiting period of at
least four weeks. Plus, Kerak needs to be present. I’ll reach out to him now.” She vanished.
Gavin let out a breath, blinking at the empty space where Violet had just been standing. “Okay,” he
said, drawing out the k. “First, why the waiting period? And who’s Kerak?”
Atlas paused in front of the coffee pot. Instead of answering, he pulled two mugs from an overhead
cabinet, poured coffee into each, and added cream and sugar. Picking the mugs up, he turned and sat
them on the island, meeting Gavin’s gaze.
“Kerak is the Demon King. The most powerful demon in this realm, and the reason for the waiting
period is to make sure you understand what being a mage means and how accepting your magic has
the potential to change you.”
Apprehension pulled at Gavin’s insides. “Change me?”
With a sigh, Atlas came back around the island and pulled Gavin into his arms. “Suddenly having
access to magic you’ve never had before is a big change. Some people handle it better than others.
The seers like to give carriers what they call Magic 101 before the ritual.”
Pulling back, Gavin picked up one of the coffees and took a drink. It wasn’t often someone fixed
coffee for him, and Atlas had doctored it perfectly. “Thank you.” He took a moment to think through
what Atlas had said. Would suddenly having power change him? He’d like to think not, but he
honestly couldn’t imagine how it was going to feel either. “I think waiting is a good idea. I hadn’t
really considered how much of an adjustment it might be.”
Giving him a small smile, Atlas nudged Gavin’s arm as he took a drink from his own cup. “You’ll
never be alone in it. Every mage here—and in the world—has been in the same situation.”
Taking another drink of his coffee, Gavin let that thought sink in. It occurred to him that there was a
whole world of questions he hadn’t asked yet. How many mages were there? What exactly happened
during the ritual? Why did the King of Demons need to be present? He gave Atlas a small smile,
suddenly grateful he had a month ahead of him to learn all there was about being a mage.
 8

ON E M ON TH L A TE R

G avin woke up warm and comfortable, Atlas a warm boulder beside him. Lifting his head from
Atlas’s chest, he looked up at his boyfriend’s face. Things had progressed between them so
naturally over the last few weeks that Gavin felt like he’d been waking up like this forever. That all
might change today, though.
After today, he’d have power. Once the magic inside him was unlocked, he’d change. Everyone did,
the seers had told him. It was impossible not to when you’d lived your whole life human and suddenly
this new part of yourself was unlocked—a part that made you distinctly something else.
Sometimes, someone else.
Atlas had brushed off his fears, telling Gavin it was a rare occurrence for someone’s powers to
change them so completely. But it did happen. That was the point Gavin couldn’t seem to bring
himself to look past.
“Stop fretting.” Atlas’s rumbly sleep-soaked voice broke the quiet.
Gavin chuckled. “Good morning.”
Cracking open one eye, Atlas peered down at him. “Good morning. Stop fretting.”
“I’m not fretting.”
Atlas shot him a look that conveyed exactly how much he believed that—not at all.
Gavin started to sigh, only to screech instead when Atlas bodily flipped them, smoothly dropping
Gavin to his back while Atlas rolled up and over him, settling between his spread thighs. “Someone
else is awake, I feel,” Gavin said with a smile, lifting his hips to rub the hard line of Atlas’s cock
against his own.
“Likewise,” Atlas whispered, lowering himself enough to catch Gavin’s lips. Neither one of them
gave a crap about morning breath, opening up and letting their tongues dance and glide together.
Maybe someday they would, but with every touch between them still a revelation, Gavin couldn’t
imagine it.
He groaned when Atlas thrust down, making his blood sing with pleasure. Lowering himself, Atlas
nipped Gavin’s chin, then nudged it up with his nose so he could suck at his Adam’s apple. Gavin
hummed his enjoyment at the treatment of that particular spot, but Atlas didn’t linger long.
Throwing the covers back, he slid further down the bed, covering a nipple with his open mouth and
sucking hard.
Gavin nearly jackknifed off the bed. “Atlas.” The word came out on a moan. “You’re trying to distract
me.”
Lifting his head, a wicked smile spread over Atlas’s face. “Is it working?”
Gavin arched a brow at him. “Maybe.”
Diving back to his task, Atlas massaged the other nipple with the flat of his tongue. He kept himself
held up with one arm while the other hand pushed down Gavin’s boxer briefs.
Lifting his hips, Gavin helped.
Atlas rewarded him by moving lower, kissing and nipping his way to Gavin’s straining cock. He blew
a cool stream of air over the length of him, making Gavin squirm, before he dropped his head and
sucked him into his mouth.
Gavin let out a gusty sigh, carding his fingers through Atlas’s dark hair. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”
The vibration of Atlas’s chuckle sent tingles through Gavin. He wanted to plant his feet and thrust, but
wouldn’t. Atlas seemed determined to run this show and take his mind off the ceremony happening
later that morning.
As if sensing where Gavin’s mind had wandered, Atlas chose that moment to take Gavin in as far as
he could before pulling back, lightly scraping his teeth over that sensitive spot beneath the crown.
Gavin’s hips jerked up, he couldn’t help it, but he was now fully focused on the delicious heat and
suction of his boyfriend’s talented mouth.
Atlas didn’t give him another moment for a stray thought to take over, sucking him hard and fast until
Gavin was sweating and cursing and fisting Atlas’s hair in a death grip.
“Atlas, I’m coming,” he gasped out a moment too late to actually be a warning and came in a blinding
rush of pleasure. For a moment, he lay panting, completely disconnected from the earth and floating in
the fuzzy haven of afterglow.
Atlas lurched up, bringing his knees up snugly behind Gavin’s thighs and pushed his briefs down far
enough to release his cock. He was fully hard and purple. Close. Already so close just from blowing
Gavin.
Reaching down, Gavin gripped him hard and stroked fast, just how Atlas liked it.
Atlas grunted, fingers digging into Gavin’s thighs. He shuddered once, then went completely still
before all the air left him in a rush and the hot ropes of his release painted Gavin’s belly.
Gently, he pulled Gavin’s hand away when it became too much and kissed his fingers. Bracing
himself over Gavin again, he brought their mouths together in a slow, perfect kiss.
“You don’t have to be afraid of what happens after the ceremony,” Atlas said, warm breath fanning
over Gavin’s lips.
“Logically, I know that.” Gavin looked up into Atlas’s pretty green eyes. “It’s not like I’m really
changing. Just…becoming more, I guess.”
Lowering himself to his elbows, Atlas slipped his arms beneath Gavin’s shoulders so he could frame
his face with his hands. “There is no more. You’re more than enough.” He shook his head a little, gaze
sweeping over Gavin’s face in a look that Gavin could only describe as awe. “You’re everything, and
unlocking your power is just a bonus. It’s already there. Already in you. It’ll just be at your disposal
now, and we’ll teach you how to wield it.”
Gavin smiled, hoping that Atlas was right and he’d still be him after it was over. “What do you think
my element will be?”
Atlas kissed him again. “I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out.”

Thank you for reading!

Part Two of Atlas and Gavin’s story is available for pre-order now!
Paranormal Protectors: Gavin
For Derek’s story check out A Hellhound Called Derek
or turn the page for a sneak peek!
A HELLHOUND C A LLED DEREK
 CHA PTE R ON E

“They’re ready for you inside, boss,” Knox said, stepping out one of the side doors of the Solston
Paranormal Council building.
Derek nodded, taking a final pull off his cigarette and flicking it to the asphalt of the alleyway. The
nicotine didn’t affect him like it would a human, but he enjoyed the act of smoking all the same.
Blowing the cigarette smoke, along with some of his own, out of his nose, he stood from where he’d
been seated sideways on his Harley.
He was the hellhound alpha and lead demon presence in Solston so this arranged mating was his
responsibility. It didn’t mean he had to like it. The Paranormal Council and the human leaders of the
city had gotten together to determine the best path forward to reduce friction between humans and
paranormals. Somehow, they’d come up with this—reviving an archaic ritual that hadn’t been
practiced in a century.
A leader from every paranormal faction in the city was set to be mated to a human citizen that was
either in equal standing in the human world or willing to take a job in one of the paranormal
organizations.
Derek wasn’t sure who the human he’d chosen was. He’d never even laid eyes on him, but his scent
had been the most appealing when the council had passed around the files. Each file had held a
picture and basic information about the human it represented, but also, a scrap of cloth with their
scent. One whiff and he’d known. The outside of the file said the human’s name was Hollis. Derek
hadn’t bothered to open it up and look at the picture.
Derek followed Knox through the door and down a long service hallway. The door they went through
at the end opened into a carpeted hall Derek recognized. Four shiny wooden doors, two on either
side, led to conference rooms. He’d been a part of many meetings there since coming to Solston and
taking over the alpha hellhound position.
He and the hellhounds were the main enforcers for the council. They patrolled the streets, took care of
rogue paranormals, and assisted the human police when necessary. Waiting in the hall were the other
paranormal leaders about to meet their mates.
“Jacob. Leander,” Derek said with a nod. Jacob was one of the twins leading the Saint Coven, and
Leander was the second highest-ranking vampire in the city.
“Derek,” Leander said, offering his hand to shake.
Derek took it, and after shaking Leander’s hand, shook Jacob’s extended one.
“You boys ready for this?” he asked, keeping his voice down. They’d all expressed their hesitance at
the initial council meeting, but in the end, he knew their sense of duty was the same as his. They’d do
what needed doing. More importantly, they’d do what their bosses commanded. Derek may be the
leader of the hellhounds and demon presence in this city, but he wasn’t the Demon King in this
country. Kerak’s orders were simple—do your duty and keep the peace.
That’s exactly what he intended to do. And he’d take care of this human that was to be his mate.
Hollis wouldn’t want for anything and would have the protection of the hellhounds at all times.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Jacob said. He was young, barely in his late twenties, with shaggy brown
hair and boyish good looks. By contrast, Leander was centuries-old, groomed down to his manicured
fingernails, and dressed in an immaculate gray three-piece suit. Jacob was dressed nicely as well in
slacks and a button-down. Derek had worn what he always did when he wasn’t on duty—jeans, a
black t-shirt, his leather jacket, and thick-soled black boots.
“Oh good, you’re all here,” Lenette, the lead vampire of the city and head of the council, said as she
came around the corner. “Your humans are already in the rooms. You’ll go in, have a few minutes to
chat, and then we’ll come in with the mating license for you each to sign. It will be your choice and
responsibility if you want to hold a ceremony later on. Questions?”
When no one spoke up, Lenette chuckled. “Don’t be so glum. It’s your mating day.” The sarcasm in
her voice wasn’t lost on Derek. She cleared her throat and looked down at the clipboard in her hands.
“Okay, Derek, your human is in Conference Room One.”
With a nod, he broke away from the group.
“You want me to hang around, boss?” Knox asked as Derek moved toward the first conference room’s
door.
“Nah. We’ll get this mating settled, and then I’ll bring him to the house.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of any calls that come up tonight.” Knox was Derek’s second-in-command, the
vice president by human standards. He was a good man and a helluva soldier.
“Thanks, brother.” Derek clasped Knox’s hand and watched him walk away before he turned toward
the conference room door. The small window set high in the door didn’t reveal much, just a large
plain wooden table and generic blue patterned carpeting. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open
and got hit with a face full of the scent he’d chosen from a stack of files.
Hollis wasn’t sitting at the table. Instead, he was pacing, hands fidgeting in front of his chest, off to
one side of the room. As the door swung closed behind Derek, Hollis stopped pacing. Behind his
dark-framed glasses, his pretty brown eyes widened.
“Um,” Hollis said, hands still lifted in front of his chest.
His scent was mouthwatering, and for a moment, all Derek could do was stand there and stare, taking
in lungfuls of the delicious aroma. “Hi,” he said eventually, voice coming out more gravelly than
normal. “I’m Derek.”
“Hollis.” He swallowed loud enough that Derek could hear him across the room. “You’re the…aren’t
you the…”
“Hellhound alpha.”
“And you’re—” He cut himself off, one of his hands pointing slightly to Derek and then to himself.
“Your new mate. Yes.” Derek moved toward the table. “Come sit,” he said, trying to sound as non-
threatening as possible. Hollis was obviously nervous, and while Derek wasn’t sure that they’d have
some great relationship between them, he didn’t want his mate afraid of him.
Hollis moved to the chair Derek had indicated. He was cute, dressed in khaki slacks, a soft chocolate
sweater, and brown Oxfords. He couldn’t be more than 5’7”, and with a mop of curly blond hair and
the glasses, he was downright adorable. A smile pulled at the corner of Derek’s mouth imagining
Hollis on the back of his Harley.
Once Hollis sat down, Derek moved to that side of the table and pulled out the chair beside him. He
sat, noticing that Hollis had tensed up with every step closer Derek had taken. Not knowing what else
to do, he held out his hand. “Might as well do this officially. I’m Derek. I’m the hellhound alpha and
lead council enforcer.”
Slowly, Hollis slipped his hand into Derek’s outstretched one. His hand was cold, smaller than
Derek’s, and somehow, a perfect fit. “Hollis. My uncle is the human police commissioner. I worked at
the library before this, but I’ll be working here now.”
He didn’t seem super happy about that, but Derek didn’t want to pry just yet. Instead, he swiveled his
chair to face Hollis and reached for his other hand. Hollis didn’t fight him but did frown in confusion
once Derek had clasped both Hollis’s hands with his. “Your hands are cold,” Derek explained,
running his thumbs over the backs.
Somehow Hollis’s frown got deeper as his cheeks started to redden. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Are you saying that because you don’t want me touching you or because you think cold hands are
something you should be embarrassed about?”
Hollis opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I-I guess the second thing. I don’t want you
to think…”
Derek gently squeezed his fingers. “Don’t want me to think what?”
“Good to see you two getting along,” Lenette said, breezing through the door.
Hollis tensed up and pulled his hands from Derek’s. He wouldn’t meet Derek’s eyes. Instead, he
turned his chair to face the table and clasped his hands firmly together in his lap.
Derek shot a glare at Lenette, barely containing the growl that was building in his chest.
Lenette raised one eyebrow at him and smirked. Two of Lenette’s assistants entered the room. One
moved to the table and pulled out a chair opposite Derek and Hollis for Lenette. She sat and laid the
folder in her hands on the table. “I’ve got your mating license here. You’ll each need to sign, and once
I’ve filed it with the city tomorrow, I’ll send you a copy.” She met Derek’s gaze. “To the hellhound
clubhouse, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Here we go.” She pulled a paper out of the folder and turned it, laying it in front of them along
with a pen. “Look it over for errors and then sign above your names at the bottom.”
Derek could barely focus on the paper. All he could hear was Hollis’s heartbeat increasing and the
acrid scent of anxiety weaving through his scent.
With a shaky hand, Hollis reached for the pen, but Derek stopped him, covering his hand with his
own. He looked at Lenette. “Could you give us a couple more minutes?”
She tilted her head, its tight spiral of brunette hair not moving an inch. “Of course.” She and her
assistants were out of the room a second later, the door quietly clicking shut behind them. Yet
somehow, their absence seemed to make Hollis’s anxiety spike even further instead of diminishing it.
“Hollis, talk to me.” Derek turned more toward him, the rolling chair he was in making it easy to
maneuver even on the terrible office carpet. When Hollis didn’t immediately say anything, only
getting more red in the cheeks even as the hand still under Derek’s got colder, Derek looked around
the room. Down from them, in the middle of the table, was a tray holding a glass pitcher of water and
four glasses.
Standing, Derek went to the tray and poured a half glass of water. He went back to his chair and
gripped the armrest of Hollis’s, turning him so he faced Derek again. “Here.” Carefully, he put the
glass into Hollis’s hands.
Hollis was shaking, but he held the glass tight and took a small sip.
“Hollis…” Derek tried again, voice as gentle as he knew how to make it. “What exactly are you
afraid of right now? Is it just the mating, or is it…me?”
After a couple deep breaths, Hollis lifted his gaze. “Should I be scared of you?”
“No. I understand that this isn’t ideal and kinda fucking crazy, and I have no idea how it’s going go,
but the one thing I can tell you about it is this.” Derek took both of Hollis's hands in his own again.
“You don’t ever have to fear me. Hell, you don’t have to fear anything. You’re my mate now and
under hellhound protection.”
Some emotion Derek didn’t recognize crossed Hollis’s face. “I believe you.”
Derek huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s a start.”
For a moment, they watched each other. Hollis still seemed…wary. Resigned. Anxious. Derek didn’t
like it, but he figured the only way to fix it was with time.
Letting out a deep breath, Hollis squared his shoulders. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Keep Reading…
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exposure to the wildest winter night. For two-and-fifty years he
was the subject of a supernatural palpitation, which kept his bed
and chair, and everything moveable about him, in a perpetual
tremble. For that space of time his breast was miraculously
swollen to the thickness of a fist above his heart. On a post-
mortem examination of the holy corpse, it was found that two of
the ribs had been broken, to allow the sacred ardour of his heart
more room to play! The doctors swore solemnly that the
phenomenon could be nothing less than a miracle. A divine hand
had thus literally ‘enlarged the heart’ of the devotee.[320] St. Philip
enjoyed, with many other saints, the privilege of being
miraculously elevated into the air by the fervour of his
heavenward aspirations. The Acta Sanctorum relates how Ida of
Louvain—seized with an overwhelming desire to present her
gifts with the Wise Men to the child Jesus—received, on the eve
of the Three Kings, the distinguished favour of being permitted to
swell to a terrific size, and then gradually to return to her original
dimensions. On another occasion, she was gratified by being
thrown down in the street in an ecstacy, and enlarging so that her
horror-stricken attendant had to embrace her with all her might to
keep her from bursting. The noses of eminent saints have been
endowed with so subtile a sense that they have detected the
stench of concealed sins, and enjoyed, as a literal fragrance, the
well-known odour of sanctity. St. Philip Neri was frequently
obliged to hold his nose and turn away his head when
confessing very wicked people. In walking the streets of some
depraved Italian town, the poor man must have endured all the
pains of Coleridge in Cologne, where, he says,

‘I counted two-and-seventy stenches,

All well-defined, and several stinks!’

Maria of Oignys received what theurgic mysticism calls the gift of

jubilation. For three days and nights upon the point of death, she
sang without remission her ecstatic swan-song, at the top of a
voice whose hoarseness was miraculously healed. She felt as
though the wing of an angel were spread upon her breast,
thrilling her heart with the rapture, and pouring from her lips the
praises, of the heavenly world. With the melodious modulation of
an inspired recitative, she descanted on the mysteries of the
Trinity and the incarnation—improvised profound expositions of
the Scripture—invoked the saints, and interceded for her friends.
[321]
A nun who visited Catharina Ricci in her ecstasy, saw with
amazement her face transformed into the likeness of the
Redeemer’s countenance. St. Hildegard, in the enjoyment and
description of her visions, and in the utterance of her prophecies,
was inspired with a complete theological terminology hitherto
unknown to mortals. A glossary of the divine tongue was long
preserved among her manuscripts at Wiesbaden.[322] It is
recorded in the life of St. Veronica of Binasco, that she received
the miraculous gift of tears in a measure so copious, that the
spot where she knelt appeared as though a jug of water had
been overset there. She was obliged to have an earthen vessel
ready in her cell to receive the supernatural efflux, which filled it
frequently to the weight of several Milan pounds! Ida of Nivelles,
when in an ecstasy one day, had it revealed to her that a dear
friend was at the same moment in the same condition. The friend
also was simultaneously made aware that Ida was immersed in
the same abyss of divine light with herself. Thenceforward they
were as one soul in the Lord, and the Virgin Mary appeared to
make a third in the saintly fellowship. Ida was frequently enabled
to communicate with spiritual personages, without words, after
the manner of angelic natures. On one occasion, when at a
distance from a priest to whom she was much attached, both she
and the holy man were entranced at the same time; and, when
wrapt to heaven, he beheld her in the presence of Christ, at
whose command she communicated to him, by a spiritual kiss, a
portion of the grace with which she herself had been so richly
endowed. To Clara of Montfaucon allusion has already been
made. In the right side of her heart was found, completely
formed, a little figure of Christ upon the cross, about the size of a
thumb. On the left, under what resembled the bloody cloth, lay
the instruments of the passion—the crown of thorns, the nails,
&c. So sharp was the miniature lance, that the Vicar-General
Berengarius, commissioned to assist at the examination by the
Bishop of Spoleto, pricked therewith his reverend finger. This
marvel was surpassed in the eighteenth century by a miracle
more piquant still. Veronica Giuliani caused a drawing to be
made of the many forms and letters which she declared had
been supernaturally modelled within her heart. To the exultation
of the faithful—and the everlasting confusion of all Jews,
Protestants, and Turks—a post-mortem examination disclosed
the accuracy of her description, to the minutest point. There were
the sacred initials in a large and distinct Roman character, the
crown of thorns, two flames, seven swords, the spear, the reed,
&c.—all arranged just as in the diagram she had furnished.[323]
The diocese of Liège was edified, in the twelfth century, by
seeing, in the person of the celebrated Christina Mirabilis, how
completely the upward tendency of protracted devotion might
vanquish the law of gravitation. So strongly was she drawn away
from this gross earth, that the difficulty was to keep her on the
ground. She was continually flying up to the tops of lonely towers
and trees, there to enjoy a rapture with the angels, and a roost
with the birds. In the frequency, the elevation, and the duration of
her ascents into the air, she surpassed even the high-flown
devotion of St. Peter of Alcantara, who was often seen
suspended high above the fig-trees which overshadowed his
hermitage at Badajos—his eyes upturned, his arms outspread—
while the servant sent to summon him to dinner, gazed with open
mouth, and sublunary cabbage cooled below. The limbs of
Christina lost the rigidity, as her body lost the grossness,
common to vulgar humanity. In her ecstasies she was contracted
into the spherical form—her head was drawn inward and
downward towards her breast, and she rolled up like a
hedgehog. When her relatives wished to take and secure her,
they had to employ a man to hunt her like a bird. Having started
his game, he had a long run across country before he brought
her down, in a very unsportsmanlike manner, by a stroke with his
bludgeon which broke her shin. When a few miracles had been
wrought to vindicate her aërostatic mission, she was allowed to
fly about in peace.[324] She has occupied, ever since, the first
place in the ornithology of Roman-catholic saintship. Such are a
few of the specimens which might be collected in multitudes from
Romanist records, showing how that communion has bestowed
its highest favour on the most coarse and materialised
apprehensions of spiritual truth. Extravagant inventions such as
these—monstrous as the adventures of Baron Münchausen,
without their wit—have been invested with the sanction and
defended by the thunder of the Papal chair. Yet this very Church
of Rome incarcerated Molinos and Madame Guyon as
dangerous enthusiasts.

VI.

Madame Guyon had still some lessons to learn. On a visit to

Paris, the glittering equipages of the park, and the gaieties of St.
Cloud, revived the old love of seeing and being seen. During a
tour in the provinces with her husband, flattering visits and
graceful compliments everywhere followed such beauty, such
accomplishments, and such virtue, with a delicate and
intoxicating applause. Vanity—dormant, but not dead—awoke
within her for the last time. She acknowledged, with bitter self-
reproach, the power of the world, the weakness of her own
resolves. In the spiritual desertion which ensued, she recognised
the displeasure of her Lord, and was wretched. She applied to
confessors—they were miserable comforters, all of them. They
praised her while she herself was filled with self-loathing. She
estimated the magnitude of her sins by the greatness of the
favour which had been shown her. The bland worldliness of her
religious advisers could not blind so true a heart, or pacify so
wakeful a conscience. She found relief only in a repentant
renewal of her self-dedication to the Saviour, in renouncing for
ever the last remnant of confidence in any strength of her own.
It was about this period that she had a remarkable conversation
with a beggar, whom she found upon a bridge, as, followed by
her footman, she was walking one day to church. This singular
mendicant refused her offered alms—spoke to her of God and
divine things—and then of her own state, her devotion, her trials,
and her faults. He declared that God required of her not merely
to labour as others did to secure their salvation, that they might
escape the pains of hell, but to aim at such perfection and purity
in this life, as to escape those of purgatory. She asked him who
he was. He replied, that he had formerly been a beggar, but now
was such no more;—mingled with the stream of people, and she
never saw him afterwards.[325]
The beauty of Madame Guyon had cost her tender conscience
many a pang. She had wept and prayed over that secret love of
display which had repeatedly induced her to mingle with the
thoughtless amusements of the world. At four-and-twenty the
virulence of the small-pox released her from that snare. M.
Guyon was laid up with the gout. She was left, when the disorder
seized her, to the tender mercies of her mother-in-law. That
inhuman woman refused to allow any but her own physician to
attend her, yet for him she would not send. The disease,
unchecked, had reached its height, when a medical man,
passing that way, happened to call at the house. Shocked at the
spectacle Madame Guyon presented, he was proceeding at
once to bleed her, expressing, in no measured terms, his
indignation at the barbarity of such neglect. The mother-in-law
would not hear of such a thing. He performed the operation in
spite of her threats and invectives, leaving her almost beside
herself with rage. That lancet saved the life of Madame Guyon,
and disappointed the relative who had hoped to see her die.
When at length she recovered, she refused to avail herself of the
cosmetics generally used to conceal the ravages of the disorder.
Throughout her suffering she had never uttered a murmur, or felt
a fear. She had even concealed the cruelty of her mother-in-law.
She said, that if God had designed her to retain her beauty, He
would not have sent the scourge to remove it. Her friends
expected to find her inconsolable—they heard her speak only of
thankfulness and joy. Her confessor reproached her with spiritual
pride. The affection of her husband was visibly diminished; yet
the heart of Madame Guyon overflowed with joy. It appeared to
her, that the God to whom she longed to be wholly given up had
accepted her surrender, and was removing everything that might
interpose between Himself and her.[326]

VII.

The experience of Madame Guyon, hitherto, had been such as

to teach her the surrender of every earthly source of gratification
or ground of confidence. Yet one more painful stage on the road
to self-annihilation remained to be traversed. She must learn to
give up cheerfully even spiritual pleasures. In the year 1674,
according to the probable calculation of Mr. Upham, she was
made to enter what she terms a state of desolation, which lasted,
with little intermission, for nearly seven years.[327] All was
emptiness, darkness, sorrow. She describes herself as cast
down, like Nebuchadnezzar, from a throne of enjoyment, to live
among the beasts. ‘Alas!’ she exclaimed, ‘is it possible that this
heart, formerly all on fire, should now become like ice?’ The
heavens were as brass, and shut out her prayers; horror and
trembling took the place of tranquillity; hopelessly oppressed with
guilt, she saw herself a victim destined for hell. In vain for her did
the church doors open, the holy bells ring, the deep-voiced
intonations of the priest arise and fall, the chanted psalm ascend
through clouds of azure wandering incense. The power and the
charm of the service had departed. Of what avail was music to a
burning wilderness athirst for rain? Gladly would she have had
recourse to the vow, to the pilgrimage, to the penance, to any
extremity of self-torture. She felt the impotence of such remedies
for such anguish. She had no ear for comfort, no eye for hope,
not even a voice for complaint.
During this period the emotional element of religion in her mind
appears to have suffered an almost entire suspension.
Regarding the loss of certain feelings of delight as the loss of the
divine favour, she naturally sank deeper and deeper in
despondency. A condition by no means uncommon in ordinary
Christian experience assumed, in her case, a morbid character.
Our emotions may be chilled, or kindled, in ever-varying
degrees, from innumerable causes. We must accustom
ourselves to the habitual performance of duty, whether attended
or not with feelings of a pleasurable nature. It is generally found
that those powerful emotions of joy which attend, at first, the new
and exalting consciousness of peace with God, subside after
awhile. As we grow in religious strength and knowledge, a
steady principle supplies their place. We are refreshed, from time
to time, by seasons of heightened joy and confidence, but we
cease to be dependent upon feeling. At the same time, there is
nothing in Scripture to check our desire for retaining as
constantly as possible a sober gladness, for finding duty
delightful, and the ‘joy of the Lord’ our strength. These are the
truths which the one-sided and unqualified expressions of
Madame Guyon at once exaggerate and obscure.
During this dark interval M. Guyon died. His widow undertook the
formidable task of settling his disordered affairs. Her brother
gave her no assistance; her mother-in-law harassed and
hindered to her utmost; yet Madame Guyon succeeded in
arranging a chaos of papers, and bringing a hopeless imbroglio
of business matters into order, with an integrity and a skill which
excited universal admiration. She felt it was her duty; she
believed that Divine assistance was vouchsafed for its discharge.
Of business, she says, she knew as little as of Arabic; but she
knew not what she could accomplish till she tried. Minds far more
visionary than hers have evinced a still greater aptitude for
practical affairs.
The 22nd of July, 1680, is celebrated by Madame Guyon as the
happy era of her deliverance. A letter from La Combe was the
instrument of a restoration as wonderful, in her eyes, as the
bondage. This ecclesiastic had been first introduced by Madame
Guyon into the path of mystical perfection. His name is
associated with her own in the early history of the Quietist
movement. He subsequently became her Director, but was
always more her disciple than her guide. His admiration for her
amounted to a passion. Incessant persecution and long solitary
imprisonment combined, with devotional extravagance, to cloud
with insanity at last an intellect never powerful. This feeble and
affectionate soul perished, the victim of Quietism, and perhaps of
love. It should not be forgotten, that before the inward condition
of Madame Guyon changed thus remarkably for the better, her
outward circumstances had undergone a similar improvement.
She lived now in her own house, with her children about her.
That Sycorax, her mother-in-law, dropped gall no longer into her
daily cup of life. Domestic tormentors, worse than the goblins
which buffeted St. Antony, assailed her peace no more. An outer
sky grown thus serene, an air thus purified, may well have
contributed to chase away the night of the soul, and to give to a
few words of kindly counsel from La Combe the brightness of the
day-star. Our simple-hearted enthusiast was not so absolutely
indifferent as she thought herself to the changes of this transitory
world.

VIII.

Madame Guyon had now triumphantly sustained the last of those

trials, which, like the probation of the ancient mysteries, made
the porch of mystical initiation a passage terrible with pain and
peril. Henceforward, she is the finished Quietist: henceforward,
when she relates her own experience, she describes Quietism.
At times, when the children did not require her care, she would
walk out into a neighbouring wood, and there, under the shade of
the trees, amidst the singing of the birds, she now passed as
many happy hours as she had known months of sorrow. Her own
language will best indicate the thoughts which occupied this
peaceful retirement, and exhibit the principle there deepened
and matured. She says here in her Autobiography—
‘When I had lost all created supports, and even divine ones, I
then found myself happily necessitated to fall into the pure
divine, and to fall into it through all which seemed to remove me
farther from it. In losing all the gifts, with all their supports, I
found the Giver. Oh, poor creatures, who pass along all your
time in feeding on the gifts of God, and think therein to be most
favoured and happy, how I pity you if ye stop here, short of the
true rest, and cease to go forward to God, through resignation of
the same gifts! How many pass all their lives this way, and think
highly of themselves therein! There are others who, being
designed of God to die to themselves, yet pass all their time in a
dying life, and in inward agonies, without ever entering into God
through death and total loss, because they are always willing to
retain something under plausible pretexts, and so never lose self
to the whole extent of the designs of God. Wherefore, they never
enjoy God in his fulness,—a loss that will not perfectly be known
until another life.’[328]
She describes herself as having ceased from all self-originated
action and choice. To her amazement and unspeakable
happiness, it appeared as though all such natural movement
existed no longer,—a higher power had displaced and occupied
its room. ‘I even perceived no more (she continues) the soul
which He had formerly conducted by His rod and His staff,
because now He alone appeared to me, my soul having given up
its place to Him. It seemed to me as if it was wholly and
altogether passed into its God, to make but one and the same
thing with Him; even as a little drop of water cast into the sea
receives the qualities of the sea.’ She speaks of herself as now
practising the virtues no longer as virtues—that is, not by
separate and constrained efforts. It would have required effort
not to practise them.[329]
Somewhat later she expresses herself as follows:—
‘The soul passing out of itself by dying to itself necessarily
passes into its divine object. This is the law of its transition.
When it passes out of self, which is limited, and therefore is not
God, and consequently is evil, it necessarily passes into the
unlimited and universal, which is God, and therefore is the true
good. My own experience seemed to me to be a verification of
this. My spirit, disenthralled from selfishness, became united with
and lost in God, its Sovereign, who attracted it more and more to
Himself. And this was so much the case, that I could seem to
see and know God only, and not myself.... It was thus that my
soul was lost in God, who communicated to it His qualities,
having drawn it out of all that it had of its own.... O happy
poverty, happy loss, happy nothing, which gives no less than
God Himself in his own immensity,—no more circumscribed to
the limited manner of the creation, but always drawing it out of
that to plunge it wholly into His divine Essence. Then the soul
knows that all the states of self-pleasing visions, of intellectual
illuminations, of ecstasies and raptures, of whatever value they
might once have been, are now rather obstacles than
advancements; and that they are not of service in the state of
experience which is far above them; because the state which
has props or supports, which is the case with the merely
illuminated and ecstatic state, rests in them in some degree, and
has pain to lose them. But the soul cannot arrive at the state of
which I am now speaking, without the loss of all such supports
and helps.... The soul is then so submissive, and perhaps we
may say so passive,—that is to say, is so disposed equally to
receive from the hand of God either good or evil,—as is truly
astonishing. It receives both the one and the other without any
selfish emotions, letting them flow and be lost as they came.’[330]
These passages convey the substance of the doctrine which,
illustrated and expressed in various ways, pervades all the
writings of Madame Guyon. This is the principle adorned by the
fancy of her Torrents and inculcated in the practical directions of
her Short Method of Prayer. Such is the state to which Quietism
proposes to conduct its votaries. In some places, she qualifies
the strength of her expressions,—she admits that we are not at
all times equally conscious of this absolute union of the soul with
its centre,—the lower nature may not be always insensible to
distress. But the higher, the inmost element of the soul is all the
while profoundly calm, and recollection presently imparts a
similar repose to the inferior nature. When the soul has thus
passed, as she phrases it, out of the Nothing into the All, when
its feet are set in ‘a large room’ (nothing less, according to her
interpretation, than the compass of Infinity), ‘a substantial or
essential word’ is spoken there. It is a continuous word—potent,
ineffable, ever uttered without language. It is the immediate
unchecked operation of resident Deity. What it speaks, it effects.
It is blissful and mysterious as the language of heaven. With
Madame Guyon, the events of Providence are God, and the
decisions of the sanctified judgment respecting them are nothing
less than the immediate voice of God in the soul. She compares
the nature thus at rest in God to a tablet on which the divine
hand writes,—it must be held perfectly still, else the characters
traced there will be distorted or incomplete. In her very humility
she verges on the audacity which arrogates inspiration. If she,
passive and helpless, really acts no more, the impulses she
feels, her words, her actions, must all bear the impress of an
infallible divine sanction. It is easy to see that her speech and
action—always well-meant, but frequently ill-judged,—were her
own after all, though nothing of her own seemed left. She
acknowledges that she was sometimes at a loss as to the course
of duty. She was guided more than once by random passages of
the Bible, and the casual expressions of others, somewhat after
the fashion of the Sortes Virgilianæ and the omens of ancient
Rome. Her knowledge of Scripture, the native power of her
intellect, and the tenderness of her conscience, preserved her
from pushing such a view of the inward light to its worst extreme.

IX.

The admixture of error in the doctrine which Madame Guyon was

henceforward to preach with so much self-denying love, so much
intrepid constancy, appears to us to lie upon the surface. The
passages we have given convey, unquestionably, the idea of a
practical substitution of God for the soul in the case of the
perfectly sanctified. The soul within the soul is Deity. When all is
desolate, silent, the divine Majesty arises, thinks, feels, and acts,
within the transformed humanity. It is quite true that, as
sanctification progresses, Christian virtue becomes more easy
as the new habit gains strength. In many respects it is true, as
Madame Guyon says, that effort would be requisite to neglect or
violate certain duties or commands rather than to perform them.
But this facility results from the constitution of our nature. We
carry on the new economy within with less outcry, less labour,
less confusion and resistance than we did when the revolution
was recent, but we carry it on still—working with divine
assistance. God works in man, but not instead of man. It is one
thing to harmonize, in some measure, the human will with the
divine, another to substitute divine volitions for the human. Every
man has within him Conscience—the judge often bribed or
clamoured down; Will—the marshal; Imagination—the poet;
Understanding—the student; Desire—the merchant, venturing its
store of affection, and gazing out on the future in search of some
home-bound argosy of happiness. But all these powers are
found untrue to their allegiance. The ermine—the baton—the
song—the books—the merchandize, are at the service of a
usurper—Sin. When the Spirit renews the mind, there is no
massacre—no slaughterous sword filling with death the streets
of the soul’s city, and making man the ruin of his former self.
These faculties are restored to loyalty, and reinstated under God.
Then Conscience gives verdict, for the most part, according to
the divine statute-book, and is habitually obeyed. Then the lordly
Will assumes again a lowly yet noble vassalage. Then the dream
of Imagination is a dream no longer, for the reality of heaven
transcends it. Then the Understanding burns the magic books in
the market-place, and breaks the wand of its curious arts—but
studies still, for eternity as well as time. The activity of Desire
amasses still, according to its nature,—for some treasure man
must have. But the treasure is on earth no longer. It is the
advantage of such a religion that the very same laws of our
being guide our spiritual and our natural life. The same self-
controul and watchful diligence which built up the worldly habits
towards the summits of success, may be applied at once to
those habits which ripen us for heaven. The old experience will
serve. But the mystic can find no common point between himself
and other men. He is cut off from them, for he believes he has
another constitution of being, inconceivable by them—not merely
other tastes and a higher aim. The object of Christian love may
be incomprehensible, but the affection itself is not so. It is
dangerous to represent it as a mysterious and almost
unaccountable sentiment, which finds no parallel in our
experience elsewhere. Our faith in Christ, as well as our love to
Christ, are similar to our faith and love as exercised towards our
fellow-creatures. Regeneration imparts no new faculty, it gives
only a new direction to the old.

X.

Quietism opposed to the mercenary religion of the common and

consistent Romanism around it, the doctrine of disinterested
love. Revolting from the coarse machinery of a corrupt system, it
took refuge in an unnatural refinement. The love inculcated in
Scripture is equally remote from the impracticable indifference of
Quietism and the commercial principle of Superstition. Long ago,
at Alexandria, Philo endeavoured to escape from an effete and
carnal Judaism to a similar elevation. The Persian Sufis were
animated with the same ambition in reaction against the frigid
legalism of the creed of Islam. Extreme was opposed to extreme,
in like manner, when Quietism, disgusted with the unblushing
inconsistencies of nominal Christianity, proclaimed its doctrine of
perfection—of complete sanctification by faith. This is not a
principle peculiar to mysticism. It is of little practical importance.
It is difficult to see how it can be applied to individual experience.
The man who has reached such a state of purity must be the last
to know it. If we do not, by some strange confusion of thought,
identify ourselves with God, the nearer we approach Him the
more profoundly must we be conscious of our distance. As, in a
still water, we may see reflected the bird that sings in an
overhanging tree, and the bird that soars towards the zenith—the
image deepest as the ascent is highest—so it is with our
approximation to the Infinite Holiness. Madame Guyon admits
that she found it necessary jealously to guard humility, to watch
and pray—that her state was only of ‘comparative immutability.’ It
appears to us that perfection is prescribed as a goal ever to be
approached, but ever practically inaccessible. Whatever degree
of sanctification any one may have attained, it must always be
possible to conceive of a state yet more advanced,—it must
always be a duty diligently to labour towards it.
Quietist as she was, few lives have been more busy than that of
Madame Guyon with the activities of an indefatigable
benevolence. It was only self-originated action which she strove
to annihilate. In her case, especially, Quietism contained a
reformatory principle. Genuflexions and crossings were of little
value in comparison with inward abasement and crucifixion. The
prayers repeated by rote in the oratory, were immeasurably
inferior to that Prayer of Silence she so strongly commends—
that prayer which, unlimited to times and seasons, unhindered by
words, is a state rather than an act, a sentiment rather than a
request,—a continuous sense of submission, which breathes,
moment by moment, from the serene depth of the soul, ‘Thy will
be done.’[331]
As contrasted with the mysticism of St. Theresa, that of Madame
Guyon appears to great advantage. She guards her readers
against attempting to form any image of God. She aspires to an
intellectual elevation—a spiritual intuition, above the sensuous
region of theurgy, of visions, and of dreams. She saw no Jesuits
in heaven bearing white banners among the heavenly throng of
the redeemed. She beheld no Devil, ‘like a little negro,’ sitting on
her breviary. She did not see the Saviour in an ecstasy, drawing
the nail out of His hand. She felt no large white dove fluttering
above her head. But she did not spend her days in founding
convents—a slave to the interests of the clergy. So they made a
saint of Theresa, and a confessor of Madame Guyon.

XI.
In the summer of 1681, Madame Guyon, now thirty-four years of
age, quitted Paris for Gex, a town lying at the foot of the Jura,
about twelve miles from Geneva. It was arranged that she should
take some part in the foundation and management of a new
religious and charitable institution there. A period of five years
was destined to elapse before her return to the capital. During
this interval, she resided successively at Gex, Thonon, Turin,
and Grenoble. Wherever she went, she was indefatigable in
works of charity, and also in the diffusion of her peculiar
doctrines concerning self-abandonment and disinterested love.
Strong in the persuasion of her mission, she could not rest
without endeavouring to influence the minds around her. The
singular charm of her conversation won a speedy ascendency
over nearly all with whom she came in contact. It is easy to see
how a remarkable natural gift in this direction contributed both to
the attempt and the success. But the Quietest had buried nature,
and to nature she would owe nothing,—these conversational
powers could be, in her eyes, only a special gift of utterance from
above. This mistake reminds us of the story of certain monks
upon whose cloister garden the snow never lay, though all the
country round was buried in the rigour of a northern winter. The
marvellous exemption, long attributed by superstition to miracle,
was discovered to arise simply from certain thermal springs
which had their source within the sacred inclosure. It is thus that
the warmth and vivacity of natural temperament has been
commonly regarded by the mystic, as nothing less than a fiery
impartation from the altar of the celestial temple.
At Thonon her apartment was visited by a succession of
applicants from every class, who laid bare their hearts before
her, and sought from her lips spiritual guidance or consolation.
She met them separately and in groups, for conference and for
prayer. At Grenoble, she says she was for some time engaged
from six o’clock in the morning till eight at evening in speaking of
God to all sorts of persons,—‘friars, priests, men of the world,
maids, wives, widows, all came, one after another, to hear what I
had to say.’[332] Her efforts among the members of the House of
the Novitiates in that city, were eminently successful, and she
appears to have been of real service to many who had sought
peace in vain, by the austerities and the routine of monastic
seclusion. Meanwhile, she was active, both at Thonon and
Grenoble, in the establishment of hospitals. She carried on a
large and continually increasing correspondence. In the former
place she wrote her Torrents, in the latter, she published her
Short Method of Prayer, and commenced her Commentaries on
the Bible.[333]
But alas! all this earnest, tireless toil is unauthorized. Bigotry
takes the alarm, and cries the Church is in danger. Priests who
were asleep—priests who were place-hunting—priests who were
pleasure-hunting, awoke from their doze, or drew breath in their
chase, to observe this woman whose life rebuked them—to
observe and to assail her; for rebuke, in their terminology, was
scandal. Persecution hemmed her in on every side; no
annoyance was too petty, no calumny too gross, for priestly
jealousy. The inmates of the religious community she had
enriched were taught to insult her—tricks were devised to
frighten her by horrible appearances and unearthly noises—her
windows were broken—her letters were intercepted. Thus,
before a year had elapsed, she was driven from Gex. Some
called her a sorceress; others, more malignant yet, stigmatized
her as half a Protestant. She had indeed recommended the
reading of the Scriptures to all, and spoken slightingly of mere
bowing and bead-counting. Monstrous contumacy—said, with
one voice, spiritual slaves and spiritual slave-owners—that a
woman desired by her bishop to do one thing, should discover
an inward call to do another. At Thonon the priests burnt in the
public square all the books they could find treating of the inner
life, and went home elated with their performance. One thought
may have embittered their triumph—had it only been living flesh
instead of mere paper! She inhabited a poor cottage that stood
by itself in the fields, at some distance from Thonon. Attached to
it was a little garden, in the management of which she took
pleasure. One night a rabble from the town were incited to terrify
her with their drunken riot,—they trampled down and laid waste
the garden, hurled stones in at the windows, and shouted their
 threats, insults, and curses, round the house the whole night.
Then came an episcopal order to quit the diocese. When
compelled subsequently, by the opposition she encountered, to
withdraw secretly from Grenoble, she was advised to take refuge
at Marseilles. She arrived in that city at ten o’clock in the
morning, but that very afternoon all was in uproar against her, so
vigilant and implacable were her enemies.

Note to page 214.

Autobiography, chapp. viii. and x. In describing her state of mind at

this time, she says,—‘This immersion in God immerged all things. I
could no more see the saints, nor even the blessed Virgin, out of
God; but I beheld them all in Him. And though I tenderly loved
certain saints, as St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Mary Magdalen, St.
Theresa, with all those who were spiritual, yet I could not form to
myself images of them, nor invoke any of them out of God.’ Here a
genuine religious fervour, described in the language of mystical
theology, has overcome superstition, and placed her, unconsciously,
in a position similar to that of Molinos with regard to these
professedly subordinate objects of Romanist worship. It may be
observed, in passing, that while Rome pretends to subordinate saint-
worship, she denounces those of her children who really do so, as
heretical, i.e., reformatory, in their tendency.
Madame Guyon was enabled at this period to enjoy a habitual
inward prayer,—‘a prayer of rejoicing and possession, wherein the
taste of God was so great, so pure, unblended, and uninterrupted,
that it drew and absorbed the powers of the soul into a profound
recollection, without act or discourse. For I had now no sight but of
Jesus Christ alone. All else was excluded, in order to love with the
greater extent, without any selfish motives or reasons for loving.’
With much good sense, she declares this continual and immediate
sense of the Divine presence far safer and higher than the sensible
relish of ecstasies and ravishments,—than distinct interior words or
revelations of things to come,—so often imaginary, so apt to divert
our desires from the Giver to the gifts;—this is the revelation of
Jesus Christ, which makes us new creatures, the manifestation of
the Word within us, who cannot deceive,—the life of true and naked
faith, which darkens all self-pleasing lights, and reveals the minutest
faults, that pure love may reign in the centre of the soul. Thus, while
inheriting the phraseology of the mystics (and we discern in these
accounts of her early experience the influence of her later readings
in mystical theology), she is less sensuous than Theresa, less
artificial than John. Like the latter, she assigns to love the office of
annihilating the will, to faith that of absorbing the understanding, ‘so
as to make it decline all reasonings, all particular brightnesses and
illustrations.’ The Annihilation of the Will, or the Union in the Will of
God, consists, with her, simply in a state of complete docility, the
soul yielding itself up to be emptied of all which is its own, till it finds
itself by little and little detached from every self-originated motion,
and placed ‘in a holy indifference for willing;—wishing nothing but
what God does and wills.’—P. 70.

Note to page 218.

She describes herself, when at Thonon, as causing sundry devils to

withdraw with a word. But the said devils, like some other sights and
sounds which terrified her there, were probably the contrivance of
the monks who persecuted her, with whom expertness in such tricks
was doubtless reckoned among the accomplishments of sanctity.
When at the same place (she was then a little past thirty), Madame
Guyon believed that a certain virtue was vouchsafed her—a gift of
spiritual and sometimes of bodily healing, dependent, however, for
its successful operation, on the degree of susceptibility in the
recipients.—Autobiography, part II. c. xii.
There also she underwent some of her most painful and mysterious
experiences with regard to Father La Combe. She says,—‘Our Lord
gave me, with the weaknesses of a child, such a power over souls,
that with a word I put them in pain or in peace, as was necessary for
their good. I saw that God made Himself to be obeyed, in and
through me, like an absolute Sovereign. I neither resisted Him nor
took part in anything.... Our Lord had given us both (herself and La
Combe) to understand that He would unite us by faith and by the
cross. Ours, then, has been a union of the cross in every respect, as
well as by what I have made him suffer, as by what I have suffered
for him.... The sufferings which I have had on his account were such
as to reduce me sometimes to extremity, which continued for several
years. For though I have been much more of my time far from him
than near him, that did not relieve my suffering, which continued till
he was perfectly emptied of himself, and to the very point of
submission which God required of him.... He hath occasioned me
cruel pains when I was near a hundred leagues from him. I felt his
disposition. If he was faithful in letting Self be destroyed, I was in a
state of peace and enlargement. If he was unfaithful in reflection or
hesitation, I suffered till that was passed over. He had no need to
write me an account of his condition, for I knew it; but when he did
write, it proved to be such as I had felt it.’—Ibid. p. 51.
She says that frequently, when Father La Combe came to confess
her, she could not speak a word to him; she felt take place within her
the same silence toward him, which she had experienced in regard
to God. I understood, she adds, that God wished to teach me that
the language of angels might be learnt by men on earth,—that is,
converse without words. She was gradually reduced to this wordless
communication alone, in her interviews with La Combe; and they
imagined that they understood each other, ‘in a manner ineffable and
divine.’ She regarded the use of speech, or of the pen, as a kind of
accommodation on her part to the weakness of souls not sufficiently
advanced for these internal communications.
Here Madame Guyon anticipates the Quakers. Compare Barclay’s
Apology, Prop. xi. §§ 6, 7.
Shortly after her arrival in Paris, she describes herself as favoured,
from the plenitude which filled her soul, with ‘a discharge on her
best-disposed children to their mutual joy and comfort, and not only
when present, but sometimes when absent.’ ‘I even felt it,’ she adds,
‘to flow from me into their souls. When they wrote to me, they
informed me that at such times they had received abundant infusions
of divine grace.’—Ibid. part III. c. i.

Note to page 223.

Autobiography, part I. c. xiii. Here Madame Guyon has found

confessors blind guides, and confessions profitless; and furthermore,
she is encouraged and instructed in the inward life by a despised
layman. There is every reason to believe that the experience of
Madame Guyon, and the doctrines of the beggar, were shared to
some extent by many more. Madame Guyon speaks as Theresa
does of the internal pains of the soul as equivalent to those of
purgatory. (c. xi.) The teaching of the quondam mendicant
concerning an internal and present instead of a future purgatory, was
not in itself contrary to the declarations of orthodox mysticism. But
many were beginning to seek in this perfectionist doctrine a refuge
from the exactions of the priesthood. With creatures of the clergy like
Theresa, or with monks like John of the Cross, such a tenet would
be retained within the limits required by the ecclesiastical interest. It
might stimulate religious zeal—it would never intercept religious
obedience. But it was not always so among the people—it was not
so with many of the followers of Molinos. The jealous vigilance of
priestcraft saw that it had everything to fear from a current belief
among the laity, that a state of spiritual perfection, rendering
purgatory needless, was of possible attainment—might be reached
by secret self-sacrifice, in the use of very simple means. If such a
notion prevailed, the lucrative traffic of indulgences might totter on
the verge of bankruptcy. No devotee would impoverish himself to buy
exemption hereafter from a purifying process which he believed
himself now experiencing, in the hourly sorrows he patiently
endured. It was at least possible—it had been known to happen, that
the soul which struggled to escape itself—to rise beyond the gifts of
God, to God—to ascend, beyond words and means, to repose in
Him,—which desired only the Divine will, feared only the Divine
displeasure,—which sought to ignore so utterly its own capacity and
power, might come to attach paramount importance no longer to the