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Saving Christmas Breakfast Excerpt

Micah is tired of twisted miracles

Micah strode down the hospital corridor, the lights dimming to darkness as he approached. Their warmth devoured by the coldness of his presence only to flutter back to brightness as he passed. At first, he’d convinced himself that he could feel that heat for one fleeting instant, but that’d been a dream of a memory he no longer had. Angels of Death were not allowed to remember past lives. It was the first thing the gods took when they recruited the dead.

He pretended that he didn’t miss the warmth of life—sunshine, a blanket, a fire. Feelings like that were for newbies. He’d been lectured for centuries to stop wanting things he couldn’t have and to accept his existence as it was. No pain. No torment. No decisions. Nothing but darkness and death.

He didn’t need to glance at the number on the rooms to know where he was to be. The sorrow echoed down the hallway, leading him to his destination. He stopped in the doorway. It was almost time.

Two adults slept with their hands clasped. Their love bound them tighter for their troubles. Other children rested. Their minds were uneasy, but exhaustion had won this war. A boy lay in the bed, drifting between the world of the living and Micah’s realm.

The young seemed to be rushing to his world too soon lately—drugs, alcohol, suicide—but not this one. This child had the scent and look of one who’d suffered for years. Why had Gillstrom sent him to collect this spirit? His boss knew he hated taking children—so much life untapped, so much warmth not given. Other Angels enjoyed taking the sick, no matter the age. They believed they brought peace from the pain, but all he saw was the end of a life before it’d had a chance to live.

He slipped into the room and leaned against the wall. It didn’t matter what he thought. Old. Young. Healthy. Sick. His job was to escort them to the next part of their journey whether he liked it or not.

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