The Helio Trilogy: Volumes 1-3 Read online

  ALSO BY VALERIE ROESELER

  THE HELIO TRILOGY

  Midnight Divine

  Gilded Inferno

  Vermilion Horizon

  The Helio Trilogy

  Volumes 1-3

  VALERIE ROESELER

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

  The Helio Trilogy: Volumes 1-3

  Copyright © 2017 Valerie Roeseler

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Valerie Roeseler

  Editing by Kiri Roeseler

  Cover Design by Valerie Roeseler

  Cover Image by iStock

  Layout by Valerie Roeseler

  www.valerieroeseler.com

  First Edition: 2017

  Dear Reader,

  At the end of The Helio Trilogy: Volumes 1-3, I’ve included a guide of the Enochian Hierarchy, the Hierarchy of Sheol, Enochian Ranks, the Nine Strata of Sheol, and an Index of Terms. You can either read the guide first, getting acquainted with the Helio World, or reference it as you go along.

  To the new reader, welcome to the Helio World.

  To the devoted readers who make it possible for me to continue dreaming, creating, and writing, enjoy and thank you!

  -Valerie

  Midnight Divine

  The Helio Trilogy

  Book 1

  VALERIE ROESELER

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

  Midnight Divine

  Copyright © 2016 Valerie Roeseler

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Valerie Roeseler

  Editing by Angela Hill and Kiri Roeseler

  Cover Design by Valerie Roeseler

  Cover Photography by Igor Igorevich

  Book Design by Valerie Roeseler

  www.valerieroeseler.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1523695980

  ISBN-10: 1523695986

  AISN: B01B1YQCCI

  First Edition: 2016

  To my husband,

  For eleven years of proof that

  soulmates are not fiction.

  Helio /hee-lee-oh/

  -noun

  1. a self-luminous heavenly body.

  Chapter 1

  In the few hours before sunrise, over forty amped up import cars line the sides of a deserted blacktop road amidst the hordes of fans hollering and whistling at the racers that are to be our entertainment for tonight. When my roommate, Alice, mentioned underground street racing in Red Meadow, I expected to experience an inferior crew of rednecks in stock pickup trucks racing down a hidden dirt road in the middle of nowhere. After finishing up practice at our band’s makeshift studio, I take a shot of Jägermeister and smoke a joint before we head out to Willow Creek to see what the buzz is about. Alice confesses she hasn't been to the races in a few months but promises I won't be disappointed. I’m not so sure that will be the case. However, to satisfy my new roomie, alcohol and weed are my preferred entertainment versus a group of posers trying their hand at illegal street racing.

  Minutes outside of town, we pull onto an overcrowded back road. Instantly, I'm nervous. My apprehension picks up, triggering my heart to pound in an attempt to explode from my chest. This isn't right. I can't be here, I determine as I take in our surroundings.

  I roll down my window and light a cigarette in an effort to compose myself as I park us closer to the marked quarter mile. There's no reason for me to feel anxious about being here because I won't be participating in the races. Hence, I won't be betraying my personal oath to stay out of trouble. I'm more familiar with this environment than Alice is aware of, and I plan on keeping it that way. In moving to Red Meadow for a year late start at college, I left my illicit past behind, and it would stay there. This is my chance to start fresh and make something of myself. Something I can enjoy and be proud of, instead of floating through life lethargic and oblivious.

  “Holy shit! Right, Ivy?” Alice hollers as we step out of my white Mitsubishi Evo Lancer.

  I grin at her across its carbon fiber hood. I lock it with the key fob over my shoulder and join her to observe the crowd. The ground vibrates with the pulsing music, echoing in the humid night air as colorful neon lights accent the cars lining the street. Drunken coeds grope each other on the hoods and trunks of their cars. My high intensifies within our surroundings, comparable to an outdoor rave. I sink into a parallel home away from home, yet I know I shouldn’t be here. I love racing, but I don't want to be absorbed back into this world. My skin prickles with the static in the air, making me want to flee the scene with my tail tucked between my legs. Except, I don’t want to disappoint Alice by bailing out on her.

  I've grown close to Alice over my first month at Red Meadow University. She reached out to me through an online forum for students to find roommates a month before classes began. She's a local, and being a junior, she's able to rent a house off campus, close to the university. Alice has a sprightly personality that compels everyone she meets to fall in love with her. We both love music, partying, coffee, and she's the single girl I've ever gotten along with. I had an instant connection to her when we met.

  She is the lead singer for a local band called The Red and had begged me to try out for their lead guitarist opening after the first time she heard me play. I’ve been their lead guitarist since. I love the opportunity to get over my stage fright playing for crowds. Music is my second love. I'm done with racing and swore I would restrict myself to enjoy driving as a normal, law abiding citizen. Deciding I’ll play it cool for tonight, I let my system numb from my intoxication and high.

  I started racing as soon as I received my permit to drive the streets of Los Angeles at age fifteen. My hometown neighbor, Gideon, had me hooked when he took me to my first race at age thirteen. Gideon moved in next door to me the year before. I was crazy about him. He had piercing blue eyes I couldn't stop staring at because they were almost ethereal. We dated as high school freshmen, but it was short lived. It was only two months of holding hands before he admitted he adored me as a sister rather than a girlfriend. I was crushed, but we remained friends for years.

  Gideon saved me on numerous nights from my adoptive father’s rage. Frank Harris was a belligerent drunk, always taking out his anger on his wife, Ruth, and myself. Gideon was my best friend. My only friend. I was a bit of a loner. I enjoyed fast cars and rock music while other girls fancied cheerleading and mainstream, bubblegum pop. Gideon seemed to understand me better than anyone else. Even when we reached high school, and he became a rising football star, he always made time for me. We did everything together. He taught me to skateboard and surf, everything I know about cars, and even how to defend myself from my adoptive father’s drunken abuses. We were peas in a pod.

  That is, until my junior year of high school. It was the first race of the school year. I remember isolated flashes of what happened that night. I was drifting a sharp corner as something rammed my car from the passenger side. I tumbled o
ver a cliff, side over side, until a large tree had stopped me upside down and crushed the passenger door into my right side. It broke my collarbone and a few ribs, I had cuts and bruises covering my entire body, and with miraculous fate, a mere twisted ankle. Hanging upside down, I spotted Gideon standing on the other side of the tree. I cried out to him for help, but he made no effort to move. Tears blurred my vision, then he was gone.

  Recovering in the hospital over the next few months, I questioned whether or not I indeed witnessed Gideon's presence, or if he was a figment of my distraught imagination. Then, unlike his character, he never came to see me in the hospital. When I was released after a period of time to return home, Gideon had moved from the house next door. He never came back to school. He vanished without so much as a goodbye. I felt betrayed and vowed to never let another person close enough to hurt me again.

  Alice spots her boyfriend across the road from us and waves as she raises onto the tips of her toes. She's five foot even and as thin as a rail, reminding me of a baby bird, yet you could never miss her in a crowd with her four-foot-long, brunette hair.

  “Hey! Y’all made it!” Eric yells over the noise as he engulfs Alice with his massive arms. Eric’s built like a freight train, intimidating with his large frame and dark brown eyes.

  “Yeah. Ivy took some convincing,” Alice announces. I roll my eyes in jest. Eric locks an arm over each of our necks and leads us through the throngs of people to get closer to the starting line. The headlights lining the road strobe as people float past them, making me dizzy. The air smells heavy with petrol and burned rubber. This is, by far, not what I had expected.

  I light another cigarette as the last set of racers pull up to the line. A tall and lanky flagman creeps to the double yellow line between the two racer’s cars. He’s dressed as the Unabomber in his black hoodie and dark Aviator sunglasses. Only assholes wear sunglasses at night, I mock.

  In the right lane sits the meanest Nissan Skyline I've ever seen. White smoke billows around its admiral blue body as the driver burns out the rear tires over the bleach puddles, prepping them for better grip. It backs up and repositions at the starting line. A red, stock Toyota Supra repeats the same process, engulfing the crowd in a dense, white cloud, obscuring our vision. Compared to the thundering growl of the Skyline, the Supra’s just an angry bumble bee as it revs its engine. The roar of the crowd is drowned out by the sonic blast of the two engines revving up and provoking each other. My stomach does flip-flops of excitement at the ferociousness emanating from the Skyline.

  The flagger points to each driver consecutively and waits for them to nod back. He holds both of his hands parallel above him in the manner of a traffic controller. Seconds tick by, building the anticipation of the crowd. The imports lurch and halt like restrained guard dogs waiting to be released for an attack. The flagger’s arms drop and the cars launch through the spectators with intimate closeness, forcing our clothes to ripple from the tailwind. My long, black hair swarms my face, my breath hitching with fascination. The reverberating blast of the Skyline makes my stomach flutter as it passes its contender with ease. I'm shoved into the street as people spill out to see the finish line. An instant passes and shouts ensue when the Skyline signals the win with the flash of his hazard lights.

  Impressive, I think. That Supra never had a chance. I shake my head with a pleased grin.

  The racers drive back to the starting line through the mob of fans. Money’s exchanged between the gamblers crowding the street. The drivers emerge from their cars to shake hands, and I see a wad of cash being accepted from the flagman to the Herculean driver of the Skyline. Mr. Skyline's baseball cap is low on his face, covering his features, but my inner-self drools at his incredible package of muscles and inked arms, bulging under his fitted, black, cotton shirt.

  “That guy’s never lost!” Eric yells in my ear with excitement. “And thanks to him, I can pay my rent again!” He laughs, showing Alice and me the quick eight hundred dollars he just made.

  An uncomfortable smile twists my lips, remembering the thrill of the race and the joy of winning more cash than I ever needed to support myself. I had managed to earn two hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars before I left for college. “Sweet,” I mumble, without taking my eyes off the winner. Alice catches me staring at Mr. Skyline. She elbows my arm to get my attention, then wiggles her eyebrows with a knowing look. “So, who is that guy?” I probe, feigning boredom. I feel drawn to him like a magnet.

  He’s gorgeous.

  Eric eyes me with concern, “Jack Roe. He’s a good friend of ours.”

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, an entourage of drunk bimbos slink up to Jack, pawing and giggling while they flip their hair and flutter their eyelashes for his attention. Without a doubt, he loves it. I think it's disgusting. I don’t care how hot he is. I’m not fighting for a guy’s attention. Look at him! What a man-whore.

  Mr. Skyline glances up at me with an amused grin. With smooth strides towards Eric that scream power and confidence, commanding attention, he leaves his groupies behind to pout. I scan over the tribal tattoo running from his right wrist and disappearing under his sleeve. It reappears on his neck, ending at a point just behind his ear. His ball cap shadows his eyes, wisps of blonde hair peeking out under the edges above his ears.

  “What’s up, man? It's been a while. Enjoy the show?” Jack booms, giving Eric a fist bump. Jack’s voice is velvet to my ears; deep and soothing. A sense of calm pours over me.

  Eric’s face lights up, “Hell, yeah, dude! You don’t disappoint.”

  “No, I don’t,” Jack brags, winking at me.

  I roll my eyes and cock my hip out, crossing my arms over my chest. Completely, not my type. A chuckle comes from Eric at Jack’s flirtation with me.

  Jack reaches his hand out, intent on introducing himself, “Jack Roe.”

  To show him I'm not interested in his charms, I refuse to reciprocate his handshake. “So, I’ve heard,” I mock with boredom.

  His hand drops to his side while his cocky grin remains a stain on his face, “Good things, I hope.” He pauses, waiting for me to answer. When I don’t, he continues, “Did you enjoy the race?”

  I stuff my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “This really isn’t my scene,” I lie to avoid any connection with him, even though he's effecting me on a level I've never experienced before. I can’t stop the flip flops in my stomach and the pull I feel towards him.

  “So, they dragged you here despite your protesting?” he snickers.

  “Actually, I thought it was going to be a bunch of rednecks in pickups.”

  Great. That almost sounded like a compliment.

  Jack's grin grows wider. “Is that more your scene?” He crosses his arms over his massive chest and looks me over from head to toe, giving me his million dollar smile—not in the slightest bit casual about checking me out.

  “No,” I glare at him, showing my annoyance.

  Hello? Do I look like a Southern Belle in my black, Norma Jean shirt and tattered, dark-wash jeans? Oh, must have been my black Chuck Taylors! Pfft!

  He gives me a twisted grin.

  He’s messing with me. I laugh within, refusing to reveal it across my face, all the while scolding myself at my attraction to his charm.

  Alice pipes in, “She’s the new lead guitarist for The Red! That’s more her scene. She can shred like no other.” She smiles at me and elbows my arm again with the compliment. Jack appears amused, but I make no effort to further the conversation.

  The momentary silence is awkward, and I'm ready to leave. I don’t have time for this tool.

  I turn to Alice, “Hey, I’ve got a paper I need to finish. I’ve got to go.” I look at her, pleading to let me out of the situation and get a ride home with Eric.

  “Alright. We’re headed to get tacos. I’ll be home later,” she claims, understanding how uncomfortable I am.

  I grab her arm and lean in to kiss her on the cheek, “Alright.
Bye.” I weave my way back to my car without glancing in Jack’s direction.

  I hear him call out, “Bye, Sunshine!”

  I hope he’s not talking to me. Is he mocking me for giving him attitude?

  “What an ass,” I mumble to myself as I drive past Jack leaning against his car, and I blast “Sleepwalking” by Blindside with my windows down.

  Arriving home at three in the morning, I park in the driveway beside our two-story, baby blue, Victorian rental. I unlock the front door as I admire its span of windows, wrapping around the side of with the covered patio. Crossing the dusky lit foyer, I pass the two round columns framing the entrance to the octagonal living room on my left and head straight into the kitchen for a bottle of water. I'm down from my high. My mind keeps fighting with me between my urge to race again in a new town and standing firm on staying out of trouble. I've never been so uncomfortable at a street race. Jack’s presence had taken my mind off my uneasiness for a short period, but he was arrogant, and I'm not looking to get involved with anyone.

  Sitting on my bed cross-legged, I pull out my short, glass bong and stuff the bowl, preparing for my evening ritual. I take a long drag and hold it in my lungs, waiting for the burn. The comfort of being in my room, surrounded by the numerous band posters lining my walls, feels right. Safe. However, the silence reveals a hollowness inside of me as if something's missing. I ignore the emptiness, grab my black, acoustic guitar from against my headboard, and blow out a thick cloud of smoke as I set it on my lap. More relaxed, I pick a slow melody I've been working on but haven’t been able to write the lyrics for yet. Four in the morning, I smoke another cigarette, peel off my shirt and tattered jeans, pull my black locks into a ponytail, and crawl into bed.