In a hidden world where angels and demons clash, Cecelia White's life takes a thrilling turn when she discovers her connection to a powerful relic, the Angel Key. With her best friend Evie by her side, Cecelia is thrust into a supernatural conflict...
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Once again, Cecelia found herself engulfed in the late-night solitude of her room, the clock mocking her with its 3 AM glow. The power outage had disrupted her peaceful reading session, leaving her with restless thoughts about the impending move. Despite knowing she should conserve her energy for the coming day, sleep eluded her, and she couldn't help but resent the darkness that enveloped her.
With a sigh of resignation, she closed her book and set it down on the nightstand, grumbling softly. "Why does this always happen when Dad's away?" Her annoyance lingered as she rummaged through the top drawer for matches, her fingers deftly locating the box. Striding purposefully to her desk, she lit a candle positioned on the far side of the room, its gentle flicker casting wavering shadows in the dark.
"Note to self: Keep a flashlight nearby for future blackouts," she muttered, tucking her pendant key into her neckline and slipping on a blue hooded sweatshirt against the chill. Zipped up snugly, she ventured out into the long, empty hallway, the candle casting a faint glow ahead of her.
Navigating toward the garage where the circuit breaker resided, Cecelia's mind wandered to her absent parents. They were always immersed in their respective careers—her mother, a renowned fashion designer dividing her time between France and New York, and her father, an archaeologist lost in the depths of his scholarly pursuits.
As she descended the stairs and passed through her father's study, the room's familiar surroundings failed to dispel its nocturnal unease. The shelves lined with books seemed to close in on her, the shadows playing tricks on her senses. "Why did they even bother having a child?" she mused, bitterness seeping into her thoughts. Even during rare visits home, they seemed more like distant acquaintances than family.
Moving through the family room, she checked the TV drawer for a flashlight, only to find one with dead batteries—a frustrating discovery that mirrored her mounting irritation. Pushing onward through the kitchen towards the garage, a sudden crash shattered the silence, jolting Cecelia into high alert.
"Intruder!" Her mind raced through the possibilities—should she call the police? Living in such seclusion meant help would arrive far too late. Dismissing the idea of a false alarm, she steeled herself, determined to confront the threat head-on. Gripping the nearest blunt object she could find, she dashed from the room with the ferocity of a firecracker.
"It came from Dad's study, I know it," she muttered under her breath, moving swiftly towards the room, candle in one hand and a golf club in the other. Her back pressed against the walls, she approached cautiously, scanning for any signs of forced entry or disturbance.
The bay doors leading to the patio were securely locked, and the windows showed no signs of tampering, yet the silent alarm indicated a troubling disconnection. "What the hell?" Cecelia muttered, her senses heightened as she surveyed the room. Determined to uncover clues, she methodically searched every aisle, her trained eye scanning bookcase after bookcase.
"I know you're in here, thief!" Her voice rang out confidently, a mix of bravado and apprehension. "I'm a second-degree black belt and I'm armed!" She cursed herself for revealing her hand too soon, losing the element of surprise. Undeterred, she made one final sweep of the room before ascending the staircase to the study's upper level.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins, excitement mingling with a hint of fear as she imagined herself in a spy movie or comic book heroine. Pushing past the set of bookcases against the back wall, she checked under sofas with her golf club, eventually discovering a hidden room behind a displaced bookcase. It housed her father's prized collection of spirits, a secret sanctum she'd always found intriguing.
Brushing herself off, she approached the hidden door cautiously, candlelight quivering as she searched for movement. Stepping through, she braced herself, heart pounding in anticipation. "Last chance, loser," she murmured, swinging the candle's light across the room.
Her breath caught in her throat as she locked eyes with a pair of menacing gold orbs—startlingly familiar, yet unnerving. Reacting on pure instinct, she swung her golf club wildly, the darkness amplifying her erratic strikes. A cacophony of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the room, until suddenly, silence descended.
"Meow." The unexpected sound pierced the stillness, prompting Cecelia to gasp in disbelief. "Maslow?" she whispered incredulously, relief washing over her as she retrieved the fallen candle and illuminated the room.
With regal nonchalance, her little black cat strolled out from the shadows, the picture of innocence. "Maslow, you little troublemaker!" she scolded fondly, her anger giving way to amusement. "How did you even get in here?"
As reality settled in, a wave of dread washed over her. "Oh no, Dad's going to kill me for this mess," she groaned, already envisioning the aftermath of her impulsive search.
After cleaning up the shattered remnants and indulging in a long, reflective bath, Cecelia finally settled back into bed, exhaustion and embarrassment weighing heavily on her mind. The golf club remained within reach, a token of newfound caution born from her nighttime escapade.
"One can never be too safe," she reasoned, her thoughts drifting to the challenges awaiting her as a freshman in college. With a weary sigh, she succumbed to sleep, her last coherent thought echoing the mystery of Maslow's unlikely intrusion and the vivid memory of those piercing, gold eyes
