Tuesday, June 11, 2013


Today on Novels On The Run I have an author spotlight for Harmony Lawson. I have an excerpt you can read and her synopsis for Apocalypse of Angels : Seeing Angels. So check it out and pop it on your TBR pile if this sounds like a book for you.



Camille Harper, about to finish high school, can see angels all around her. They appear to watch her. She has been able to see angels from birth, and while she is amused by this ability, she just wants a normal life with friends, family, and good times. Why can she see angels? She doesn't know, but she believes the knowledge will change everything. Then she witnesses a confrontation between a beautiful angel and a dark winged creature. The strange event will signal the end of normal life. Did the strange beings know she could see them? Her friends want her to sneak out to an abandoned house for parties, but her instincts scream “NO!” Something is not right about the place. The hip new guy in school, Earl, wants to date, but she is afraid he will disturb her circle of friends, and there is something not right about him. Her parents aren’t doing well together. And whatever strange plot is developing, her sister may be in the middle. Now, for the first time, Camille Harper is interacting with angels face to face. This is incredible, but when Jason Waters enters her life, she gets more than she bargained for. Her strange ability complicates life on a whole new level. Camille and Jason enter an exciting but forbidden relationship. Strange beings present danger. What’s a Nephilim? What are fallen angels up to? Jason believes something is strange with Earl, but Jason is hiding things from Camille as well. Which one is right for her? Are they both trying to possess her for supernatural reasons? Camille just wants to make it through the year and graduate from high school, but changes are leading up to some apocalyptic event. Can Camille continue Seeing Angels without her life going to Hell?

Author Bio:

Harmony Lawson was born on a naval base in San Diego, California. Currently, she and her family live in Northern California in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Her education is in drawing, painting, and writing. When she read her first romance novel at age 16, she became a hopeless romantic.

Harmony is fascinated by angels, and she incorporates research in angels, the Nephilim, and fallen angels into her fictional stories. Many of the descriptions in her books reflect actual documentation found in religious documents.

While she has endured many hardships in life, she believes life will be better tomorrow. Life has its ups and downs, trials and tribulations, and Heaven and Hell. She believes the bad times are a test to prove a person's worth. Her books reflect on that concept.


Chapter One

When I was a young girl, a glass covered picture fell off the wall during the night and shattered behind the couch. Everyone in the house sprang out of bed! We looked around, but there were no signs of break-in. The couch hid the picture. After a few days, Dad noticed the picture of Seagulls had disappeared and pulled the couch out from the wall. We all got a big laugh out of it.

The same thing seems to be happening again now, when I am almost eighteen, but this time I am the only one springing out of bed. Something has startled me awake, but no one else in the house is reacting—there are no doors opening or footsteps in the hall. I don’t know why I am awake—I’m not even sure it was a noise. Maybe it was one of those rumbling noises you hear from the airport. It is 5:52 a.m. when I look out the bedroom door. There is nothing down the hall and the living room is dark, so I go back to bed and listen with the covers over my head. Maybe it was my little sister, Beth, sneaking home.

Finally, I get up to look around—the picture is still hanging on the wall; there is nothing out of place. Whatever it was gave me a rush, and I am now totally awake. With my robe and slippers on, I plan to check outside. This is not a good idea, but if a perve is out there, I can scream as loud as any teenage girl. The neighbors are close by—we live in a small trailer park down by the river. Trailer walls are not thick.

There is nothing on any side of the trailer. Foot prints in the gravel tell me nothing. Beth is not around. Nothing looks wrong with the trailer—there is nothing on the roof. Okay then, no problem.

A huge oak tree grows by our single-wide trailer with a tire swing hanging down from a limb. The tire is a good place to swing and contemplate life. It has been there for me over the years. This morning the tire is covered with dew, barely moving in the fog. I might as well swing now to calm down and consider the morning’s mystery. The air is fresh, and the morning is getting started. Oregon is a beautiful place.

But I don’t make it to the swing.

There is a tap on my shoulder. I spin around. Where did that come from? A piece of bark drops past my face and a leaf seesaws down. Did a piece of bark just hit my shoulder? A giant network of branches sprawls over my head—there is nothing noticeable. Something is up there, and it froze right when I looked. Now it blends in with the branches.

A splash comes from the river. A fully dressed woman is swimming to the far bank. She crawls over river stones and settles on a large, flat rock. She begins to twist river water from her hair. Even from the distance she looks very beautiful with high cheekbones and long black hair. A ray of sunlight penetrates the fog and shines directly on her. She wears the kind of trench coat a detective would wear on TV, and when she stands up, she lets it drop to the ground. A large set of white wings spread out behind her.

It sounds crazy, but this does not surprise me as much as you think.

She pulls off a shoe and pours out brown water. Her movements are dull, as if she is stunned. She is not aware of me watching her.

There is a loud crack! The noise is inside my head! A large acorn bounces out in front of me. It must have dropped from way up in the tree. It nailed me right on the top of the head!

The acorn bounces as a dark figure drops to the ground over by the swing. Its legs bend from impact and the ground vibrates a dull rumble. I’m disoriented—what am I seeing? The figure is covered with fur or feathers so dark you can’t tell. Dark wings spread out from behind. The thing is tall, like a man, and has broad shoulders. The face is obscured by mist, hiding the features.

What do I do!? The dark form strides towards me, folding its wings. His left hand rises before him. In his palm there is a black stone. It looks like a river stone polished smooth with the shape and size of a small potato.

Terror grows in my chest. The thing is a walking nightmare. What is he going to do with the rock? I can’t just stand here, but I can’t move! It’s time to scream!

The stone now has a small red dot in the middle. It wasn’t there before—it hypnotizes me. It looks like a red light on a DVD player glowing from behind dark glass. The red light to where the stone is like red glass with black around the edges. Terror is fading. Fear is dulling. My eyes are locked on the stone. My vision is all red. I do not want to move or need to move. I do not need to scream…

The red light blinks out. The stone turns black and the dark man’s ‘eyes’ appear, glowing orange in his misty face—he looks seriously pissed. He snarls in surprise when suddenly his wing is twisted back. Two hands grab the top of his wing and yank it back. They pull down hard at a bad angle. A woman’s voice screams. The dark guy bends his knees in pain. The lady from the river is attacking from behind! She just kicked the guy in the butt! Wow!

The dark guy flashes around, cocks his arm, and strikes the lady in the face with a devastating punch. It knocks her back 20 feet before she hits the ground and slides another 10 feet. The man pursues, forgetting me. His wings spread to glide towards the lady. She rolls away just before he stamps both feet where she was—the ground rumbles. She springs up towards a tree nearby, grabs the narrow trunk with both hands and swings around the back of the tree horizontally. Her body is a blur. The man has no time to react. She whips around and blasts both feet into his head. He goes down hard. She drops sideways to the ground.

They both rise up from the ground at the same time—they float up. They pause and face each other.

I pick up a rock about the size of a baseball. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but the target is going be the guy with the black wings. This is bad idea, but there is no time to think.

Adrenaline and softball practice pay off. The rock arches over and cracks the guy in the skull—that was a nice sound. Payback for you, acorn guy! He looks over at me—his face is hazy and undefined. His eyes glare angry orange pink. While distracted, his head jolts to the side. The lady got in a shot.

The two grab each other’s throats, locking together. Their wings spread and start flapping, lifting them from the ground. They grip each other’s throats with intensity. Their wings flap harder and harder. They rise faster and faster, and then shoot up through the tree branches into the sky. A swirl spot is left in the clouds.

I am left standing here with a dumb look on my face. The excitement ended so quickly. My brain is still vibrating from the acorn. Fear is simmering, but whatever the black stone was doing has some lasting effect, leaving me with calmness. It worked out good in a weird way—I should be freaking out. Instead, I look like a cave woman with my mouth hanging open.

Quiet settles in. Will anyone come outside after the commotion? The encounter was wild—did my family or neighbors hear it? I check myself out while I wait and find a bump on the top of my head.

After a few minutes, the front door to the trailer opens. My father comes outside and heads for his truck, coffee in hand as usual. He sees me and walks over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Have a good day Dad,” I say in the calmest voice I can manage. He nods and goes to unlock the cab.


Normal people would be shocked at the sight of angels. Not me—I have been able to see angels my whole life. But that is not the right way to describe it. Let’s say, I know when I am seeing angels when others don’t. Angels are around us all the time acting like regular people. They appear as a homeless guy pushing a cart, a nice lady on the bus, or people standing in check out lanes. They blend in with us, but they are angels, and I can tell.

I can sense them in a general way, but their eyes tell me for sure—they glow in different colors. I can see their wings when they have them out. The black wings today were new. It’s good that I can see the wings—the glowing eyes alone would be frightening.

Angels always seem very beautiful or striking in appearance. They remind me of movie stars. I have the idea that others don’t find them as beautiful as I do. Maybe that’s because it would attract attention. And angels can be male or female; don’t let anyone try to tell you anything different. So far, I am the only person I know that can do this.

The beautiful lady in the fight outside this morning is a great example of an angel. The other thing, who knows what he is, is something new and frightening.

I could see angels from when I was a kid—probably from when I was a baby. Early on, I thought everyone could see glowing eyes and wings. When I would say something, people would talk about my great imagination and how little girls love angels. Eventually, I figured out that no one else could see what I saw, and it was better to keep my mouth shut so I could fit in and be normal.

As for the big fight by the river—I better keep my mouth shut again. The dark guy is very frightening, but there is no way to talk to someone without looking nuts. I should ask for help, but from whom? Should I find a priest? Priests in Oregon would be hard to convince.

My name is Camille Ann Harper, but you can call me Cami.

My gift, the ability to see angels, makes me feel special. Duh, right? But what I mean is I see angels watching me all the time, like there is something important about me. For the last five years or so, I feel like something big is on the way—like being elected President or becoming a hero. I need to be ready for something.

Being elected President won’t work because of my fear of public speaking. I am very good at painting. Community college is probably next. I really have no clue what will happen to me, but this insane morning reminds me that something big is on the way.

Meeting someone and having a family would be nice, but that sounds way too normal for my future. Making a living as an artist, helping people, taking care of my family—these are the things I want.

Life in general has been getting complicated lately. My parents are not good together any more. Dad works overtime in his delivery job—I don’t spend much time with him. He doesn’t seem comfortable living with 3 females. Beth, my younger sister is becoming a party girl. The worst thing is with Mom. Lately, she lives on beer and cigarettes.

Play a violin for me, right? But what just happened in front of me this morning, the confrontation with a dark creature with a glowing black stone—now my special gift for seeing angels scares the hell out of me.


Dad is driving away. White hair around his temples is a handsome feature. Rushing around delivering boxes all day keeps him looking young and in good shape. He is short and stocky with firm muscles. A lot of delivery guys are toned, despite their age. He blames the white hair on Beth, which is probably true. I’m glad he didn’t notice she wasn’t in bed when he left.

Lamplighter Trailer Park is a small community of mostly elderly people. It is the only place my parents could afford—regular home prices are still out of the range for Dad’s salary. Lamplighter is normally quiet and boring. It is on the outskirts of Winston, Oregon across the Green Bridge by the river. The bridge has high steel arches, and of course it’s painted green.

My sister Beth and I are close in age—people often think we are twins. She is 13 months younger. We don’t look totally alike. Sometimes you see grown up identical twins that look different, like the environment affected them differently. That is how we look. She is shorter and her hair is curlier. I look more like Mom in the face, and Beth looks more like our Dad. I think Beth is more attractive with her petite, doll-like quality, oval brown eyes and a slightly upturned nose. She has nice cheek bones and perfectly arched eyebrows. She blossomed almost overnight at age thirteen. Most guys in school want to ask her out.

Mom always makes the comment, “You’re both equally beautiful.” I guess we are. My sister and I do look very similar. Beth’s outgoing personality gives her the edge.

The smell of bacon wafts through the air. Is Mom cooking breakfast? She must not have heard anything either. We normally have cereal. I see a flash of black and brown go around the corner—Beth has made it back from her night out. She slips inside, and I follow her all the way into our little bedroom. Somehow Mom is out of the kitchen when we pass through. Beth can be lucky.

“Hey, you missed a good party last night,” she says, slightly out of breath. Even with smeared eyeliner and sleep-deprived features, she still looks pretty. “Think Mom or Dad noticed I was gone?”

“I’m sure I missed a raging party; and no, I don’t think they noticed.” We are close enough in age that we have the same friends. I knew the group had gone to the abandoned house a ways from here. It is always the same event. Her boyfriend Nick Thomas smuggles some liquor from his parent’s liquor cabinet, or Allison somehow convinces her brother to buy some beer. There is smoking and making out. I once went to a party at Nick’s house when his parents were out of town. My nerves were a wreck. I was too afraid of getting caught.

Once is enough. Most of the boys at our school do not interest me right now. Maybe it is the maturity difference or something. I can’t handle cigarette smoke, and I feel uncomfortable around people making out. No one wants to hear me whine about that stuff—might as well stay away.

“Is Mom cooking? Did I see eggs and bacon on the stove?” Beth sniffs the air.

“Smells like it.”

“I wonder why?” she asks.

“Who knows, maybe she feels guilty about something?” I look down at her sitting on her bed. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re going to puke.”

She has her head between her knees. She looks up at me, pale and weary. “I feel like holy crap.”

“That’s what you get for partying on a school night. No time to sleep it off now.”

I try to help Beth up, but she shakes me off. We have a pretty good relationship, probably because of our close age. I will not get her in trouble for staying out, and she will never narc on me. But if she gets busted for last night she is on her own.

We head back to the kitchen, and Mom is at the stove with a cigarette in her mouth. She has a beer can open on the counter while flipping eggs—it is not a good scene. She has bed hair, and her pink robe is hastily tied around her small waist. She isn’t overweight at all. She hardly eats but one meal a day. Beer is becoming a regular source of calories.

Beth takes a seat at the small dining table while I head for the shower. It is time to get ready for school. Beth says, “Wow! Mom, what’s the occasion?”

“Can’t I cook for my girls?” Mom’s voice has the beginning of smoker’s gravel. It makes me sad.

“Sure, Mom, you can cook whenever you want,” I say on my way down the hall. My response is not sarcastic. Her behavior has me worried.

Our small plastic bathroom has a small shower stall. When I finish Beth squeezes by me to get her turn. In our room, I dry my hair, pull it back in a ponytail, and then I go to the closet to find something to wear. Unfortunately, Beth and I share a closet. My clothes hang neatly on one side, and let’s just say Beth’s side looks like holy crap.

I climb into my favorite pair of jeans and look for my long sleeve black tee. Like most girls my age, my outfit is planned ahead of time. The black tee will go under my purple and gray striped short sleeve tee. But where is it? There is only one possible answer.

“Beth!” I shout with a tone. “You have my black tee shirt; I wanted to wear it today!” She was wearing black when she came home.

Beth sticks her arm out the bathroom door with the shirt dangling on her finger. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to wear it.” She is doing the innocent routine, poking her head out the door with her hair wrapped up in a towel. When we do fight, clothes are mainly the reason.

I inspect the shirt—there is a small hole at the corner of the right shoulder.

“Beth, can’t you wear something without putting a hole in it? Stop wearing my clothes!”

Now I can’t wear this thing. It smells like cigarette smoke and dirt. Great, now Beth is smoking. I am not in charge in this family, so what can I do? I don’t want things to keep getting worse.

“Whatever,” she mumbles through the wall.

She’d be in the bathroom until we left for school. She never goes anywhere without putting on her face. I wear makeup sometimes, but not all the time. It is too hard to get off.

The nasty shirt goes into the hamper. The purple shirt will have to do. I pull a dark blue hooded sweatshirt over my head and leave the hood on. It is time for breakfast.

Breakfast can be eaten in the kitchen, dining room, or the living room. It is an easy choice because they are all the same room—sorry. Our family trailer is worn down around the edges, but I feel comfortable. When you live somewhere and you wear it down yourself, you seem okay with it—I don’t know why. The faded wallpaper is coming lose, the white counter tops are scratched and dull, and the light brown cabinets are a decade out of style, but the blue carpet is nice.

Mom is sitting on the couch watching TV with her crossword puzzle. The coffee table has a thick novel, an ashtray loaded with butts, and a beer.

I eat quickly, grab my backpack and head for the door.


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