8
When you graduate from high school, you're often told you can change the world.
In my case, well…been there, done that.
But when you're an eighteen year old mystic seer who can physically be in two places at once and, oh yeah, you have what might be considered supernatural healing powers and an actual angel from Heaven on speed dial, saving the world is sort of an obligation. So instead of simply being Jillian Spectre, college freshman majoring in the ever popular undecided, I'm moonlighting as a comic book character. Boring classes that require regurgitation by day, redhead superheroine by night. No mask, no costume, no secret underground lair; just a freckled hundred and fifteen pound girl … and saving the planet is not above my pay grade.
So when my cellular version of the bat phone rings, and I see who's calling—
"Jillian, my partner's been shot! I need you right now!" says Detective Spencer Ball, NYPD's astral projection investigator and my occasional partner.
I know the routine. "Mom, I'll be right back!" I yell in the direction of the kitchen, as I stretch out on our living room couch, put the phone on speaker and close my eyes. Spencer, affectionately known as Fuzzball, quickly recites his hypnotic relaxation technique, making me relax and focus on his location as he describes the scene and the person in need of help.
And that person will die in minutes without me. I can hear the fear and concern in the detective's voice.
I create the scene in my mind and, in a blink, I'm there. In a moonlit alley somewhere in Manhattan.
The massive pool of blood on the ground and the twitching man make me jump back. It's one thing to have the detective tell you about it, another to actually see it.
"Jillian, hurry!" says Fuzzball, who is kneeling down next to his partner, pressing his hand over the guy's chest as blood oozes out.
I crouch down on the cool pavement next to his partner, a lean, dark haired man in his thirties whose dark eyes are flickering. "What's his name?"
"Jim." He turns to his partner. "Jimbo, she's here to help. Hang in there, buddy."
I take the dying man's trembling hand as he is gasping for air like a fish yanked out of the water. "Jim, look at me."
The man turns his head and locks eyes with me. His are deep pools of fear. I hear gurgling coming from his throat as he tries to talk and see blood trickle out of his mouth.
He knows he's going to die.
I tighten my grip on his hand. "You're going to be all right," I say.
He bites his lower lip as a single tear rolls down the side of his face. "Spence, tell my wife—" His voice is a whisper, barely audible.
"Hang in there!" says Fuzzball, grabbing Jim's face with his free hand and turning it so that he's facing me. "Now, Jillian!"
I close my eyes, see the dying man in my mind, and send as much of my life force as I can into him in one incredible rush. I see the blood flow stopping, the bullet working its way out, the wound beginning to heal, his breathing returning to normal, calm returning to his eyes—
And then I black out.
I'm holding a different hand and my hair is gently being stroked when I wake up. I already know the touch before I open my eyes.
I look up and see my boyfriend Ryan. I'm back on the couch with my head and shoulders on his lap. "Welcome back, Sparks." He leans down and kisses me on the forehead.
"Did I save him?"
Ryan flashes a big smile. "Yeah. Fuzzball called. Doctors at the hospital say they can't explain it but he's going to make a full recovery. Guess they don't study redheaded guardian angels with healing powers in med school."
I start to sit up but a throbbing headache pushes me back down and I grab my forehead. "Whoa. How long was I out?"
"Three hours."
"Wow. It's been a while since healing knocked me out. I thought I was past that. Damn, I'm fried."
"You should be. The guy
