Read Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran for Free Online

she could see images of a different life, somewhere cool and foggy and hemmed in with dark trees, or city streets with a vaguely foreign look to them. She became aware that these outer images were of likely futures that Stephanie’s life was moving toward. They didn’t seem to involve staying at Rose’s.
    She knew she should be going out to cultivate alternative sources for the future – vampires could “live” forever, couldn’t they – but she didn’t like to leave in case she couldn’t get back for some reason, like running water, crosses, or garlic.
    Besides, her greatest pleasure was coming to be that of floating invisibly in the air, whispering advice to Stephanie based on foresight drawn from the flickering images she saw around the girl:
    “It’s not a good part for you, too screechy and wild. You’d hate it.”
    “That one is really ambitious, not just looking for thrills with pretty actresses.”
    “No, darling, she’s trying to make you look bad – you know you look terrible in yellow.”
    Rose became fascinated by the spectacle of her granddaughter’s life shaping itself, decision by decision, before her astral eyes. So that was how a life was made, so that was how it happened! Each decision altered the whole mantle of possibilities and created new chains of potentialities, scenes and sequences that flickered and fluttered in and out of probability until they died or were drawn in to the center to become the past.
    There was a young man, another one, who came home with Stephanie one night, and then another night. Rose, who drowsed through the days now because there was nothing interesting going on, attended eagerly, and invisibly, on events. The third night Rose whispered, “Go ahead, darling, it wouldn’t be bad. Try the Chinese rug.”
    They tumbled into the bed after all; too bad. The under rug should be used for something significant, it had cost her almost as much per yard as the carpet itself.
    Other people’s loving looked odd. Rose was at first embarrassed and then fascinated and then bored: bump bump bump, squeeze, sigh, had she really done that with Fred? Well, yes, but it seemed very long ago and sadly meaningless. The person with whom it had been worth all the fuss had been – whatshisname, it hovered just beyond memory.
    Fretful, she drifted up onto the roof. The clouds were there, the massive form turned toward her now. She cringed but held her ground. No sign from above one way or the other, which was fine with her.
    The Angel chimed, “How are you, Rose?”
    Rose said, “So what’s the story, Simkin? Have you come to reel me in once and for all?”
    “Would you mind very much if I did?”
    Rose laughed at the Angel’s transparent feet, its high, delicate arches. She was keenly aware of the waiting form of the cloud-giant, but something had changed.
    “Yes,” she said, “but not so much. Stephanie has to learn to judge things for herself. Also, if she’s making love with a boy in the bedroom knowing I’m around, maybe she’s taking me a little for granted. Maybe she’s even bored by the whole thing.”
    “Or maybe you are,” the Angel said.
    “Well, it’s her life,” Rose said, feeling as if she were breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive, “not mine.”
    The Angel said, “I’m glad to hear you say that. This was never intended to be a permanent solution.”
    As it spoke, a great throb of anxiety and anger reached Rose from Stephanie.
    “Excuse me,” she said, and she dropped like a plummet back to her apartment.
    The two young people were sitting up in bed facing each other with the table lamp on. The air vibrated with an anguish connected with the telephone on the bed table. In the images dancing in Stephanie’s aura Rose read the immediate past: There had been a call for the boy, a screaming voice raw with someone else’s fury. He had just explained to Stephanie, with great effort and in terror that she would turn away from him. The girl