Eternity (v5)

“Just where do you think you are going, El speth?” my dad asked, breaking the silence. His tone sounded hurt, and he was using the formal

“El speth.”

“Nowhere,” I whispered.

“Does this ‘nowhere’ include meeting Michael?” my mom asked. Her voice bore none of the soft, injured qualities of my dad’s. She was furious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sounded unconvincing, even to my own ears.

“We may be trusting, El speth, but we’re not fools,” she said.

I didn’t know how to respond. Obviously I was trying to sneak out, although I hoped they hadn’t witnessed the flying piece. I had no idea what they knew or for how long they had been aware of my nocturnal activities. Given that I had no desire to educate them about the details if they were blissful y unaware, I kept quiet.

“El speth, al ow me to make clear to you what seems very apparent to your mother and me.” My dad’s tone started to match my mom’s—less hurt and more angry.

“Al right,” I said.

“We have grounded you for that Facebook incident, which mystifies your mother and me. But you stil want to see Michael. So you two thought you’d sneak out of your respective houses late at night and rendezvous somewhere. Am I right?”

I wondered whether I should just cop to my father’s tale. After al , his theory was pretty close to reality, and it was far less damning than the ful truth. Plus, I could feel the need for Michael’s blood pulsating through me. Maybe if I just came clean, they would leave me alone, and I could stil meet Michael. Even now, Michael was my focus.

As I considered my response, my mom interjected, “Is Michael waiting for you out in the yard?”

“No,” I practical y shrieked. Michael and I had planned on meeting in town. But I was late, and I couldn’t take the chance that he’d come to my house looking for me. And I absolutely couldn’t risk my mom peering out the window for him, only to witness him flying by in search of me.

“Do you admit that you made arrangements to meet him somewhere? Just not here?”

“Yes.”

My dad shook his head. “El speth, we are so disappointed in you. This behavior is so uncharacteristic for the daughter we’ve raised and loved.”

He looked over at my mother, who nodded in encouragement. “We can’t help but think that Michael is somehow influencing your actions. For your own protection, we have decided to ban you from seeing Michael.”

“No!” I cried out.

“Yes, El speth.” My dad’s voice was unusual y firm. “We wil do whatever it takes to keep you from seeing him.”

I could not al ow my parents to separate me from Michael. I no longer cared about being a dutiful daughter—al I cared about was Michael and the blood. I felt myself getting furious, felt that expansion I first experienced when I lashed out at Missy. My words and my actions were no longer under my control.

I stood up from the window seat, defiant in the face of their attempt at restraints. “You cannot stop me from seeing him.”

My mom rose and got right in my face. She looked the way I felt. “Oh, yes, we can.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“El speth, I think your dad and I know exactly what you are capable of.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I matched her expression and then smiled smugly at her. “Oh, real y? I don’t think that’s possible.” I didn’t wait for her response; I headed straight for the window. I had every intention of flying right out of it, into Michael’s arms. I didn’t care if they saw. I needed to get to Michael, and I would not let them constrain me.

As I lifted the sash once again, I heard her cal out, “You think you’re a vampire, don’t you?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

I spun around and stared at my mom. Her eyes were so certain and knowing, yet contained no judgment of me and no incredulity. She knew who I was, what I was. I wanted more than anything to ask her how she knew, but the words stal ed on my lips. How could I ask an unthinkable question?

Overwhelmed and confused, I fel back on the window seat. I must have looked as disoriented and woozy as I felt, because my parents’ hands reached out to steady me. Through the miasma of the moment, I heard my dad say, “It’s al right, dearest. We’l help you.”

“Help?” I asked with a laugh. How could they help me? This wasn’t some high school problem to be solved with a pep talk and a pat on the back.

It wasn’t a dilemma that a few sessions with the local psychiatrist could cure. No, my parents couldn’t help me. No one could help me, not even Michael.

I felt my dad’s arm slide around my shoulder and pul me tight. “Would it help you to know that you’re not a vampire? Would it help you to know that vampires—as you think of them—don’t real y exist?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. The whole setting and conversation was becoming increasingly surreal. Was I actual y sitting here in my bedroom at midnight talking with my parents about why I was not a vampire? Or was I having one of those awful hyper-real nightmares in which you know you are dreaming but you can’t wake yourself up?

My dad fil ed in the deafening silence. “I’m going to tel you a story, El ie. It’s from the Bible—from Genesis, to be exact—so we have to take it with a grain of salt. But this particular story contains a nugget of truth, a very relevant nugget of truth. So I want you to listen careful y, very careful y.”

I’d grown used to my dad’s random quotations—even tolerated them—but I was in no mood. Anyway, a story from Genesis was an odd choice for my dad, who claimed he loved the messages and tales of the Bible, but couldn’t stomach how organized religions used them. “You said you wanted to ‘help’ me, Dad. How is that supposed to help?”

“Just listen, El ie.” It was an order. Since he was typical y more inclined toward polite requests, I nodded.

“In the beginning, for lack of a better term, God sent some of his spiritual intermediaries—we’l cal them angels—to mankind. He wanted these angels to protect his newly formed humans, to teach them about His divinity, and to shepherd them to heaven upon their deaths. Instead, these angels became enchanted by mankind. They became enamored of their purity and innocence and, of course, their physical beauty. They were made in God’s image, after al . But most of al , the angels became entranced with mankind’s thirst for knowledge, about their world and their origin.

Because, you see, the angels knew the answers.

“So, succumbing to their own pride in knowing the world’s secrets, the angels began to teach human beings al they knew about the earth—the constel ations, the signs of the earth, sun, and moon, knowledge of the clouds, the working of metals, the use of coin, and the art of war. In so doing, they fel in love with mankind. They even took human men and women as spouses and produced a unique race of half man and half angel. These beings were cal ed Nephilim.

“From afar, God watched the acts of these angels. And He was mad. These angels had taken His secrets and corrupted His favorite creation, humankind. They had even dared to fal in love with His creation and made a new creation of their own. And what could be more audaciously Godlike and defiant than that? Creation was reserved for His hands alone.

“God decided that there was only one way to undo the damage caused by these angels. He had to wipe out the now corrupt humans and the half-breed creations, leaving only a select few pure humans. So he whipped up the flood.”

My dad said this last word as if it deserved a capital ‘F’ and as if I knew what he meant. Which I didn’t.

So I asked, “The flood?”

“Noah’s flood,” he said irritably, as if CNN had just reported the deluge. Then he launched back into his story.

“Anyway, even though He al owed these wayward angels to live, God had no intention of letting them go unpunished. He cast them out of heaven permanently and ordered them to remain on earth. To torment them in their new earth-bound existence, He left them with their immortality and their ethereal skil s as a reminder of al they’d lost. Except He took away their ability to procreate with humans, of course.

“Many of these angels were furious with God’s command, and decided to retaliate. They embraced their new ‘fal en’ status, and made concerted efforts to turn the remainders of God’s pet creation—humankind—away from His light and toward their own refracted il umination. These fal en angels taught humans to worship earthly glamours that they could control and manipulate. In time, humans began to think that the ideals of these angels—even the angels themselves—were divine. Humankind no longer truly feared and worshipped God. Humans worshipped the idols fashioned by these angels—commerce and technology and consumerism and warfare and themselves, of course. And, in turn, the fal en ones captured—sucked away, if you wil —humankind’s souls.

“But a few of these fal en angels realized their horrible mistake. They decided to try and work their way back into God’s grace by living quietly among humans and redirecting man toward His light. This smal group assessed the damage that had been done to the earth and humankind by the other fal en ones, and fashioned a plan of redemption. Certain angels decided to address the corruption of the financial sector, others dealt with the rise of materialism, and so on—and you can see the fruits of their labors these days in the news. In addition, every angel in this group, the good group, tried to utilize their natural talents to guide humankind to God at the critical moment—the instant of their deaths. So using their gifts—their powerful sense of an individual’s psyche which they derived from touch or blood, their heightened powers of persuasion, and their ability to fly—they reached out to as many dying humans as they could.”

I froze. My dad continued talking about these angels, but his voice receded. I could hear only a constant replay of his description of the angels’

abilities. Their skil s were mine. Was that what I was? A kind of an angel? For some reason, the concept seemed even more foreign than being a vampire. More impudent.

“Gifts?” I interrupted. I needed to better understand who or what I was.

“In the beginning, al of these angels were given certain abilities to assist them in their work of shepherding souls to God’s light. They were endowed with the gift of flight, so they could quickly reach the sides of dying humans to help them before it was too late. The angels were able to see into humans’ minds and hearts, so they could understand how they might assist the humans in shedding their worldly cares and choosing a higher plane. They gained this insight by touching the human or—more powerful y—by tasting their blood, their life force. And the angels bore strong powers of persuasion, to better influence the humans’ final decisions. The angels were supposed to use these gifts for their intended purposes only

—to guide souls to God.”

A thought occurred to me. What if you didn’t use your powers for their intended objectives, for good? What if you started using them only for your own selfish purposes, like I had with Michael lately? Could that explain why I’d felt so dark recently? Why I’d sort of lost that compulsion to help others? Al these questions assumed that I was an angel, of course. I asked my dad, “What if angels used their gifts for their own purposes?”

My dad paused before answering. I could tel my question kind of disturbed him. “That is precisely what these angels did at first, when they were sent to guard mankind. After al , even angels have free wil , the capacity to choose darkness over light. That is why they were cast out. Once these angels were cast out and became fal en, they ful y submitted their powers into the service of their own desires. Then the darkness—the urge to serve self rather than something higher—took hold. And that hold was—is—very, very hard to break, nearly like an addiction.”

Before continuing, he sort of shivered. Then he pul ed himself together and said, “Over the centuries, people in every culture, every society, began to take notice of these angels—especial y the fal en angels trying for redemption. Remember, these angels striving for salvation were trying to bring souls to God at the moment of death. People occasional y saw them in that instant, and attributed to them the deaths they witnessed. People started to fear these angels. Who could blame them? Sometimes, the people watched the beings draw close to the dying and whisper in their ears.

Other times, they saw the creatures touch their loved ones as they took their last breaths. And in rare occasions, they observed an exchange of blood between the dying human and the being. Of course, the people believed that the beings were causing the deaths—rather than facilitating the afterlife journeys of their loved ones. People created entire legends around these beings. The myths differed from culture to culture, from age to age. But the core always remained the same, and it gave birth to the legend. The legend of the vampire.

“And you can see how that legend was not too far off the mark with certain of the fal en angels, the ones who continued to serve themselves and reject the light. For they used their gifts to suck away humans’ souls and create a civilization that worshipped them, instead of God.”

My dad paused, and in the quiet, I couldn’t help but think that this last bit sounded a lot like the musings of Professor McMaster. Since when was my biologist dad a vampire scholar? Or a biblical scholar, for that matter? I looked over at him and noticed that, during the course of his long talk, his handsome face had grown craggy. He suddenly looked so sad and so old that I couldn’t possibly chal enge him.

He reached out to caress my cheek. “So my lovely daugh-ter, you cannot possibly be a vampire, because there are no vampires. Only fal en angels. Good and bad.”

“How do you know al this?” I final y asked, one among the many questions I’d amassed.

Before answering, he looked over at my mom, who’d remained stil and silent during the whole of his monologue. She nodded her head once, and he turned back to me.

“Because humans once cal ed me and your mother vampires.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

No way. My parents were perfectly normal, perfectly terrestrial. No way were they angels, or vampires, or anything else that whiffed of the otherworld. The very notion of my mom and dad as unearthly beings was ridiculous.

In fact, al of this suddenly felt laughable. It was too much, and I could feel the hysteria bubbling up in me. Tears streamed down my face. My stomach ached from the force of my laughter. When I realized that my parents weren’t joining in, the hilarity subsided a little bit. But then I looked over at them, somber and respectable and silent in their flannel nightgown and pajamas and robes, and the whole concept of them flying and divining thoughts seemed so hysterical y ridiculous that the laughter took hold again.

Final y, I calmed down enough to ask, “You two? Angels?”

“Yes,” my dad said quietly. Almost apologetical y.

“So, we’re like a family of angels? Are you two the good kind or the fal en ones?” I said with a giggle.

“We were fal en. But now we are trying to redeem our-selves,” my dad solemnly answered my not-so-serious question.

“Come on.” I don’t know why I was having such a hard time buying their claims, when I’d thought of myself as a vampire for some time. Except that they were my parents, and parents were supposed to be ordinary and respectable. Especial y mine, who were boring academics.

But the more I thought about it, the less ridiculous it seemed. My parents were uncommonly beautiful; people always commented on it. They carried themselves with an unusual grace and calmness, excepting their reactions to my most recent behavior, of course. They dedicated themselves to teaching others how to protect the environment while stil feeding the multitudes. They were the only people whose touch did not give me a single flash. And they were my parents, the ones who’d created me. If I was some kind of supernatural being, why not them? Lately, crazier things had happened.

The thought sobered me up—although I wasn’t quite ready to buy the entire notion.

My mom shot my dad a look, and he left the room. My mom and I sat there in an uncomfortable silence as we listened to Dad’s slippers clop up and down the attic stairs. He returned bearing a smal wooden box covered in metal designs, kind of like the tin-imprinted, wooden trunks Irish immigrants brought over with them on the ships a couple of centuries ago.

Reaching into her nightgown, my mom pul ed out a long gold chain made up of open, circular links. I knew that there was a plain, heavy oval pendant, also gold, on the chain too. As a child, I’d loved to play with it, running it up and down the chain until my mother tired of my game and admonished me to be careful with it. Over the years, I’d grown to see it as my mom’s one vanity, her one decoration in a wardrobe of simple, functional clothes. But I was wrong.

She twisted the pendant, and it popped open unexpectedly. The little motion made me jump; I never knew that the pendant was a locket. Then she reached inside, pul ed out a smal key, and handed it to my dad.

He slid the key into the box’s lock and opened it with one deft turn. Moving slowly and careful y, he thumbed through the items inside and removed a yel owed envelope. He placed it in my hands.

The envelope was sealed. Working my finger under the one loose corner, I looked up at my dad for confirmation that I could open it. He nodded.

Gingerly, I loosened the flap on the back and peered inside. A stack of what looked like photographs rested within.

I slid them out. They were indeed photographs, al of varying vintages. Some were fairly recent—black and whites from the nineteen forties maybe—and some were so old that they were printed in sepia. Flipping through them quickly at first, I thought they were postcards because they depicted so many exotic locations. They showed the pyramids of Giza in the late eighteen hundreds, the Great Wal of China in the early nineteen hundreds, even the Empire State Building under construction, with an attractive couple in the foreground.

As I examined the pictures more closely, they appeared too amateurish and informal for postcards. The lighting and focus were often blurry, and the centering sometimes seemed a bit off. The more I studied them the more they looked like snapshots of different couples on their holidays. Why were my parents giving me these? Particularly now.

As if reading my thoughts, my dad said softly, “Look closely.”

I stared at the pictures, wil ing them to make some sort of sense. Then I recal ed that the couple was identical in every photo. Different hairstyles, different clothes, but otherwise the same couple looking precisely the same for a span of nearly one hundred and fifty years. Only then did I realize that I knew them: they were my parents.

“Oh, so this is supposed to be your proof of immortality, I take it?” I asked. My skepticism had returned.

“You think these are fake?” my mom said. She sounded stunned and a little hurt.

“Anything can be Photoshopped, Mom.”

“You think we prepared these so that we could make up an elaborate lie about being angels?” She moved past stunned and on to furious. “And how do you explain your little flying sessions?”

When she put it that way . . . The crazy thing was my parents were the most practical, down-to-earth people I knew. Or thought I knew, anyway. I scrutinized the photographs again. There, among the pictures of al the far-flung destinations was one smal ish photo of my parents in period garb staring at each other. The joyous expressions on their faces caught my eye, and I took a closer look. They were seated before the white-washed church on the Til inghast town green, a familiar enough setting. Except that the church was the only structure in sight; none of the other storefronts and homes that surrounded it had been built yet.

I held up the picture. “This is Til inghast?”

My dad drew close to the photo, and smiled at the memory it evoked. “Yes, that is Til inghast in the late eighteen hundreds.” He handed it to my mom. “Remember, Hannah?”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, we were so happy here, despite al troubles.”

“What troubles?” I asked.

The grin disappeared from her face. “Like many New England towns in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Til inghast suffered from several outbreaks of tuberculosis and consumption. Some of us who were attempting to find a path toward redemption visited here in the early days and tried to bring the many dying over to God. Unfortunately, these efforts were witnessed by a few Til inghast townsmen and mistaken as the work of vampires, as your father described.” The smile resurfaced. “Stil , we loved it here. That’s why we came back—when you arrived.”

I stared up at my parents, seeing them as if for the very first time. Suddenly, without warning, I believed them.

“You two are angels. Fal en angels, to be exact.” I didn’t intend it to be a question, but a statement. “The good kind.”

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

“So you can fly and read people’s thoughts? By touch or blood?”

“We could,” my mom answered, alone this time.

“What do you mean? I thought you said that angels could do al that stuff.”

“They can. But we can no longer do those things. For the most part,” my mom said.

“Why not?”

“That part is not real y important. We chose a different path.”

“What path is that?”

“Part of our path is to teach people ways to care for this earth so it can be saved.”

I nodded. “What’s the other part of your ‘path’?”

“To watch over you,” my mom said.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

What was so special about me that two angels needed to keep an eye on me? Then it dawned on me. Angels weren’t supposed to be able to procreate, but my parents obviously ‘procreated’ me. “Is it because you were able to have a child, even though God—or whoever—banned the angels from conceiving?”

“Something like that, dearest. We have always felt blessed to care for you,” my dad said.

“So I’m a fal en angel? Like you two?” Just saying those words aloud, aligning myself with them, made me feel lighter. Less alone. I was shedding the weighty, dark secret I’d been keeping—and living—for the past couple of months.

“Not exactly, El ie. You are somewhat different from the rest of us, either those that keep to the darkness or those that chose the light.”

“But I can do al the things that you described—the flying, the reading of people’s thoughts.”

“We know. Now.”

“What am I?”

My mom stepped in. “We cannot tel you just yet. It isn’t time. But we wil . Please trust us.”

My dad reached over and touched my cheek. “Maybe it’s better for you to get some rest, dearest. We can talk more tomorrow and answer some of your questions. At dinner.”

Sleep? Who could sleep with al this revelation? The very suggestion made me mad. They wanted me to sleep on a secret they’d kept from me for sixteen years. A major, major secret. I needed answers about my nature, my powers, and my immortality—for God’s sake. And I needed them now.

“No way. There is no way you’re going to spring al this on me, and then expect me to go to sleep.” I was as angry at my parents as I’d ever been.

“We know that you are angry, dearest. It is perfectly understandable under the circumstances. But there’s time enough for your questions when you’ve slept,” my dad said. His voice had a curious, singsong quality to it.

I started to object, when al of a sudden, sleep real y did seem like the most logical suggestion in the world. My dad took me by the hand and brought me to my bedside. My mom pul ed back the quilt and motioned for me to slide into the sheets. I had no choice but to fol ow them like an obedient child. Even though a tiny voice in my head wondered whether they stil had some of those angelic powers of persuasion and were using them on me.

Snuggling down into my covers, I looked up at my parents. My mom cast upon me a smile that could only be described as beatific, like some Madonna. Or maybe I was just seeing angels and saints everywhere.

The last words I remembered hearing before I drifted off into a deep sleep came from my mom. She said, “El speth, try to shroud—in your mind—

what you’ve learned tonight from Michael.”

The last thought I remembered thinking before I drifted off into that deep sleep was that it took a curiously long time for them to mention Michael.

Especial y since he and I were the same.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Michael was waiting for me at school the next morning.

“Where were you last night? I was so worried about you,” he said before I could even get my locker door open.

I quickly scanned the hal to make sure no one was listening. Fortunately everyone looked just as rushed as I was; I was seriously late for Miss Taunton’s class. “My parents caught me,” I whispered.

“Caught you?” Inexplicably, he seemed confused.

“Caught me trying to sneak out.”

A look of horror crossed his face. “They didn’t see you—”

I knew he was about to say “flying,” so I cut him off. “No, they didn’t see me do that.” The words were technical y true—if not accurate. My parents knew about my flying; they just didn’t witness it last night. Why didn’t I tel him?

I wondered why I felt uncertain. I’d woken up confused about what my parents had told me, and mad that they’d kept such secrets from me. But at the same time, I retained that sense of lightness I first experienced when they told me, at the thought I might be part of something better and bigger than myself. That hopeful sensation stayed with me as I got ready for school and drove in with my mom—even when she fended off my relentless questions with assurances that we’d talk later and even when I started to get angry at her withholding explanations. Al morning, I could barely contain my excitement to tel Michael what I’d learned about my identity, our identities. Despite my promises to my parents to the contrary.

Yet now that the opportunity was at hand, I wavered. There was something different, even off-putting, in Michael’s manner—something I couldn’t quite describe—that made me hesitate. And I hadn’t hesitated with him for a long time.

“Thank God for that,” he said.

“Thank God.” I smiled a little; the phrase had taken on new meaning.

He took me by the hand and asked, “Do you think you’d be able to get away after school today? I know it’s tough with your grounding and al , but something happened last night. I want to tel you about it.”

“I don’t know, Michael. The grounding isn’t my only problem. After my parents caught me trying to sneak out last night, they specifical y told me I couldn’t see you anymore.”

He withdrew his hand. “Me? Why?”

“They guessed that I was going to meet you. Not that I admitted it.”

“Great,” he said sarcastical y. “Now we’l only be able to see each other during the supervised school hours of eight thirty to three thirty and after midnight. Assuming your parents don’t camp out in your bedroom.”

“Assuming they don’t camp out in my bedroom,” I repeated, sadly. Although, given what I knew they knew, I was pretty certain that’s just about what they’d be doing.

Michael grabbed my hand again and pul ed me away from the throngs of students racing to class. He led me down a dark corridor that led to the empty auditorium. Backing me up into a niche holding a set of double doors, he breathed into my neck. “El ie, I won’t be able to stay away from you at night. One night was hard enough. Say you’l meet me at Ransom Beach after school.”

Al morning, I’d experienced a sense of lightness, like the black fog in which I’d been living had lifted. But now, with Michael so close, I felt the bloodlust again, along with the intoxication of the darkness. And I knew I’d find a way to meet him after school.

I made it into Miss Taunton’s classroom just before the bel finished ringing. Weaving down the crowded aisle to my seat in the back, I tried to ignore the hateful stares of my classmates. In fact, I tried so hard to ignore them that I tripped on a foot that had been outstretched for that very purpose. I pretended not to hear to delighted giggles—among them, Miss Taunton’s—as I picked myself off the floor and dusted off my pants.

Settling into my seat, I rifled through my bag for the paper due on Edith Wharton. The text icon on my cel flashed, a rarity. With my hands stil in my bag, I clicked on it. To my surprise, it was from Ruth. Are u ok? she asked.

That text was the first time she’d communicated with me since the night of the dance. Immediately, I texted back. Fine. Used to it. Thx for asking.

Want to meet for coffee after school? she responded.

I raced to answer her. Yes! Just yesterday, if she’d asked me to coffee, I wouldn’t have cared. The darkness’s hold had been that firm. But now that a sliver of light had poked through the clouds, I felt excitement at reconnecting with Ruth. Plus, I had another reason to be thril ed: I had my way to meet Michael.

I negotiated with my mom for a limited—very limited—exemption from my grounding, a negotiation that required I pass my cel to Ruth for her confirmation that we would be making a quick stop for coffee and that she’d bring me directly home. On the car ride to the Daily Grind, we didn’t broach the rift between us. Instead, we talked about our classes and the heaping piles of homework. I waited until we sat side by side in our two favorite club chairs, with steaming coffees in our hands.

“Ruth, I’m real y sorry about ruining the dance for you and Jamie.”

“It’s al right, El ie. I was furious when it first happened. I mean, I knew that you hadn’t actual y set up that Facebook page. I knew that Piper and Missy must have done that. But why on earth did you race up to that stage and take credit for such a hateful thing? It seemed so pointless and . . .

out of character. And, of course, it total y ruined our night. But I’m not mad about it anymore. I haven’t been mad about that for a while.”

I didn’t want to ask the logical next question, but I had no choice. “What have you been mad about?”

“The way you’ve changed.”

“What do you mean?” Again, the question had to be asked.

“Since the night of the dance, you’ve become distant and cold. You’ve been walking around like you’re in a different world. I understand that you had to put up some kind of barrier to deal with the anger of the other kids, but with me? Especial y when I tried so hard to break through to you.”

Now that perplexed me. I knew that I hadn’t much cared about anyone but Michael, but I honestly didn’t recal any special efforts on Ruth’s part to break through my barrier. “I’m sorry, Ruth. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You real y don’t remember me trying to talk to you after English? Or walking with you to the school assembly?” She sounded baffled.

I shook my head; I had no recol ection of such things. Then, for the first time since al the madness, I touched her hand. In a rush, I watched the past few weeks through Ruth’s eyes. I witnessed my rejection of her overtures, felt the sadness and loneliness that overcame her with each rebuffed approach, and experienced her nightly tears. I could tel that there was more, but Ruth quickly withdrew her hand.

I started sobbing. “Ruth, I am so sorry. I—”

She interrupted with a hug. “El ie, I know you’re going through something difficult, something obviously I can’t understand. Let’s talk about it when you’ve calmed down, okay?”

Squeezing me tighter, she said excitedly, “Can I tel you al about me and Jamie instead?”

We spent the next half hour chatting like nothing bad had transpired between us. I heard al about her budding romance, and I loved watching the happiness in her face. It made me wish that I was normal, that Michael and I could hang out with my best friend and her new boyfriend like ordinary teenagers.

Ruth glanced at her watch and jumped up. She’d made plans to meet Jamie at the library, but would drive me home first.

“Ruth, I have a favor to ask, but I’m hesitant after everything I’ve put you through.”

“El ie, you are stil my closest friend. I’l always be happy to help you. You know that.”

“It wil require that you disobey my mom’s specific request to bring me home after coffee.”

“Al right,” she said hesitantly.

“Would you mind dropping me at Ransom Beach when we leave? And not tel ing my parents if it ever comes up?”

Chapter Thirty

Ransom Beach looked more isolated and less welcoming than I remembered. The craggy cliffs seemed to drop more precipitously into the white-capped ocean, and there was not a soul in sight, it being late fal . From the inside of the car, Ruth and I could tel that the beach was colder and windier than town. We could even hear the loud cry of the seagul s through the closed car windows, and they sounded lonely, rather than the normal friendly harbinger of summer. The whole scenario made Ruth visibly uncomfortable.

“What are you guys doing out here?” she asked skeptical y.

“We just like to walk along the beach,” I lied. I felt a little bad about it, but being with Michael was more important than not tel ing a white lie.

“In this weather?” Ruth wasn’t buying it.

Before answering, I hung my head down. I didn’t think I could tel her yet another lie while looking her in the face. “It’s the one place we can real y be alone to talk.”

I could tel Ruth didn’t believe me, but she wasn’t going to chal enge me any further. Stil , she refused to let me out of the car until Michael appeared. We spent several long minutes making smal talk while she looked at the car clock—she didn’t want to keep Jamie waiting, I could tel —

and I scanned the otherwise empty road for Michael’s car. When he final y arrived, we both let out a sigh of relief.

She was reluctant to go. “Are you sure you’l be al right, El ie?”

I smiled assuredly. “Of course, Ruth.”

“It doesn’t seem particularly safe out here . . . ,” she said.

“I’l be with Michael.”

“Okay. But don’t be afraid to cal if you need me.” She paused, then added with a smile, “And please go home within the hour like we promised your mom. I don’t want her mad at me. She can be scary.”

I gave her a hug—thankful for the ride and the bridge back toward friendship—and hopped out of the car. Immediately, I was grateful she hadn’t let me out sooner. The salty air was bracing and strong, practical y slapping me in the face with its cold dampness. If I wasn’t so confident in my flying skil s, I might have clung to the road instead of braving the cliffside path nearest to Michael’s car.

Ruth was stil waiting, so I raced over to his car. Waving good-bye, I opened the door and slid in. Straightaway, Michael pul ed me toward him, and over the gearshift, he kissed me. I’d been feeling guilty about deceiving my parents and using Ruth to help me, but his lips and his hands wiped al that guilt away. I needed to be with him.

“So where are we going? In an hour, I have to be home.”

“Actual y, I thought we might stay here, down in the cove.” He smiled. “It’s where we had one of our first dates, after al .”

I laughed. “You’re cal ing that a date now?”

He laughed too. “So are you game? Or is it too cold for you?”

I could tel he was daring me. After al these weeks where I taunted him and pushed him, he was turning the tables back on me. I had to rise to the occasion. “It depends on how we’re getting down there,” I answered coquettishly.

“I think it might be the right conditions for an afternoon flight.”

We’d never flown in daylight before. It was too risky. But if ever a safe time and place existed for the gamble, Ransom Beach in late fal was it.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Checking to make sure Ruth was gone, we got out of the car and walked over to the edge of the cliff. For a moment, that first, terrifying experience of watching Michael jump from the very spot—not knowing that he could fly—revisited me. I felt a little dizzy at the intensity of the memory, and I stopped to steady myself.

“You haven’t become afraid of heights overnight, have you?” Michael asked, teasing me again.

I squared my shoulders and looked down the sixty-foot drop. “Of course not.” Just to prove my point, I grabbed his hand and dove.

Flying during the day was different. Al the shapes and sounds and smel s we normal y guessed at were clearly discernible. Al the hidden dangers were made apparent. Daylight made the experience more exciting and more frightening—simultaneously. By the time we landed on the sand, I wanted more.

But Michael declined my invitation for another flight. He wanted to stay in the cove. Its protective boulders made the temperature surprisingly warm, and Michael’s arms made it even warmer. So instead, we stood for a long minute in our sheltered spot, holding each other and staring out at the rough sea.

“There’s something I want to tel you—need to tel you—about last night,” he whispered softly in my ear.

He had mentioned this earlier. But, in the chaos of the day, I hadn’t given it much thought. Particularly since I had my own news that I’d decided to share with him.

“There’s something I need to tel you, too,” I said.

“I think I should go first,” he persisted.

“Al right.” I suddenly felt uneasy and sick, like he was about to confess that he’d hooked up with another girl last night.

Michael took a deep breath and opened his lips to speak, when—over Michael’s shoulders—I saw another person amble down the beach in our direction. A man. He wore jeans and a fleece, but he was barefoot and had his shoes slung casual y over his shoulder as if going for a beach strol on a beautiful summer day. What was he doing out here?

I placed my finger on Michael’s lips and said, “Wait. Someone’s coming.”

He craned his neck to see who it was. Spinning back to face me, he clutched me tighter—as if he was worried I’d fly away—and said, “It’s okay, El ie. He’s here to meet us. He is what I wanted to tel you about.”

Even though Michael’s words registered in my head and he intended them to be a comfort, I couldn’t stop staring warily at the man as he came closer and his face became more distinct. The blond hair, the blue eyes, the handsome, chiseled features—I knew I’d seen him before.

He was the guy in the coffee shop several weeks ago, the one I’d bumped into. The one that Ruth couldn’t take her eyes off of. The guy who stood by Missy’s side at the Fal Dance, and the one I saw in shadows in flashes. He was Zeke.

What on earth was he doing out here? Meeting us?

The guy noticed my gaze, and smiled that creepy, disconcerting smile. And I got real y, real y scared.

The urge to escape became irrepressible. I felt my shoulder blades start to lift and expand, just like they did before flying, though now the motion was involuntary. Michael must have sensed it, because his grip tightened. Trying to wrench out of his grasp, I dug my nails into his arms. “Michael, what’s going on?”

“El ie, his name is Ezekiel. And he’s going to tel us who we are.”

Chapter Thirty-one

“Who are you?” I asked this “Ezekiel,” as I tried to shake off Michael. Why was Michael holding me in a vise grip so I could listen to this guy?

“El speth, al ow me to introduce myself. My name is Ezekiel. It is a pleasure to final y meet you, although I apologize for the circumstances.” Zeke

—or Ezekiel—said, as if we were being introduced over high tea at Bar Harbor’s finest hotel rather than on a deserted beach on a freezing cold evening while my boyfriend held me down. Al the while, he kept that strange smile pasted on his face.

“Where’s your friend, Missy?” I asked, as I struggled to free myself from Michael.

“I am sorry for my unfortunate association with your classmate Missy. I entered into that relationship with the hopes it might provide me with an easy introduction to you and Michael. Sadly, that was not to be the case. But I stayed with her because I saw she could serve other purposes.” His language had a formal, almost antiquated, feel to it.

Suddenly I understood why Missy had been so friendly to me at the beginning of school. It was an effort by this Ezekiel to get to us through her.

And I thought I knew what he meant by the “other purposes” that Missy served.

“Did you put Missy up to the Facebook stunt?” I asked, having seen him in those flashes. Not that he’d know about them, of course.

“You showed yourself to be quite the savior in that incident, El speth. And you showed me quite a lot about yourself in the process.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Did you orchestrate that whole sickening thing?”

He sighed, as if disappointed by the inquiry. “No, El speth. I did not force Missy to perpetrate the Facebook stunt, as you have cal ed it. Missy did not act outside her own nature and she did not act at my behest. I wil admit to fostering her nature and her Facebook plan as the incident afforded me an important insight. . . . It al owed me to see how you would behave when faced with a truly soul ess act. And I saw that, while you were wil ing to sacrifice yourself to protect the potential victims of Missy’s game, you were not immune to the lure of the darkness that emanated from it.” Ezekiel smiled, evidently pleased by his remote handiwork and my reaction to his test. “But you should know that I was no puppeteer of Missy, El speth. You must have seen that she acted of her own accord—in your visions.”

Like ice, my blood froze in my veins. “How did you know about those?”

“I know what you are and what you can do. Therefore, I assume you saw how her plan unfolded, El speth.”

Michael final y spoke. “El ie, listen to what Ezekiel just said. He knows what we are and what we can do. He can help us understand who we are.”

Was this the reason that Michael was acting so deferential y toward this Ezekiel? Even if Michael believed that Ezekiel had the answers, it was no excuse for his iron grip, for his betrayal of me.

Ezekiel interjected, his tone stil becalming. “It is quite al right, Michael. I think you best release El speth from your embrace.”

As if obeying a command, Michael’s arms slackened. I faced Ezekiel alone, thoroughly exposed to his fear-someness.

Ezekiel spoke to Michael, but stared directly at me. “El speth’s reaction is perfectly understandable. She does not know who I am. She does not even know who she is. Yet. But I am very much looking forward to sharing with her the uniqueness of her—”

“I don’t need you to tel me who I am.” It was my turn to interject. Thanks to my parents, I had some understanding of my identity. Some.

“El ie, please,” Michael begged me—to listen and defer. I felt like I didn’t even know Michael. He seemed almost drugged by the very presence of this Ezekiel.

I spun around toward him. Drugged or not, how dare he? “Why should I? You’ve dragged me to Ransom Beach under false pretenses—once again. I have no reason to trust you, or him.” I was so thankful that I hadn’t shared my parents’ secrets with him.

Michael started to stammer out another objection, but Ezekiel interrupted. “Michael, of course El speth is mistrustful. Once she learns everything that you have learned, she wil undoubtedly relinquish her suspicions. She wil come to understand—as you have—that I am only here to help you both.”

Even though my instincts told me to flee, I knew I would stay. I wanted to hear Ezekiel’s explanation of my “uniqueness,” to compare it with the story my parents had told me. So I stood firm in the face of his devouring gaze, and waited. I would listen to what he had to say but I would not react.

I would take the knowledge I’d garnered from him and return to my parents—with my new information in hand. And they would help me make sense of everything; they would tel me al the details they’d withheld last night. That was my plan, anyway.

Ezekiel acknowledged my momentary acquiescence with a self-satisfied smile. It was the smile of one used to getting what he asked for.

He began. “Last night, I came upon Michael. Alone. He was scared and ful of queries, so I answered them. Much as a parent answers the pleas of his child. Because, in many ways, Michael is my child. As are you, El speth.

“You and Michael are born from the same source as me. You fly. You can read and influence the thoughts of others, through touch and blood. You know you are different from the others. Better. But what are you?

“Michael tel s me that you have resisted the label of vampire, though al the characteristics seem to fit. How right you were to resist this moniker.

The name ‘vampire’ is given by humans to beings such as ourselves—out of ignorance. You can see, of course, from whence the vampire legend sprung. The flying, the blood, the sheer incomprehensibility of our powers, would give rise to the fairy tale of the vampire.

“But you and Michael are not vampires. Nor am I. El speth, we are select beings, born to lead mankind. And I wil show you and Michael the way.”

Ezekiel paused dramatical y. I guessed that he wanted me to swoon or gush excitedly over his speech. Maybe those were the reactions he usual y received. But, in truth, it sounded like the story my parents had told me the night before. Minus the bit about leading mankind. Yet that bit was beginning to give me a good sense of who Ezekiel was. He was sounding more and more like an unrepentant fal en angel, and I was getting more and more frightened.

As Ezekiel waited for my response, he stared into my eyes. “Your parents have told you a different tale about your origin,” he final y said. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“It is certainly not as if they told me. It has been years since I’ve had contact with your parents, and they have no idea that I’ve been in Til inghast. I know that they’ve told you a different tale about your origins because I have had centuries—no, mil ennia—of experience reading faces. I can see that you are not surprised by what I am sharing with you. Your parents are the only ones who could have told you part of this tale.”

“Her parents?” Michael asked, as if jolting awake from his trance.

Ezekiel turned to him. “El speth hasn’t told you?”

“No,” Michael said slowly.

“I had planned on tel ing you, Michael. Before you sprung al this on me,” I said defensively. I didn’t know why I felt the need to justify myself to him, after the stunt he pul ed.

“Be wary of what Hananel and Daniel tel you, El speth,” Ezekiel said. “After al , they are not your real parents.”

Hananel. That was what Michael’s mother had cal ed my mom. “Of course they’re my real parents.”

“To be sure, they have raised you since your birth. From the looks of you, my dear, they have performed that role wonderful y. But Hananel and Daniel played no hand in conceiving you, carrying you, or birthing you.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed, as if it pained him to bring me such distressing news. “I wish I were lying, my dear El speth. But you see, I was there on the day of your birth. And neither Hananel nor Daniel are your parents.”

I needed to know for certain if he was tel ing the truth. Even though I shivered at the thought of getting close to Ezekiel, I needed to touch him. I needed to see inside his mind.

I wondered if he would al ow it. Then I remembered my dad’s description of the fal en angels’ powers of persuasion and realized that Ezekiel was probably trying to gain control over my mind. Just as he’d seemingly done to Michael. Ezekiel was continuing to use that sing-song voice, certain that he was influencing me.

I saw my opportunity. Acting as if he swayed me, I approached him.

“There have always been inconsistencies in their stories of my birth, discrepancies that never made sense,” I said.

“I am not surprised.”

“They are not my parents? Real y?” As if convinced by his words, I al owed my eyes to wel up with very real tears. Tears I’d been holding back from Michael’s betrayal.

“Real y, dear.”

“So I can’t trust what they’ve told me about myself?”

“No, El speth. I am sorry to tel you that you cannot trust the representations of Hananel and Daniel.”

“But you wil become a parent to us? Michael and I wil not be alone? You wil show us the way?”

He smiled; this was the reaction he sought. “I wil indeed, El speth.”

I smiled back at him and drew even closer to his blond hair and blue eyes and his unusual, incense-like scent. “I’m so pleased,” I whispered.

“As am I, my dear,” he whispered back. Then I touched him.

Chapter Thirty-two

The hatred I witnessed in the hearts and minds of my classmates after the Facebook incident was kindergarten stuff in comparison to the darkness of Ezekiel’s spirit. Even the malice I’d seen in Missy could not compare. Through his eyes, I watched scene after scene of dominance and degradation, where he’d concocted ingenious and sickening ways to ensnare the attention—and then the souls—of mankind. He was relentless in reaching his nefarious tentacles into human beings’ lives—births, marriages, il nesses, deaths, educations, businesses, governments, technology, warfare, money, you name it. Ezekiel would not rest until mankind’s thoughts and desires were his own.

He delighted at each conquest, no matter how smal or large. For each victory turned another soul away from any hint of goodness. Ezekiel was a fal en angel, and if you bought into the biblical tale, he was punishing God for casting him out. And he would never, ever stop.

His was the darkness that had crept into my soul and mind after the Fal Dance. I wondered if it had crept in through my tasting of Missy’s blood.

Had she sampled Ezekiel’s, and did she carry his blood in her veins?

I did not think I could tolerate the malevolence of Ezekiel’s thoughts or, worse, his deeds anymore. He’d performed and arranged countless acts of betrayal, deception, seduction, even murder—some with his own hands, some using the hands of others. I couldn’t survive the onslaught a second longer. Then suddenly it stopped. Ezekiel realized what I was doing and shut down his mind.

I opened my eyes and looked directly into his. In that moment, he understood that I saw him—as no one had every truly seen him before. Why couldn’t Michael see Ezekiel’s evil? Had Ezekiel corrupted him before he had a chance? If Ezekiel had frightened me before, he now terrified me.

But the flash had given me a moment of clarity and freedom, and I flew.

I had never flown as fast or as high. Propel ing upward, I sped past the boulders that comprised the sheltering cove, the sharp rock face into which the path was cut, and spiky precipice that made up the cliff top. I desperately needed to make it to the level rock overlooking Ransom Beach before Ezekiel or Michael. Otherwise, the vantage point of the Ransom Beach cliff top would provide them with the precise direction of my route.

Once I figured it out.

I touched down on the top of the cliff. For a moment, I saw nothing but gray skies and grayer rocks and the black asphalt of the highway. No silvery-white of Michael’s or Ezekiel’s hair. I exhaled in relief.

Too soon. I felt the earth shudder beneath my feet, and suddenly Ezekiel was there.

“El speth,” he said with his awful smile; it was like seeing the skeleton under his skin. “Where do you think you are going, dear?”

When Ezekiel walked toward me, I realized that he wasn’t alone. Michael stood to his right.

They were converging on me. Slowly but deliberately. As I backed away, I realized just how much they looked alike. It clouded my thinking for a minute, but then I refocused. My choices were limited: move backward to the cliff edge from which I’d just alighted, or head out onto the deserted highway. I opted for the road and the slim chance that a car would appear. Not that a vehicle and driver could stop this duo.

“El speth, there’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere else wil you be understood and appreciated for who you are,” Ezekiel said.

“We are your true family,” Michael echoed Ezekiel. What was happening to him?

“You belong with us, El speth. You were born to rule, with Michael and me at your side.” Ezekiel kept using that lul ing tone, despite my read of him. I bet it lured a lot of people to him, but just now it wasn’t working. Not that I’d point that out. I’d hate to see what tactic he’d try instead.

“Please, El ie. You know that you and I were meant to be together,” Michael piped in. How could he have joined up with this monster? Did he not see what I saw?

I kept retreating as they continued their slow advance toward me. I didn’t know how to fend them off or where to go. Unfortunately, comforting thoughts of home kept penetrating my consciousness before I could lock them out. I longed to be with my parents, and Ezekiel must have read the yearning on my face.

“Do you think of returning to Hananel and Daniel, El speth? They can no longer protect you. And your presence wil only bring them harm.”

“What do you mean?” I stopped.

“Didn’t they tel you their little secret while they were divulging yours?”

I shook my head, sick at the thought of what he was about to say.

“No? Hananel and Daniel surrendered their immortality when they agreed to raise you as their child.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“Ruth, you said I could cal if I needed you. I real y, real y need you.”

To her credit, Ruth didn’t ask what happened or why I needed help. She just asked where I was, and said she’d pick me up in twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes sounded like an eternity when I knew how fast Ezekiel and Michael could travel if they wanted. I prayed that Ezekiel meant what he said just before I took off: “Let her go, Michael. She wil return to us when she is ready.”

Rainwater pooled at my feet as I slid my cel back into my bag. I wiped off my face and hair as best I could with a dry T-shirt from my bag, and looked around the kitschy general store, The Maine Event. In summertime, when the tourists flocked to the beaches and even the locals became regulars at the seaside hangouts, this place swarmed with visitors. Now, manned by a single attendant, it didn’t exactly have the comfort of crowds.

But I didn’t spot a lot of other options as I skirted this isolated stretch of highway, especial y once it started to storm.

Trying to look occupied, I strol ed around the store. I spun carousels of postcards and examined shelves with seashel s and local preserves. The attendant gave me a curious once-over, so I hoped that I looked more appropriate—and interested—than I felt. My mind whirred with the horrors I’d seen through Ezekiel’s eyes and the narrowness of my escape.

After exactly twenty minutes, I heard the bel over the front door ring. My stomach lurched. I wasn’t sure whether it was my savior Ruth or my persecutors.

Thank God it was Ruth.

She raced over. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

“I’m fine. Real y I am.”

“Did Michael do something to you?”

I knew that would be her presumption; after al , she’d looked reluctant to drop me off with Michael at Ransom Beach less than two hours ago. In formulating my reason for the emergency pickup, I had decided to play on that assumption. “We just had a fight. And I didn’t trust him to bring me home straightaway.”

“I understand.” She gave me a hug and pul ed me toward the door. “Come on, I’l take you home.”

Home. I wished I could go home, but I couldn’t. I would have to enlist Ruth’s unwitting aid once more—to protect myself and my parents. And her, for that matter.

We drove in silence until I asked her about Jamie. Her face lit up as she described how smart he was and how helpful with her homework. I kept her talking until we neared the Til inghast town green. When we pul ed alongside the whitewashed town church, I asked her to stop the car for a minute.

“Ruth, I’m going to ask for an enormous favor. The biggest favor I’ve ever asked of you. And I’m not going to be able to tel you why.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly.

“Can you please take me to the train station? And not tel my parents or Michael. Or anyone else who might ask.”

She paused, weighing very careful y whether or not to utter her next words. “El ie, I know.”

“Know what?”

“I know about you and Michael—and the flying.”

I was stunned into speechlessness.

Ruth looked down at her hands, almost embarrassed by what she’d said and how she knew. “I told you earlier that I just didn’t understand the whole Facebook thing. It seemed total y out of character for you, and you acted so different afterward. So I started eavesdropping here and there. I overheard you saying to Michael that you’d see him later that night—even though you were grounded. It got me wondering whether you two were sneaking out, and whether Michael was the reason you changed so much. So I began to fol ow you—at night. That’s when I saw you fly for the first time.”

“You saw us.” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Yes.” She smiled despite herself. “It was real y amazing to watch.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“El ie, does the trip to the train station have something to do with your flying?”

“Yes, in a way.”

She paused again. It was strange for me to watch my best friend of seven years acting so uncomfortable around me. “What are you, El ie?”

I didn’t have an answer, although I wished desperately that I did. “Would you believe me if I told you that I honestly don’t know?”

Reaching out toward me, she clasped my hand. “After seeing you two fly, I’d believe anything.”

I didn’t want to push her along, but I knew I was running out of time. “So you’l take me to the train station?”

“Do you real y need to go? I don’t know what I’l do without you, El ie. Especial y now that you are back. The real you, I mean.”

Tears started wel ing up in my eyes at the idea of leaving my poor parents behind. And Ruth. And Til inghast. But I knew I couldn’t stay. Ezekiel had warned me.

“I have to go. It’s in everyone’s best interest,” I said, knowing that Ruth couldn’t possibly comprehend—or believe—the danger I’d be thrusting upon Til inghast if I didn’t leave.

“Take me with you, El ie,” she said suddenly. Although I could tel she’d been mustering up the courage to make her request.

“You don’t want to be a part of this. I promise you.”

“El ie, I don’t know what you are, but I know you are more than human.” She started to cry too. “I’ve seen up close what it means to be human. With my mom’s death. And I don’t want to end up like that. I’d rather be like you.”

Watching Ruth cry made me cry harder. “Oh, Ruth, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t turn you into whatever I am. And anyway, I don’t think my differences make me immune from dying.”

We hugged each other for a long time. Ruth broke away first, and turned the car back on. “I guess I should take you to the train station.”

Chapter Thirty-four

I walked into the back entrance of the sleepy Til inghast train station feeling more alone than ever before. It wasn’t because the station was empty except for a lone ticket agent or because I was uncertain about my destination. It was because I was truly on my own.

I didn’t know when—or how—my solitude would end. I couldn’t see or even contact my parents until I could be certain I wouldn’t cause them harm.

The same applied to Ruth. As for Michael, wel , he had chosen Ezekiel over me; he was gone. And there was no one else.

As I stared up at the train destination board, a tear ran down my cheek. For a split second, I was glad to be alone. I didn’t want anyone to see my weakness. I needed to be strong to face the coming days.

Wiping the tear away, I concentrated on the board. I scanned the list of trains slated to leave the station in the morning, but immediately rejected those as departing too late. I couldn’t chance staying overnight in the station. I didn’t doubt that Ezekiel could descend upon me if he so chose, but I did not want my parents to find me and suffer Ezekiel’s wrath.

Then I noticed that one last train was due into the station that night, just after eight P.M. Cal ed the Downeaster, the train stopped at the Til inghast station in fifteen minutes. It would arrive in Boston in about three hours—Boston. I had my destination; it couldn’t have been more perfect if I’d planned it.

I waited until the station agent stepped away from his post to buy my ticket from the ticket machine with cash. Purchasing it from the automated tel er rather than the agent seemed wiser. I’d gain some lead time if Ezekiel and Michael changed their col ective minds and fol owed me, instead of waiting as Ezekiel initial y instructed.

Ticket in hand, I headed into the ladies’ room to wait until I heard the train pul into the station. I didn’t want to give the agent any additional time to identify me. I paced around restlessly, listening intently for the train and making a few critical internet searches before I tossed my cel phone. I didn’t want anyone to trace me that way either.

As I jotted down the vital pieces of information from my research, I heard the chug of the train. Then I threw my cel into the trash.

Peering out the bathroom door, I didn’t see the agent anywhere. I darted from the bathroom into the train, quickly grabbed a seat, and buried myself in a book I snatched from my bag. I didn’t want to look as if I’d just boarded, in case the Til inghast agent peeked in.

I didn’t real y exhale until the train pul ed away from the Til inghast station. Only then, and only surreptitiously, did I assess my fel ow travelers. In the rear of the car sat two businessmen talking about a meeting they had the next morning with a prospective client. In the occupied seats closest to mine were a few kids that looked like they were headed back to col ege. I kept an eye on them. Their sweatshirts, backpacks, and other paraphernalia bore the Harvard logo, and I thought they might prove useful.

The door separating the cars suddenly slid open, and I jumped. It was only the conductor ready to take my ticket. As I pretended to rifle through my bag so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him, I handed it over. He punched it and then placed the stub in the slot above my head. His business completed, he left the car.

I had three hours until we reached Boston. Three hours to prepare. Three hours to map out a game plan.

I decided to start by assessing my resources—whatever was in my bag. I hadn’t exactly planned my departure in advance, so I was limited to what I carried. When we traveled, my parents always insisted that I carry on my person al the necessities should I ever be separated from them—a couple hundred dol ars, identification, a toiletry bag with essentials, credit cards, and an ATM card that now I’d have to avoid using except when absolutely necessary. I’d gotten into the habit of carrying these things. Lucky that I did. It made me prepared for a day like this. Maybe that was their intention al along; maybe they knew a day like this would come.

Thinking about my parents—and I would always consider them my mom and dad, birth parents or not—made my eyes start to wel up again. I wasn’t mad at them anymore for keeping secrets; I understood that they were just trying to protect me. They’d even given up their immortality to shield me. And even though Ezekiel couldn’t be trusted, I believed what he said about their sacrificed immortality when I thought how my parents had aged in the past sixteen years after staying youthful for over a hundred years of pictures.

But if they weren’t my real parents, who were? Were my real parents stil alive? Why did Hananel and Daniel have to raise me? Who did they make that arrangement with?

They would be worried sick about me by now. I wondered if they would file a police report or conduct a search for me on their own. I hoped they stil had some residual powers on which they could draw.

But I didn’t have the luxury of emotions, and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to myself by crying. So I took a pad of paper and pen from my bag and scribbled down al my questions.

The train rocked back and forth and stopped from time to time during the three hours to Boston. But I was so engrossed, these events hardly registered with me. By the time the train screeched into Boston’s North Station, I had made a list of the questions I had about my nature and future.

I looked down at my notes:

1. What was I? My gifts sounded a lot like the ones Dad had described for angels. Did that mean I was an angel, fal en or good? Or was I some other kind of supernatural being? Mom had said I was “somewhat different” from the angels.

2. What was my purpose? Dad said that the angels were meant to use their gifts—flying, flashes, and persuasive powers—to guide souls to God. Was that what I was supposed to be doing with mine? After al , before the whole Facebook thing, I’d experienced that intense compulsion to help others. But Mom and Dad had hinted that I had some kind of special role. What was that role?

3. Who was Ezekiel, and why was he so interested in me? I had guessed that he was one of the fal en angels, but not the kind seeking redemption. If so, why didn’t he just use his persuasive powers to force me to his side? It seemed like he had some kind of influence over Michael in that way. And how did Ezekiel find me and Michael anyway?

4. If I could even believe Ezekiel about my parents, who were my birth parents? And where were they? And why had Hannah (I couldn’t think of her as Hananel) and Daniel agreed to raise me?

5. Had I lost Michael to Ezekiel forever?

I prayed that these questions might be answered in Boston, because, without the answers, I was paralyzed. And terribly confused. But armed with this information, I might stand a chance against Ezekiel, and might be able to protect my parents in the process.

The students riding along with me were headed to the same place, so I fol owed in their wake. I hoped that it would make me seem like just another col ege student. I trailed along after them as they connected into Boston’s subway system, the T, and hopped on a Red Line train headed for Cambridge. Nowhere along the way did I sense that I was being tracked.

I alighted when the students did and tagged along—at a distance—as they walked to their campus. As they filed into their dorms, I started to get concerned. What was I going to do until tomorrow morning? I wasn’t worried about staying awake until sunrise—I’d had too many long nights with Michael to worry about that—but staying safe and inconspicuous.

Then I remembered we had passed an al -night coffee shop when we walked from the T stop toward the dorms. It seemed to cater to students with its late hours and free internet. So I headed back in that direction.

When I opened the door, I saw that it was populated by bleary-eyed undergrads studying and cranking out papers, fueled by coffee and cookies. I knew I had my waiting spot.

I had nearly nine hours to kil until nine A.M.—when I could try to meet with Professor McMaster.

Chapter Thirty-five

I didn’t know why I felt so certain that a man I’d merely read about on the internet could answer my questions. Especial y since his specialty was vampires, and I’d come to believe that I was something else entirely. But I was desperate for answers, and desperation bred overconfidence, I guessed. I thought that if he could just tel me what I was—and my purpose—I’d be able to make sense of this madness.

When morning came, I cleaned up as best I could in the coffee shop bathroom and left my little haven for a bookstore, camping out at a Dunkin’

Donuts afterward. It offered an excel ent view of the entrance to the building where Professor McMaster held office hours. At exactly two minutes to nine, I watched as a disheveled-looking elderly man with frizzy gray hair raced into the building. At first, the man caught my attention because he was seriously underdressed for the cold, wearing only a tatty-looking blazer tossed on over a button-down shirt. Then I realized that the man resembled the photo from the Harvard website, even though he looked significantly older. I decided that it was definitely Professor McMaster.

I waited two minutes, and then fol owed him into the building. I didn’t want to bombard him, but I needed to be the first in line for his nine A.M. to eleven A.M. office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Passing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door—which was closed.

Double-checking the posted office hours to be sure I had the right time, I knocked on the door. Other than a rustle of papers and the squeak of a desk chair, I didn’t hear anything. So I knocked again.

“I heard you the first time. I’l be with you in a moment,” a gravel y, very slightly accented voice answered. And he didn’t sound happy.

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. This wasn’t exactly the start for which I’d hoped.

A few minutes later, I heard a series of locks jangle. Then the door creaked open, just a sliver. “Come in, come in,” he said impatiently.

I slid through the smal opening Professor McMaster provided. He then closed and locked the door behind us. After the greeting I’d received and the frazzled state of the professor, I wasn’t exactly excited to be in a locked office with him. But what were my choices?

I didn’t want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” He gestured to the guest chair.

I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper— The Harvard Crimson—that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I’d even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the Crimson on top of my notebook. But the professor’s manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor’s irritation.

He stuck out his open hand in my direction. “Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?”

“Got what?”

“Your seminar paper. Today’s office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students.”

He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. “You are in my seminar, are you not?”

“No, I’m not. I am actual y a—”

He cut me off. “Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday.”

“I’m afraid I real y can’t wait until Friday, Professor McMaster.”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice, Miss—”

“Faneuil.”

“Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you wil have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority.”

I launched into my little plan. I thought I’d play on his vanity with The Harvard Crimson interview—everybody liked to talk about themselves—and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn’t scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t ask for any Crimson identification.

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I’m a writer with The Harvard Crimson, and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would’ve set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fil it with an interview of you.” I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. “My staff told me that we’ve never done a formal interview of you, and we’d like to rectify that situation.”

The professor’s face softened. I could tel that he real y didn’t want to do an interview, but felt obliged. He said, “My apologies, Miss Faneuil.”

“I’m the one who should apologize, Professor McMaster. As I said, I real y should have made an appointment with your secretary. Especial y since this seems like a real y busy time.”

“It is indeed. I am ful y committed to student appointments through the afternoon. However, I can offer you fifteen minutes right now, before the first student starts clamoring for his meeting.”

“I real y appreciate it, Professor.” I looked back down at my notepad of “interview” questions, and said, “Let’s not waste a minute.”

Quickly, I asked him a series of basic questions about his background and areas of expertise. He was responsive enough, although he was visibly uncomfortable. His discomfort increased when I started on the questions I real y wanted to know about—the characteristics of vampires. And what—if anything—he knew about other supernatural creatures.

He interrupted me. “Miss Faneuil, I informed you that I could spare fifteen minutes. I believe that I kept to my promise. I cannot offer you a moment more.”

The professor stood up abruptly and came around to my side of the desk, presumably to escort me back to the locked door. As he took me by the hand to lead me out of his office, I got a flash from his touch. It was mild, but astonishing in the breadth and potency of its information. And not surprising in its contents given that we’d just been talking about his upbringing. I didn’t want to use what I’d learned to get his attention—that seemed too fal en, for my purposes. But I had no choice.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist on a few more minutes . . . Professor Laszlof.”

Chapter Thirty-six

The professor recoiled from my touch, as if I’d burned him. “What did you cal me?”

“Istvan Laszlof. That was your given name, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t speak. Maybe he couldn’t. It had probably been fifty years since anyone had cal ed him by his birth name.

When I touched him, I learned that he had been born in Eastern Europe in the nineteen thirties, as Istvan Laszlof. He came to this country with excel ent credentials as a historian and spoke near-perfect English—but no one would admit him into their doctoral program at that time. They’d rather see a former adherent of Communism mopping the floors of their hal owed hal s. Not one to be cowed and so thirsty for knowledge that nothing could stop him, Istvan bought himself a new identity and reapplied to al the top programs as Raymond McMaster. If the truth about his falsification became known, Professor McMaster’s career would be destroyed.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It most certainly does.” His natural y unpleasant tone was getting nasty.

“Professor, I have no intention of sharing your secret with anyone else. I just want a few more minutes of your time.”

“Miss Faneuil, if you do not tel me where you learned this information, I wil not give you the time you want.”

Now I was getting mad. I just wanted to talk to him—why did it require tel ing him al my secrets? But what were my options? “You just told me about Istvan Laszlof.”

“I don’t understand.”

I spoke slowly, wanting to soften my next statement as much as possible. “I learned about your origins as Istvan Laszlof by touching you just now.

Professor McMaster, I’m not like other people. I can see and do things that would probably shock you. I didn’t tel you about Istvan Laszlof to scare you—as I have no intention of tel ing anyone else—but because it seemed the only way to get a little more of your time.”

Trembling, he walked back behind his desk and sat down. “That’s real y al you want? Just to talk?” He looked very skeptical.

“Yes, that’s real y al I want. I’m not here not to frighten you; I’m here for your help.”

In an effort to reassemble the shattered pieces of Professor McMaster and store away Istvan Laszlof, he smoothed his wild hair and straightened his shirt before speaking. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he gestured that I should take a seat and said, “I’d be happy to assist you, then, Miss Faneuil. Though, I must confess, I do not know very much about psychics. Vampires are my area of expertise.”

“Oh, Professor McMaster, I’m not a psychic.”

“What are you, Miss Faneuil?”

“I am hoping you can tel me what I am.”

He appeared relieved at my request. “I am little used to classifying people.”

I wasn’t about to relinquish my hope so readily. “Yes, but you have some familiarity with creatures that aren’t human?”

“I do,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And you believe in the existence of such beings? Including vampires?”

“Yes. I have had the acquaintance of a few beings that I would consider to be actual vampires. Hence, the necessity for the locks on my office door; one can enter and exit my office only by my own hand. Evil must be kept at bay as best it can.”

“I understand,” I said, although I knew that no lock could keep someone like Ezekiel “at bay.”

He quickly added, “But, in most cases, the individuals who have made such claims are only humans whose perceived differences can be explained by a thorough understanding of historical and cultural trends.” He had slipped into academic-speak.

“I don’t think my ‘differences’ can be explained away so easily.”

Professor McMaster sat back in his chair and folded his hands into a triangular shape. While he looked the part of a professor, I wondered whether he truly felt the role or was using it as a protective measure. After al , I’d just strol ed in here and bandied about the skeleton in his closet.

“Tel me about your”—he hesitated, and then picked the word—“differences.”

“You witnessed one of my ‘differences’ just now. By touching people, I can read certain thoughts, those that are currently passing through their minds.”

“Yes, that was—impressive. Can you extract people’s thoughts by any other means?” he asked, very matter-of-factly.

I hesitated. Was it too risky to tel him? I had no alternative but to divulge my darkest secret to a stranger. “Yes, through their blood.”

He did not seem fazed. Had he met others like me? Or just a slew of kooks pretending to be vampires? He continued with his line of questioning.

“By touching or tasting their blood?”

I’d gone this far; I might as wel disclose everything. “By tasting their blood.”

Professor McMaster nodded and continued with his questions, as if processing my credentials. He was remarkably composed. “Do you possess any other special skil s?”

“I can fly.”

This alone seemed to surprise him. “You mean that you can actual y take flight?”

“Yes.”

“That is most unusual.” He rose and started pacing around his little office. While he didn’t appear frightened or repel ed by my strangeness, he did seem thrown off. As if I’d messed up his categorization of otherworldly beings.

There was a knock on his door. He muttered something about his seminar students and excused himself. He unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. I heard a muffled exchange. It sounded like Professor McMaster was trying to persuade his student to wait patiently for a few minutes.

He returned, closing the door tightly behind him. “Other than an understanding of your skil s, do you have any information about your nature or origins? Even an intuition of your identity might prove helpful.”

“Just what my parents told me.” I’d been reluctant to mention my mom and dad. Because of what Ezekiel said, I wanted to keep them as far out of this as possible. But I had to share it; I didn’t want to risk getting useless information.

“Your parents know about your skil s?” For good reason, he sounded shocked. What teenager would tel their parents about that?

“Yes.”

“What did they tel you?” His natural impatience surfaced.

“My father told me a Bible story, and told me it was relevant. It was from Genesis, and it dealt with angels, their Nephilim creations, and Noah’s flood.”

Professor McMaster went to his shelves and plucked out a wel -worn copy of the Bible. He read aloud the verses from Genesis that my dad told me about. Then he stared at me. “Miss Faneuil, your parents didn’t explain the relevance of this biblical passage to you?”

“No.” In fact, I had inferred from my parents’ story that I was some kind of angel. Particularly since God had ordered the annihilation of al Nephilim.

“They just told you a story and let you draw your own conclusions about your unusual powers?” He sounded justifiably incredulous.

It did sound preposterous, particularly without the context of the ful story my parents shared and their own identity as angels. But I had no intention of tel ing that to the professor. Obviously, I needed to divulge something more, or risk sounding ridiculous. So I offered him a fairly irrelevant tidbit, for my purposes anyway. “Wel , they did say that the vampire legend emerged from the presence of these fal en angels in our world, once they had been cast out of heaven for creating the Nephilim.”

He looked confused—but excited. “What did they tel you?”

I tried to clarify. “God insisted that these angels—the ones that mated with man—remain on earth as punishment, right? My parents explained that, from time to time, these fal en angels appeared at the side of a dying man or woman. For good and bad purposes. Occasional y, mankind witnessed these angels, and man fashioned the vampire myth around them.”

Professor McMaster practical y leapt from his seat. “Can you repeat that?”

I did the best I could. As I spoke, his eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands. “This is terribly exciting. It is a very interesting—indeed unique—

explanation for the creation of the vampire myth. Even an explanation for the existence of vampires themselves.”

Odd that he seemed more excited about uncovering the origins of a legend than he did about the possibility of finding a real live supernatural creature in his office. But I supposed there was no accounting for the eccentricities of academics.

He seemed to realize the idiosyncrasy of his behavior and backtracked by saying, “But of course, we need to focus on your question, Miss Faneuil. I confess to no great familiarity with Nephilim or biblical creatures, but we could talk further and do some investigation. And I have an acquaintance with a noted scholar in the field that we might contact.”

“I would real y appreciate that, Professor McMaster.” I wondered if he was being so helpful because he feared my knowledge of Istvan Laszlof or because he wanted to hear more about the genesis of the vampire fable. It certainly wasn’t due to any innate kindness.

Another knock rattled on his door. He rose and said, “We obviously need some uninterrupted time. Let me meet with some of these anxious students, and let us meet back in my office at five P.M. today. I wil see what I can find out in the meantime.”

Five o’clock sounded so far away. “Is there no way to meet sooner? I’m afraid there’s some urgency to my question.”

“No, Miss Faneuil. It would be impossible.” His door shuddered with a knock—again. “Not without constant disruption.”

My heart sank at the thought of waiting around until five.

Not so for Professor McMaster. His eyes lit up, and he said, “Later, you can tel me al about the beginnings of the vampire myth.” Hardly my interest.

Chapter Thirty-seven

I walked out of Professor McMaster’s building and into the sea of students that fil ed up Harvard Square. For a split second, I felt like one of them, caught up in the excitement of fresh discoveries and the frenzy of deadlines. I slung my bag across my chest, imagining it to be ful of term papers instead of scribbles on the mysteries of myself, and pretended to be a student at the col ege of my dreams.

But then I saw a distinctive flash of short, white-blond hair across the square. My heart started racing and, even though my gut told me to run in the opposite direction, I fol owed it as it bobbed away from the square. I needed to know if that hair belonged to Ezekiel or Michael—and whether they had already found me. Plus, I told myself that it would be better to learn the truth while in a crowd. Safety in numbers and al that.

The person moved quickly, darting from one side street to the next in a mad dash somewhere. I tried to keep his pace while keeping my distance, but it wasn’t easy; I was no trained detective. Just when I thought I’d hit my stride, he took an unexpected, sharp right turn down a more commercial road and disappeared from my sight. I craned my neck trying to get a look. Countless blond students walked down the road, but none had the distinctive platinum shimmer of Ezekiel or Michael. I slowed down, furious with myself for losing either one of them. If it was real y Ezekiel or Michael.

The remnants of adrenaline coursed through me. I al owed the remaining momentum to carry me away from the commercial thoroughfare into the far reaches of the campus. The crowds thinned as the students raced into classes, and I found myself in a little brick courtyard bordered by ivy-covered wal s. It was straight from a campus movie set, picture perfect—almost too perfect.

The spot looked so inviting. A wrought-iron bench sat in one corner, under a weeping wil ow tree. I hadn’t slept the night before, and nothing in the world looked more enticing than that courtyard and that bench. I slowed my pace even more, strol ed over to the bench, and sat down.

For the first few minutes, I just breathed in the calmness of the place and watched the students trickle into class. They reminded me of the feeling of belonging I’d experienced just before I’d glimpsed the possible Ezekiel or Michael, the brief fantasy I’d had about actual y being a Harvard student. I realized that the fleeting playacting might be the closest I would ever come to being a col ege student. How could someone like me—

whatever I was—hope to move past al this drama and strangeness and go to col ege?

I started crying. Pretty quickly, the trickle of tears turned into a torrent, and I was sobbing. Al I wanted was a normal life—a high school boyfriend, a good col ege, supportive parents, and nice friends. Instead, here I was, a sixteen-year-old girl, total y on my own—no parents or friends that I could contact, and certainly no boyfriend to speak of—trying to figure out what I was.

Out of nowhere, a sweet-looking blond girl wearing a Harvard sweatshirt stood before me. She asked, “Are you al right? Can I get you anything?”

Through my tears, I answered. “No, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

Before I could offer her a seat, she sat down beside me. She didn’t actual y touch me, but her presence felt comforting. Almost as if she’d hugged me.

“You know, when you are looking for answers, it is always best to start with the questions.”

“Pardon me?” Her advice seemed an odd choice to offer a sobbing stranger on a col ege campus, even though her demeanor was otherwise soothing.

She laughed a delightful, tinkly-sounding giggle. “I’m sorry. My friends are always accusing me of being obscure. Al I meant was that you look like you are struggling with some big issues. I always return to the questions when looking for answers to a tough problem. Then I start my research.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

The girl smiled serenely and then handed me a tissue. Abruptly, she stood up and said, “Wel , I better run. I’m real y late for class.”

After wiping away the rest of my tears so I appeared somewhat presentable, I looked up to thank her. But the girl had disappeared into the thicket of sidewalks and buildings surrounding the courtyard.

Her words lingered, as did her pervading sense of calm. Maybe she was right. Maybe the answers lay in the questions themselves—in part, anyway. And maybe I should start researching the answers to those questions. After al , I was at Harvard, one of the research capitals of the world.

I stopped the pity party, and real y homed in on my questions, the ones I’d scribbled down on the train ride. More than anything, I wanted to know who I was. I didn’t know whether I was a fal en angel, one of these Nephilim beings, or some creature related to the biblical stories. But I did know that I was important enough that two “good” fal en angels sacrificed their own immortality to raise me as their own daughter. I also knew that one of the “bad” fal en angels—Ezekiel—said that I was destined to rule at his side. I didn’t think his words were mere flattery; given his advanced gifts, Ezekiel could lure any number of people to join his ranks without hyperbole. Whatever I was, the stakes were high. And I needed to find out, to deal with Ezekiel.

Only six hours left until I met Professor McMaster again. I would use the time to prepare—even arm myself—for the coming days.

I left my peaceful little courtyard with reluctance, even though I welcomed the safety of the student crowds. When I final y reached the throngs in Harvard Square, I felt like I’d been tossed a life preserver.

But then I saw that distinctive flash of platinum again. And I knew that evil lurked in the masses as wel as on deserted streets. Ezekiel was here, and he was taunting me.

Chapter Thirty-eight

After consulting a guidebook, I decided to visit the Andover-Harvard Theological Library, on the northeast part of the campus. The guide described the library as containing a preeminent col ection of biblical research materials, one of the largest in the United States. If I was going to find helpful information on angels or other biblical creatures, I guessed the Andover-Harvard Theological Library would be the place.

The directions from Harvard Square to the library were a little complicated, and I was more than a little distracted by any blond passersby. So it took me half an hour to get there, rather than the estimated fifteen minutes. I got more and more anxious with each step; the clock was ticking.

Final y, I spotted the stone gothic building described in the guide: Andover Hal . The hal connected to a building of more modern design, and the library nestled between the two. Fol owing the map, I entered the hal through a center entrance under the gothic tower. I then started down a long hal way cal ed the cloister walk, which was lined in old stones and what looked like discarded church pews.

At the very end of the cloister walk waited a closed door—the library entrance. I opened it with a deafening creak, and then busied myself with a lobby display while I waited for the circulation desk to become busy so I could sneak in. I had read that the library was used primarily by masters’

and doctoral students and, while I might pass as a col ege freshman, posing as a graduate student was a major stretch.

After skirting past the circulation desk and racing up a flight of stairs, I headed into the Houghton Reference Room. I sat at a computer dedicated to searching the library col ections, and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Where should I even begin? I typed in “fal en angels,” but got thousands of hits. So I narrowed my search to the unusual word my dad mentioned: Nephilim.

A few matches flashed on the screen. Other than the Book of Genesis from the Bible—which I had expected—I saw entries for the Book of Enoch. What was that?

I quickly scribbled down the reference number for the Book of Enoch and headed into the stacks. Along the way, I grabbed a copy of the Bible—

an easy matter in a theological library—so I could look at that Genesis quote again. But finding the Book of Enoch was another matter altogether.

The stacks were endless. And overwhelming. How would I ever find this crazy book and read it in my dwindling time?

I must have looked lost, because a nice, but seriously nerdy-looking, student approached me. “Do you need some help?”

I almost said no, but the passing of time nagged at me. I smiled at the bespectacled student, and said, “Thanks so much. I’m looking for a copy of the Book of Enoch. Do you have any idea where one might be?”

“Al too wel . Fol ow me.”

Silently, he led me down two flights of stairs. We entered the labyrinth of a different, larger set of stacks. Fol owing his lead, I turned right and left and right again. Until he came to dead halt. He reached up to a high shelf, plucked down a book, and handed it to me.

The guy knew the book’s location so wel that I figured he must know something about its content. So I thanked him and whispered, “You certainly seem familiar with the Book of Enoch.”

“I better be. Apocryphal Gospels are my area of focus.”

“Apocryphal Gospels?”

He looked at me a bit askance but answered cordial y enough. “Biblical books that were considered for inclusion in the Old or New Testament, but that never made it, never became part of the accepted canon. You’re not a divinity student, are you?”

“No. Is it that obvious?”

“Just a little.” He smiled.

I smiled back. “Can you tel me anything about this Book of Enoch?”

“Wel , it’s an apocryphal gospel that was written between 300 B.C. and the first century B.C. It is not part of the canon for most Christian churches, except the Ethiopian Christian Church. But many of the New Testament writers were familiar with it, and it is quoted in the New Testament Letter of Jude. These facts have given it some credence in certain experts’ minds.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about many things.”

“Anything in particular?”

“The Book elaborates on a passage from Genesis that deals with angels and Noah’s flood. It discusses the creation of the Nephilim, as they are sometimes cal ed—half angel and half man—and their destruction at the hands of a very angry God. Some say that their destruction was the impetus for Noah’s flood.” He pointed to a carrel jam-packed with books nearby. “I’m sitting just over there. Once you’ve read it, I’d be happy to try to answer any questions you have.”

After thanking him profusely, I sat down in an empty carrel not too far away. I opened up the Bible and read the section of Genesis that my father had summarized. Although the language was dense, it told basical y the same story as my dad. I was just about to close the Bible up and open the Book of Enoch when I noticed a footnote at the end of the relevant Genesis section. It read, “The Nephilim were thought to have been a race of giants, whose superhuman strength was attributed to semi-divine origin. They were the legendary worthies of ancient mythology.” That sounded eerily familiar.

Then I started on the Book of Enoch. Although most of the language was old-fashioned and real y hard to fol ow, one line toward the beginning was very clear:

The fallen angels were in all two hundred, who descended . . . and these are the names of their leaders: Samyaza, Arakiba, Sariel, Rameel, Armaros, Kokabiel, Tamiel, Ramiel, Baraqijal, Azael, Daniel, Hananel, and Ezekiel.

I froze at the sight of my parents’ names—and Ezekiel’s. This ancient biblical story was becoming more and more real.

Tearing my eyes away from the list of fal en angels, I turned back to the story. In time, I got its archaic rhythm and began to parse together its tale.

The Book told of al the wrong things the fal en angels did, the fury of God at the angels’ creation of the Nephilim, and God’s decision to bind the fal en angels to earth until the day of judgment. It sounded like the story my dad had told me, just a lot longer and lot harder to comprehend.

Certain passages jumped out at me. For example, I kept noticing that the Book of Enoch sometimes cal ed the fal en angels “Watchers.” I remembered that my mom had cal ed Michael’s mom a “former watcher.” Were Michael’s parents fal en angels too?

But I stil wasn’t sure what I was. The Book of Enoch bolstered my parents’ statements that I wasn’t a fal en angel; after al , they were fixed in number and listed right there in the text. The book also rejected the notion that I was a Nephilim; they’d al been kil ed in Noah’s flood from what I could tel . So the book hadn’t answered my core question. Maybe there was a whole other category of biblical creatures that I’d overlooked.

I stopped by the carrel of the nice student who’d helped me. We chatted for a few minutes about the density of the ancient texts, and I thanked him again. I nearly reached the stairway when I thought of one last question and turned back.

“Assuming that the creatures described in the Bible real y exist, would the Nephilim be around today? Or were they al kil ed in the flood?”

He paused for a moment, and then said, “Actual y, at least one biblical expert maintains that a Nephilim wil return at a critical point in mankind’s existence—the end days.”

“The end days?”

“Yeah, the end days—or Judgment Day, as the concept is sometimes cal ed. They’re a turbulent time preceding the return of a Messianic figure who’l judge al earthbound creatures and shepherd in a heavenly reign. Al three of the Abrahamic religions—Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—

contain this notion in some form.” He talked as if he were reading from a textbook.

“And this expert thinks at least one Nephilim wil emerge around these end days?”

“Yes. In fact, he believes the Nephilim is the creature referred to in the Book of Enoch as the ‘Elect One.’”

Suddenly I remembered the predominance of that phrase throughout the book. And I also recal ed one of the last lines of the Book of Enoch. It stated that the Elect One wil lead at the end of time.

I felt goose bumps on my arms.

“Can you tel me the name of the expert who believes that the Nephilim wil return?”

“Sure. His name is Professor Barr, and he’s a professor of Biblical Studies at Oxford University in England.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

The campus was growing dark, surprisingly dark for the time of day and the time of year. Almost as if the mere specter of Ezekiel cast a shadow on the whole of Harvard, blackening out any remaining daylight or the glow of the sunset. Or maybe it was just an il usion performed by Ezekiel for my benefit, like a storm cloud fol owing me wherever I went.

As I approached Professor McMaster’s building, I scanned it and determined that it was largely empty. Classes were over for the day, so I guessed the malingerers were stray students and obsessed professors. I found the same staircase I’d taken that morning and walked up the two flights to the professor’s floor.

Pushing open the heavy staircase door, I stepped out into the darkened hal way. The secretaries’ desk lights were off, and most of the professors’ offices were closed for the day. The walk down the corridor to Professor McMaster’s office seemed long, and I was relieved to see light peering out from under his closed door.

I knocked on the door, al too aware of the tangle of locks that lay on the other side and al too cognizant of the unpleasantness of my earlier greeting. I got no response.

The lights were on, but it was silent. I waited what seemed like an eternity. Had the professor had second thoughts?

Bracing myself to knock again, I final y heard the unfastening of locks accompanied by an unexpectedly cheerful reception: “Please come in, Miss Faneuil.”

The door creaked open, and Professor McMaster’s grinning face welcomed me in. His expression restored my hope. The thought fortified me. I smiled back and fol owed him inside.

But what I saw when I stepped inside wiped the smile off my face. In the battered wooden guest chair sat a man with white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes: Ezekiel.

No matter my horrified expression, Professor McMaster had smiles to spare. “Miss Faneuil, I have just been having the most intriguing conversation with your friend, Mister Ezekiel.”

So, it was “my friend, Mister Ezekiel” now, was it? I had sensed him and Michael in Harvard Square, but I didn’t expect to see him here. After al , he had instructed Michael to wait until I came to them. Why I had any faith in the assurances of evil itself, I don’t know.

Ezekiel gave me his sickening smile. Using his most polite tone, he said, “Hel o, El speth. We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

Ezekiel ignored my snide remark, and the professor seemed not to hear it at al . He was too fixated on Ezekiel, who said, “I’ve been tel ing Professor McMaster al about the interesting link between the fal en angels mentioned in Genesis and the birth of the vampire mythology.”

Turning away from Ezekiel in disgust and fear, I caught a glimpse of the professor’s face. His eyes positively shined with excitement at the prospect of studying the true origins of the vampire legend and sharing his discovery with the world; it would be the pinnacle of his life’s work. At that moment, I saw in the professor the same unquenchable thirst for knowledge that I’d seen in the young Istvan Laszlof’s face, a thirst that caused him to take enormous risks then with his life. And now, he was unwittingly risking his soul, as Ezekiel was determined to turn him toward the darkness.

I stared over at Ezekiel, who smirked knowingly behind the professor’s back. He had no intention of ever al owing the professor to divulge the truth behind the vampire legends; keeping the myth alive was one of his most useful weapons. But Ezekiel needed the professor, and he knew that this link between vampires and angels—paired with his formidable powers of persuasion—would sway Professor McMaster toward the darkness.

And away from the light of helping me.

As I stood by helplessly, Ezekiel continued with his campaign to procure the professor.

“As I was saying, a most fascinating case presented itself in Til inghast, Maine. One winter in the late 1800s, five of the fourteen children of a prominent farming family, the Stuckleys, suffered from tuberculosis. The family patriarch, Ezra, witnessed strange beings hovering around the first four of these five children on the eves of their deaths. So he watched over his pitiable fifth child, determined that these beings would not torment his sweet Honour. Unfortunately, one evening, he fel asleep during his vigil. He awoke to the horrific sight of a winged being drinking from the neck of his poor dying Honour—drinking her blood, that is. The creature fled when Ezra discovered him, but it was too late for Honour. You see, Professor, the creature was no vampire. It was one of the fal en angels I mentioned, cal ed Daniel. But even angels have an insatiable thirst for blood. Hence, the legend.”

I felt sick. My parents had mentioned an earlier visit to Til inghast. Could they have been involved in this Stuckley incident? I knew firsthand the powerful lure of blood. Or was Ezekiel just baiting me? More than likely, my parents had been there, trying to help bring the dying over to God.

As Professor McMaster listened to this nugget of history, his expression changed from mere excitement to utter devotion, and I knew Ezekiel had him. Watching as Ezekiel utilized his skil s on the professor made me unexpectedly sympathetic to Michael. Ezekiel’s talents were almost irresistible—to anyone but me, it seemed. Maybe Michael was more susceptible than I. Maybe his betrayal of me wasn’t a matter of free wil .

Witnessing this sick, soul-sucking process, a critical question formed in my mind. Why would Ezekiel go to al this trouble of turning the professor? Why wouldn’t he just persuade me—or, better yet, force me—to join his ranks? Suddenly the words of the girl from the courtyard came to me, and I realized that the answer lay in the question itself. Ezekiel went to al this trouble because he couldn’t force me to align with him. Unlike Michael, I had to choose Ezekiel.

This compel ed Ezekiel to take desperate measures. He had to close down al avenues of escape—my parents and Ruth—and al pathways to information about my identity. He had to remind me constantly of his presence and power by using the tricks I witnessed over the past day. He had to leave me with one choice only: him.

Yet Ezekiel unwittingly tipped his hand through these actions. By trying to shut down my access to information about my nature, he told me just how important this information was to my salvation. Why else would he go to such lengths to keep it from me? For about the mil ionth time, I wished that my parents had told me everything.

But they hadn’t. I would have to keep seeking out answers about my identity and purpose on my own—although I knew that Ezekiel would fol ow me wherever I went. Yet somehow, his actions didn’t scare me off my quest—as he undoubtedly intended—but made me more determined than ever to embark on it. Even if it meant daring to use Ezekiel’s own games against him to gain time and knowledge.

So I mustered up my courage and said, “Professor McMaster, Mr. Ezekiel, I’m so sorry to interrupt this captivating conversation. But I have to go.”

“So soon?” Ezekiel asked with that ever-present sneer. As if he knew what I was up to.

“Unfortunately, yes.” I turned to the professor. “Would you mind walking me to the door? It looks a bit like Fort Knox.”

Professor McMaster tore his eyes away from Ezekiel reluctantly and said, “Yes, yes, Miss Faneuil.”

I fol owed the now-spel bound professor to the door. Although I could feel Ezekiel’s eyes boring into my back, I didn’t risk a final glance at him.

But Ezekiel wouldn’t let me leave without a good-bye. And more. “Farewel , El speth. Give my best to Hananel and Daniel. If you risk a visit home, that is.”

I needed to get out of that room. I could feel the tentacles of Ezekiel’s evil start to wrap around me.

Slowly, so slowly I thought I would scream, the professor painstakingly undid each lock. When he finished, I touched him on the hand, seemingly out of gratitude. As I did, I looked at him directly in the eyes, and wil ed him to forget about any information he might have gathered for me.

Particularly anything he might know about this Professor Barr from Oxford that the Harvard student had mentioned. I prayed that the professor hadn’t told Ezekiel anything already.

I said, “Thank you so much for your help, Professor McMaster. It’s unfortunate that you didn’t know more about my situation. Or anyone who could assist me.”

When Professor McMaster answered, his voice sounded dazed from Ezekiel’s efforts. “Yes, it is unfortunate, Miss Faneuil. But you are a smart young woman, and I am certain you wil find your way.”

Brushing up against his hand one last time, I scanned his thoughts and saw that the professor’s mind was curiously blank. Had Ezekiel wiped it clean? Had I?

Racing down the hal away from the horror of Ezekiel, I heard Professor McMaster close his office door and then bolt al his locks. I wondered why he bothered. The professor had instal ed al those locks to keep out the malevolent creatures he studied, but now he had locked himself in with evil itself.

Chapter Forty

I ran as fast as I could down the two flights of stairs to the building’s exit. Only fear of detection by the remaining students or teachers prevented me from actual y flying down. Once I reached the main floor, I thrust open the heavy wooden doors and breathed the cold nighttime air, as if I’d been saved from drowning.

The evening sky had turned from dark to pitch-black. The neighboring buildings and businesses had closed, eliminating a major source of light. I couldn’t see a streetlamp anywhere. Even with my unusual y sharp eyesight, I found the odd, shadowy landscape hard to make out.

Stil , I was pretty sure of the route back to Harvard Square, where I could pick up the T to Logan Airport. It seemed that my next step must be meeting with this Professor Barr in London. I didn’t think I could just phone the scholar up and ask my questions without being considered a kook or a crank. Anyway, where else could I go?

If my experiment had worked on Professor McMaster, I needed to take advantage of my smal lead on Ezekiel and get the next flight to London. I had checked the schedule already and knew that a British Airways flight took off at eight P.M. If I real y hustled, I might make it.

I fol owed a serpentine pathway leading away from the professor’s building, then made a sharp left and right. By my calculations, I should have spotted Harvard Square in the distance, but I didn’t. Instead, I found myself in a quadrangle of nearly deserted science buildings. I backtracked a little and tried out another right turn I’d considered. It led me right back to that science quadrangle. How could I be so lost? Desperate, I asked one of the few students I passed, and then diligently fol owed her directions. But I found myself in the science quadrangle once again. Was this another of Ezekiel’s games? Or just another unfortunate turn of events in my nightmarish life?

I heard footsteps behind me, but didn’t make much of them at first. Then I started to notice that the footsteps were matching my stride. So I took an unexpected sharp left turn as a test. The person fol owed.

I was scared. What if it was Ezekiel or Michael? I could handle pretty much anyone else. I pivoted and started running in the other direction. I could hear the person gaining on me. I had no choice. I had to fly.

Almost instantaneously, my back expanded, and my body streamlined for flight. My feet had just started to levitate, when I felt a hand pul at my foot. I struggled to kick it off, but the person was strong. I fel down to the ground on top of my pursuer.

“El ie, it’s me. It’s Michael,” he said, as if that was supposed to be a comfort.

I shoved away his outstretched hand, and pushed myself off him and onto the hard concrete of the pathway. “I can see that. Why would I want to see you?”

“You have every right to be furious with me, El ie. But it’s me—the real Michael.” He looked at me with those familiar green eyes, and it did seem as though my Michael stared out through them. But how could I be sure?

“I thought I went to Ransom Beach with the real Michael. But unfortunately, it was Ezekiel’s underling.”

Very, very gently, he reached for me. Even though it seemed a gesture of comfort, I pul ed away. It would take a lot more convincing before I’d let him touch me. “I understand, El ie. I didn’t like what I became either. Do you know how scary it is to watch yourself say and do things you’d never imagine, and be unable to stop?”

From witnessing the transformation of Professor McMaster, I knew that Michael’s words were entirely possible. I wanted it to be true. But I stil didn’t trust him. After al , he’d seemed like my Michael when we flew down the cliff to Ransom Beach—right into Ezekiel’s waiting arms. Ezekiel must have turned him the night before.

I crossed my arms, and gave him a thorough once-over. No glazed eyes, no deadened speech, but stil , I wasn’t certain. “How did you change back to yourself?”

“Last night, your parents came over to my house—to talk to my parents. It was real y late, and they didn’t know I was stil awake. So I eavesdropped on them. For some reason, hearing them talk about you snapped the connection between me and Ezekiel.”

I wanted to know what my parents had said, but assessing Michael’s truthfulness was far more critical just now.

“If you aren’t aligned with Ezekiel anymore, why are you here in Boston with him?” I asked the obvious question.

“I knew Ezekiel would find you. So I snuck out of the house and cal ed to him—pretending that I was stil in his sway. Though it was quite a trick making sure I didn’t come into physical contact with him, so he wouldn’t discover the truth. He kept saying we should hold off until you reached out to us, but I knew that he’d try to find you. He just couldn’t stay away from you.”

“Why aren’t you with him right now?”

“I knew Ezekiel wanted to meet with that professor you found—to find out what he knew and what he told you. When he went into the professor’s office, I told him that I would meet him outside afterward; Ezekiel didn’t want me in there anyway. That was my opportunity to break from him and track you down.”

“Why did he let me leave the professor’s office?”

“Ezekiel probably wanted to finish what he started—either getting information from the professor or turning him into one of his minions. I think he liked the irony of having a vampire scholar in his ranks. Anyway, he can find us again whenever he wants us.”

“How does he track us?” This question figured prominently on my big list. I needed to know how Ezekiel could find me, so I could figure out to hide from him.

“Once I started using my powers, I became like a blip on a radar screen to him, as he described it. He and I are somehow linked through our blood. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

Michael had only answered one-half of my question—the part about him. “But that doesn’t explain how he tracks me.”

He averted his eyes before responding. “You have my blood in your veins. So he can track you, too.”

I felt sick. There was nowhere to hide from Ezekiel because I’d tasted Michael’s blood and now it ran in my veins? No wonder Michael didn’t want to look me in the face when he delivered that piece of news. “Great.”

Michael paused and then pleaded with me. “Please, El ie. Give me another chance.”

I hesitated. I wanted to believe Michael, and it sickened me to think that Ezekiel had put him up to this little reunion. I didn’t want to go on this crazy, scary journey al by myself. But after everything I’d been through, I couldn’t believe him. Not without proof.

I tightened my crossed arms. “How can I be sure you’re tel ing the truth, Michael?”

“There is only one way to know for certain,” he said.

Michael was right. There was only one way.

This was no gentle kiss. This was no soft exchange of tongue and teeth. Michael didn’t deserve any tenderness or affection. I was mad at him for his betrayal, whether or not it was consciously done. I leaned over and bit him. Hard. Like a vampire.

Chapter Forty-one

Michael’s blood rushed into my mouth. I staggered from the force of its flow and the power of its images. I’d never known his blood to have such strength, but then I’d never procured it by violent means before.

Looking through Michael’s eyes, I stood on the second floor landing of his house. A tal , elegantly curved grandfather clock stood next to me, and its hands met at twelve. I peered down the curved staircase and caught the tiniest glimpse of my parents and his parents in the entryway. They were talking in hushed tones—presumably so as not to awaken Michael—but I could hear them if I strained and ignored the ticking. Interestingly, though, the scene looked filmy, as if Michael’s vision was hazy.

“What is it, Hananel? You look distraught,” Michael’s mom asked.

“El speth is gone.” My own eyes wel ed up with tears at the despair in my usual y unflappable mother’s voice.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” She sounded alarmed.

“I mean that she was supposed to be home by five, after she had coffee with her friend, Ruth. I’d given El speth a special exemption from her grounding to meet with Ruth, since their friendship had been strained lately—” My mom’s voice broke, and I saw my dad put his arm around her shoulder as she cried.

“It’s al right, Hananel. What happened?” Michael’s mom prompted her.

“El speth didn’t come home. I waited until six to contact Ruth, who claimed to be confused because she had dropped El speth at our house. But Daniel and I didn’t believe her, so we asked Ruth to come over. She was visibly nervous when she arrived; obviously she knew something. At first, she clung to her original story that she had brought El speth home. We used the vestiges of our skil s to find out more, but al Ruth knew was that El speth had had some kind of fight with Michael. So, at El speth’s insistence, Ruth took her to the train station. Ruth didn’t know where El speth planned to go.” Silently, I cheered on Ruth for keeping quiet about the flying. Even though my parents already knew about it, of course.

“But you’re afraid that it’s more than a teenage fight? You think that she left for other reasons?” Michael’s mom asked.

“Yes, Sariel,” my dad answered. “We talked to El speth last night. We read her the passage about the Nephilim and—”

“What?” Michael’s dad practical y yel ed.

“Keep your voice down, Armaros,” Michael’s mom warned. Sariel? Armaros? Hadn’t I seen those names in the Book of Enoch? Michael’s parents must be “good” fal en angels too, as I’d suspected.

“You didn’t tel her who she is, did you?” Armaros asked, his voice incredulous.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Her ignorance is the only thing that has protected her so far. The same goes for Michael. You know that,” my dad said. He was as angry as I’d ever heard him.

“Then why would you come so dangerously close to revealing the truth to her?”

“Her powers have started to emerge. The poor thing thought she was a vampire. We needed to give her just enough information to dissuade her of that misconception—and explaining the link between the fal en angels and vampires was the only way. We didn’t tel her anything more.” I knew that this last point wasn’t exactly true, but I was glad Armaros didn’t. He was fierce.

“Daniel, how could you be so foolish? We were meant to protect them longer, keep them unaware until they were ready. Until it was time.”

Armaros continued sparring with my dad.

“What were our choices, Armaros? To let her go on believing she was a vampire? And have Michael believe the same thing too? Such thinking would bring them precariously close to darkness. When Ezekiel or the others emerge, as they undoubtedly wil , it would make El speth and Michael easy prey for their dark purposes.”

I felt something snap in Michael, almost like he’d woken up. And suddenly I saw the image more clearly, not through some bizarre haze. I guessed that the haze was the residue of Ezekiel’s influence.

“You’re right, Daniel. But while it is one thing for El speth to be aware of her differences, it is quite another for her to even suspect who she is. You may have opened the door just enough to put El speth and Michael in play, assuming El speth told him what she knows,” Armarmos barked back at my dad. Then he said quietly, “You might have even triggered the end days.”

“You don’t think I know that, Armaros? Hananel and I tried so hard to make El speth feel like a regular human—to align her with mankind when it’s time and to stave off her powers and the clock. You don’t think I’ve worried myself sick over when to tel her who she is? When to begin preparing her for the battle that rages beneath the surface in this naive world? We have walked a very fine line between keeping her safe and innocent and preparing her for war. How can we possibly know the best course for El speth and Michael when we haven’t seen their kind since—”

Armaros interrupted. With venom. “Since the beginning.”

“Enough fighting,” my mom interjected. “We don’t know that either El speth or Michael know anything of significance. We do know that El speth is gone, and we need to find her. We have sent a gifted friend to track her down and bring her home, since obviously we cannot go ourselves—”

“Obviously,” Michael’s mom interrupted.

“And we were hoping that you might send one of your friends to do the same,” my mom finished.

“We would be happy to do so, Hananel.” Michael’s mom paused and then said, “Thank goodness, Michael doesn’t know anything.”

“Nothing?” My mom sounded skeptical.

“He senses his powers, of course. But, otherwise, he seemed perfectly normal at dinner tonight. If a little subdued.”

“He didn’t mention a fight with El speth?”

“No. But then, you know how teenagers are.”

“Are you certain that he is uninformed?”

“Insofar as I can be certain of anything with the limitations of this mortal body.”

“Perhaps you should check on him.”

“Perhaps I should.”

The stairs began to creak as Sariel walked up to Michael’s bedroom. I watched through his eyes as he scurried back to his bedroom and threw himself under the covers. The wooden floorboards squeaked as she approached his bed and hovered over it for several minutes. Then she tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

The image faded. I stood before Michael, staring into his waiting eyes. He looked almost sick as he anticipated my judgment on the image he had summoned up for me.

“Do you believe me? Do you believe that Ezekiel doesn’t have a hold on me any longer?”

I did. I knew he was tel ing the truth. In fact, I sensed the very moment when the cord between Michael and Ezekiel was cut—it was when my dad mentioned Ezekiel by name—and I knew that Michael came to Boston of his own volition. Not under Ezekiel’s sway or for Ezekiel’s purposes.

“I do, Michael.”

“Thank God.”

Michael wrapped his arms around me, and I let him. I didn’t return the embrace. I wasn’t ready. But I couldn’t stay mad at him either. Through Ezekiel’s eyes, I’d seen Ezekiel turn powerful, grown men and women into his fol owers. Into monsters. How did I expect Michael to resist?

“El ie, I promise that I wil never betray you again. We’re in this together, against Ezekiel.”

“I hope so, Michael.” I real y did. But how could I be certain that Michael wouldn’t fal under Ezekiel’s influence again? I knew Ezekiel would be a constant presence, in one form or another, and Michael seemed to be susceptible to Ezekiel in a way that I wasn’t. I would have to be vigilant, to constantly assess Michael for any changes, by touch or by blood if necessary.

But for now, it was enough that Michael was back. And that I was no longer entirely alone.

Chapter Forty-two

Hand in hand, we raced across the Harvard campus toward the square. The lights from the stores and restaurants and theater blinded my sensitive eyes after the dimness of the campus pathways. In the few seconds it took for them to adjust, Michael led me down into the murky tunnels of the T; the strange disorientation I’d experienced on the Harvard campus must have been an Ezekiel trick. I bristled at the thought of being underground—

trapped—but with Ezekiel so near, we had no choice.

I had told Michael where we needed to go and how fast we needed to get there. To his credit, he didn’t ask why. He just asked how he could help us reach Professor Barr.

At Michael’s suggestion, I had tried to reach Professor Barr by phone first, without success. The time difference was working against us, so we decided the quickest—and perhaps only—way to reach him under the circumstances was to fly to London.

After quickly mapping out the necessary connections to get from the Harvard Square Station to Logan Airport, we stood on the train platform.

Using Michael’s cel , we booked seats on the British Airways flight to London. And then we waited. An ancient clock loomed over our heads and tapped out the minutes, as if reminding us how little time we had before the gate would close. I wished that we ourselves could fly to London, but neither of us knew whether we had the ability to fly such far distances.

Final y, final y, in the far distance, I heard the rumbling of the train. I thanked God. I didn’t think my nerves could stand one more second of delay.

One more second for Ezekiel to find us.

The crowds started to converge on the cramped platform as the train slowed down. As the doors opened, people jostled for spots in the already packed train car. I reached for Michael’s hand to make sure we didn’t lose each other. Before his hand gripped mine, I saw a familiar head of blond hair in the crowd pouring into the train.

I stopped. Was it Ezekiel?

I felt the warmth of Michael’s hand in mine, and yet I stil couldn’t move. The man looked like he was about to hop on board, but was hesitating.

Should we stay here—and risk missing our flight—or get on an enclosed subway car with Ezekiel for company?

Michael pul ed me toward the open train doors. They had started to beep in anticipation of closing. “Come on, El ie. The doors are about to shut.”

My body was rigid. Michael spun around and saw my expression. He fol owed my gaze and understood immediately the source of my fear.

“El ie, it’s not Ezekiel.”

The man was facing the other way, so I couldn’t see his features. But his hair so resembled Ezekiel’s distinctive color and style, I didn’t trust Michael. “How do you know?”

Rather than wasting precious time explaining, Michael released my hand, ran over to the man, and tapped him on the shoulder. When the man turned around, I saw the ruddy face of a young col ege student. Not Ezekiel.

Just before the doors slid shut, Michael dragged me on board. Col ege students jammed the car, so we clutched onto the metal rings for support as the train lurched forward. I exhaled in relief and wil ed my heart to stop racing.

At the next stop, the Central Square Station, most of the students got off. A bench opened up. We grabbed it and settled in for the fifteen-minute ride to South Station, where we’d transfer to the bus for Logan.

We rode in silence. I became acutely aware of al that we hadn’t talked about: the overheard conversations of our parents, my discussions with Professor McMaster, Michael’s time alone with Ezekiel. The unspoken words hung between us, like a screen separating us. I didn’t want to feel so detached from Michael, but I didn’t know where to start. Or how to break through the divide.

Final y, Michael tried. He looked at me, with a serious and sad expression, and asked, “El ie, what are we?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t certain of my conclusion at al , but he deserved to know the most logical assumption. “I think we’re something cal ed Nephilim.

But I’m not real y sure what that means.”

Michael’s lips formed the first of many questions, but my eyes suddenly grew heavy. I hadn’t slept for nearly two days. He whispered, “It’s al right, El ie. Go to sleep. We have plenty of time to figure this al out. I’l stay awake so we don’t miss our stop.”

His arms enfolded me, and I returned the gesture. I hadn’t hugged him since he returned to himself. And it felt good.

For the first time since I met Michael on Ransom Beach, I relaxed and closed my eyes. His arms and his reassurances that we would uncover the mysteries of our beings together soothed me. I wanted to thank him, so I forced my eyes open a little.

My drowsy vision settled on a sweet-faced blond girl wearing a Harvard sweatshirt walking down the train car aisle. She resembled the helpful girl from the peaceful brick courtyard, the one who advised me to think about the questions. I thought she smiled at me. I started to smile back, but then a disturbing question crossed my mind. It wiped away al thoughts of sleep. With al the thousands of col ege students in Cambridge, what were the odds that I’d run into the same person twice within a few hours? Slim, very slim.

Chapter Forty-three

My eyes flew open, and I looked at her a little closer. It was the girl from the Harvard courtyard. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I nudged Michael to watch the girl as she continued down the aisle in our direction. The train hurtled down the tracks, plunging the car deeper and deeper into the warren of underground T tunnels and making any immediate escape impossible. But the girl seemed impervious to the jolting of the train; she just walked serenely toward us.

As she approached our seat, the older man on the bench facing us got up. Even though the train hadn’t slowed and we were nowhere near a station. She settled into the vacated seat and beamed that sweet smile at me.

“Hel o, El speth.”

I didn’t think I’d told her my name during our brief discussion in the courtyard. And I certainly wouldn’t have cal ed myself El speth even if I had.

“How do you know my name?”

“Your parents sent me.” From the conversation Michael had overheard, I knew that my parents had mentioned sending a “friend” to watch over me. But how did I know she wasn’t a “friend” of Ezekiel’s instead?

As if she knew I needed reassurance, the girl said, “Your mother asked me to give you this, as a sign of my loyalty to you. And to Michael, of course.” Although she referred to Michael as if he was an afterthought.

She put an object in my hand, and then closed my fist around it. I opened my fingers one by one, and discovered my mother’s locket inside. I had never seen my mom without it. How had this girl gotten it from her? I guessed she could have taken it from my mom by force, even though my intuition told me otherwise.

To answer my unspoken question, the girl placed her hand over mine. I received a precise, vivid flash, as if she explicitly sent the image to me. It was a very different sensation than retrieving information from people’s minds.

In the image, my mom and the girl stood in the entryway of our house. My mom unfastened her locket and gingerly placed it in the girl’s waiting palm.

“Take care of El speth for me, and bring her home. Give her this for me if she resists your good intentions.” My mom smiled, and continued. “And knowing my strong-wil ed daughter, she may wel resist.”

“I wil , Hananel.”

The girl turned to leave, but my mom grabbed her by the arm before she went out the door. My mom gazed into the girl’s eyes, as if she was speaking through them to me. “Please make El speth understand that, by not rushing to her side, I’m not abandoning her. I’m trying to help her. And please tel her that there were reasons—vital reasons—why we didn’t tel her who she is, or prepare her for what’s to come.”

“I promise, Hananel.”

The image faded. I found myself back in the train car, clutching on to Michael’s arm and staring into the face of an angel. For surely that is what she was. Her face had the same exquisite, timeless quality as did my parents. Or as my parents used to have, anyway.

I placed the locket around my neck. Sensing that her message was successful y received, the girl stretched out her hand to me. “Please come with me. We wil get off at the next stop and fly somewhere safe.”

I looked to Michael for agreement. He gave me a quick nod, so I took her hand and stood up. As did Michael. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I am Tamiel,” she answered as we started walking through the car. “I am also one of the fal en, trying for grace. Like both sets of your parents.”

We fol owed Tamiel to the closed train doors. As we listened to the train hurtle down the tracks, I whispered, “I have so many questions.”

She smiled that sweet, calming smile I’d seen in the Harvard courtyard. “I know, El speth. I sensed that when we met earlier. So I guided you to a place where you could have certain questions answered without any harm befal ing you. But I was tasked to bring you to safety. Not to il uminate you ful y. It isn’t time yet.”

“Please, Tamiel. What are we?”

A crash sounded in the adjoining car, and we al jumped. Tamiel grabbed our arms and said, “We need to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“Someone is coming for you.”

“Ezekiel?” I asked.

Tamiel stopped and spun around. “How did you know that? I just discovered today that he had surfaced.”

So our parents didn’t know about the Ezekiel factor yet. I was kind of glad they’d been spared that considerable worry. Especial y since they didn’t have any internal weaponry left with which to fight him. “He’s been in contact with us.”

“Yes, it’s Ezekiel. And I don’t think he wil show any mercy.”

“I don’t think he’l hurt me, Tamiel.”

Her bright blue eyes widened in astonishment. “Why do you say that?”

“I just sensed it. For some reason, I think Ezekiel needs me. I think he needs me to choose him.”

“Wel , you’re right. But there are many ways to make you choose him. Especial y since you care about mankind.”

“Like?”

“Like threatening Michael, who is susceptible to his cal . Like holding this entire train of innocent people hostage, until you come to his side.” Her expression no longer appeared surprised, but angry at my delay. “Should I continue?”

“No.” I remembered al too wel the horrors I had seen through Ezekiel’s eyes, and shuddered at the thought of being the reason for him to inflict more suffering on others.

“Then let’s go.” We linked hands and exited our train car. I felt the warm rush of the underground air, as the doors closed behind us and we stepped onto the rickety outdoor platform connecting the two train cars.

Tamiel crossed over first, holding on to my hand the entire time. I hesitantly stepped over the divide, when I heard a huge thud in the train car we’d just left.

“I hope we aren’t too late,” Tamiel said, as she pul ed me and Michael over to the other side. And we ran into the next car.

Chapter Forty-four

The train car was packed. With Tamiel in the lead, we pushed and elbowed our way through the crowd to reach the next set of doors. But not before we heard a deafening smash on the opposite side of the car.

“Don’t turn around,” Tamiel yel ed, and shoved me and Michael through the doors onto the connecting platform.

She propel ed us into the next car and the next, staying at our backs as a shield against an obviously angry Ezekiel. As we raced through the speeding train, we heard thuds and crashes in our wake. But we couldn’t stop to look or speculate; we had to keep moving. Even when we heard screams from other passengers.

We reached the doors of the last car. I wondered what Tamiel had planned, as the sounds of Ezekiel’s rampage hadn’t stopped. In fact, they had only increased. And I knew enough to be terrified.

Tamiel pried the last set of train doors open, and pushed us onto the platform. It swerved back and forth as the train sped down the track, and I didn’t think we’d be able to keep our footing. But then, I realized that Tamiel didn’t intend for us to use our feet at al .

We linked hands, and our bodies geared up for flight. I felt my shoulders broaden and the familiar warmth spread across them. I looked over at Michael to see if he was prepared. He nodded at me, and I squeezed his hand in reply. I was ready—as ready as I’d ever be to fly down the treacherous, underground tunnels of the T.

Just as our feet began to lift, the platform shook violently. I nearly fel off, but Tamiel pul ed me back before I tumbled down onto the electrified tracks. As I steadied myself so we could take off, I said a silent word of thanks to my mom for sending Tamiel, and looked over at her in gratitude for saving me.

But then I felt the earth shift hard under the tracks, and I screamed. Ezekiel was standing right next to Tamiel.

In the split second that Tamiel spun around to look at him, I second-guessed her. Perhaps the locket and the image of my mom and the chase through the train were just part of a trap to lead us to Ezekiel. But then I saw the expression on her face—a mix of astonishment and fear—and I knew that I was wrong. She was on our side.

The only one smiling was Ezekiel.

“That scream was not much of a welcome, El speth. And here I’ve been searching everywhere for you and Michael.”

Ezekiel reached for me, and I recoiled. I started backing up. Flight was the only way I could escape him, but my body wasn’t prepared yet. Just as his fingers grazed my arm, I felt Tamiel swoop me up into the air.

Within moments, I was able to soar on my own, and fol ow Tamiel down the warm, dank tunnels. The space was disorienting and narrow, so narrow that my arm brushed against a slimy tile wal . I reminded myself of the torture I’d seen in Ezekiel’s vision—torture that would be visited upon me, and God knew who else, if he caught us. So I held my tongue and flew.

As Tamiel raced down the passageways, Michael and I flanked her as best we could. She was incredibly fast and made sharp turns down the labyrinthine passageways of the T as if she’d memorized the entire system. Maybe she had; maybe she knew it would come to this.

The wal tiles turned from red to green signaling the switch in train lines, and we veered left down a tight tunnel. I felt a sudden whoosh behind me, and I pivoted in midair to see what caused it. Ezekiel’s shiny hair and pale face loomed in the distance.

“He’s gaining on us,” I cal ed up to Tamiel.

She didn’t respond. Instead she sped up and made a quick, unexpected right turn. Michael and I raced to fol ow her. A roar and a blinding light greeted us in the mouth of the tunnel she’d just entered. We found ourselves facing an oncoming train.

Michael and I nearly spun back around—into the advancing arms of Ezekiel—but we saw Tamiel propel herself up and over the moving train.

Mirroring her actions, we trailed her as she shot straight up through a tiny shaft in the ceiling of the tunnel.

The shaft was so constricted that Michael and I could barely fit through the opening. But once we squeezed ourselves through, it broadened, al owing us to regain speed. We fol owed Tamiel through the pitch-blackness as she climbed upward to the surface.

The air grew colder, and a glimmer of light appeared above us. Within seconds, Tamiel shoved aside a metal grate covering the shaft and peered upward. She motioned for us to fol ow her as she flew up and out.

We stood at the far, dark corner of a T stop—Government Center. A train must have just left, because the stop was merciful y empty. Without a word of explanation, Tamiel sprinted down the long platform toward the exit, and we chased after her. After tearing up two flights of stairs, we stood outside in the frigid nighttime of downtown Boston. The fresh air was a relief after the fetid underground, but I was reluctant to trade flying for running. I felt like I could hold my own a bit better against Ezekiel if I flew.

We could see and hear the lights and noise of the nearby tourist attraction Faneuil Hal . I assumed that we’d head in the opposite direction, and started walking the other way. But Tamiel pul ed me toward Faneuil Hal instead.

“I thought you wanted us to stay away from crowds. You said that Ezekiel could use them as a weapon against us,” I said, as we began running toward the busy eighteenth-century marketplace built around a cobblestone promenade where street performers entertained tourists while they shopped and ate.

“He can. But the crowds also limit his powers and provide us with a means of escape.”

“Why is he doing this, Tamiel? He’s had the chance to take us by force before, but he never tried.”

“He’s furious with Michael for deceiving him outside Professor McMaster’s office, to start. And—” Tamiel stopped herself. As if she’d said too much already.

“Tel me, Tamiel.”

“He believes that you are dangerously close to understanding who you are. Once you ful y comprehend your nature and purpose, the end days wil begin. And Ezekiel can no longer wait. He wil want you at his side.”

Chapter Forty-five

I sensed—rather than saw or heard—Ezekiel fol owing us toward Faneuil Hal . I knew that Michael and Tamiel did too because each time my instinct told me to veer left or right to avoid him, they did the same—without speaking.

We moved like this—in unison—and entered Faneuil Hal . Despite the cold, the place was packed. We weaved through vendors hawking wares and tourists sipping hot drinks and jugglers entertaining them. Tamiel was right; the crowds provided a shield for us and compromised Ezekiel’s ability to lash out. For the moment.

After several minutes hurrying through the crowds as a unit, Tamiel suddenly broke and took the lead. She led us into an impressive building with huge colonnades and a brass sign that read QUINCY MARKET. Inside was an enormous indoor food court, jammed with tables, stal s, and even more people.

Cutting through the crowds like a knife, Tamiel headed straight for the doors at the rear. Clearly she had brought us into Quincy Market only as a diversion and a way to shake Ezekiel. Michael and I kept her pace and fol owed her to the far end of the marketplace. I was so happy when I final y saw the exit doors next to a smal stage.

Just as Tamiel reached for the door handle, I heard a loud slam reverberate throughout the busy hal . We spun around. Al the doors to Quincy Market had simultaneously shut and locked. But the people continued eating and drinking and chatting as if nothing had happened.

We turned back toward the exit doors. There, on the stage, stood Ezekiel. It was the scenario I most feared.

Ezekiel pasted on that sickening smile of his and started pacing the stage. He stared at us, but spoke to Tamiel in a triumphant voice. “I am going to tel them who they are.”

“Please don’t, Ezekiel.” I heard begging from the seemingly invincible Tamiel, and it terrified me. I looked over at Michael, but he didn’t meet my gaze. He was transfixed, watching the showdown between two angels.

“Does it scare you to think of them knowing the ful story, Tamiel? Oh, I forgot. You would rather they learn the pretty little bits and pieces that you and the others feed them in sanitized places like the Harvard libraries.”

“Have you no care for what wil happen if you tel them everything?”

“Do you mean what might happen to you, Tamiel? And the other fal en?” He gestured around the room. The people were oblivious to us; he must have used some trick to cloud us from their view. “Or do you mean what might happen to al of them? Oh, I was al for keeping Michael and El speth in the dark at first, but now they probably know enough to start the clock. So I would like to be the one to share the entire story—instead of the watered-down versions those simpering fools who cal themselves their parents wil tel them. Michael and El speth should know the truth and the role they are destined to play at the end.”

Her voice became a thunderous clap. “Stop, Ezekiel!”

But her voice was no match for the roar of his own. He yel ed back, “You wil let them listen! Or I wil set this place into a conflagration that matches hel ’s own fire. And that wil only be the beginning.”

Tamiel stayed where she was, but she withdrew from the fight. Ezekiel’s voice quieted and took on that lul ing tone that he seemed to find effective for his purposes. Then he met our eyes for the first time since we saw him in Quincy Market.

“Michael and El speth, I have hoped to find you for a long, long time. Ever since that day when He”—Ezekiel spat out the word like a curse

—“destroyed your fel ow Nephilim, your brothers and sisters, in Noah’s flood. From the very moment I learned about your conceptions, I’ve been looking for you. The people who claim to be your parents made my search difficult, surrendering their immortality so that your presences would be dark to me. They shrouded you in humanity that made you hard to find. But I final y found you, when your own powers surfaced. You became like a beacon to me. Or Michael did, at least. And through him, you, El speth.”

Ezekiel then asked, “Shal I tel you why I have longed for you?”

Michael and I didn’t reply. How could you react when evil itself told you that you are the answer to its prayers?

“The key lies—in part—in the Book of Enoch.” He smirked, and said, “El speth, I believe you uncovered that during your little research today.

“When the congregation of the righteous shall appear,

And sinners shall be judged for their sins,

And shall be driven from the face of the earth;

And when the Elect One shall appear before the eyes of the righteous,

Whose elect works hang upon the Lord of the Spirits,

And light shall appear to the righteous and elect who dwell on the earth. . . .

From that time those that possess the earth shall no longer be powerful and exalted; And they shall not be able to behold the face of the holy,

For the Lord of the Spirits has caused his light to appear

On the face of the holy, righteous, and elect.

Then shall the kings and the mighty perish

And be given into the hands of the righteous and holy.

And thenceforth none shall seek for themselves mercy from the Lord of Spirits For their life is at an end.

“Do you know what that means?”

Michael and I had absolutely no idea, and Tamiel hadn’t uttered a word since Ezekiel had shut her up with the threat of fire.

“No?” Ezekiel said with a smile. “Let me explain. El speth, I believe that Hananel and Daniel told you that God cursed certain of us angels when we descended to earth and created a race of our own by mating with humankind; that race was cal ed the Nephilim. God—in His infinite hubris—

was so furious at our act of creation that He wiped out al humans, save for his pet Noah and his kin. God then prohibited angels from procreation and banished us from heaven, leaving us here on earth as the so-cal ed fal en. Did Hananel and Daniel tel you of this, El speth?”

I nodded.

“The Book of Enoch describes how the fal en angels—like me and like your parents and even like Tamiel over there—wil rule mankind until the end of time. Then, at the end, a select being wil emerge whose purpose wil be to judge the fal en angels and mankind. That select being—who Enoch cal s the Elect One—is a Nephilim, part man and part angel.” He smiled. “So you see, Enoch tel s us that, regardless of God’s specific command that the angels not procreate, the Nephilim wil indeed come again. And one of those Nephilim wil decide the fate of al beings on earth

—angels and humans.”

I felt sick. Suddenly, I knew where Ezekiel’s story was going. He stretched out his hands toward me and Michael. “You are those Nephilim. And one of you is the Elect One.”

Chapter Forty-six

Come on. I had gotten used to the fact that I was different, something other than human. But this? Ezekiel expected me and Michael to believe that one of us was a chosen being, here to judge al creatures on earth at the end of time.

I shot Michael a look, but he seemed mesmerized once again. So I glanced over at Tamiel to gauge her reaction. She looked defeated. She also looked as deadly serious as Ezekiel.

“How does this explain why I have longed for your births? For centuries, even mil ennia?” Ezekiel said as he paced back and forth across the stage, lecturing to his captive audience.

He continued. “I knew that, once I found you, and the Elect One stood at my side, the fal en would be judged fairly at the end. For when the Elect One has learned what I have learned and has seen what I have seen, the Elect One would understand that the fal en are not sinners, but indeed the

‘righteous and elect,’ as Enoch said. And the fal en would continue to possess the earth—maybe even the heavens again.”

It al became clear—whoever control ed the Nephilim control ed the end. But why did Ezekiel think that Michael or I would ever judge him to be

“righteous and elect”? Ezekiel would be at the top of my list of sinners.

Ezekiel took center stage. With a flourish, he stretched out his hands in our direction and announced, “The answer lies in your name, El speth.”

What on earth did he mean?

He chuckled, as if I’d said my question aloud. I guessed that my face spoke volumes. “El speth means the Chosen One. You are the Elect One.”

“Me? Why not Michael?” The words just blurted out.

“Oh, Michael has a special role. But more in the nature of protector, a knight to his lady, if you wil . Except you are so much more than a lady.”

Stretching out his hand, he said, “Come with me.”

So it was me. The Elect One. This was insane. And why did Ezekiel think I would go anywhere with him? Better than anyone, I knew his darkness; I had seen it firsthand through his own eyes.

I spun around and looked at Tamiel and Michael for help. Michael’s face stil bore that glazed expression. And Tamiel hadn’t left, but she had averted her eyes and stepped away from me and Michael and Ezekiel. Almost as if she was forbidden to join us in this battle.

Only Ezekiel met my gaze. “El speth, you have a choice. You can come with me and save Michael. Or you can choose Tamiel and her kind, and I wil destroy Michael.”

So that’s how Ezekiel thought he could get me to go with him. He believed that I would never, ever risk Michael’s life. Even for a greater good.

And Ezekiel could be right. How could I choose to destroy Michael?

“You cannot have her!” Michael suddenly awoke with a scream.

Inexplicably, Ezekiel cast an amused look in Michael’s direction. “I’ve heard those words before. I think Hananel and Daniel said them to me the day you were born, El speth.”

Michael lifted off the ground and flew at the surprised Ezekiel, who stil stood on the stage. He landed on him with such force that Ezekiel fel off the stage with a crash, narrowly missing an exposed iron rod that supported the platform. But the rod must have grazed Ezekiel’s face, as blood trickled down his cheek. It was unsettling to see the immortal Ezekiel bleed.

Ezekiel stood up, wiped away the blood with his finger, and then licked it. “You would kil me instead, son?”

“Son? I’m no son of yours,” Michael yel ed.

“That is precisely who you are,” Ezekiel answered calmly.

Michael then flew off the stage toward Ezekiel. This time, Ezekiel was ready. He propel ed himself upward, into the rafters high in the ceiling of the hal . As Michael fol owed him, I started to lift off in pursuit. I couldn’t let Michael fight Ezekiel alone.

Tamiel pul ed me down to the ground. “Michael must combat Ezekiel unaided.”

I struggled to free myself from her grasp, but she was incredibly strong. “Michael is trying to protect me from Ezekiel. I can’t let him do that by himself. He needs me.”

Tamiel took me by the shoulders and stared into my face. “El speth, only the child can kil the parent. Let Michael fulfil his destiny, if he can.”

“Ezekiel is real y his father?” I was shocked, although it explained the link between them. I thought Ezekiel had been speaking metaphorical y.

“Yes, he is. Only one with Ezekiel’s blood in his veins can destroy him.”

The news tore my attention from the battle raging overhead. “But I thought angels couldn’t procreate?”

“They usual y can’t. But you and Michael are unique.”

“So we real y are Nephilim?”

“Yes.”

“Where are our mothers? Our human mothers?” I felt a sudden, deep yearning for mine.

Tamiel stared at the floor. “Your birth mothers are no longer with us.”

“They’re dead?” I wanted to cry, but knew I couldn’t. I had to keep my focus.

She nodded slowly, stil not meeting my eye.

“What about my father? Where is he?”

A crash sounded out above us. Ezekiel had flung Michael into the metal scaffolding bolstering the ceiling, and I screamed despite myself. I twisted and turned, trying to get out of Tamiel’s grip so I could help him.

“Stay here, or you wil only complicate matters for Michael,” she ordered.

Tamiel’s hold was unbreakable, leaving me no choice but to stare at the war above us. Michael and Ezekiel dove up and over and around the massive rafters reinforcing the ceiling. Each took equal turns harming the other, and for a time, I felt heartened that Michael might actual y win the battle. But then Ezekiel caught Michael by the foot and swung his head into a huge beam. Michael flew away, but I knew he was badly hurt. I could smel the blood flowing from his wounds, and I could sense him weakening.

Suddenly, I knew how I could help. Somehow I wrenched Tamiel’s hands off my shoulders and raced to the side of the stage. I looked up. Michael and Ezekiel were hovering directly above me. It was my moment.

I forced a sob and cried out, “Ezekiel, stop. I can’t watch you hurt Michael any longer. Stop. I’l go with you. But only if you deliver him to me—

unharmed and flying of his own accord—right here.”

“No, El ie!” Michael yel ed back.

“Yes, Michael.” I pointedly looked down at the exposed iron rod, hoping desperately that Ezekiel didn’t catch my meaning as wel . “It is the only way.”

“You have made the right choice, El speth,” Ezekiel cal ed out.

Side by side, they began their descent. Ezekiel was careful not to touch Michael, but he didn’t let him out of his sight either. I stood near—but not next to—the iron rod, and watched as they neared the floor. Just before they touched down, I stretched out my arms to Ezekiel, to distract him.

“It is almost time,” I said. As if to Ezekiel.

Ezekiel reached out his arms for me. With an expression of triumph, he looked away from Michael and smiled at me. Just then, Michael flew at Ezekiel’s back and shoved him into the iron rod with al his strength.

We raced to Ezekiel’s side to make sure the deed was done. But we needn’t have. Within seconds, the smel of the blood pouring from his body was overpowering. He seemed weak—even near death—but his eyes were stil open and blinking.

“I am not alone. There are others. Others even more powerful than me. Like your father,” Ezekiel whispered, and smiled his sick smile out at the crowd. And then the blinking stopped.

I looked out at Quincy Market, in the direction of Ezekiel’s final gaze. There, in the throngs, I spotted a man with black hair and bright blue eyes staring right at us. As if he saw us. Then he disappeared.

Tamiel raced to our sides. She nodded in agreement with Ezekiel’s last words. It was over, but only for the moment.

I didn’t care. I stood up and hugged Michael as hard as I could. Even if we had only a short time of peacefulness together, even if I was this other, elect, strange creature, I wanted this moment, this moment of peace.

We looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. I closed my eyes and surrendered into the warmth of Michael’s arms.

Chapter Forty-seven

I opened my eyes. I was in my bedroom.

My bedroom.

I had no memory of returning to Til inghast from Boston.

How had I gotten here? The last thing I remembered was holding on to Michael in Quincy Market, after we looked down at the body of Ezekiel. Oh my God, Ezekiel.

I sat up in my bed. I lifted up my quilt, blanket, and sheets. I was in my flannel pajamas. Who had dressed me in these? I looked at the clock. It said seven A.M., but I had no idea what day it was.

Pushing off my quilt, blanket, and sheets, I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet. I tottered over to my desk, where my bag sat. I picked it up, looking for any scrap of evidence that I’d been to Boston. I found my notebook fil ed with the usual scribbles, my wal et with my identification and money, and my toiletry bag stocked as always. There were no ticket stubs or receipts or even any of the lists of questions I’d made on the train to Boston or during that long night in the Harvard Square coffee shop. But my cel was there. The cel phone I’d thrown into the garbage can at the Til inghast train station.

Had it al been a dream? The flying and the blood? Ezekiel and the trip to Boston? Al that stuff about the Nephilim and the Elect One? Was Michael a dream too?

I ran downstairs, not sure what to hope for. My mom stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast and pouring orange juice, like she did every morning. She looked up at me, unsurprised that I stood in the kitchen. But she was surprised at my state, given the hour.

“Dearest, why are you stil in your pajamas? You have to leave for school in five minutes.”

I stared around the kitchen, as if I hadn’t seen it in months. The kettle sat in its typical place, and the magnets on the fridge held up the normal pictures and reminders. Everything looked the same as when I left. But I felt entirely different.

My mom marched over to me and placed her hand on my forehead. “Do you feel sick, El ie? You look a little peaked, but you don’t feel warm.”

I was afraid to speak. Almost any sentence that came out of my mouth could be real y out of place. Even crazy.

“Dearest, is everything al right?”

Words final y croaked out of my mouth. “I’m okay, Mom. I just woke up from a real y weird dream.”

Her eyebrows rose in alarm, but her voice sounded calm. Very, very calm. “What was the dream, dearest?”

“Nothing. Just a dream. I’d better get ready.”

I walked back upstairs and opened my closet to pick out an outfit. Hanging on the rack were some of the more daring clothes I’d bought since I started seeing Michael. And the red dress I’d worn to the Fal Dance. That wasn’t a dream, at least. Maybe Michael wasn’t either.

I grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater and headed into the bathroom. Standing against the closed bathroom door for a long moment, I final y went over to the sink and turned on the hot water. As the steam rose up, I stared at myself in the foggy mirror. How could I look like the same old El ie when so much had happened? Or had it?

But what choice did I have but to go through the motions of normalcy? I washed my face with my favorite lemony soap. I brushed out al the knots in my hair. I put on some blush and mascara, and I got dressed. Al the while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Dreading the uncertainty of school, I trudged back downstairs. “I’m ready to go, Mom.”

She looked at me curiously. “But Michael’s picking you up today.”

“I’m not grounded anymore?” Michael hadn’t been al owed to drive me to school since the Fal Dance. We were only al owed to see each other in supervised settings, like school or home.

“No, dearest. Your grounding was over this weekend.” She paused and then asked, “Are you sure that you’re al right, El ie?”

“I’m fine, Mom.” I hoped I sounded more convincing than I felt. I didn’t want her to be worrying about me; I had enough troubles. “I’l just go wait by the front window for Michael.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?”

“No thanks, Mom. I need to review my homework anyway.” I needed a moment alone. And she seemed pleased that I mentioned something as normal as homework.

Staring out at the driveway, I tried to make sense of things. The list of questions that I’d written on the train to Boston kept coming back to me. If the past couple of months had been real—instead of some bizarre dream—then I might have a few answers to those questions.

What was I? The mil ion-dol ar question. Assuming the flying and the blood and Ezekiel and Boston had actual y happened, I was pretty sure that I was a Nephilim. But aside from the powers it brought me, I wasn’t certain what that meant. What was the purpose of a Nephilim? If I believed Ezekiel, then I was the “Elect One” with some special role in the “end days,” whatever that entailed. Even my parents had said something about me being different and preparing for “war,” and Tamiel had mentioned “end days.” What was this war, and who would I be fighting against?

I stil had more questions than answers. Like what had happened to my birth parents. Like whether I could count on Michael while I tried to figure this al out.

Just then, I heard the crunch of gravel. Michael’s car pul ed into our roundabout. My anxiety—already sky-high—mounted. What would I say to him? I stil wasn’t certain what was real and what was a dream.

“Bye, Mom,” I cal ed out, and walked to his car. The day was cool and drizzly, chil y but not cold enough for snow.

Michael turned off the ignition and opened the door for me from the inside. I slid in and closed it tightly behind me. Then I sat silently, uncertain what words were appropriate.

He reached over and kissed me on the cheek. “How was your night?”

“Fine,” I answered warily. “Yours?”

“Good. I finished that awful calculus assignment,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition.

“That’s great.” I didn’t know what to say next. I couldn’t even remember what homework I’d been working on before I fled to Boston. So I stayed quiet.

The car started, and music flooded the car. The song was Coldplay, “Cemeteries of London.” It was one of my favorites, as Michael knew. It reminded me of our nighttime flying and exploring. If those things real y happened, that was.

“Feels like London out today, doesn’t it?” Michael said.

I looked over at him in surprise. Had he just said what I thought he had? We had been heading to London to see Professor Barr the day before—

from Boston. Or was he just referring to the song?

A smile spread across his face. A knowing smile.

“So . . . ?” My mind raced. It hadn’t been a dream.

As if reading my thoughts, Michael said, “Ignorance is the only thing that has protected you so far.”

In that instant, I realized what had happened. In the conversation among our parents that Michael had overheard, my dad had said the same thing.

Our parents wanted so badly to keep us in the dark about our identities—for our protection and to prevent the ticking of the end days clock—that they’d attempted to have our memories erased. About flying and Ezekiel and Boston and the Nephilim and the Elect One. They knew better than to try to make us forget each other; they had tried it after Guatemala, and it hadn’t ful y worked.

It had failed again here. We remembered everything.

I started to talk excitedly. Al the pieces were fal ing into place. But Michael shook his head and put a finger over my lips.

So I just smiled back at Michael. I knew that this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.

Turn the page for an exclusive excerpt of

Eternity

The captivating sequel to Fallen Angel!

Stepping into the hal ways of Til inghast High School was actual y weirder than acknowledging that I was an otherworldly creature.

I watched as girls chatted about their lip gloss, and guys shared apps on their iPhones. I noticed friends giggling about other friends’ outfits, and teammates thumping each other on the backs for games wel -played. I walked past kids furiously copying their friends’ homework assignments, and others fumbling with the towers of books in their lockers.

I couldn’t stop from staring at my classmates in amazement, like they were exotic creatures in the zoo. They had no idea that some kind of Armageddon was heading their way and that I was selected to play some special role at the end. Maybe even stop it.

I felt the simultaneous urge to sob and giggle. Because the whole notion of El speth Faneuil as savior to the world was both overwhelming and ridiculous.

The only thing keeping me sane while I walked down the hal way was Michael. The link of his fingers in mine was like a tether to our new reality. I believed I could navigate through our conflicting worlds—the frivolous Til inghast High School and the looming otherworldly battle—with him beside me.

But once I said good-bye to Michael before heading into English class, I lost my anchor. I felt like I’d been cast unmoored into an unreal sea.

English class brought me near to the brink. The minute I entered the classroom, Miss Taunton launched into me. Like a hawk circling a wounded animal, she bombarded me with questions about our latest assigned novel, which I could barely remember amid the more vivid recol ections of my days in Boston and my encounter with Ezekiel. I wanted to scream at her that none of this mattered.

The second that Miss Taunton laid off me, my best friend, Ruth, texted me. “Wait for me in the hal after class.” Normal y, I’d welcome a quick chat with my oldest and best friend in the world, especial y if it involved commiseration over Miss Taunton’s unfair, but not unusual, treatment of me. But I didn’t know if I could handle a one-on-one conversation with Ruth just yet. I had no idea what she remembered. The last time we were together—just before I boarded the train to Boston—she had confessed to seeing me fly. Had my parents tried to erase Ruth’s memory, too, with more success?

If so, could I pul off the act of regular El ie? I pled il ness and intermittently coughed throughout class to support my ruse.

At the ringing of the bel , I raced out of class. My head was spinning. I needed a moment to catch my breath, to reassemble myself.

Instead, I ran smack into Piper. My next-door neighbor and one of the most popular girls in school had been ignoring me for weeks since I decided to take the blame for that wicked Facebook prank. Unbelievably, she had decided that this was the moment to break the silence.

“I know what you did, El ie. I just don’t get why you did it. Why would you take the blame for something you didn’t do? Why would you sit through weeks of detention and walk down the hal ways knowing that al the kids in school hate you? Without ever pointing the finger at me or Missy. I bet you think you’re some kind of a saint,” she said with a flip of her perfect blond hair.

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to tel her the truth. That her snide little guess wasn’t total y off the mark. I was a half-angel, and I simply couldn’t have sat by and let others suffer at her hand. That she better rethink her future actions and ask forgiveness for those past, because there wasn’t much time left for malevolent games.

The conversation nearly delivered me to the edge. Who was I meant to be? How was I supposed to behave, knowing what I knew?

Before I said anything I’d regret, Michael appeared at my side.

He had been waiting for me after class, farther down the hal . When he saw Piper accost me and witnessed my obvious discomfort at the exchange, he raced to my rescue.

“Are you al right, El ie? You look real y pale,” he asked, once we were alone. I must have looked real y bad, because alarm registered on his face.

“I’m not sure if I can do this, Michael. I know we need to pretend, but I’m having a hard time already. Knowing what we know,” I whispered.

Michael put his arm around my shoulder and walked me down the hal way. He brought us into a darkened alcove. More than anything, I wanted to stay in that warm, shadowy recess, wrapped in his arms. It was the only place I felt safe. It was the only place that made sense.

Michael placed his finger under my chin, and tipped my face to his. “El ie, I know you can.” He slipped a letter into my hands. He nodded that I should read it immediately, so I smoothed out the paper and started.

My Ellie —

Do you remember the first time we went flying over our field? You were so nervous of everything. You were afraid to fall from such heights; you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of me; you were fearful of doing something so clearly otherworldly. But you were determined and strong. And I watched in awe as you furrowed your beautiful brow, willed your fears away, and took to the air.

You were breathtaking up there. The wind at your back, your black hair whipping all around you—you owned the skies. From the very beginning.

And the very next day, you walked down the hallways of Tillinghast High School like nothing had happened. Like you were just a regular girl—prettier and smarter than all the rest, of course, but still just a regular, human girl.

You can do that again, Ellie. You can walk the tightrope between the two worlds with courage and determination. You’ve done it before.

I love you,

Michael

I smiled as I read the letter. Somehow he had anticipated my feelings, and understood—perfectly—how to restore my confidence. How to bring me back to myself. Michael truly was my soul mate.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Just remember who you are. Remember that you walked this walk before, and you can do it again.”

I nodded and closed my eyes for a second. Conjuring those days from earlier in the fal , my self-assurance returned. Slowly and shakily. I real y had no other option. I had to successful y playact at being a regular high school junior, concerned about homework and her new boyfriend. Michael had to convincingly make-believe that he was an average senior guy, focused on footbal and col ege prospects and me. Too much depended on our role-playing.

Feeling fairly confident, off to calculus I went. As I listened to Mr. Modic rattle off theorems, I stopped fixating on the surreal nature of my situation and started to map out next steps. By the time class ended, and I joined Michael in the hal way, I wasn’t surprised that his next letter had the same focus. I had already drafted a similar note in my head.

My Ellie—

Now that your resolve has returned, did you spend all of calculus thinking about what we should do next? I know you well. I bet you didn’t take a single note, but instead stared out the window, dreaming up a strategy.

I did the same thing.

What should we do next? The trip to Boston definitely gave us a better sense of our natures as Nephilim, and the encounter with Ezekiel linked our births to the emergence of some kind of apocalypse. Crazy as that sounds. But we need much more information in order to act next. We need to know exactly what the Nephilim are and were—creation, history, powers, even mortality— and we need to know how the Nephilim fit into this whole end-of-the-world scenario that Ezekiel revealed to us.

But how are we going to get that knowledge—about ourselves and the end days—while playing dumb and suppressing our powers?

Wouldn’t any research we undertook—either in a library or on the ground—serve as a red flag to our parents or anyone else who might be seeking us? We need to act, but what do we do?

My brilliant, brilliant Ellie. Did you drum up any amazing ideas in calculus? We need a plan. Now.

I love you,

Michael

Between the last few periods of the day, we exchanged a flurry of letters. We each had our theories on how best to get the information we required, and they weren’t the same.

Final y, by the end of the school day, we concocted a plan we could both agree upon. It was risky. But real y, it was our only choice.

* * *

When the last bel rang, I walked Michael over to the footbal field for his practice, just as I would any other day. We had decided to keep as close as possible to our usual activities and schedule. Just in case.

Before he headed into the locker room, I leaned in to kiss him, as I always did. But today, instead of the usual “see you later,” I heard him whisper,

“good luck.”

I needed it.

I walked over to the parking lot to meet Ruth for an after-school coffee, having texted her that my cough had subsided and I felt up to our regular meeting. It sickened me to lie to her; we’d always told each other everything.

Amid al the cars and al the kids preparing to bolt from school, I didn’t spot her at first. But then I caught a glint of her red hair against the backdrop of the gray day. I hustled over to her used, green VW Bug, not sure what reaction I’d get. Did she remember seeing me fly or didn’t she?

How was I supposed to behave?

“You look really ready for a latte,” Ruth pronounced, sounding very normal.

“I am really ready for one,” I said, attempting to match her light tone.

As we got into her car, I thought how pretty she looked under those wire-rimmed glasses. I smiled a little thinking about how shocked our classmates had been when Ruth unleashed her inner runway model at the fal dance. Only to tuck that beauty away again for school on Monday.

Loyal, whip-smart, but incredibly reserved, Ruth loathed any unnecessary attention. She saved up her animation and lovely smiles for a select few, and most of Til inghast High School didn’t make that cut. I just hoped that the frank conversation I planned for our coffee break wouldn’t wipe the pretty grin right off her face.

I tried to mask my nervousness as we rode to the Daily Grind, and to bolster my courage by remembering the words of Michael’s first letter that day. We chatted away, mostly about a benign argument she had had with her new boyfriend, Jamie, about his chronic lateness. The conversation continued as we ordered our coffees and settled into two brown club chairs that sat side by side. As I feigned interest, I lifted my latte to my mouth for a sip. Suddenly, I noticed that my hand was shaking. I put the cup down on the table; I didn’t want Ruth to see and wonder why. Not quite yet, anyway.

Once she finished, I waited until the Daily Grind buzzed with noise. Then I scanned the room to make sure no one was paying us the slightest attention. Leaning over the arm of my chair, I slipped a piece of paper into her lap.

I prayed that the information divulged within wouldn’t shatter her world. More fervently, I prayed that, after she read the contents of the letter, she wouldn’t decide Michael and I were crazy and alert my parents to the disclosure—in an effort to “help” us with our delusions, of course. That would undermine everything that Michael and I were trying to accomplish.

Either way, it was a gamble Michael and I had to take. We had no other options.

Ruth stared down at the letter sitting in her lap, and said, “What’s this?”

“Just read it, Ruth. Please.”

Laughing, she said, “So we’re passing notes now? What are we, in the third grade?”

I bit my lip and motioned for her to read the letter that Michael and I had so painstakingly crafted. Hesitantly, she picked it up and unfolded it. I held my breath as she did. In the letter, we told her everything we knew. We begged her to help us better understand who we were and what the end days were. We couldn’t undertake the research ourselves; if anyone was looking for us or watching us, they would realize that we knew.

Even though Ruth had been my best friend for nearly ten years, I real y didn’t know how she would respond to our plea for help researching the nature of the Nephilim and the looming apocalypse. How could I possibly predict her reaction to the claim that I was an angel of some sort? That our world teetered on the edge of annihilation?

Ruth cleared her throat, and whispered, “So you do remember?”

I was flabbergasted. Nothing in her behavior had given me the slightest hint that she remembered anything. “You do too?”

Ruth leaned toward me. In a voice so low that I could barely hear it, she said, “I remember watching you and Michael fly. And I remember taking you to the train station a few days ago. Today is the first day I’ve seen you since. I’ve been so worried about you and Michael, but who could I ask?

Certainly not your parents.”

Relief coursed through me. I reached over to hug her, and said, “Thank God.”

Ruth squeezed me back, and whispered, “I thought you had forgotten what you could do, or that I knew about your and Michael’s . . . abilities. Or that you didn’t want to talk about it for some reason. So when you pretended you were sick earlier today, I kind of backed away from you.”

“Now you know why I haven’t mentioned it.” I tried to apologize. I felt her nod against my shoulder.

“So you’l help us?” I whispered.

“Yes, El ie. I’l do the research that you and Michael need.”

“You understand that there are risks? Huge risks?”

“Of course. That seems very clear.” Even though her voice sounded firm and strong, I wondered if she real y comprehended the dangers. How could she, unless she’d stared evil in the face as Michael and I had?

I started to cry. “Thank you, Ruth. Thank you so much for helping me and Michael.”

“El ie, I’d do anything for you. You know that. But, I’m not just doing this for you and Michael.”

“No?”

“I am doing this for everyone, El ie. Because if I understand your letter correctly, everyone is at risk. And the entire world is at stake.”

Copyright

Fallen Angel

Copyright © 2011 by Heather Terrell

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Terrell, Heather.

Fallen angel / Heather Terrell. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: When sixteen-year-old Ellie meets up with a boy from her past, she discovers that the two of them share inexplicable powers and that they are somehow involved in an ancient conflict among fallen angels that forces them to choose sides, with terrible repercussions.

ISBN 978-0-06-196570-8

[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Angels—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.T274Fal 2011

[Fic]—dc22

2010013688

CIP

AC

First Edition

EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062039668

11 12 13 14 15 LP/BV 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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