Dark Hope (15 page)

I looked into his eyes. They were full of kindness and concern.

“Are you ready?” he asked, still holding my hand.

I nodded once.

“Okay,” he breathed, and closed his eyes.

Instantly, he began melting, his features twisting and morphing seamlessly into another person, his entire body doing the same. It was like flipping the channels on an old-fashioned television—a slight flurry of static as his features went out of focus before they sharpened, locking onto the picture. One by one, he became an old black lady; then a young boy, barely five; an elderly Native American; a teenaged girl. Person after person appeared, just for an instant; by the time my mind recognized who or what they were, he had transformed into the next person. Yet in that instant, I not
only saw them, but I
knew
them—knew their histories, their loves, their sorrows, knew how special their time on this earth had been. And no matter who sat before me, the eyes were unchanging—the same sharp blue eyes, filled with kindness and grief, which belonged only to Michael.

I sat transfixed, watching the parade of people before my eyes, until slowly he faded back into himself. My Michael.

He was clutching my hand against his heart. I felt it thumping under my touch and my brain protested, almost convincing me that he was truly human. Almost.

He never broke his gaze, never moved his lips. But deep inside of me, I seemed to feel more than I heard his words, vibrating and thrumming with intensity.

I will protect you
.

His unspoken promise hung in the air between us. Finally, I broke the silence.

“That was beautiful,” I said, embarrassed, as if I had seen into his soul.

“I promise I won’t do that again, at least not without your permission,” he stated solemnly. “But I wanted you to understand.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, giving his hand a little squeeze. As I did, I realized my hand was starting to burn from his heat. “I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly, pulling my hand away from his grasp.

He unclasped it immediately, looking remorseful. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I turned my palm over. It was red and sweaty, but nothing more. “No, no harm done. Besides, if you have to deal with constant headaches, I guess I can handle the equivalent of sunburn.”

He grinned then, a small, satisfied smile.

“For the record,” he began, counting off answers to my unspoken questions matter-of-factly on his fingers. “One: white stuff at
lunch—manna. I can eat human food, but prefer not to. Two: yes, I can fly, and yes, I have wings, though not in human form. But I also can do what amounts to time travel between great distances if need be. Three: when I take human form, I can provide myself with all the accoutrements of human life. So yes, I do have a house and a real car. I even have an AmEx card. Four: I don’t have to wear white, but it is kind of a tradition.”

He gave me one of his patented wicked grins. “And I think it looks pretty good, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible,” I said. “Are all angels as pompous as you?”

He laughed out loud. “Wait until you meet Raphael. He is totally full of himself.”

My eyes widened. “Am I going to meet more angels?”

His face darkened at the suggestion. “Not if I can help it. I don’t want to draw any more attention to you than I already have.”

I was confused. “What do you mean?”

He sprang to his feet, and I swear that for an instant he seemed to float. He stalked over to the window and looked out between the curtains toward the street.

“It’s nothing, Hope. Just a feeling I have.”

“But why?”

He was deliberately avoiding my gaze, pretending to find something of great interest in the cul-de-sac outside.

“I’m not going to give up,” I said, a stubborn note in my voice. “You might as well tell me what’s going on.”

He doesn’t want to tell you because it’s his fault
, said the voice in my head—that is, said Henri.

“What’s your fault?” I prompted, silently thanking Henri for the tidbit of intelligence.

“Damn it, Henri, mind your own business!” Michael’s face contorted with rage.

“He’s only trying to do his job, Michael,” I said, walking swiftly to his side. “I need to know what’s going on. If I’m in danger, then the more informed I am, the better off I’ll be.”

He clenched his fists and released them, over and over, considering my words. The effort he was making to control his temper was awesome to witness.
How much pain is he really in
, I wondered,
if something so small can spin him out of control?

“You know the story of the Fallen Angels,” he said between clenched teeth. I nodded, not sure I liked where this was heading. “They are real, and they live on. Part of their punishment is that they cannot escape their own immortality. They have to go through Eternity knowing there is no redemption, always suffering the pain of separation from God.”

I remembered what he had said about being driven mad by the pain, and I shuddered.

“The Fallen are everywhere,” he breathed. “And they’d do anything to exact their revenge on me.” He leaned protectively over me, surrounding me in the tiny alcove formed by the window and the eaves.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He shoved away from me, pacing across the room.

“I was the one who forced them out of Paradise, Hope. They have waited millennia to get their revenge. Even something that appears insignificant—a young girl—might be tempting to them if it seemed to offer a way to get back at me. The fact of the matter is that I may be placing you in more danger by drawing attention to you—that is, if the wrong creatures notice.”

Now it was my turn to rub my temples. I couldn’t follow all this. I was starting to really believe I
was
being threatened, and maybe from more than one side.

“What were you saying about bird attacks, before?” I asked him.

He looked up from his pacing, surprised, as if he’d forgotten I was even there. Swiftly, he composed his face into a serene mask. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

I stood, staring at him from across the room. The surrealism of the situation began to sink in. I looked at Michael, standing in the middle of my bedroom. With his broad shoulders, his proud stance, I couldn’t imagine anything more solid, more real. Yet I knew it couldn’t be so.

“Am I dreaming?” I wondered aloud.

“No,” Michael said, his eyes heavy with resignation. “I didn’t want to have to tell you all this. But after last night, I couldn’t imagine how I could hide it from you any longer.”

The rush of adrenaline that had been keeping me afloat dissipated, leaving me weak. I sank back down to the floor.

“This can’t be real,” I murmured, looking up at him from the floor and wondering what on earth I’d gotten myself into. “What am I supposed to do now?” I could feel a vague sense of panic rising inside me.

His mouth closed into a hard line. Swiftly, he bent over and plucked me from the floor, carrying me back toward my bed. “You’re exhausted, and no wonder. Between last night and all this,” he said, his blue eyes flashing with remorse, “I’ve worn you out.”

“You must be tired, too,” I said softly, seeing for the first time the fine lines etched around his eyes. “From the pain.”

He stopped, staring at me in surprise. The corners of his mouth stole up before he shook his head and continued over to the bed. Carefully, he laid me down and tucked the covers around me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the comfort of his kindness, trying to forget why it was exactly that I was the focus
of this gorgeous boy’s attention. When I opened my eyes, Michael was still hovering over me.

He paused, looking deep in thought as if carefully choosing his words.

“Your father is not crazy, Hope,” he whispered to me, his lips hovering just above my ear. “In ancient times, we would have hailed him as a prophet. His vision may be fuzzy”—his familiar grin stole once more across his face—“but he is right about one thing: you are special, and you have been singled out. Whatever you’ve been singled out for is locked deep inside you and has been for a very long time.”

Swiftly, he bent to kiss me on the forehead.

“Whatever it is, I will make sure you get a chance to find out. You can count on that.”

Then he was gone.

As soon as I knew he was out of the room, I could feel myself surrender to the pull of sleep. Half-awake, I drew my fingers across the spot where his lips had touched my skin. It burned and tingled, and I sighed deeply as I remembered the heat of his touch. The feeling stayed with me even in my dreams.

six

M
om being who she was, I wasn’t allowed to sleep for long. It was not a good afternoon. My entire body was black and blue from my fall, and every step I took was a painful reminder of each rock and shrub I’d bounced against. A slight heat rash had wrapped around my torso and arms where Michael had carried me last night, and the skin where he’d held my hand was shiny. I realized with a start that the rash on my wrist had been from his touch, too, rather than my fall against the curb during my ill-fated run.

What was worse, I couldn’t baby myself—not if I wanted to keep my injuries hidden from my mom. I was on edge, nerves taut. I needed to escape Mom’s watchful gaze and questions and sort things out on my own, so I took myself out for another run around the neighborhood.

I paused briefly at the top of the cul-de-sac, remembering Michael’s warnings and words about the “bird attacks,” but shook it off, desperately in need of the release.

I tried not to think too much about everything that had happened. Instead, I tried to empty out my mind, leaving no room for anything but the run itself.

The aftermath of last night’s storms lay all around me in the street. Fallen tree limbs and brush littered the asphalt. The creek that wound through the neighborhood was about to burst its banks; the rain had been much fiercer here. It was at once familiar and alien, as if the secrets I’d discovered had altered nature itself; as if the things I didn’t know still threatened me from the shadows. My body protested as I forced it to move. But the air was crisp and clean, even if the day was gray, so I pushed my fears and pain aside and concentrated again on the rise and fall of my knees, the rebound of my feet off the pavement. I soon fell into the rhythms and footfalls of my run, finding comfort in their sameness and letting the stiffness work its way out of my body.

I leaned into the curve as I entered the undeveloped section of my neighborhood and felt a familiar tingle—the tingle of being watched. This time, though, I wasn’t afraid. I stumbled to a stop and bent over to catch my breath before I turned, a smile on my lips, to greet Michael.

The smile froze on my face as my father stepped from the woods.

Irritation and disappointment surged through my body, quickly chased by guilt.
When was the last time I’d even thought about my father, let alone seen him?
I thought.
Only to blame him for a valentine he didn’t even send
.

“I hope you don’t mind that I came here, Hope.” He was holding his hat in his hands, looking almost penitent as he came closer to the road. He stopped at its very edge, his big hands twisting the hat.

“How did you know I would even be here?” I asked, suspiciously.

“I didn’t know. But I figured that your mother would let you run outside and that if I came here, eventually I would see you.”

I stared at him, stunned. Back near the trees I could see the hood of his beat-up car where he had parked it near one of the utility boxes. I cursed myself for failing to notice it earlier.

“You’ve been coming up here and lurking around in the woods, just in case I decide to go for a run?”

He nodded and then pursed his lips, as if the oddness of what he’d admitted had only just occurred to him. “It hasn’t been that often. Just every now and then. On days when I thought you might not be in school.” He looked down at his shoes and seemed to brace himself for my rejection.

In our times we would have called him a prophet
. Michael’s words came back to me and I suddenly felt small. After all, if my father was guilty of anything, it was of being overprotective. And maybe it wasn’t really fair to blame him for everything that had happened to me in Alabama. From the time I’d been a little girl, parents had carefully steered their children away from me, almost unconsciously, as if a force field surrounded me and made it impossible for them to get close. I learned to recognize the look as they drew their kids to the other side of the playground, a mix of unabashed gawking, lurid supposition (“Are you sure she wasn’t hurt?”), and schadenfreude. I’d had no best friend. I missed out on the My Pretty Princess birthday parties, had no one to braid my hair and whisper secrets and giggle about boys with me. I lived my meager existence, suffering the normal outrages of transitioning to middle school and high school like every other teen, I suppose, but with the extra burden of being an outcast—a status based on nothing more than parents’ fears that somehow, if their kids got too close to me, something bad would happen to them, too.