Eternal (3 page)

Brews. Bitchin’. Who talks like that?

Now that I think about it, what do we really know about Kurt? “What if he’s an axe-murdering film geek?” I add. “Didn’t you
watch
any of those movies you made us rent?”

Lucy puts on her seat belt like it’s nothing. “You liked
Van Helsing.
”

“I liked Hugh Jackman in that black hat and long coat.” I lower the volume on the Christian rock station. “I know you’re all about the creepy fantastic, but it’s not like there aren’t real-world monsters. Shifters —”

“Werepeople,” she says. “God, Miranda, don’t be such a bigot.”

I let the “bigot” thing slide. Every news story I’ve ever seen about a werewolf or Bear or Cat or whatever has involved a body count. But Lucy can get loud and political, and I’m not up for it tonight.

I don’t tell her what’s really bugging me. That my day has been lousy and that she promised a comforting movie night and now she’s dragging me along so she can hook up with some guy. I’m disappointed in myself and the world and her, too. “What about vampires?” I ask, pulling out of the strip-mall parking lot. “This is Dallas after all.”

“That was a hundred years ago,” Lucy says.

It was more like 1963, the last known public sighting of a vampire in Texas, and on the grassy knoll, no less. “But vampires can live forever, right? He, I mean, it —”

“Vampires don’t
live
at all,” she points out, “and neither do we.”

She has me there. “Fine, I’ll go. But when Kurt leads his minions in a march around the cemetery with our heads on sticks, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“MAYBE SOMETHING CAME UP,”
I say, fiddling with my cardigan. It’s cold enough in mid-February that there are patches of ice on the ground, and we’ve been parked outside Chrysanthemum Hills Cemetery for over forty-five minutes.

“Maybe they’re waiting inside,” Lucy counters. “It’s not like we discussed exactly where to meet. We should just head on in.”

“Wait!” I say, but she’s already getting out of the car.

The cemetery was here before the high school and the subdivisions surrounding it. A few years back, after some highly publicized incidents of “trespassing and desecration” (kind of an overstatement for empty beer bottles and cigarette butts), the rock wall surrounding the property was doubled in height and barbed wire was strung along the top.

I have no idea how Kurt or Lucy think we’re getting past the locked gate.

I grab my purse, even though she left hers under the front passenger seat. I don’t have my cell with me because last week it died a watery death, but Lucy’s is in her trench-coat pocket.

Why did I ever let her talk me into watching all those zombie movies? I can’t help thinking of the rotting bodies beneath the earth beyond the wall — their decomposing hands breaking through their caskets, clawing through the dirt, their decomposing heads rising through the soil, their gaping mouths eager to gobble our brains.

“There’s a note.” Lucy unties a thin black ribbon securing a rolled piece of paper to the wrought-iron gate.

The security chains have been unwrapped and tossed to the ground.

I shiver. “What happened to the padlock?”

Lucy is too busy to care. With one hand, she holds the note to the moonlight. “We’re supposed to meet them at the mausoleum across from the tallest angel. Romantic, don’t you think?”

I don’t. I don’t think that spooky is sexy.

“The tallest angel,” she muses. “That’s the one at the Carton family plot. It’s clear on the other side of the grounds.” The rusty gate swings open. Jogging, she calls, “Come on, we should hurry.”

I have no choice but to follow. “Lucy!”

“What?” she yells, and her voice sounds loud in the dead place.

It startles me into stopping, and I realize I almost stepped on a large bat. It’s flopping on the wet ground. I’m not sure if it’s sick or if one of its wings is broken. I know better than to touch it, rabies and all.

“What’s wrong?” She jogs back to fetch me. “Oh.”

“I think it’s hurt.”

“Just leave it. You don’t want to get bitten, do you?”

I don’t. “Maybe we should call somebody, like animal control.”

“You call animal control. I’m going on my date.” Lucy walks off again.

Underneath that attitude, I tell myself, she isn’t trying to be impossible. She’s just nervous about hanging out with older guys, especially Kurt.

I hesitate, unable to stop staring at the distressed animal on the brown grass. When I look up, Lucy is lost among the bare trees and gray tombstones.

My fear edges up a notch. I abandon the bat.

The other side of the cemetery, she said. I can find that.

It’s like the statues are watching, larger than life, frozen in time, angels mostly. Crosses rise across the landscape. Some freestanding, others etched in stone.

Tuesday night’s ice storm savaged the trees, breaking limbs, splitting the trunk of a century-old oak.

The paved entry splits into three gravel roads, and I choose the one in the middle, unwilling to step on a grave until I have to. What kind of freaks meet girls in cemeteries?

“Lucy!” I search for the angel statue she mentioned.

As I stray from the path, the historic cemetery is eerie in its silence. A cloud shrouds the moon. I keep going, reminding myself of how Lucy stuck up for me in the middle school girls’ locker room when Denise mocked my double-A bra, how Lucy was beyond supportive when Mom and Dad imploded, and how she sat through two seasons of varsity soccer so I could drool over Geoff. What a waste of time he was.

I walk on, despite the deepening darkness, determined to find my friend.

WHERE DID LUCY TAKE OFF TO?
I could rise again, but the bat was a close call. I briefly took flight for an overhead view, and Miranda was almost bitten.

Now I know better than to let her out of my sight — period. The whole universe is in play. I have to guard Miranda tonight like never before. I have to protect her.

As we make our way, I slow my long stride to match hers.

When she leaves the gravel path, I relocate to the stone platform of a life-size angel statue. It’s a good likeness of Raphael, though the nose is chipped, and the real Raphie is four inches taller. The monument is substantial, though. There’s room enough for me to stand comfortably on the base. I’m some distance away but directly in Miranda’s path. From here, I can see her as well as more of the surrounding landscape.

From this angle, I spot the gaping hole. A newly dug grave. The cemetery has been closed since the storm. The usual precautions haven’t been taken. Lucy is nowhere in sight. Neither is Kurt. Miranda is too busy looking for them to glance down.

She’s going to fall! This is it. I just know it. I clench my fists, desperate to help. What’s a voice in the darkness? A light in the distance? What could it hurt?

“Stay back!” I call out, taking solid form. “Miranda!” Stretching my wings, I illuminate the scene.

My girl stumbles. But at the last moment, she throws her hands out. She’s safe! Safe. I’ve saved her.

“STAY BACK!”
someone warns. It’s a man’s voice, not a boy’s. “Miranda!”

Then a burst of light blinds me. I squint, raising my hand to shield my eyes. It’s too big, too bright. My first thought makes no sense — a bird? No, it’s the figure of a guy in the light, of the light. Stupid me, it’s a guy
with
a light, standing in front of the tallest angel statue. He isn’t Kurt. Who is he? How does he know my name?

I take a tentative step forward and stumble, barely catching myself from plunging into an open grave. If I’d fallen in, I could’ve broken my neck.

As I push up from the ground, someone screams in the distance. Lucy? Lucy!

I dart behind the nearest crypt, seeking refuge in its deep, thick shadow.

What direction did the scream come from?

I take a step back, another, only to collide with a second man. I yelp, and my first fleeting thought is that an awful lot of people are hanging out at the cemetery tonight.

With relief, I realize it’s probably Kurt — it must be, and the guy with the light is his friend. They’re playing a stupid joke, trying to scare me and Lucy.

Cool, dry hands clamp my forearms, and the man turns me so we can peer at each other in the darkness. He’s towering, debonair. His fair, sharp features look as if they were etched in chalk. He’s not Kurt, not anyone Kurt would hang out with, and too finely dressed to be a groundskeeper or security guard.

The stranger’s eyes glint red, a trick of the moonlight, and when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I try to free myself, but it’s no use. My body won’t cooperate. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Then the stranger’s eyes glint red again, and I forget myself. I forget Lucy. I forget angels. The light is gone. The shadow has seized me.

My veins contract at the formal, slightly southern voice.

“Good evening,” he says.

WHERE DID SHE GO?

Without bothering to make myself ethereal again, I take two steps in the direction of where I last saw Miranda. Then a blow to the back of my head knocks me to the ground. Pain shoots through the base of my skull.

“What have you done?” a resounding voice demands.

Holy crap! It’s Michael. The archangel. The Sword of Heaven. The Bringer of Souls. He must’ve just used the hilt of his sword to strike me down.

“You know better than to reveal yourself!” he thunders. “And in full glory! You changed the natural order. You bid the fiend in.”

“Fiend?” I shift, confused, off-balance. From the other side of the stone wall, I hear a car door shut. Another. “I —”

“Miranda Shen McAllister should be in my charge now,” Michael declares as an engine starts, “my care, and now her very soul is forfeit.”

I hear wheels turning on wet pavement. “I —”

“You have interfered in a way you should not have,” Michael scolds, “and you will
both
pay the penalty.” With that, he vanishes as if he’s wasted enough time with me.

I can’t hear the car, not anymore.

Have I fallen? I must have fallen. Fallen in love. Fallen from grace.