The Dark Divine (23 page)

Jude shot up from the swing. “Then that monster is a liar as well as a thief and a murderer.”

“Murderer?” I backed away and almost fell off the porch. “I don’t believe you. You’re jealous of him. You’re jealous of the way Dad believed him over you. You can’t stand that Dad and I want him to be a part of this family again. You’re even making crazy accusations against me. How can I believe anything you have to say?”

“Then you ask him,” Jude said. “Go ask your precious Daniel about the night he tried to take that coat from me. Ask him what he did with all the money he stole. Ask him what really happened to those stained-glass windows in the parish. Ask him what he
really
is.” Jude slammed the swing into the wall. “You ask
him what it felt like when he left me for dead.”

“What?” I stumbled backward and caught myself with the railing. It felt like the wind had been knocked right out of my chest. “No …”

He lunged off the porch and ran down the driveway.

“Jude!” I shouted after him. But he didn’t stop. He kept on running—so fast I couldn’t follow—until he disappeared into the night.

AROUND TWO IN THE MORNING

Once I had this blouse. It was emerald-green with smooth, expensive-looking buttons. Even though it was on sale, Mom said it cost too much. But I wanted it, so I made a deal with Mom and gave up two whole months of Saturday nights for babysitting so I could pay her back. I earned the shirt just in time to wear it to Pete Bradshaw’s sixteenth birthday party. I was asked to dance by five different guys. But later that evening, I noticed a thin green thread hanging from the sleeve. I tried to tuck it into to the cuff, but it kept falling out again. It seemed to get longer each time, so I finally pulled at it and tried to break it off for good. But when I yanked, the entire sleeve split up the seam to the shoulder, and I was left with a gaping hole in my favorite new shirt.

I felt that way now about my life. I’d pulled, or
pushed, or picked, or yanked too hard, and everything seemed to be coming apart at the seams. Actually, my brother was the one who was falling apart, and all I knew is that it was my fault—and I didn’t know how to fix it. Jude used to be a saint compared to most teenage guys, so what could have possibly caused him to make up such hurtful lies about Daniel?

Jude
had
to be lying
, I tried to tell myself over and over again.

He was flinging accusations in every direction, hoping one would stick. The things he said couldn’t be anything but lies.

How could I feel the way I did about Daniel otherwise?

I heard Jude tell April that my father knew what Daniel had done. But Dad wouldn’t let Daniel anywhere near us if Jude’s lies were true. And I knew that he didn’t hurt Maryanne—he loved her—and he didn’t steal James. I was with Daniel in the woods. He
saved
James. He was a hero. He may not think so. Jude may not think so. But I knew it. And if I could just get to the truth, I could help Daniel become the person I saw in him—the person I loved. And then Jude would see him, too. They could be friends again—brothers. I could still fix them both.

But as I lay in bed, I felt like I was floating in Jude’s and Daniel’s words.

I’m no hero. No one can love me
.

Monster, liar, thief, murderer
.

Monster. Jude had called Daniel a monster.

Urbat? Hound of Heaven? Look it up, Grace
.

I sprang out of bed and over to my desk, yanked the cord out of the phone, and plugged it into my computer. My parents had given me Dad’s old desktop with the stipulation that I wasn’t to access the Internet from my room. Web surfing was strictly reserved for the computer in the family room, where Mom could check the browsing history on a regular basis. But tonight was an exception. I had to know something. And I didn’t want anyone to see what I was doing.

I waited for the computer to boot up and then logged on to the Internet. I pulled up Google and typed in “Hounds of Heaven.” The cursor turned into a little hourglass and I waited more. Finally, the page pulled up several references to the
“Hound
of Heaven”—all were about a poem some now-dead Catholic guy wrote about how the grace of God chased down the souls of sinners. Interesting, but not what I was looking for. Did I really expect there would be a website dedicated to Daniel’s secret colony of ancestors?

I was about to log off when I had another idea. I deleted my search. I started to type
U-r
… and then the words
Urbat, Sumerian
popped up in the search bar. Someone else had used my computer to look up the Urbat. I clicked on search, and a list of
Sumerian-to-English dictionaries appeared up on the screen. One was highlighted in purple while the others were still blue. I clicked on it and found a list of Sumerian words for all sorts of things from vampires, to destroyers, to evil spirits. I scrolled down farther, scanning the words until I saw one I recognized.

Kalbi. Daniel’s last name. English meaning: dogs.

Did that prove Daniel’s claim? Dogs were hounds, after all. But then I scanned farther down the list and found another familiar word.

Urbat
.

I looked over at the English translation. It wasn’t “Hounds of Heaven.”

I gasped for air. I wasn’t floating in words and accusations anymore. I was sinking. Sinking deep, and I couldn’t breathe.

Urbat … Dogs of Death.

Daniel had lied. He’d lied, and Jude knew it. It was something so small—just the meaning of a name. But if Daniel had thought he needed to lie about that, then what else wasn’t he telling me?

That monster is a liar as well as a thief and a murderer
.

Could there be a shard, no matter how tiny, of truth to what Jude had said? Was Daniel really capable of those things? Whatever had happened between Daniel and Jude must have been pretty awful for my brother
still to be so hurt and angry after all these years. But attempted murder?

I needed to talk to Daniel myself. I needed to ask him what had really happened. It was the only way I knew how to help them. It was the only way to mend the pieces back together.

SUNDAY EVENING

Two days later, I slipped the key into the lock of the basement apartment door at Maryanne Duke’s house. I’d knocked and knocked, but nobody answered. It was better this way. Daniel might not let me in otherwise. The lock turned over, and I nudged open the door.

I glanced back up the narrow set of cement stairs that led down to the apartment. I’d skirted around the front porch—where I’d stood so many times with Maryanne—and gone straight to the apartment’s entrance in the back of the house. It felt weird to be so close to where Maryanne had died—almost like she was watching.

Like
something
was watching.

I couldn’t help thinking about what Lynn Bishop, who hadn’t stopped talking all through Sunday school this morning, had said about three different families’
pets going missing over the weekend. All of them lived in Oak Park.

I stepped inside and rebolted the door behind me.
Am I crazy for being here?

It was the only solution I could think of. Daniel hadn’t come to the house again since Friday. I didn’t expect he would. Not after what happened when we kissed. And there was no way we could have this conversation at school. But still, it was getting dark, and I’d just let myself into a guy’s apartment uninvited. And not just any guy—a superpowered guy my brother accused of being a murderer.

I shook off that thought and put my backpack on the kitchen table. I put the key in my pocket. Maryanne had given it to me two weeks before when I helped her clean the apartment after her last renter had moved out. I hadn’t remembered to return it before she died.

I scanned the studio apartment. The only signs of Daniel in this place were the duffel bag and dirty laundry strewn across the powder-blue sofa bed, a couple of dishes in the sink, and an open box of plastic utensils on the kitchenette counter. Everything else about the room was the epitome of
grandmother:
carpet the color Maryanne called “dusty rose” but I always thought of it as “puke pink,” and wallpaper dotted with tiny daisies of the same hue. And no matter how hard I’d scrubbed, this apartment always smelled overwhelmingly like old person—like dust and decay.

I opened my backpack and pulled out a brown paper sack and two Tupperware containers. I opened the fridge. It was empty. Hopefully, that would work to my advantage. I pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard over the microwave and wondered how long I should wait before I started to put things together. But then a shadow crossed in front of the window. I sat at the table, trying to look natural—but really trying to hide the fact that my knees had started to wobble.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should go. I heard a key in the lock.
Too late
.

The door swung open and closed. Daniel threw his keys on the sofa bed and kicked off his shoes. He sloughed off his coat and pulled his shirt up over his head.

I gasped.

Daniel whirled around and crouched, as if ready to pounce. His eyes flashed when he saw me. He dropped his shirt and straightened up. “Grace?”

“Hi.” My voice wavered.

His stomach muscles tensed. He brushed the stone pendant that lingered between his defined pecs. I couldn’t help noticing the way his long, lean muscles and untamed hair made him look like a wild, powerful animal. For one small second, I wished he
had
pounced on me.

“What are you doing here?” Daniel didn’t sound pleased.

I stood up. “I brought supplies.” I pointed at the brown paper sack.

He raised one eyebrow.

“Linseed oil and varnish.”
Why is my voice so shaky?
“You keep promising to show me that technique, but you never deliver.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He held his hand over his pendant, pressing it against his chest. “Not after … And your parents … Does anyone know you’re here?”

I swallowed hard. “I brought dinner, too.” I pulled the lids off the containers. “I’ve got pork chops and rice and Mom’s turkey à la king.”

Daniel stepped closer. “That’s nice of you, Grace.” He stepped back again. “But you need to go.”

“You want one or the other? Or some of each?”

Daniel opened the paper sack on the table and pulled out the bottles. I was surprised he hadn’t put his shirt back on, but something fluttered inside of me because he didn’t.

“Some of each then?” I scooped out the leftovers. “I thought we could eat and then get started. I’ve got a couple of Masonite boards in my bag.”

Daniel wrapped his long fingers around the neck of the oil bottle—strangling it.

I picked up the plates and backed away to the kitchenette. I put one plate on the counter and turned toward the microwave with the other. But the microwave was something from the dawn of the modern age, with dials
instead of buttons. “How do you work this …?” I turned back toward the table, but Daniel was suddenly beside me. My eyes were level with the lean, all-too-capable muscles in his chest.

“You don’t have to do this.” He grasped my wrist.

I dropped the plate. It crashed between our feet. Shards of glass and grains of rice scattered across the linoleum floor.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll clean it up.” I tried to pull out of his grip as I bent down, but he didn’t let go.

He drew me up. “I can do it.”

“No, it’s my fault.” I trembled in his grasp. “I’ll clean it up.” I looked around, as if searching for a broom. “And then I’ll get out of your way.”

Daniel released my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my wrist. “But it’s late, and I should get home.” I was being a chicken. I was failing. But at that moment I knew the truth might be more than I could handle. “We can do this another time.”

“Grace, what’s going on?” He placed his hands on my hips.

I looked down at the mess between our feet. “I forgot that I needed to do something.”