Hallowed

by Cynthia Hand

  He turns to look at me, scratches at the back of his neck.

  “This isn’t going to become one of those creepy situations where you show up at all hours of the night to watch me sleep, is it?” he asks playfully.

  “Every moment I’m away from you, I die a little,” I say in return.

  “So that’s a yes, then.”

  “Are you complaining?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow at him.

  He grins. “Nope. Definitely not complaining. I just wanted to know so I can start wearing more than my boxers to bed.”

  That gets a blush out of me. “Well, don’t—uh, change anything on my account,” I stammer, and he laughs and crosses the room to kiss me again.

  We spend a very nice few minutes hanging out on his bed. Nothing heavy, since Tucker still has this notion that since I have angel blood in my veins he should try to keep my honor intact. For a long time we simply lie there, catching our breath. I lay my head on his chest, feeling his heart thumping beneath my ear, and I think for the thousandth time that he is without question the best guy on the planet.

  Tucker takes one of my hands and curls and uncurls my fingers around his. I love the texture of his hands, the calluses along his palms, evidence of all the hard work he’s done in his life, the type of person he is. Such rough hands, but he’s always so gentle with them.

  “So,” he says out of the blue, “are you ever going to tell me what happened the night of the fire?”

  Moment over.

  I guess I knew this question was coming. I was maybe hoping he wouldn’t ask it. It puts me in this terrible position, knowing other people’s secrets, especially when those secrets are all tangled up with mine.

  “I—” I sit up, pull away from him. I seriously don’t know what to say. The words catch in my throat. This must be what it’s like for Mom, I think, keeping things hidden from the people she loves.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, sitting up next to me. “I get it. It’s top-secret angel stuff. You can’t tell.”

  I shake my head. I decide that I am not my mother.

  “Angela’s forming a club, for angel-bloods,” I say as a start, even though I know this isn’t what he asked me.

  This is so not what Tucker thought I was going to say. “Angela Zerbino’s an angel-blood.”

  “Yes.”

  He snorts. “Well, I guess that makes sense. There’s always been something off about that girl.”

  “Hey. I’m an angel-blood. Are you saying there’s something off about me, too?”

  “Yep,” he answers. “But I like it.”

  “Oh, okay, then.” I lean in to kiss him. Then I pull away.

  “Christian is an angel-blood too,” I say, trying to be brave and look him in the face and say it. “I didn’t know until the night of the fire, but he is. A Quartarius. Like me.”

  Tucker’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says in this emotionless voice, and looks away. “Like you.”

  For a long time neither of us speaks. Then he says, “Big coincidence, huh, all these angel-bloods popping up in Jackson?”

  “It was a pretty big surprise, that’s for sure,” I admit. “I don’t know about coincidence.”

  He swallows, and there’s this little click in his throat. I can see how hard he’s trying to play it cool, pretend that the angel stuff doesn’t scare him or make him feel like he’s standing in the way of something more important than him. He’d still step aside, I realize, if he thought he was distracting me from my purpose. He’s already putting on the breakup face. Like he did before.

  “I don’t know what was supposed to happen that night,” I say quickly. “But the fire’s over. I’m moving on with my life.” I hope he doesn’t detect the touch of desperation in my voice, how much I want to make the words true just by saying them. I don’t want to think about the possibility that my purpose could last another hundred years. “So I’m all yours now,” I say, and the words ring false, so terribly false, in my ears. And here I started out determined to tell him the truth.

  Only I don’t know the truth. Or maybe I don’t want to know.

  “All right,” he says then, although I can tell he’s not sure if he believes me. “Good. Because I want you all to myself.”

  “You’ve got me,” I whisper.

  He kisses me again. And I kiss him back.

  But the image of Christian Prescott, standing with his back to me at Fox Creek Road, waiting for me, always waiting, suddenly flashes through my mind.

  When I get home Jeffrey’s out in the yard, chopping wood in the rain. He sees me and nods his head, lifts his arm and wipes sweat from above his top lip with his sleeve. Then he grabs a log, lifts the ax again, and splits it easily. He splits another. And another. The pile of chopped wood at his feet is already pretty big, and he doesn’t look like he’s stopping anytime soon.

  “You deciding to stock up for the whole winter? Can’t wait for the snow?” I ask. “You do know it’s only September.”

  “Mom’s cold,” he says. “She’s in there in her flannel pj’s, wrapped up in blankets drinking tea, and she’s shivering. I thought I’d build her a fire.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s nice of you.”

  “Something happened to her that day. With the Black Wing,” he says, trying out the words. He looks up, meets my eyes. Sometimes he looks so young, like a vulnerable little boy. Other times, like now, he looks like a man. A man who’s seen so much sadness in this life. How is that possible? I wonder. He’s fifteen.

  “Yeah,” I say, because I’ve concluded the same thing. “I mean, he tried to kill her. It was a pretty rough fight.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I think so.” The glory healed her. I watched it wash over her like warm water, taking away the burns, the bruises from Samjeeza’s hands. But thinking about it brings back the image of her dangling from his arm, flailing, gasping for breath as his hand tightened around her throat, her kicks growing weaker and weaker until she went still. Until I thought she was dead. My eyes burn at the memory and I quickly turn away to look at the house so Jeffrey won’t see my tears.

  Jeffrey chops some more wood, and I pull myself together. It’s been a long day. I want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up over my head, and sleep it all away.

  “Hey, where were you that day?” I ask suddenly.

  He goes with playing dumb. “When?”

  “The day of the fire.”

  He grabs another block of wood and places it on the stand. “I told you. I was in the woods, looking for you. I thought maybe I could help.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  He falters and the ax strikes the log unevenly and sticks. He makes a noise like a growl and jerks it out.

  “Why wouldn’t you believe me?” he asks.

  “Um, maybe because I know you, and you’re acting all weird. So where were you? Cut the crap.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.” He throws the ax in the dirt, then gathers an armload of the chopped wood and pushes past me toward the house.

  “Jeffrey . . .”

  “It was nothing,” he says. “I got lost.” Suddenly he looks like he’s the one about to cry. He goes into the house, and I can hear him offering to make a fire for Mom. I stand in the yard until the first curls of smoke drift out of the top of our chimney. I remember his face when he flew out of the trees that night, tight with fear and something like pain. I remember the hollow way he laughed at me when I told him that I saved Tucker, and suddenly I’m all twisted up with worry for him, because whatever he was doing out there that day, my gut tells me that it wasn’t good.

  My brother has his secrets, too.

  Chapter 4

  Freaking Out

  This time in the dream, there are stairs. A set of ten or twelve concrete steps, complete with a black handrail, leading up between two aspen trees. Why would there be stairs in the middle of the forest? And where do they lead to? I grab the rail. It’s rough, the pai
nt flaking off to expose patches of rust. The steps are edged with moss. As I climb I notice I’m wearing nice shoes, Mom’s sensible black pumps, the ones she always loans me for formal occasions.

  I see Jeffrey ahead of me in the trees. Others wait there too, shadowy figures at the top of the hillside, people I recognize: Angela, Mr. Phibbs, Wendy. It feels like they’re all staring at me, and I don’t know why. I glance back, and the heel on my nice shoe catches. I lose my balance on the stairs, almost falling, but Christian’s there again, his hand at my waist, steadying me. For a moment we stare at each other. His body radiates a kind of heat that makes me want to step closer to him.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, and I open my eyes to my bedroom ceiling, a strong cold wind still rattling the trees outside.

  “You’re freaking out,” Angela observes with a mouthful of green bean salad. We’re sitting at a booth in the Rendezvous Bistro in Jackson on a Saturday night, post–action movie, eating salad because that’s all we can afford at this place.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “You are so not fine. You should see yourself.”

  “Well, it sucks, okay? I just wish I knew if it’s a dream or another vision, or what.”

  Angela nods thoughtfully. “Your mom said that some angel-bloods have their visions as dreams, right, while they’re sleeping?”

  “Yeah, she said that, before I started having mine, way back when she was okay with telling me useful information. But I’ve always had my visions while I was awake.”

  “Me too,” Angela says.

  “So it makes me wonder, is this dream thing for real, or is it, you know, the result of bad chow mein at dinner? Is this a divine message, or my subconscious talking here? And either way, what’s it telling me?”

  “See, there you go freaking out,” she says. “It’s messed up, C. You won’t even look at Christian during Angel Club. It’s like you two take turns avoiding each other. I’d find it hilarious if I didn’t find it so totally sad.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

  She cocks her head at me sympathetically. “I like Tucker, Clara. Really I do. He’s a stellar guy, no one would argue with that. But have you considered the possibility that you’re not supposed to be with him? That you’re supposed to be with Christian, that he’s your destiny, that you’re supposed to fly off into the sunset together?”

  “Of course I have.” I put my fork down, not hungry anymore. Destiny can really put a damper on the appetite. “I don’t know why he even cares,” I say.

  “Why who cares? Tucker? Or Christian?”

  “God.”

  She laughs. “Well, that’s the big mystery, isn’t it?”

  “I mean, I’m seventeen years old. Why does He care who I . . .”

  “Love,” she supplies when I don’t finish the sentence. “Who you love.”

  We’re quiet while the waiter refills our drinks.

  “Anyway, you should write this dream stuff down,” she says. “Because it could be important. Check for variations, like you did with your vision. You should ask Christian about it too, because who knows, maybe he’s having the same dream, and if he is, then you can figure it out together.”

  It’s not a terrible idea. Except that I’m not exactly crazy about spilling to Christian that I’ve been dreaming about him.

  “What does your mom say?” Angela asks, gnawing on a bread stick.

  “I haven’t told her about it.”

  She looks at me as if I just told her I’d been thinking of dabbling in heroin.

  “Why should I? She never tells me anything. Even if I did tell her, I’m sure she’d only bury me in platitudes about trusting my feelings and listening to my heart or some crap like that. Besides, we don’t know that it means anything,” I say. “It’s probably just a dream. People have recurring dreams all the time.”

  “If you say so,” she says.

  “Can we talk about something else now?”

  So we do. We talk about the rain, which Angela agrees is excessive. We talk about Spirit Week at school and whether or not it would be fair for us to use our special gifts to win the Powderpuff game on Wednesday. She tells me about this old book she found in Italy this summer that seems to be some kind of angel-blood roster during the seventeenth century.

  “It’s like a group of them,” she tells me. “Congregarium celestial, literally like a herd of angel-bloods. A flock. It’s actually where I got the idea to form the Angel Club.”

  “Anything else interesting happen in Italy?” I ask her. “With, say, a hot Italian boyfriend you’re now going to tell me all about?”

  Her cheeks go instantly pink. She shakes her head, suddenly super interested in her salad. “I don’t have a boyfriend.Italian or otherwise.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It was silly,” she says, “and I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t hound you about Christian, you don’t talk about my nonexistent Italian boyfriend, okay?”

  “You already hounded me about Christian. That’s hardly fair,” I say, but there’s genuine pain in her eyes, which surprises me, so I let it drop.

  My mind wanders back to the dream, to Christian, the way he’s always looking out for me, catching me, keeping me on my feet. He’s become my guardian, maybe. Someone who is there to keep me on the path.

  If only I knew where that path was headed.

  We’re in the parking lot when the sorrow hits me. At least, I think it’s sorrow. It’s not as overwhelming as it was that day in the forest. It doesn’t paralyze me in the same way. Instead it’s like suddenly, in the space of a few minutes, I go from fine, laughing even, to wanting to cry.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Angela asks as we walk to the car.

  “No,” I whisper. “I feel . . . sad.”

  She stops. Her eyes go saucer wide. She glances around.

  “Where?” she says much too loudly. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t tell.”

  She grabs my hand and pulls me through the parking lot toward the car, walking fast but trying to stay composed, like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t ask me if she can drive my car; she goes straight to the driver’s seat, and I don’t argue. “Put on your seat belt,” she orders me once we’re both inside. Then she floors it out of the parking lot and onto the street. “I don’t know where to go,” she says in a half-terrified, half-excited rush. “I think we should stay somewhere well-populated, because he’d have to be crazy to obliterate us in front of a bunch of tourists, you know, but I don’t want to go too close to home.” She does a quick check of the mirrors. “Call your mom. Now.”

  I fumble in my purse for my phone, then call. Mom picks up on the first ring.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.

  “I think . . . maybe . . . there’s a Black Wing.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the car, on 191, driving south.”

  “Go to the school,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”

  It’s the longest five minutes of my life before Mom lands in the parking lot at Jackson Hole High School. She gets in the back.

  “So,” she says, reaching up and feeling my cheek like sorrow is some kind of fever, “how do you feel?”

  “Better now. I guess.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  She turns to Angela. “How about you? Did you feel anything?”

  Angela shrugs. “Nothing.” There’s an edge of disappointment in her voice.

  “So what do we do now?” I ask.

  “We wait,” Mom says.

  So we wait, and wait, and wait some more, but nothing happens. We sit in the car in silence, watching the windshield wipers push the rain off the glass. Occasionally Mom asks me how I’m doing, which is hard to answer in any clear way. At first, what I feel most is terrified that any second now Samjeeza’s going to show up and murder us all. Then I downgrade to just plain scared—that we’re going to have
to run now, pack up and leave Jackson, and I’ll never see Tucker again. Finally I arrive at mildly freaked out. Then embarrassed.

  “Maybe it wasn’t sorrow,” I admit. “It wasn’t as strong as before.”

  “It would surprise me if he came after us so soon,” Mom says.

  “Why?” Angela asks.

  “Because Samjeeza’s vain,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “Clara mangled his ear, burned his arm and his head, and I don’t think he’ll want to show his face until he’s healed, which is a long process for Black Wings.”

  “I would have thought they could heal quickly,” Angela says. “You know, like vampires or something.”

  Mom scoffs. “Vampires. Please. Black Wings take a long time to heal because they’ve chosen to cut themselves off from the healing forces in this world.” She touches my cheek again. “You did the right thing, getting out of there, calling me. Even if it wasn’t a Black Wing. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  Angela sighs and looks out the window.

  “Sorry,” I say. I turn to Mom. “I guess I’m kind of on edge.”

  “Don’t be,” she says. “You’ve had a lot to deal with.”

  She and Angela switch places. Then she pulls out of the school parking lot and onto the road, heading back toward town.

  “What do you feel?” she asks as we pass the restaurant.

  “Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Except I have a feeling I might be losing my mind.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether this is a false alarm or not. Samjeeza will come after us, Clara, eventually. You’ll need to be ready.”

  Right.

  “How does one get ready to be attacked by a Black Wing, exactly?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Glory,” she says, which immediately gets the told-you-so look on Angela’s face. “You learn to use glory.”

  “Hey, I think I see a flicker,” Christian says, startling me. “You’re doing it.”