“For now, you must.” Rafe gestured around the field and changed the subject. “This is where we’ll train. Every night, until it’s time.”
Michael finally perked up. “This is where you’ll teach us how to crush them, right?”
Rafe ignored Michael’s show of bravado, and stated the blunt facts. “Neither you nor Ellspeth will ever overpower them. Remember, their nature is pure angel, while yours is only half. So, they have double the power you have. If you can fly fast, they can fly twice as fast, for example. Still, you bear tremendous strength and gifts within your bodies, and used wisely, you’ll be able to destroy the fallen before the final seal is broken. Plus, your humanity has its own unique gifts.”
“If we can’t overpower them, how will we kill them?” Michael persisted impatiently. It seemed that he wanted to bypass the training and get right to the murder part.
“Do you know how you were able to kill Ezekiel? Your father?”
I watched Michael’s bullishness ratchet down a notch at Rafe’s reminder that Ezekiel was actually his father. Michael said quietly, “I pushed him into a steel pole.”
Rafe responded even more quietly. He understood that the destruction of Ezekiel had taken a private toll on Michael, and empathy imbued Rafe’s voice. “That alone wouldn’t have killed him, Michael. The fallen are immortal, except for one flaw.”
Suddenly the words spoken by Tamiel—the angel sent to Boston by my parents to help us—came back to me. “Only one with Ezekiel’s blood in his veins can destroy him,” I blurted out.
Rafe faced me. “Yes, Ellspeth. Only the Nephilim who has the fallen’s blood in his or her veins can destroy him.”
So we needed to have our target fallen angel’s blood coursing through our veins to slay him. How would we go about that? “Ezekiel was Michael’s father. That’s how Michael had Ezekiel’s blood in his veins. We cannot possibly be the children of all the five remaining fallen angels responsible for the signs. How can we get their blood in our veins?”
As the question left my mouth, a memory returned to me. In Boston, Michael told me that Ezekiel was able to track him because Ezekiel’s blood ran in Michael’s veins, and that Ezekiel could track me for the same reason. The reason that Ezekiel’s blood ran in my veins was that I had tasted Michael’s blood. Suddenly, I understood what we needed to do in order to kill the fallen, and Rafe watched my face as it all became clear.
I answered my own question. “We have to spill their blood and drink it.”
Michael looked over at me, horrified and disgusted. “That can’t be right.”
Very calmly and very plainly, Rafe said, “Ellspeth is right. You must draw blood from the fallen and make it your own, before delivering the final blow. You need only taste the fallen’s blood to make it one with yours. I will teach you how to do it. That way, you can destroy the fallen responsible for the end days before it’s too late.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I thought we’d get a breather after that first night. That maybe we’d spend the next few evenings learning more about Nephilim history and the prophecy. That we’d launch into training after some rest and reflection.
After all, I had a million questions, even more than I’d already deluged Rafe with. I yearned for an understanding of how we came into being; who our birth parents were; the scope of our powers; the details of the prophecy; the nature and endgame of these fallen; how we’d find them; what they wanted from us; and, maybe most of all, what would happen if we failed. The list was endless, and the deeper I dug, the more questions I had. I longed for a tutorial at the feet of an angel, and I prayed I’d get one.
I didn’t. There were no academic lectures on Rafe’s agenda on Saturday and Sunday nights. There were no elaborate speeches scheduled for the late night hours. There was only grueling physical instruction—torture, actually. Apparently, Michael and I needed to hone our bodily skills more than we needed to sharpen our angelic knowledge. Me especially.
“Up,” Rafe barked at us on Sunday night, after watching Michael and me race around the field and perform all sorts of exercises for nearly an hour.
Michael and I glanced at each other in confusion, and then back at Rafe. “We’re already up.”
“Not in the air, you’re not.”
Up Rafe flew, and up we went. As we penetrated the lower cloud cover, Rafe yelled out the names of the specific cloud types. He pointed out how the different layers felt on our skin and hair and arms, and showed us how to use that knowledge to gauge the weather and alter our speed accordingly. He also demonstrated how we could use those same clouds as camouflage in the sky. His instruction reminded me of a passage from the Book of Enoch where the humans first learned His mysteries at the behest of an angel.
As we rushed through the last cloud layer straight into the upper atmosphere, Rafe shouted back at us, “The fallen are stronger than you, so you’ll have to use all the nuances of your natures to outmaneuver them. No offense, Ellspeth, but you’ll never outrun them on the ground. You’re too slow and too”—I could almost hear Rafe suppress a laugh—“too intellectual.”
Knowing full well that Rafe actually meant clumsy, I retorted, “Are you sure you’d like me to be the Elect One?”
“He chose you, Ellspeth. Not me,” he answered with that old, impish grin.
That shut me up. I hadn’t given much thought to being handpicked by Him. Why He picked me immediately became the number one question on my growing list.
I heard Rafe’s voice through the wind whipping by my ears. “We’ll have to practice in the skies, where we might get you an advantage. Michael, since I need you by Ellspeth’s side, you’ll have to be airborne as well.”
Rafe instructed us to stay in the air above the ring of fir trees, to hide the use of our powers. The space was relatively small, but it became amazingly large when you used it vertically. We followed his orders to race to the heavens and then plummet downward, to make one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turns, to stop on a dime, and to pivot and swoop in directions I didn’t even know existed. All the while Rafe watched and assessed.
Michael was a natural at whatever feat Rafe asked him to perform. In awe, I watched Michael plunge to the earth with such force I nearly screamed in fear for his life, only to have him back at my side before I blinked. As nimble and athletic as he was on the football field, it was nothing compared to his grace and agility in the sky.
My skills were a different matter.
After one particularly harrowing nosedive, Rafe flew to my side and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s try that again. I’ll fly along with you.”
I got in position, thousands of feet from the ground, and faced downward. Rafe aligned his body with mine, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest. Despite the locale and despite the proximity of Michael, it felt surprisingly intimate.
He whispered in my ear, “Dive.”
Stretching out my arms as if I were about to leap off a board into a swimming pool, I dove headlong. As I gained momentum, Rafe corrected my position, broadening my shoulders, lengthening my arms, and narrowing the gap between my ankles. I felt myself flying faster than ever before, and enjoying it more than ever before.
Almost too much. I forgot to stop.
Fortunately, in the split second before impact, Rafe swung my legs down under me, and ordered, “Hover!”
Amazingly, I floated down the remaining five feet. I didn’t need to grind to a halt or allow myself a hundred feet to put on the brakes. Rafe taught me that the exercise of my powers could be simple.
Time and again, Rafe flew to my side and adjusted my posture or uttered some small tip. By the time I started to see the glimmer of sun in the horizon, I’d mastered most of the skills Rafe set out for us. I’d never match Michael’s stellar performance, but at least I felt like I could hold my own. I was utterly exhausted by my efforts.
We descended to earth, and joined Rafe on the central mound. He issued some instructions about our daytime behavior and ou
r plans to meet the following evening. Before dawn broke, we were about to go our separate ways when Michael piped up. He had been so quiet all night—seemingly focused on impressing Rafe with his aerial tactics—that I was shocked when he asked one of the questions ringing in my head all night.
“Why are you teaching us all this stuff? So we can be strong enough to collect their blood and drink it”—Michael shuddered at the very thought—“before killing them?”
“That is certainly one reason,” Rafe responded, ever careful and enigmatic in his answers.
“What is another reason?” Michael pushed back. I saw that he didn’t like Rafe’s evasiveness one bit, angel or not.
“To avoid Ellspeth’s capture. As I said before, the fallen won’t kill her. They need her.”
For some reason, that idea scared me more than if he’d said they desperately wanted to murder me. Hesitantly, I asked, “What is it that they want from me?”
“The fallen want you to stand by their side at the end. They want to convince you of their views—that they were right to disobey Him in the beginning and that they’ve been justified in defying Him ever since. They will use all methods at their disposal to do so.” He grew uncommonly quiet. “And they have many powerful methods of persuasion.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“They will prey upon your main weakness. Your humanity.”
“Like Kael tried to do to me? By telling me that together we could lessen disease and hunger for humankind?”
“Yes. And the means by which they’ll prey on your humanity will usually tie to the seal that they’re supposed to unlock.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” I wanted to know what Kael would’ve tried next.
“They might try something more overt, like threatening people around you,” Rafe answered. I remembered that Tamiel had said something like this about Ezekiel.
“What if they can’t persuade her?” Michael asked.
“And they won’t,” I said. I thought that nothing could convince me.
“Then they’ll trigger their sign anyway. But they’ll let Ellspeth live. If they can’t sway her, they’ll want one of their kind to succeed in persuading her to the side of the fallen. Whoever is responsible for the next sign will try next. The fallen won’t want Ellie to side against them at the very end.”
“Why? Why do they care if I believe them or not?” It didn’t make sense to me.
“Because the prophecy says that, when the seventh seal is broken and the end days are upon us, the Elect One will judge all earthly beings. With you at their side, they believe that you will judge their decisions and their reign here on earth to be fair.”
“Me? Who would ever believe me to be capable of judging everyone?”
“He does, Ellspeth.”
There was that He again. “So basically, the fallen want me at their side, so I can rig the jury for them?”
“Ellspeth, the fallen no longer want to fall.”
Chapter Twenty-four
As I lay my head down on my enticingly soft pillow on Sunday night, really Monday morning, I glanced over at the clock. It read 5:48. I did a quick calculation and realized that I’d have only seventy-six minutes of sleep before the alarm rang for school.
I figured it wasn’t even worth nodding off for those scant minutes; past experience taught me that sometimes a little sleep was worse than none at all. It left me groggy and ill-tempered. So I lay there, watching the clock change: 5:49 and 5:50. I remembered the clock hitting 5:51 before my mom shook me awake for school at 7:04. She’d never had to do that before.
After my mom left my room, I lifted off my sheets and lowered myself from my high sleigh bed to the floor. Every single muscle in my body ached. No, screamed in pain. What had Rafe done to me? How did he expect me to fight off the fallen in this condition?
Hobbling down the hallway to the bathroom, I prayed that a hot shower and some ibuprofen would take the edge off the agony. I allowed myself a few extra minutes in the steam, and then eased myself out of the shower and into my clothes. My muscles didn’t shriek, at least. Maybe I’d make it through the school day, although I wasn’t too optimistic about another evening of Rafe’s instruction.
When I finally made it down the stairs, I found my mom at the kitchen counter, preparing my usual wheat toast and raspberry jam. Hiding my pain, I chatted with her about the day ahead, as we always did. For the first time since I returned from Boston, it wasn’t hard to make pleasant small talk with her. The anger I felt at my parents’ deceptions had subsided, replaced by empathy. Rafe had helped me to better understand what they’d risked to raise me in what they thought was necessary ignorance.
A honk from Michael’s car interrupted our innocuous conversation. I slung my bag over my shoulder and said good-bye to my mom. A sudden compulsion overcame me, and I spun around and hugged her. No matter what—angel or mortal, fallen or redeemed, birth or adoptive—she was my mom, first and foremost. Who knew when I would next have the chance to embrace her or my dad? I needed to cherish every last second with them.
“Is everything all right, dearest?” my mom asked as I broke away and headed toward the door. She looked concerned.
“Of course,” I said, with the brightest smile I could manage. “Why wouldn’t everything be all right?” Then I waved good-bye.
I eased myself into Michael’s idling Prius. As I leaned over to give him a kiss, I noticed dark circles under his eyes and a pale sheen to his skin. I’d never seen him looking so exhausted.
We had shared many near-sleepless evenings together, but nothing like the last couple of nights. We were accustomed to leisurely flights, followed by long hours of intimacy, not relentless physical torment. With the prospect of more tonight.
My attempts at conversation—of the lighthearted variety recommended by Rafe for any talk outside our protected field—were met by little more than grunts, and I stopped trying after a few minutes. We hadn’t had much chance to talk alone over the weekend and I figured he was still mad at me for springing Rafe on him. Although he didn’t have much right to be angry. Normally, I’d be upset by his coldness, but today, I was so tired myself that I didn’t care. It was a relief to ride to school in silence. Anyway, I felt calmer being near him, regardless of his gruffness.
I barely made it through the day with my facade intact. Normalcy seemed so futile in the face of the coming Armageddon. Only Rafe’s reminder of the importance of appearances kept my eyes from closing during Miss Taunton’s droning on about Edith Wharton. Only his warning against confiding anything to Ruth—for her own protection, he said, as she was already vulnerable—kept me from divulging the latest developments to her over lunch. Instead I listened to forty minutes’ worth of Jamie stories, while struggling to keep my eyes open.
My contact with Michael throughout the day was minimal. Unusually so. Except for a brief meeting at my locker before he headed off to football practice—God knows how he’d manage to make it through Coach Samuel’s notorious drills—I hardly saw him. Truly, all I could think about was an after-school nap, and I guessed he felt the same.
I awoke from it, feeling refreshed and healed. Almost magically so. I had a pleasant dinner with my parents, in which we laughed over some e-mails from a Kenyan colleague from last summer. As we did the dishes together, I couldn’t stop thinking about the story Rafe had told me about the beginning, about all they had sacrificed to regain grace, about all the love and caring they’d given me. After we finished, I hugged them tightly, and excused myself to go upstairs for homework and bed. The entire evening felt like the beginnings of good-bye, and I had to keep my emotions under wraps. For their protection.
I settled into my bedroom, and awaited Rafe.
Over the weekend, Rafe had explained that he didn’t want Michael or me to venture to the field alone. He would be watching over us during the day to ensure that the exercise of our powers hadn’t lured any more fallen. However, he said, it was harder to monitor them—and us—
at night. Hence the escort.
Even though I expected him and even though I watched his arrival on Saturday and Sunday nights, the sight of Rafe’s chocolate hair and inky eyes in the window still startled me. I’d grown used to Michael’s pale hair and green eyes looming outside my windowsill. Resorting to my old tricks, I eased the creaky old window up, and slid out into the night. Fingers crossed that my parents didn’t hear, although for very different reasons than before.
As Rafe explained that he’d already taken Michael to the field, I took his hand, and we lifted off into the pitch-black sky. Even though we’d done nothing untoward, the act seemed very personal to me.
As we coasted over Tillinghast’s little downtown and the university campus, I tried to keep my focus on the familiar landmarks or Rafe’s tutorial on the types of winds through which we were flying. Yet I couldn’t stop some of those initial feelings I’d experienced with Rafe from creeping in. Despite the fact that the angelic Raphael had replaced the human Rafe, and had become a mentor to me in the process, the two Rafes were very similar. They both shared a unique blend of strength and sensitivity, bursts of humor, and a core faith in humankind that was very attractive.
Hands still locked, Rafe and I landed on the field. As we alighted, I watched Michael study me and Rafe, our hands in particular. The scrutiny made me uncomfortable, and I raced over to Michael’s side. Very pointedly, Michael grabbed me for a rough embrace and enveloping kiss. The affection seemed to have little to do with me; he seemed to be sending a message to Rafe. Because, as soon as Rafe looked away, Michael abruptly let go of me.
Rafe seemed impervious to the little display.
“Ellspeth and Michael, tonight we will focus on weaponry.” Rafe gestured around the field. “I’ve assembled a fair representation of readily available armaments.”
We looked at the items spread across the springy grass. Nestled in among the heather, tufts of autumn wildflowers, and green ground cover was an incongruous array of gleaming arms. Axes, knives, spears, and swords sat alongside a host of weapons I’d never seen before. Rafe had a very strange sense of the average, everyday human world if he deemed these items to be “readily available armaments.”
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