by Anne Riley
“Nephilim,” I say. “I’ve never heard the word before. So a Nephilim—”
“Naphil,” Albert corrects. “Nephilim is plural.”
“So a Naphil was the child of a demon father and a human mother?”
“Lovely thought, isn’t it?” He shoves the Bible back on the shelf. “The Nephilim started out simply as a race of giants. You’ve heard of Goliath, I assume.”
“As in, David and Goliath? Sure.” I remember Sunday school lessons based on that story. Flannel boards with cutouts of little David and monstrous Goliath, and the slingshot David used to bring Goliath down.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Albert says. “Nine feet tall, extra fingers and toes, all that jazz. He was a Naphil. So were most of the Philistines, which were Goliath’s people. Somewhere along the line, the Nephilim became murderous, conscienceless monsters. Most horrible things that happened, a Naphil was behind it. No rhyme, no reason. Just senseless destruction.” He pauses. “Exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from someone with demonic blood in their family.”
“But that blood must have thinned,” I say. “Surely the families would contain more and more humans, and eventually, the Nephilim would die out. Right?”
“Their bodies became more normally sized because of human genetics,” he says. “But unfortunately, their penchant for evil didn’t dilute. The wickedness in their hearts—it wasn’t a physical thing. It couldn’t be tamed by any natural process. So now that you know all this, and given what you know about Nero, would you like to propose a theory as to what, exactly, Nero was?”
My eyes widen. “A Naphil descendant.”
“Correct you are. And he began the Naphil practice of kidnapping hopeless people, giving them a sense of belonging within his inner circle, infecting their souls with sorcery, and then using them for his own despicable purposes. These soul-darkened people were called Mortiferi, and once they were in, they could never get out.”
I tap my lips with my index finger. “Then Nero set fire to Rome, and the Servatores were born. But all they could do was try to reverse time and undo whatever he’d done. They couldn’t stop the Nephilim or the Mortiferi completely.”
“Right,” Albert says. His smile is remorseful. “History would look quite different if they’d been able to do that. But they fought for peace, and they saved as many lives as they could, even though they knew the Nephilim were too powerful to defeat completely. Although…” He grips the back of his neck.
“Although?”
“Some of the Servatores were captured. Tortured for information. That’s why the Nephilim, and now the Mortiferi, are aware of the Pull. They can’t feel it, but they know how it works, and if they see one of us nearby, they assume we’ve sabotaged them.”
“So these people fought evil, even though they knew they’d never defeat it altogether,” I say quietly.
Talk about selfless. Talk about brave.
“If I can be a fraction as devoted to the cause as they were—” Albert swallows, then looks away. “Let’s just say I never feel like I’ve done enough.”
The emotions on his face are rawer than I’ve ever seen them. He lives every day of his life knowing it could be his last, and even then, he wishes he could do more. I’ve never felt quite so lazy as I do right now.
Papa was trying to tell me about all this. He must have planned to reveal his secret—at least, to me—before he died. But then he ran out of time, and all he could do was speak inside my head.
“This is why I was slow to tell you,” Albert says. “They like to remain anonymous. Anyone who knows the details of how they operate is at great risk. Your grandfather was one of the only Servatores they feared, and now that he’s gone…”
“They’re becoming more active,” I finish, and he nods. “But why are they targeting me? Is it just because I’m related to Papa?”
“I don’t know. I thought about it, but if that were the case, it seems they would target your whole family.”
“Right.” I meet his eyes, bolstered by the courage I see there. “You’ll tell me everything from now on?”
“Everything.”
I give him a piercing look.
“I swear it,” he says.
“I’m going to hold you to it.” I pull out my phone and look at the time. “I better get home. Plus, whatever is in this room?” I cough and steady myself on the shelf next to me. “I think it’s about to choke me.”
He gives me a wry look. “Can I drive you home this time, or are you going to shout at me again?”
I press my lips together. If only the Pull could be used to take back stupid, reckless words. “About all those idiotic things I said to you—”
“Life’s too short to judge people by their lowest moments,” he says. “You were angry. If you can forgive me for keeping too many secrets, I can forgive you for running out of my flat with an armed stranger on the loose.”
I pause. “You followed me, didn’t you?”
His expression turns sheepish. “Albert!”
He flings a hand in the air. “The man had a gun, Rosie. You really think I’m going to watch you walk out my front door without making sure you don’t get bloody shot?”
We stare at each other.
“Of course not,” I say quietly, because he wouldn’t. He would rescue me even if I didn’t deserve it.
He huffs in a way that is both maddening and weirdly endearing. “So,” he says, gesturing at himself. “Forgiven?”
“Forgiven. And me?”
His eyes are locked on mine. It feels like he is looking past my flesh into my soul. Finally, in a low, rumbling voice that works its way deep into my bones, he says, “Forgiven. Always.”
TWENTY-THREE
THE HOUSE IS EMPTY WHEN I GET HOME. THERE MIGHT not be sorcery in here, but the grief that settled within these walls on Papa’s death day has taken up permanent residence with my family. It wraps its tendrils around my shoulders the moment I walk through the door, and as I creep down the hallway and into the kitchen, I swear I feel it trace a line of fear down my spine.
There’s fresh coffee in the French press but no sign of anyone to drink it. I look around—for what or who, I don’t know, it’s not like drinking coffee is illegal—and then grab a mug from the cabinet.
Through the window in the back door, I can see the outline of Nana’s gray head as she sits in her favorite wrought-iron patio chair. She’s got her back to the house and a glass of red wine on the table next to her. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to her about Papa, and maybe that makes me a bad person—or maybe it just makes me human. Either way, I’d much rather curl up on the sofa in the sitting room and drink my coffee in silence, staring at the wall and processing everything I learned at the library.
But I can’t. I won’t.
There’s no way I can ignore my own grandmother, regardless of how tired my brain is from the Mortiferi tutorial in the Batcave or how many reruns of Big Brother are probably airing on Channel 5 right now.
So I turn toward the door, take a sip of my coffee (black, because I just don’t have the motivation to search for milk in the fridge), and brace myself for a mostly one-sided conversation.
One day, maybe things will feel normal again.
The kitchen door squeaks when I open it, but Nana doesn’t turn around, so I walk to the chair next to her and drop into it. The hand that isn’t occupied with the mug fiddles with my necklace, tapping the rings together so that they clink softly.
“It feels stupid to ask how you are,” I say.
There’s a rustle of movement as she turns to me. Redness tinges her swollen eyes, and she holds a bunch of tissues so crumpled they’ve practically disintegrated.
“I’m sad. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” She dabs at her eyes with the tissues and then reaches for the glass of wine on the table between us. “You know, I always tried to convince your father to move back here,” she says, lifting the glass to her mouth.
S
he takes a long sip, oblivious to the way my mind is spinning. Nana tried to get Dad to relocate the family? Why did I never hear about this? London would’ve been a cool place to grow up.
“He wouldn’t hear of it, though,” she goes on, puckering her lips a little against the wine’s bite. “Philip was smitten with Nashville the moment he set foot on Vanderbilt’s campus as an exchange student. Smitten with your mother, too,” she adds with a tearful smile. “There was no moving back for him after that.”
I nod, but I have no idea what to say. Dad has told me the story of how he and Mom met probably a million times, but I’ve never heard the part about Nana asking him to move back home.
“I’m proud of him for going to America and getting a good job,” Nana says. “Proud of the beautiful family he’s raised. But selfishly, I think about how much Edward and I missed.”
“I wouldn’t have minded moving here.” I kick off my flip-flops and wiggle my toes in the grass. “I like this city.”
A long pause stretches between us.
Then Nana says, “I’m sorry you didn’t have more time with him,” and without even looking at her I know there are tears spilling down her cheeks. “It wasn’t your father’s fault,” she blubbers, “but all these years I’ve blamed him for staying in America. Blamed him for choosing to live where he was happiest.” She rubs the tissue over her eyes, smearing wetness across her skin. “I never should have indulged those feelings. But I missed you so much when you weren’t here. We both did.”
I reach for her hand as hot tears collect in my eyes. She latches onto my fingers and grips them so tightly it hurts. All she ever wanted was for her family to be whole.
Which is exactly what I’ve wanted ever since we started losing Paul.
“I love you, Nana,” is all I can say. I feel strangely like I’m meeting my grandmother for the very first time. It’s like she’s been a cardboard cutout all these years—just a cheerful old woman who bakes cookies and chats about neighborhood gossip. Yet here she is, clinging to my fingers and sobbing into what used to be a tissue.
She clutches my hand even tighter and says, in a shaky voice, “I love you too, my Rosie. So much.”
We sit like that for a long time, watching fat bumblebees drift from one rose to another. When I was in elementary school, I learned that bumblebees are a miracle of nature because, according to the laws of physics, they shouldn’t be able to fly. Yet every summer, we see them doing the impossible like it’s no big deal.
I’m pretty sure the miracle-bee theory has been disproved, but I like the idea because it reminds me of Albert. He does the impossible every day. Manipulates the laws of time to save others. Servatores throughout history have treated the Pull as a part of their everyday lives. Wake up, eat breakfast, take a shower, fight evil. Go to bed and start over the next morning.
“I want to ask you something,” I say to Nana, and she looks at me. “I have a vague memory of my dad saying that Papa once saved somebody’s life, but the details are fuzzy. Can you remind me what happened?”
I swallow, hoping she won’t notice how nervous I am. It’s not that I don’t believe what Albert told me about Papa—I do. But I somehow need to hear it from someone else, and even though Nana supposedly doesn’t know about Papa’s secret life, she must have noticed something strange.
“Of course.” Her voice is lighter than I’ve heard in days. “It was uncanny how often Edward managed to be in the right place at the right time.”
A shiver ripples up my spine. “So it happened more than once?”
“Oh, yes. He became something of a local celebrity, you know.”
I stare at my toes, where the orange polish I applied last week has begun to chip away. “No, I didn’t know.”
We sit for a moment, listening to the birds flutter through the hawthorn trees. I probably look calm on the outside, but my mind is spinning like crazy, still trying to reconcile the grandfather I thought I knew with this other version of Papa—the one who manipulated time to save others and acted as a father to Albert Shaw. Did he see Albert as a younger version of himself? Did Albert fill the void my dad left behind when he moved to Nashville? I knew Papa, but the Blackheath Savior is a stranger to me.
Fresh tears prick my eyes and I turn my face up to the sky, blinking them back.
“Nana,” I say after a moment, “do you feel like telling any of Papa’s stories? You don’t have to, but I—”
“Oh, my dear, yes! In fact, I’d love to show you the clippings we saved. Just a second.”
She darts into the house and then reappears on the patio before I can get too lost in my head. She’s got a large book covered in faded blue canvas tucked under her arm, and when she sits down with it, her fingers trace the gold filigree along the edges. It’s an instinctive movement, like she’s done it so often she doesn’t even think about it anymore. Some of the filigree has worn off where she’s touched it.
“I must admit, I look at this quite often.” Her weathered hands lift the cover and a musty scent escapes the pages. “Although I haven’t opened it since he left us.”
“Nana,” I say, “it’s okay if you don’t want to—”
“Here’s the first story that printed.” She adjusts her glasses and peers at the paper with laser-like focus. I guess she’s pretty eager for a distraction. “‘Local Man Saves Woman from Falling Scaffolding.’ Oh my, this was a good story.”
She shifts the scrapbook on her lap to give me a better view. There’s Papa, decades younger, giving a satisfied smile. An inset picture shows a young woman being examined by a medic. I squint to read the caption beneath the photo. Eileen Jones of Lewisham was pulled clear of a piece of falling scaffolding by Edward Clayton of Blackheath.
“Amazing,” I murmur. “You must have been so proud.”
Nana gives me a soft smile. “There’s no ‘have been’ about it, my dear. I am so proud, and will be until the day I die.” She clears her throat. “Tell me, dear Rosie. Do you know how I met your grandfather?”
“No,” I say after a moment. Which is weird, because Nana and Papa have always talked about their dating days, going down to the pub and holding hands by the river. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard about the day they met.
“This incident with Eileen Jones on the scaffolding wasn’t the first time he saved someone,” Nana says. “In fact, I’m the first person Edward Clayton ever saved.”
My eyebrows shoot upward like they’re launching into orbit. “Are you serious?”
“I am,” she replies. “Would you like to hear the story?”
I blink at her. “Uh, yeah. I would.” I can’t believe I’ve never heard about this.
Nana adjusts her position on the chair, grimaces through another sip of wine, and says, “It happened when I was twelve. My best friend Abigail and I were walking along the Thames. Abigail’s mother had popped into a shop for some bread, and we were supposed to be waiting just outside the door. Abigail was very disobedient, but I always went along with whatever she did because I admired her so much. So we were playing next to the Thames when Abigail got the bright idea to walk the rail like a tightrope.”
“Uh-oh,” I mutter.
“Exactly. When I saw how brave she looked up there, balancing with her arms out to either side, I had to try it for myself. I made it about five steps before I slipped.”
“And?”
“At the exact moment my feet left the rail, I felt these hands clamp down on my arm. At first I thought it was Abigail, but then I was heaved back over the rail as if I weighed no more than a doll. I didn’t open my eyes until I felt solid ground beneath my back. When I finally looked, your grandfather was staring down at me with the kindest smile I’d ever seen. In that moment I knew I’d never forget his face.” She takes a deep breath. “It still turns my stomach when I remember how it felt to slip off that rail.”
I rub at the goose bumps on my arms. If Papa saved her, she must have died the first time, or at least been seriously injured.
“Did it make the news?” I ask, peering at the scrapbook. Seems like she would have shown me the article if she had it.
“I didn’t report it. Neither did Abigail. We were too afraid we’d get in trouble for not staying put outside that shop.”
Nana clucks her tongue as if scolding her past self for her reckless behavior. “As soon as I stopped shaking, we ran back to the sidewalk where we should have been all along. Abigail’s mother came out about five minutes later, never knowing what we’d been up to. I’m not sure if Abigail ever told her.”
“And what about Papa?” I ask. “Did he just walk away after that?”
“Well, yes. He made sure I was none the worse for wear, and he left. Imagine my surprise when I passed him in the hallway at school the next day.” She laughs, her face alive with the memory. “Even though he was two years older than me, we became fast friends. It was inevitable, really, that we’d fall in love. When someone saves your life, you feel a bit of a connection to them, you know?”
I nod, wondering if it always happens that way—if the first person a Servator saves holds a special place in their heart. What about Albert? Does he share an unbreakable connection with his first save?
The next page in the scrapbook holds another photo of Papa, a few years older than the last one. Blackheath Man Prevents Armed Robbery, the title proclaims. I skim the first paragraph; Papa had alerted police to a suspicious man who, a couple minutes later, pulled a knife on a convenience store clerk. Because the two policemen were already watching him, they were able to subdue him almost immediately.
“The right place at the right time,” I mumble, shaking my head.
“Mm-hmm,” Nana agrees.
The next page holds a story of Papa evacuating a café that later exploded due to a gas leak. Apparently some people accused him of setting that one up, although no one could prove it. In the next story, Papa must have been in his late fifties and had prevented a toddler from falling in front of a train at the London Bridge tube station.