The clatter in the kitchen resumed and I plucked up my courage to talk to the girls.
“Do any of you speak English?”
A few picked up their heads to look at me then, but no one spoke.
“English? Anyone?”
I waited for what seemed like an eternity. Eyeing the open kitchen door, I slid across the carpet, clutching at the hem of my dress as I inched closer to the huddle of girls.
“Are you being kept captive here? Please tell me. I can help you,” I half-whispered, worried I might be overheard.
Nothing. I searched their faces, and they looked away as if ashamed.
“Please talk to me. I want to help.”
The girl in front of me, pigtails in her hair, reached out and squeezed my hand. She put her finger to her lips and made a shushing sound to quiet me.
They’re too scared to talk to you, Henri piped up. As they should be. This is a waste of time. The sooner you get out of here, the better.
Ignoring him, I decided to take a different tack.
“Has anyone here seen a girl named Maria? Or one named Jimena?”
A slow murmur went through the group as I scanned their faces. Excitement shot through me at the thought that they recognized those names.
One girl lifted up her hand and pointed into the kitchen.
“In there? Maria is in there?”
She didn’t move, just pointed again with emphasis.
I wasn’t thinking. All I knew was that if Maria was in there, I had to get her out of there, out of the clutches of the evil woman who was holding all of these girls hostage. I looked around the room, searching for anything that I could use as a weapon.
Nothing.
Suddenly, the sounds from the kitchen stopped, and everything became deathly quiet.
I stood up and tiptoed to the doorway, craning my neck around to see.
The kitchen was empty. A pot of water was bubbling away on the stove, steam rising up to make little wreaths above the pan.
Through the galley of the kitchen, I could see two doors, both closed. One was bolted again from the outside. I snuck over to it and looked: it was padlocked. I looked around the kitchen again, quickly, but could find no key. I knocked softly, careful not to draw attention, but no one answered.
Through the door I could hear the older woman screaming at someone. The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the thin door, followed by low whimpering.
The other door, though, was unlocked. I slipped in and found myself in another corridor that seemed to wind its way back toward the gambling salon. I walked a few paces, and then froze. I could hear voices coming from the other end, where the card table was, echoing against the bare marble floor. I clung to the wall, trying to listen around the corner.
“Your niece—do you have others like her?” asked a man with a clipped British accent—Chen.
There was silence. Chen continued. “Would you like others? We can make some introductions, of course, but we will need to check your connections before we proceed any further.”
When I heard my father’s voice—or rather, Michael’s voice—responding, my heart stopped. “Ask around. You’ll find nothing. I run my own operations. Clean, with plenty of money. The Mexicans have gotten sloppy in Atlanta. They’re drawing too much attention from the Feds, and even the state legislature is grumbling about taking action. If you don’t partner with me now, your pipeline there will go down with them.”
“A dire threat, Mr. Carmichael,” the man responded, chuckling. “I don’t respond well to threats.”
I could picture Michael shrugging off Chen’s warning. “Not a threat. Just a statement of fact. You’ll find me a willing and generous partner, but not a patient one. You have forty-eight hours.”
Chen barked out a laugh. “Willing and generous and also bold. We will make our inquiries. If you check out, you may join us Sunday night.”
“Sunday night?”
“We hold a location away from the Strip, closer to our operations. We will be playing there for much higher stakes than are possible here. If you check out, Tung will contact you to make arrangements.”
I’d been listening so intently to their conversation that I’d forgotten to pay attention to what was going on behind me. Suddenly, rough hands yanked my hair and neck as a torrent of machinegun-fire Chinese began echoing in the hall.
“Get off of me!” I screamed, flailing uselessly against my assailant.
The grip around my neck tightened, and I was whirled around and pushed up against the wall to face the older Chinese woman who’d been minding the girls. She raised her hand and struck me, never ceasing her tirade, never loosening the choke hold that was cutting off my precious oxygen. In the background, I could hear people running and shouting in the halls.
I watched her cold, angry eyes as she struck me again, a look of triumph stealing across her face as she slowly strangled me. I struggled, but I could feel the breath seeping out of me, and I started to feel dizzy. The screaming and crying all around me started to sound far away, and I felt myself falling to my knees. Slowly my vision started to fade in on itself, turning to black.
“Let her go. Now.”
It was my father’s voice, but not his voice. Michael. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman who was strangling me let me loose. I dropped to my knees, hard on the floor. I choked for air, wheezing and coughing as I crawled about, trying to get up.
A warm hand grabbed me roughly under the shoulder and jerked me up.
“I told you, no trouble.” He shook me, hard.
I looked up, still trying to catch my breath, and all I saw in Michael’s eyes was anger. He hadn’t let go of my arm, which burned where his fingers dug into me.
“You’ve embarrassed me in front of my new associates.”
Over his shoulder, I could see Chen and Tung, their faces masks as they watched Michael shame me. I was furious.
“I—”
“Enough!” he shouted, and my eyes flew wide open. He’d never spoken to me like that. Never.
He wheeled me around to face the men. “I apologize for her behavior.”
Chen nodded his assent and then cleared his throat. Tung took that as his cue.
“I think it is best that you and your niece leave now, Mr. Carmichael,” Tung said, his expression stony.
Michael’s jaw tensed. “Of course.” He pushed me ahead of him, back through the hallway and the kitchen toward the main door, not caring that I stumbled. I thought I understood what he was trying to do—I hoped I understood it, anyway—or else I would have stood my ground. But I knew I had to let him humiliate me in this way. I looked around the living room. If anything, the girls looked more terrified than when I’d come in.
“Go,” Michael said tersely from behind. Chen’s executive host was standing at the door. He looked away, refusing to meet my eyes, and I knew that he had seen everything. He wordlessly opened the door for me, and I limped through, feeling the heat from Michael’s body radiating behind me.
The door slammed behind us and Michael pushed roughly past me, grabbing my hand to drag me along.
“Michael,” I whispered furiously as he rushed me down the hallway.
“Not now.”
We made our way through the salon, which was eerily quiet. Wordlessly, we slipped into the elevator.
“Clean yourself up,” he said brusquely. I looked at my reflection. My hair had fallen out of its intricate style, and the strap of my dress was falling down my shoulder. Big red welts had formed on my neck, welts that would be sure to turn to bruises. It wasn’t worth jeopardizing our plan to find Maria to stand up to him here. Silently, I pulled all my hair loose, doing my best to straighten it with my fingers, and I pushed up the strap.
We wound our way back through the casino, Michael stalking in brooding silence the entire way. He paced angrily as we waited for the valet to bring the car, and he practically threw me into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.
We p
ulled away from the curb in a squeal of burning rubber.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his pretense of anger to fall away as we left the casino. But I waited in vain. His forehead was throbbing again, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped and regripped the steering wheel.
This isn’t an act, Henri whispered to me urgently. Be careful.
I tucked my legs under me, trying to make myself as small as I could in the seat. Through my eyelashes, I watched his nostrils flare as he took deep breaths, as if he was trying to calm himself.
We rode in silence all the way back to the hotel. He pulled up to the curb and bounded out of the car, practically running over the valet as he stormed off. The valet gallantly helped me out.
“Rough night at the tables?” he asked, smiling knowingly.
I nodded quickly, embarrassed, hoping that he wouldn’t notice how disheveled I was.
When I found Michael back in our room, he had transformed out of my father’s guise. He’d dressed casually, in a T-shirt and jeans, and was holding my cell phone up to his ear. He ended his call with an emphatic push of the button and turned on me. His eyes were stormy, and he seemed to bite his words as he spoke to me.
“Your mother has been calling. We’re running out of time, Hope, and your stunt tonight didn’t help.”
All of the anger I’d been holding back while in public came into my voice. “Stunt? What stunt? I was trying to find Maria, like we planned.”
His eyes flashed. “Hope, there was more going on in that room than you realize. I sent you back there to keep you safe, not to snoop around.”
“But those girls—”
“Those girls were exactly what we suspected,” he interrupted, beginning to pace again. His T-shirt clung to his back, highlighting every bit of tension in his shoulders. “We have to be very careful, Hope. These men are dangerous. They are powerful and used to having their every whim catered to. That octagonal room? Deliberately made for them that way because eight is a lucky number in Chinese culture. Those artifacts? Probably stolen from some museum and bought on the black market.
“The only reason I got into that game is because I happened to know that four at the table is unlucky to them. The fact that I knew anything about Chinese culture intrigued Chen enough to let me into the game.
“Losing that money to him? Deliberate. Because Chen and Tung are our traffickers, Hope. Chen’s the ringleader, and Tung is his goon. I need them to let their guard down with me, think they can manipulate me. And we need them to believe that I’m a trafficker, too. I can’t have them thinking you disobey me. I can’t have them thinking you aren’t afraid of me. I can’t have given them any reason to think I’m not the real deal.”
He sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed and held his head in trembling hands.
See? Henri said pointedly. See how the littlest thing can set off his rage? See how his pain is getting worse? It is because he is disobedient to God. It is because you are still alive. Tread carefully, my girl. This nonsense with the kidnapped girl has to stop. You must focus on the Prophecy before he can no longer control himself.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Michael looked up, startled.
“You’re sorry?”
I nodded, not sure if there was anything I could say that would make it better.
Michael took a deep breath and smiled ruefully, just enough to deepen his dimple. When he spoke again, his voice was rough.
“It is I who should be apologizing. I just need to keep you safe.”
I nodded again, eager to soothe his anger. “I know. For the Prophecy.”
He tilted his head and looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said softly. “For the Prophecy.”
I stood uncomfortably, unable to break his gaze.
“We’re going to have a busy day tomorrow, so you’d best get some rest.” With that he stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He opened the door and paused. “Sweet dreams, Hope,” he said quietly, being careful not to look at me. And then he was gone. There was a blinking light on the side table: my cell phone. He’d deliberately left it for me, and he’d left it where I’d be sure to see it.
I picked it up. He was giving me a choice.
I turned the power off and tucked it away in my backpack.
twelve
Michael roused me from bed with the rising sun, pushing the curtains roughly aside to let in the glare.
“We need to get a move on. We have a bit of a drive.” He was moving about the room restlessly. I scooted back against the headboard, wondering whether he was still angry with me.
“A drive? To where?” I asked through my yawn as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“We’re going out to St. George. All the crazy crystal-toting people think Sedona is the spiritual center of the universe, but St. George is where we need to go. You have twenty minutes. Dress for a hike. You’ll find some new clothes in the closet. I’ll meet you in the car out in front.”
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling away from the hotel. Michael shoved a paper bag at me. “Croissants from the Beat. And there’s a latte for you, too.”
My stomach growled, accusing me over the dinner I’d missed last night, and I gratefully took the bag. I looked at him cautiously, trying to gauge his mood as I stuck my nose into the bag, inhaling the scent of fresh pastry. He no longer seemed angry. In fact, the further we drove, the more visibly relaxed he became. Only the tightness around his eyes gave away the fact that he was still battling the pain.
“Thanks,” I said, picking up the steaming latte from the cup holder and inhaling the fragrant aroma. “Mmm.”
As soon as we were on the interstate, he abandoned the guise of my father, which seemed to cheer him even more. We were headed toward Salt Lake City, winding through desolate landscapes that seemed to scrape the blue sky. Without a cloud to be seen, the brightness was otherworldly. I fumbled for my sunglasses, wanting to drink in every aspect of the terrain as we drove.
“Why are we going to St. George? Is that where the Librarian is?”
Michael nodded. “At the dawn of Christianity, monks used to stay out in the desert, sometimes for years, trying to provoke visions and become closer to God. Their asceticism helped, of course, but there are places in deserts where the Heavens touch the earth. Those are special places where the boundaries between men and angels blur. It is in one of those places where we will find the Librarian.”
“How do you know he is there?” I asked, my curiosity aroused.
Michael shrugged. “He is always there. The only question is whether he will allow himself to be found.”
“You mean he might not want to help us?” I looked anxiously at Michael, but I couldn’t read his eyes through his sunglasses.
“He will,” Michael asserted, his jaw becoming stern. “He will.”
I pulled off a piece of my flaky croissant and popped it in my mouth. A moan escaped me—I’d not realized how hungry I was. Michael laughed out loud. For a moment I remembered, sadly, the way he’d made fun of my appetite when Jessica Smythe had fallen into his arms, back when we had been friends. I pushed aside the memory and kept questioning him as I chewed.
“Why do you call him the Librarian?”
“It is an appropriate title for the one who has been appointed to document the history of the Heavens, wouldn’t you say?”
I rolled this over in my mind.
“Is the Librarian Enoch?”
Michael looked over at me, a half-smile of surprise on his face. “Not much gets by you, does it?”
I was oddly pleased by his praise, and blushed. “He is the only one I’ve heard of writing that much about the angels.”
Michael turned back to the road and continued. “Yes, the infamous Book of Enoch. Though the versions you have here on earth are false and corrupt, the ideas you have of Enoch documenting our history and of his skills as a prophet are well founded.”
/> “What parts of the book aren’t true?” I asked, curious.
Michael seemed to tense. Just for a moment, his posture became rigid.
“Most of it.”
“Even the Book of the Watchers?” I asked, remembering my father’s lessons about the coupling of Fallen Angels and mortal women and their ill-begotten offspring.
His jaw tensed. Staring ahead, he answered, “Nonsense. There never were Nephilim. It is not possible.”
I decided to change the subject. “Why not just call him Enoch?” The moonlike scenery was a blur outside my window now, but I was too fascinated by what Michael was telling me to care.
Michael seemed to relax again. “You remember that Enoch was taken up into Heaven by God?”
“Yes,” I said, impatient to hear the full story. “And he was transmuted into an angel.”
“He had to renounce his human life to become angelic, and that included the renunciation of his name. Names are important. They signify more than just your lineage; they carry history and meaning in them. For him to take a new life, he had to cast away the old. Do you understand?”
I hesitated. “I think so. Sort of like how there are so many different names for Jesus in the Bible? Or how some people take new names when they are baptized or confirmed?”
“Exactly.”
I crumpled the empty bag that had held my croissant, letting my attention wander to the steep canyons and scrubby vegetation passing by my window.
“Michael?” I asked absentmindedly after a few minutes of silence had passed. “Who is the Librarian documenting history for?”
“For whoever should need it,” he responded vaguely.
“Like us,” I said. Michael did not answer.
I nestled myself into the seat. Michael seemed so different today, almost as if yesterday hadn’t happened. I was wary—he was capable of increasingly volatile mood swings—but I had to admit that I liked how relaxed he seemed. It felt comfortable, like how things were before. I eased further back into the seat, wondering what had changed to make him seem so calm.
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