He knitted his brow together. “It doesn’t have to end that way, Hope. But it all rests on your understanding of the Prophecy. You and Michael are not so far ahead of the ones who are pursuing you. The others will come. They know you defeated Lucas in battle. He will rally them, and they, too, will demand that I tell them what you have heard today. And no doubt they are looking for you even now.”
Icy fear gripped my chest. “How can Lucas rally them? He’s dead!”
He simply shook his head. “Angels are immortal, my dear. They can be beaten, but only God can wipe them from existence. Not even God’s own warrior can do that. That is why the battle over humankind is so bitter. Neither side will ever give up because neither side will ever really lose.”
He looked quizzically at me. “Did Michael let you think Lucas was dead?”
I nodded, confused. The Librarian seemed to read my mind.
“It was probably easier for him that way. You are a brave girl. Perhaps he needed to be sure you heeded that which you should fear.”
He leaned heavily onto his walking stick, hoisting himself up from his rocky perch and reaching into his cargo pants. He pulled out a crumpled-up ball of notebook paper and handed it to me. I smoothed it out and saw ancient, foreign words scratched against the blue lines, the hastily scrawled English translation squeezed into the margins. It was the Prophecy.
That something so precious would be written on normal notebook paper seemed wrong. Suddenly, the paper felt fragile and dry. I held it in my hand, afraid that if I gripped it too tight it would crumble away, leaving me to figure out my fate on my own.
Enoch’s hand lingered on mine, and he squeezed my fingers in his as he closed my hand around the paper. “You remind me of my granddaughter, do you know that? She was a brave one, too. Spirited. It’s what makes me glad to see you working with Michael. You will keep him on his toes.”
He patted my hand before letting it go. I felt oddly choked up, as if I was preparing to part from an old friend.
“Your roles are written, Hope. It is up to the both of you to find them.” He clasped my shoulder with one of his ancient hands and squeezed. “Now go to Michael. He is beyond the rocks, and he is in need of you.”
I turned around. “Over there?” I asked. I peered out through the rocks but could see nothing. I turned back to face the old man, hoping for an answer, but when I did, he was gone. All the proof I had that he had even been here with us was the grubby, worn-out piece of paper I gripped in my hand.
A shadow flitted over me and I suddenly felt chilled. I looked up, expecting to see a large cloud marring the bright blue sky. There was nothing. The cold feeling stayed with me as I went to find Michael.
We rode back to Las Vegas in silence. Not even Henri interrupted my thoughts as I stared at the illegible foreign words scratched across the paper I’d carefully smoothed out in my lap, comparing them to the English in the margins. A few times, I asked Michael what he thought this word or that meant, what the Key might actually be, but he seemed too lost in his own thoughts to respond.
Finally, he simply said, “It’s not my strong suit, puzzling things out. Surely you must know that about me by now.” He sighed, resigned, and began fiddling with the buttons of the radio.
We settled back into companionable silence, listening to whatever happened to come through the speakers. I thought about everything the Librarian had said about Michael’s loneliness and about how we were here, together, because of fate. For an instant, it almost felt like we were back in Atlanta and were simply driving home after school.
Forgetting myself, I reached for his hand and he flinched, snatching his hand away from me.
I drew my hand back as if I’d been burned. Tears stung my eyes as I turned to stare out the window.
Never forget, he is the reason you are in danger, I chided myself. Never forget.
We passed the rest of the drive in silence, me straining as far away from him as the seat belt would allow, my eyes fixed on the unending ribbon of asphalt passing by outside my window.
As we approached Las Vegas, Michael cleared his throat. “I’ll have to change back now. To your father,” he added, in case I had forgotten.
“Okay,” I said, refusing to look at him.
“I thought we might swing through downtown to see if we spot Maria?” He turned the statement into a question, speaking tentatively, as if he was unsure I would accept his offer of a truce, his gesture of unspoken apology.
“Sure,” I said, still not moving. “Thank you.”
In the twilight, we cruised the old neighborhood, driving past abandoned homes, boarded-up shops, and parking lots full of weeds. Here and there, huddled against the coming night, groups of women and girls stood waiting for some sort of relief. But their work was just starting, I knew. They would get no relief tonight.
I scanned their faces, knowing in my heart that I would not find Maria among them, just the echo of that same sadness in their eyes.
When we pulled up to the hotel, Michael idled the car.
“Let me see your phone,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
“Are you going to take it away from me again?” I asked. “I haven’t tried to call for help all day.”
“Please don’t argue with me,” he said. “This is important.”
I bit my lip, but I burrowed into the backpack at my feet, drew it out, and handed it to him. He checked the messages before returning it to me.
“It’s a message from your mom,” he said, quietly. “We’ll have to get rid of your phone after you’ve listened to it. I should have taken care of it long ago.”
He slid out of the car, leaving me to listen to the message while the valet milled about.
“Happy birthday, Hope!” Mom’s cheery voice chirped from the other end. “I wanted to surprise you so I cut my trip short. I’m on my way from the airport, honey. I should be home in no time at all. Sweet Sixteen, can you believe it? Oops, here comes the customs agent. I have to turn off my phone before they confiscate it. I’ll see you in a few hours. Love you!”
I listened mechanically to the automated prompts before hitting the delete key.
Happy birthday, indeed.
I walked into our room and could sense that Michael’s mood, like the wind, had shifted again. I eased inside the door to find him pacing, staring stonily at the cheap cell phone he’d bought for himself.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, almost afraid of what he might answer.
He wheeled at me, holding the phone out as if I knew already. “It was Tung. He said Chen is worried I don’t have a handle on things, can’t control you, and can’t control my business. He’s not sure he wants such a risky partner.” He didn’t wait for my response, but in frustration he threw the phone across the room, where it shattered into pieces against the wall.
I swallowed hard. If we couldn’t get to Chen, we would never find Maria. And we were running out of time.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring at the floor. I hurried over to where the phone lay in pieces and started to pick up the shards of plastic and metal with shaking hands.
A hand on my arm stopped me. Michael squatted down next to me and took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. They were still Michael’s eyes, even though he had changed his appearance back to that of my father. My heart beat, unable to make sense of things anymore.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said, looking at me deeply. “We’ll think of something.” He let go and leaned back, holding out his hand. “In the meantime, give me your phone. It’s too dangerous to keep it anymore. As soon as your mom discovers you missing, they’ll start trying to trace it and it will lead them right here. And if I know Mona,” he continued, showing his familiarity with my mother by referring to her by name, “she’ll come after you full force.”
He was right. I reached into the bag I had dragged in behind me, fished around for the phone, and handed it over.
He tucked the phone neatly inside his suit
pocket. “I’m going to dispose of it,” he said, gathering up a few things and heading for the door. “I want you to be dressed and ready to go when I get back. You’ll have about an hour. Be on time.”
“Dressed for what?” I asked, perplexed by his ever-shifting attitude.
“You’ll see,” he said, smiling enigmatically as he slipped through the door. “Hope—I want you to know that I trust you. Just don’t let anyone in while I’m gone.”
I sat back on my heels, watching as the door closed quietly behind him.
thirteen
“You’re certainly in a chipper mood for having just come off the plane,” said the large black man sitting behind the wheel, looking into the mirror at Mona in the backseat.
Mona beamed back at him. How many times had he driven her to and from the airport over the years? Too many to count. He’d seen her at her most tired and exhausted moments. She’d confided in him things she’d never dared breathe to another human being. Arthur was her friend and confidant. So she couldn’t wait to talk to him now, to tell him about Hope.
“I’ve never been able to be with Hope for her birthday, Arthur—not since our separation, anyway.” She fiddled with the buttons on her BlackBerry nervously, knowing that she couldn’t have any more messages in the nanosecond since she’d last looked. “And this one’s a special one, sixteen.”
Arthur whistled. “Does she know what you’ve got planned?”
Mona shook her head. “I only just called her a bit ago to let her know I was on my way home. Everything is a surprise.”
“Was she excited to hear from you?”
“She didn’t answer,” Mona said, shrugging. “Who knows where she is. Running? Studying?” She snorted then, chiding herself while she broke into a grin. “Probably seeing that boy, Michael, with whom she’s become so taken.”
“You didn’t tell me she has a boyfriend. Do you approve?” Arthur peered into the mirror. He could always read Mona like a book, always knew just the right thing to ask her to get her to open up to him.
“I didn’t at first,” Mona admitted, tucking her BlackBerry into her handbag. “I thought she was too young. Or rather, too sheltered after all her father had put her through. But he seems to be a good influence. And she’s opened up to him about everything. God knows she needs someone to talk to.”
She smiled back at Arthur.
“They seem innocent enough. I don’t think I’ve even caught them holding hands—just mooning after one another. It’s nice.”
Mona paused, stretching out with a great yawn. “These international flights are going to catch up with me one of these days. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Keep talking, Mona. You know you’ll never stop. You love it. Uh-oh,” Arthur said, slowing the SUV down. “Looks like an accident ahead. You might as well get comfortable back there; I think we’re going to be a while.”
“Figures,” Mona harrumphed, but even the massive delay looming ahead of them couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. Nothing would take away the joy of being with Hope today.
The idea had come to her after she’d had to leave Hope to her own devices on her first day at Dunwoody High. She’d known then that she wanted to do something special for Hope’s birthday, but she couldn’t figure out what. Hope didn’t care about material things; in fact, she almost seemed embarrassed by them. And the idea of a big party just seemed—off. Whatever she did, she knew it had to show effort more than expense; she had to show that it was personal and heartfelt. Intimate.
Once Hope had started running outside, Mona had found her inspiration. Just like the mixtapes of old, she’d started assembling downloads of the songs that had been her, her father’s, or Hope’s old favorites. Ten songs for every year of Hope’s life—160 songs, songs that would mean something. Songs Hope could listen to while she was pounding the pavement, knowing that she was loved. Some of them were silly—like the old “I love you, you love me” song from Barney. Some of them were embarrassingly dated. But all of them were reminders of each stage of Hope’s life.
At least, that’s how Mona hoped her daughter would see it. That, plus the most decadent strawberry cake from Wright’s, was what she’d planned for her daughter after taking her to dinner at the Club.
Mona started humming to herself one of the tunes she’d downloaded, and Arthur smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her looking so happy.
The traffic eventually cleared and Arthur sped through the city, making up for lost time. It was dark by the time he pulled into her driveway. There didn’t seem to be any lights on inside the house.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” he asked, knowing she would say no, like she always did.
“I’ll be fine, Arthur. Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you next week.”
She let herself out the door, not standing on ceremony, and went to the keypad to punch in the code for the garage door. She made a point of never traveling with her keys; she was in too many places in any given week to risk losing them. The door began its slow climb, and Mona shifted her purse impatiently. She ducked under the door when it was about shoulder height, eager to get in, and then she stopped.
The garage was empty.
She turned around and walked into the driveway, looking to see if she’d missed something. She walked all the way around the curve of the drive, looking to the curb for her car.
But it wasn’t there.
A brief moment of panic seized her, but then she told herself to relax, blowing out a deep breath before marching back into the garage. It wouldn’t be the first time a teenager had taken a car out without permission. If that was, in fact, what had happened.
There had to be a logical explanation for it. She’d ask Hope as soon as Hope got home.
Mona entered the dark house. She’d gotten unused to coming home to this kind of emptiness, with no lights and no activity. A pang of loneliness gripped her, driving her up the stairs to see if maybe, just maybe, Hope was already home, quietly studying in her room.
She dragged her suitcase behind her and suddenly realized how bone tired she was. Every bump of the staircase her wheeled bag took seemed to jolt an ache she didn’t even know she had. It didn’t matter what class of service she flew; a flight from London was still a damn long time to sit still, trapped. She wasn’t one for sleeping, and she used every minute of her travel time to knock out that extra memo, edit a report, or draft e-mails she could later send on to clients, and her habit of working through each flight had intensified after Hope had come to live with her. She wanted to be there for Hope, fully present, when she was at home.
She knocked on Hope’s door, waiting for an answer. When none came, she swung the door open.
Hope’s room was empty. Her schoolbooks were strewn haphazardly across the floor. Her closet doors were hanging open, with several shirts falling off the hangers that looked like they’d been rifled through. Hope’s pajamas were in a wad on the floor, presumably exactly where she’d stripped them off, and the bed was still unmade.
Mona felt a surge of irritation as she looked at the mess. She backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Clearly Hope had left in a hurry. Remember, she didn’t expect you back so soon, Mona reminded herself. And you were much worse at keeping your room clean when you were a teenager.
She blew out a breath, trying to shake off her annoyance, and she went on to her bedroom to unpack her bags.
Thirty minutes later, she was downstairs, waiting. She picked up her phone and double-checked her texts and calls. Nothing from Hope.
She might as well make herself useful, she thought. She looked into the mail bin on the counter, quickly sorting through the newspapers and junk mail. She noticed she was short on newspapers and went out through the front door to fetch them. She almost fell into the box from Wright’s.
She picked up the box, which had a delivery notice marked for today. “No answer—left at door,” the notice read.
; “Really, Hope,” she muttered, bringing the box back into the kitchen. She lifted the lid to double-check that no critters or bugs had gotten into it. It was untouched, the beautiful “Happy Sweet Sixteen” script laid out in black against the rest of the pink icing. It was a good thing it hadn’t rained.
Mona then backtracked, going outside to swipe up two Wall Street Journals and check the mailbox. It was stuffed. She made a mental note to remind Hope to pick up the mail when she was out and, balancing it precariously in two arms, carried it all back inside.
More sorting. More checking messages and e-mails. She let her eyes stray over to the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. Nine o’clock.
She sighed and moved the cake into the refrigerator so the icing wouldn’t melt. Her irritation had shifted to disappointment. The adrenaline and anticipation that had kept her going to this point had melted away, exhaustion—chased by a little bit of worry—taking its place.
She considered calling Hope again, but she decided against it. The last thing she wanted to do was make Hope feel like she was being monitored, as if she were at her dad’s house. Mona snapped closed the lid of her laptop with a firm click and pushed away from the table.
There was nothing to do but wait. She took down a wine glass from the cupboard and reached into the wine cooler for a bottle. She pulled out a dark red, and then shook her head; that would knock her out. She replaced the bottle and looked around once more. A nice Pinot Grigio; that would do.
She poured the glass half full, holding it to the light to admire its soft greenish-yellow tone, before walking into the family room to wait. She sank into the couch, curling her feet up under her and tucking a blanket around her legs. She set the glass down on the side table and picked through the stack of magazines and books she kept meaning to get to.
“Good ol’ People magazine,” she sighed aloud to the empty room, looking at the posing celebrities and headlines shouting out the latest scandals on the cover. “Just the thing to distract me.”
It wasn’t ten minutes before her eyes started fluttering closed. She told herself she would just rest for a minute. Her eyes shut.
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