Tabby let out a low whistle.
“You did this?” she questioned, moving closer to the walls to inspect one of the hundreds of articles and photos I’d carefully taped up.
I nodded, unsure if it was a good idea to have shown her.
She spun around, taking it all in.
“It kind of looks like a crime scene investigation. Or like a crazy hoarder’s room. But it’s cool. You’re trying to find him, aren’t you?”
I sighed, relieved that she got it. She circled the perimeter of the room, peering at each article in turn.
“Honduras. Wales. New Zealand. Guinea. I’ll give you one thing, you’re thorough. But I already knew that about you.” She pulled up short. “I’ll help you, of course. This is too much for one person to do on their own.” She stated it as a given, so matter-of-fact that I had no choice but to accept. She shrugged off my thanks.
“He wouldn’t want you to give up, you know. If this helps, then I’m all in. There were a lot of things I didn’t like about Michael, but one thing he and I agree on is you. We both cared about—care about—you, Hope. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want the end of his life to be the end of yours, too. You need to live. For his sake.”
I peered intently at her knowing eyes.
“How did you know? How did you figure it out?”
“I pieced it together when your dad told us about your first abduction. But none of the adults believed me.” She harrumphed. Her mention of my father shot me through.
“You talked to my dad?”
She squeezed my shoulders again. “He was with your mom. They were trying to piece everything together, so they could find you. He was so excited to finally know what your Mark meant! He was ready for you to be free—free to fulfill your destiny, whatever that meant. Don’t cage yourself up again now. Not after all you’ve been through.”
I sniffed back the vale of tears that threatened to erupt at her mention of my father.
“I feel like it’s my fault.”
“What? His death?”
I nodded. “You know, Michael posed as him. He can make himself look like anybody in the whole world. So when he took me to Las Vegas, he made himself look like my dad. He was trying to give my dad an alibi, but I think it backfired. I think it made him a target.”
Tabby frowned. “A target for whom? The traffickers?”
“Maybe. Maybe for some Fallen Angels. I might never know. But I can’t stop thinking that if we hadn’t used his identity he would still be alive.”
She sighed.
“Don’t, Hope. You can’t second-guess yourself, or Michael. There were forces greater than anything we know at work. You did what you could; Michael did what he thought was best. And when you’re ready, you can tell me all about it. All about Michael, all about what you went through—everything. But for right now, we need to get you back to the land of the living.”
I managed a weak smile. “Land of the living. Complete with cupcakes.”
She laughed and gave me a big hug. “Cupcakes for breakfast. A sacred bond between friends. Now, let’s eat.”
Tabby stuck to me like a shadow after that. Once there, she was hard to dislodge. And my mother barely even tried, recognizing in her own way, I guess, that Tabby was right: We needed to return to the land of the living. But before we did, we needed to bury our dead.
We went to pay our last respects to my father in the fullness of summer, near dusk. The soft whirring of insects competed with the nearby traffic in the background. The green grass of the cemetery was scarred by gashes of red Georgia clay—the tracks of storm damage and who-knows-what. In the back corner, fresh earth and a creamy white monument betrayed the arrival of a new inhabitant.
My father.
We crossed the field, being careful of the broken pieces of stone that littered the grass. A lone workman trimmed the hedges around the fence line, our only witness.
I clutched the peonies I’d cut from my mother’s yard more tightly in my fist and swallowed, hard, trying to force back my tears. Mom took my other hand and squeezed it as we continued walking toward his grave.
We stopped at the edge of the dirt. “Don Carmichael. Husband. Father,” it read, the words carved deeply into the marble. I pulled my hand out of my mother’s grasp and laid the flowers across the top of the headstone.
Leaning close, I whispered, “You were right, Dad,” low so that my mother wouldn’t hear. “All along, you were right. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”
I didn’t know what to do. There was no last embrace, no cold cheek to kiss.
I rose from the stone and stood back, looking at my mother. Her eyes were shiny with tears.
“I’ll leave you to your privacy,” I said, squeezing her hand. She nodded and then let me go. I watched her turn to face his gravestone, her hands absentmindedly rubbing the soft curve of her stomach, the early stages of her pregnancy only evident when I saw her in profile. I wondered again about this unexpected gift, a living reminder of some happier moment and memory of my father, which my mother would now be able to treasure forever. She would never speak of it, I knew. But the happiness this baby gave her was evident in the softness that had overtaken her lined face and in the quiet humming that had overtaken her moments of contemplation. My mother, despite everything, was happy; this last moment with my father would be bittersweet.
I began wandering among the headstones, pretending I couldn’t hear her crying. I forced myself to read the names on the grave markers, wondering to whom they belonged, and what had happened to them. Cheek. Booker. Ward. Martin. Duke. Each stone painstakingly carved with curling vines or crucifixes or doves in flight. And then there were the countless little lambs, perched on the backs of heartbreakingly small headstones or toppled onto the grass, the only lingering memory of tiny children sacrificed to fever or stillbirth or any of the maladies that had ripped them from their parents’ arms.
It wasn’t fair.
Just like it wasn’t fair that my mom had figured out, too late, that she still loved my dad. Just like it wasn’t fair that there was nowhere I could go to mourn for Michael and no way I could share my grief with anybody else. I began to weep—slow, silent sorrow seeping even further into my bones.
My head ached from it all.
No, I realized with a start. It wasn’t aching. It was buzzing—buzzing with the faint awareness that once led me across Europe, proving an unerring guide to the bitter end in our search for the Key.
I turned, just in time to catch the caretaker turn away.
The buzzing grew louder.
I began walking toward the man, who returned to clipping the shrubbery, folding himself over to stay close to his work. I drew closer to him and noticed that he was cutting at nothing, the leaves already neatly shaped into a boxy shape with even edges.
“You were watching me.” I accused, as I angrily wiped my tears away, waiting for him to answer.
He stopped clipping, rising to his full height. As I watched him standing, motionless against the hedge, something in my heart caught as I scanned the broad shoulders that, though hidden under the baggy coveralls, seemed strangely familiar.
It was too hot for coveralls, my mind registered.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the man said, his voice gruff. “This has always been such a quiet place. It’s not very common for us to have visitors, and I couldn’t help but notice you crying.”
He stood still, as if waiting for me to explain. The air between us shimmered in the summer heat, invisible currents steaming up from the earth. Before I could stop myself, the words came tumbling out from me.
“I’m crying for someone I lost. He’s lost to me, and I don’t know where to find him.”
He inclined his head, ever so slightly, to acknowledge me. “You needn’t look, and you needn’t weep,” he responded. His voice was strong and certain, as if making a promise. I watched, stunned, as he turned and began making his way toward the cemetery gate.
“Wait!” I c
ried. “Don’t go!”
He only lengthened his stride as I began chasing after him. He was moving too fast for me. I stumbled in the pitted ground.
“Please,” I pleaded after him as he rushed through the wrought iron doors. “I need to know if it’s really you.”
The gardener paused, his back strong.
“Turn around, so I can see your face,” I demanded, trembling.
He took a deep breath. “Now is not the time,” he answered.
I pulled myself up and ran after him. I reached the gate just in time to see a car pulling away. It was slung low to the ground, its body a patchwork of mismatched panels, the dull gray of unpainted metal unmistakably familiar.
Michael’s car.
I stared after it, helplessly entwining my fingers through the delicate scrollwork of the cemetery gate as the car spun around the corner, tires squealing.
Hot tears of frustration fell to my cheeks.
How had I missed it before? Or had it even really been there? And if it was real, if that had been Michael, why was he hiding from me? Why had he abandoned me?
A hand on my shoulder startled me. I turned, wiping my eyes, to face my mom.
“Ready to go?” she whispered. Her own eyes were red and puffy.
I nodded dumbly, not trusting myself to speak.
Arm in arm, we walked through the gate, its weathered iron screeching in protest as we headed toward the parking lot.
We clung to each other, numbering our wounds, but refusing to give them voice. We silently acknowledged them, but then, as if by agreement, we left our losses behind us.
We had our own reasons to look toward the future.
Mine was a simple conviction that Michael was still out there. He was alive, and one day he would come back to me.
He just had to.
My mother had the promise of bringing a new life into the world.
Yes, we had our own reasons, but at that moment, we made the same choice. We both chose to put our broken lives back together, and—on shaky legs—we chose to walk in hope.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This chapter of Hope and Michael’s story was a real exercise in serendipity. So many coincidences and chances conspired to bring all the details of their journey to life and to bring richness to the fabric of the Prophecy.
A big thank you to la famille Pauthe for suggesting my family spontaneously travel to Le Puy-en-Valley on our way to visit them, way back in 2012. The instant we walked into the chapel it was magical, and I knew right then it was the perfect setting for the crucial entrapment of Michael and Hope. The details of the architecture and its history, which I only really understood later, were the icing on the cake.
An equally big thank you to Kemal Cetin for being my Istanbul accuracy cop. That you also took the time to read Dark Hope, so you understood the story, critiqued the entirety of the manuscript, and appreciated some of the “steamy parts” (I quote) was unexpectedly generous. The device of your Turkish grandfather should have your copyright every time I use it.
I am also grateful to my colleagues in Istanbul, who generously hosted me when I did eventually make my way over for research purposes. Hale, Karim, Marwa, and Mutlu, my friends, your hospitality and advice was amazing. Teşekkür ederim!
Arthur, thank you for letting me write you into the story, texting me real-time with your reactions as you read early drafts, posing interesting questions that made me rethink my plots and characters, and for your continued friendship. A shout out to Dr. Shami Feinglass for responding to my detailed questions about physiological responses to severe beatings and trauma without really knowing what was going on in the book—and stifling your curiosity long enough to give me medically sound answers. Additional thanks to Lorraine Houle, Jake Houle, Kathy Florence, Dr. Shami Feinglass (again), Beth Melendez, and my daughter, Reagan, for reading and critiquing early drafts of this book (sometimes repeatedly!).
Thank you to the good folks of Greenleaf/River Grove books for their continued excellent support—particularly Corrin Foster, Amber Hales, Diana Ceres, Scott James, Tyler LeBleu, and Chelsea Richards; the good people at Spotify, who made making and changing playlists as my writing mood shifted easy; Street Grace and ECPAT-USA for their partnership; my colleagues at the Street Grace Speakers Bureau, who are so dedicated and inspiring that I am humbled and honored to have the opportunity to work with you; and my colleagues at Coca-Cola for their endless support and encouragement.
I offer my gratitude to my fans. Your demands to know what happened next and your appreciation for this quirky little story with its mash-up twists and turns spurred me on. I hope this book is worthy of your enthusiasm. Particular thanks to Jane Gilles and Linda Heinze, who have been rock star creators of so many radiating points of contact to get the word out about human trafficking through The Archangel Prophecy series.
Last, but most important, I thank my family and especially my husband, Tom. None of this would be possible without your unwavering support, including your generosity in giving me uninterrupted writing time and finding a way to get me to Istanbul. I love you.
I consulted many sources for background research before I began writing. These works were incredibly useful, and I drew great inspiration from their descriptions of Turkey and Ireland, especially. They include: John Freely, Istanbul The Imperial City; Hilary Sumner-Boyd and John Freely, Strolling Through Istanbul; Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul: Memories and the City; Des LaVelle, The Skellig Story: Ancient Monastic Outpost; Geoffrey Moorhouse, Sun Dancing: Life in a Medieval Irish Monastery and How Celtic Spirituality Influenced the World; Thomas Cahill, How the Irish Saved Civilization: The Untold Story of Ireland’s Heroic Role from the Fall of Rome to the Rise of Medieval Europe. I additionally found insights from National Geographic Traveler’s guide to Istanbul & Western Turkey, Insight Guide’s Turkey, and Eyewitness Travel’s guide to Istanbul, as well as the many pinners of Pinterest who contribute so generously of their talents. I have on occasion chosen to collapse geographic distances and take creative license for the sake of the story. Any inaccuracies about these fabulous, historic, and breathtaking places—and the adventures to be experienced at them—that can be found in Dark Rising are wholly my own.
ABOUT MONICA McGURK
Monica McGurk loves nothing better than to craft thought-provoking, multilayered stories, showcasing strong girls and women overcoming big challenges. Already a fan favorite, she received the 2013 TwiFic Fandom Undiscovered Gem award for Morning Star, her alternate ending to the Twilight series, written before the release of Breaking Dawn. Her first novel in The Archangel Prophecies trilogy, Dark Hope, was published in 2014. Dark Rising is the second novel in this series. The final installment, Dark Before Dawn, is expected in 2016.
Readers can learn more about Monica’s work and passions on her website at www.monicamcgurk.com.
READER’S GUIDE
DARK RISING BY MONICA MCGURK
Upon moving in with her mother in Atlanta, sixteen-year-old Hope Carmichael dreams of being free and able to shed the past of her mysterious abduction as a small child, but those dreams are shattered by a series of shocking discoveries. The emancipated teen with whom she has developed an intense friendship that borders on romance has turned out to be the Archangel Michael. The tattoo-like mark on Hope’s neck—the only physical evidence of her earlier kidnapping—brands her as part of an ancient prophecy concerning Fallen Angels. And in the rush to beat the Fallen to find the ancient artifact that could open the Gates of Heaven, throwing the entire universe into chaos, their search brings them into the center of the twisted world of human trafficking, putting Hope in more danger than ever.
Michael and Hope’s relationship is complicated by factors beyond their control. Are they meant to be together, or has fate thrown them into this chase for a higher purpose alone? Can Hope trust Michael—or will he be forced to sacrifice her in order to fulfill his duties as the Guardian of Heaven? Hope’s story connects the powerful emotions and desires of a teenag
e girl growing into her own with present day human sex trafficking and an epic battle of good versus evil. The mythic love between Michael and Hope is played out on a global stage as the characters race against time, traveling from Turkey to Ireland and then France in their search for the missing relic that could spell life and death for Hope—and for the world.
QUESTIONS & TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
What do we know about the role of the angels, Enoch and Raph, in the course of the quest for the Key? How do their histories with Michael and with human beings shape their views of their mission? Of Hope? How did you view their interactions with Hope, and with each other, during their time in Istanbul?
During a typical “hero’s journey,” the main character is often helped along their quest by a guide. Who plays that role for Hope? In what ways do Henri, Enoch, Del, and Gabrielle each serve as a guide at various points? Does the fact that they each might have ulterior motives impact their role as guide?
Consider the changing relationship between Michael and Hope in the book. Is there any justification for Michael’s brusque and controlling treatment of Hope during their time in Turkey? For his unpredictability? Is Hope’s response to it reasonable? What finally triggers Michael to open up to Hope?
At the beginning of Hope’s time in Istanbul, she remarks that the angels “served as a wall—a wall of flesh and bone, meant to keep me away” from Michael. Why?
Sultanahmet was the heart of ancient Byzantium and Constantinople. Is there any significance to the fact that this is where Michael chooses to lodge?
Hope makes several decisions to disobey Michael’s wishes, sneaking out on her own to explore the city of Istanbul and escaping from dinner in Le Puy-en-Velay. What are Hope’s motives? Is her risk-taking justified or foolish? Would you have done the same thing in her shoes?
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