His fist throbbed for a moment, but then his body healed even that, leaving him numb once again.
Brad had been with him through a lot, but he'd never understand where Drake had come from and what he needed. Not totally.
"Drake, you're right. I can't ever know what it's been like for you, but I do know you have to stay low on the radar if you don't want people digging into your past, into what happened when you were young. There are bad people out there who would just love to capture someone with your powers. I don't want to find your name on my next Crime Watch list."
"No one held me responsible for what happened. No one could know. Besides, am I supposed to stay in the shadows on the off chance someone connects my surfing to a sealed file from fourteen years ago?"
Brad washed both of their dishes and spread out on their beige couch, his long limbs draping over the edge. "Maybe you're right. I don't know, dude. I guess it's possible it was just a fluke, that it was just a sponsor checking you out."
"Maybe." But probably not. The presence Drake had felt didn't strike him as friendly or curious. Someone was after him, but who? And why? Could someone have found out about his powers?
He grabbed his keys from the hook hanging by the front door. "I'm going to talk to Father Patrick. Maybe he has some ideas about all this. Plus, I promised Mrs. Maypol I'd help her move some of the garden statues around."
Brad got up and pulled his laptop from the computer bag he kept by the couch. "Be careful, man. And tell Father Patrick I said hi."
Drake closed the door behind him and left Brad to his writing.
***
St. Michael's Catholic Church in Venice had become a second home to Drake, ever since his fifth foster family had taken him there once for an Easter sermon. The stained glass windows and colorful gardens guarded by angels had stirred a longing in him—not like the ocean, which even at ten years old had stolen his heart—with its own power.
The real draw, however, turned out to be the old priest, Father Patrick.
Drake parked on Naples, and walked around the corner toward the large carved oak door, which had never been locked for as long as Drake could remember.
A young Mexican woman pushed a cart full of fresh tamales down Coeur D'Alene Avenue and, on impulse, Drake stopped her and bought three: one for himself, and one each for Father Patrick and Mrs. Maypol. He smiled at the thought of them enjoying an unexpected treat.
The girl, thinking he'd meant his smile for her, smiled back and lowered her eyes. "Gracias."
"De nada y gracias." He took a bite of the first tamale. "Muy bueno."
Her smile brightened, and she honked the bike horn on her cart and walked on.
Drake ate his tamale in a few large bites, happy that he'd brightened her day a bit too, and walked into the church with the other two tamales palmed in his hand.
He expected to see Father Patrick shuffle down the aisle to greet him, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. A feeling of serenity settled on Drake as he breathed in the stillness of the room. The sea had a constant pulsing energy that soothed, but here the quiet and calm had its own effect on his racing mind.
He made the sign of the cross and kneeled out of habit. While not religious, it didn't hurt to honor the ways of his friend while in his church.
The stained glass windows depicting biblical scenes shone down on him rays of rainbow light. He imagined the halo effect that anyone looking at him just then would see—not that he'd ever be mistaken for someone holy. Still, he liked to imagine his soul could be redeemed, someday, by someone who saw in him what Father Patrick always had.
He left the church through a side door and entered his favorite place, second only to the beach. Hidden from the public by tall green hedges, the garden reminded him of the book, The Secret Garden, which he'd read in school once. He'd pretended to scoff at the girly book, but secretly loved the description of that private world and its hidden mysteries.
Red, yellow and pink rose buds in various stages of opening lined the cobbled path, their sweet scent creating a natural perfume for the earth. The heat of the sun seemed to draw out even the most delicate of fragrances, which created a heady experience. He remembered playing in here as a child.
It had become his private sanctuary, just like the girl in the book. When he couldn't go to the beach, he'd come here. Father Patrick had fed and clothed him and kept him safe, even if that meant calling DSHS when a foster parent gave him a new broken bone or black eye. He would walk with Drake through the paths and tell him stories of Italy and the Pope and of his life before the Church.
When Father Patrick had to take confession, Drake would play hide and seek among the giant angel statues that stood watch over the roses. He would tell them his secrets and talk to them about the ocean. He knew Father Patrick had heard him sometimes, but the priest never interrupted or discussed what he'd heard. This garden had been his confessional, the angels his priests and guardians.
A scream broke Drake's reverie.
He rushed toward the sound, his heart pounding in his chest.
One of the large stone angels lay on its side, a young man pinned underneath. His screams filled the small courtyard.
Mrs. Maypol sat on the cobbled floor and held the boy's hand. She cried so hard her plump face matched the orange-red of her hair. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Father Patrick stood a few feet away with a cell phone in his hand and a deep frown on his weathered face. Despite the fear that Drake knew the priest must have felt, Father Patrick stayed calm and commanding as he spoke to the 9-1-1 operator.
Drake assessed the situation. The young man's leg had been crushed by the angel. Blood spurted from what was likely a severed artery, spreading a crimson stain over the garden's path and into the soil. The roses would grow on the blood of this boy.
The ambulance wouldn't get there in time. The boy already looked a breath from death with his pale skin and glazed eyes.
Drake tore off his shirt and twisted it into a tourniquet, then handed it to Mrs. Maypol. "Keep him still! As soon as I lift the statue, immediately tie this around his leg above the injury. Make it tight."
She nodded, sweat pouring down her face from fear.
He looked into the terrified eyes of the trapped worker. The statue that pinned his leg probably weighed two thousand pounds. "Just hold on. I have to get this off you. When I do, the pain will be unbearable. Be ready."
The young man didn't look ready for that at all, but Drake couldn't wait. He gripped the angel around the shoulder and pushed. Power flooded his veins and muscles. Superhuman strength flowed into him. His muscles bulged, his thighs stretched his jeans to near tearing, and his arms and torso turned rock hard. He pushed, willing the angel to fly.
And it did.
In a heartbeat, the statue stood on its base and the now-freed man screamed again and passed out. Mrs. Maypol did her job, tying the shirt around the top of the boy's thigh. He'd likely lose his leg, but at least he would live.
The surge of power spent, Drake slumped against a bench and hung his head. He wasn't tired, exactly, just depleted.
The offending angel looked down on him, red dripping from her chest; a fallen angel stained with her victim's blood. Drake wanted to offer her a chance to confess, just as she had done for him so many times, but Father Patrick's voice interrupted his thoughts.
The priest looked between Drake and the boy and spoke rapidly into the cell phone. Sirens blared in the distance.
It took him a moment, but as the reality of his situation settled in, Drake realized he'd made a mistake. He'd just exposed himself to two people who didn't know about his powers, and at a time when he needed to be more careful than ever. No one could know about his strength.
He sought answers in the eyes of his priest who covered the phone with his hand and spoke quietly to Drake. "Go to my office and stay there until I get you. We'll figure out something to tell them."
Again, Drake couldn't help but admire the calm as
surance Father Patrick radiated. It would have been easy to believe that everything could work out okay, but he'd long since stopped believing in happy endings. Still, he obeyed the priest in a way he never obeyed anyone else, and slipped back into the church moments before the medics crashed through the garden.
***
Drake paced the small office for so long he could have sworn there would be ruts in the hardwood floor.
He read every title on the bookshelves that lined the wall—mostly religious books, but, surprisingly, some fiction, and a few books on psychic powers and occult studies.
The small golden cross on the wall behind the desk looked recently polished and gleamed in the light. He felt no power from it, and had no attachment to a symbol that just represented death to him. Still, the cross had hung there longer than Drake had been coming to the church, and its familiarity offered a small comfort, albeit fleeting.
Despite every attempt to distract himself, his mind returned to what had just happened.
He worried about the man he'd saved. He worried about Father Patrick and Mrs. Maypol and what they'd say. And he worried about himself. Would Father Patrick be able to protect him, or would he finally be exposed to the world?
He rarely felt vulnerable. With the powers he controlled, he didn't know anyone who could pose a risk to him. So why didn't that reassure him this time?
A creak sounded from the hall.
The doorknob twisted.
Drake froze and waited, ready to attack if anyone but Father Patrick walked through that door.
The door opened.
"Relax, boy, it's just me. You're safe."
In that moment, Drake had to fight the urge to cry. What the hell? He never cried. Ever. He scowled instead, and then smoothed his face when he caught the old priest looking at him.
Father Patrick sat behind the desk and pointed Drake to the guest chair. "You saved that boy's life. The medics said if he'd been trapped any longer he would have been dead before they got here."
"What did you tell them?"
"That God saved the boy. It was a miracle. Mrs. Maypol backed me up. An angel came from the sky and moved the statue. They think we're crazy, and likely have no idea what to write in their report, but they're gone and no one knows you were involved."
Drake smirked. Leave it to Father Patrick to get away with that kind of story.
A weight lifted from Drake's shoulders—another possible exposure averted. "Where's Mrs. Maypol? What does she think about all of this?"
"She went to the hospital with Ralph. That's the young man you saved. He was helping us move some things around in the garden. I think she's suspected there's more to you for a long time, but she loves you and would never betray you. Don't worry about that."
"That's not what worries me. While surfing this morning, I had a sense that someone was watching me. Then I saw a man in black before he got in his car and drove away. I know it sounds paranoid, but you always said I should trust my instincts."
He also told the priest about his fight with Brad, and his best friend's concern about exposure with this contest.
Father Patrick stayed silent until the end. "What do you think you should do?"
Drake sighed. "I hate when you do that."
"When I make you think for yourself? Yes, I'm wretched that way."
"I want to stay in the competition. I can't live my life in hiding forever."
Father Patrick's kind eyes held Drake's for several long moments. "You're on a path none of us can understand. You have to do what's right for your heart. I can only tell you that I do see dark spirits around you, so whatever course you choose, be careful."
His words sent chills through Drake. Father Patrick's sixth sense was unparalleled. If he said Drake was in danger, Drake believed him, but that didn't mean dropping out of the competition would keep him safe.
Drake said goodbye to Father Patrick, and an unexpected melancholy swelled in his heart. He hugged the old man, who stood a good foot shorter than him.
"I'll come by tomorrow to help with the rest of the garden."
The priest pierced Drake with his eyes. "Be well, Son. Whatever happens, know that you have a destiny to fulfill in this world."
Strange parting words, but not unusual for someone who enjoyed the cryptic. Still, they unsettled Drake.
The feeling intensified as he walked out.
A horn beeped, and the shy girl who'd sold him tamales not so long ago hurried up to him with her cart, only her smile had turned to fear. "Señor, alguien que ha destrozado su coche."
"What? Who vandalized my car? What did you see?"
The force of his words frightened the timid girl. He calmed his voice. "I'm sorry to scare you. Please, tell me what happened."
He followed her around the corner to his car, which sat lower to the ground than it should, and... something had been painted on his window.
"Shit!" He ran to the car, fearing what he'd find.
All four tires had been cut and the word "FREEK!"—misspelling and all—had been spray-painted across his window.
"Who did this? Did you see?"
Her eyes widened. "I sorry. I no stop him. I scared of big man in black."
"It's okay. You did the right thing. It's not worth getting hurt over. Thank you for telling me."
The damage looked like some kids pulling a prank, but a big man in black sounded more like a hit posed to look like a prank. Why? To scare him?
Drake pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the girl. "Thank you for telling me."
She nodded, slipped the money into her pocket, and dashed off.
Drake pulled his phone out and called Brad. "Dude, someone knows."
Chapter 4 – Sam
Music blared from Luke and Lucy's suite, next door to my own room. I let myself in and plopped down on their overstuffed purple couch.
Lucy saw me and turned down the radio. "What happened?"
I tossed her the file.
Luke walked through the wall from his bedroom into the living room and stood behind his sister to read. He frowned when he noticed the dates. "What about your interview, and the contest?"
"Higgins said he'd try to get me in, but I've got to take this assignment." I sighed and flopped back on the couch. "This totally sucks."
Lucy sat next to me with her arm draped over my shoulders. "At least you got your painting done. Come on, no more moping. It's Saturday. Let's eat junk food and watch movies."
So we did. All weekend long.
When Monday arrived, so bright and early, I had a major sugar hangover, but my mood had improved from sustained and prolonged contact with my cheer squad. I survived Calculus, barely, and Computer Programming, with Lucy's expert help—the hacker genius that she was— and a few other classes not worth mentioning, and finally made it to my favorite class. All of us had an advisor with whom we met once a week to practice our para-power skills. I had Mr. K.
His normally angst-ridden self seemed more angsty than usual today, if his all-black wardrobe and scowl were any indication. Still, my face lit up when he walked into the studio five minutes late.
He dropped his black leather satchel by his desk and sat down with a dramatic thud. "Sorry I'm late. It's been... a day."
"No problem. I'm just glad this is my last class until tomorrow."
He grunted and turned to pull out a sheet. "I'd hoped we could talk more about your painting and the art contest, but Higgins called me into his office and said I had to turn in an evaluation of you—immediately. That's why I'm late, if you care."
My heart skipped a beat. "Evaluations aren't due for months. Is everything all right?"
The vein above his eye popped out, and his fist clenched the paper as if it were something evil to be destroyed. "Is anything ever okay when it comes to this place?"
"Mr. K, why do you hate it here so much? Isn't this your dream job?"
The noise that came out of his throat didn't sound human. "More like nightmare. But I
can't really talk about this, Sam. I'd get us both in trouble. And don't go probing my mind for secrets; you won't find anything helpful, just a few new expletives that a young lady such as yourself shouldn't use."
His glare challenged me to defy him, but I knew better. The few times I'd slipped into his mind uninvited hadn't ended well for either of us. I'd been in messy minds, tidy minds, perverse minds, but none as chaotic and terrifying as Mr. K's. Undoubtedly serial killers had worse minds, but they couldn't have been that much worse. Mr. K didn't just play the part of a dark and brooding artist; he'd created the part. His mind contained hidden corners that were best left to his mental cobwebs. There's a fine line between genius and madness, and while Mr. K was harmless, he wasn't entirely sane.
When I made no move to speak, he nodded and continued. "Today, you're going to draw what's in my mind, and, based on how well you do, I'll grade you for this ridiculous evaluation. Okay? Don't worry, I'll keep my mind calm for the assignment."
"Um, sure." His mind didn't frighten me when I had permission and stayed within the boundaries provided. This actually seemed a bit easy, but whatever. I reached for my bag to grab my supplies.
He put a hand up to stop me. "I have something for you."
He handed me a brown leather-bound sketchbook that looked well-used and smelled of old places and history. A round emblem, made of gold, was pinned to the cover. Its intricate shape reminded me of one of those meditation circles, but with a more elaborate design. The pages inside spoke to me in their own language, teasing me with drawings yet to be sketched. It even had a special compartment in the front for my pencils, and the paper looked like it could be refilled. I loved it immediately.
I pulled out the pencil already held there and opened the book up to the second page, saving the short dedication he'd written on the first page for a later read.
The chair underneath him squeaked as he pulled it forward so that we were uncomfortably close to each other. "Sam, it's important that you keep this sketchbook, and this sketch, safe. Do you understand?"
The Forbidden Trilogy Page 3