Hallowed (11 page)

“I wonder if we’ll see Christian,” says Angela.

In that moment I know he’s here. I can feel him.

“There he is.” Angela points to a group of people who are helping to guide a motorboat trailer into the lake. “Christian!” she yells suddenly. She cups her hands around her mouth and belts it out. “Paging Christian Prescott!”

Mortifying, but effective. Christian turns at the sound of his name. Sees us. Then he’s striding toward us through the grass, wearing rolled-up jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, which seems to be the style here in the meadow. He seems relaxed, hands in his pocket, not in a particular hurry to get to us.

“Christian,” someone yells from by the lake. “I thought we were going to water-ski?”

“Maybe later,” he calls back, waving. He stops in front of us. “Hey, Clara. Angela.” His gaze swings to Angela briefly before coming back to me. “Jeffrey here, too?” I look around but can’t see Jeffrey.

“Yep, we’re all accounted for,” says Angela. “The Angel Club has arrived. Isn’t this crazy?”

“Right. Crazy. I guess.” He shrugs.

“Don’t tell me, this is old news for you. You knew about all of this before, didn’t you?” Angela asks.

He grabs a potato chip off her plate and tosses it in his mouth, crunching it loudly.

Angela glares at him, then sniffs and stalks off across the grass toward Billy and Mom.

Christian raises an eyebrow at me. “What’d I do?”

“Dude,” I say with a smile. “You are in so much trouble.” Later, after we watch the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever witnessed that wasn’t in a movie, Christian helps me set up the tent that Angela and I are supposed to share tonight. Angela, predictably, is nowhere to be found. She didn’t even bother to retrieve her pack from the edge of the meadow. Christian and I lug both packs over to the campsite, pick out a space, and start pitching like crazy. We have to hurry because soon it will be too dark to set everything up, but it’s no problem, really. Christian seems to have done this tent thing a hundred times before.

“So,” I ask him as he’s pounding in the tent pegs, the final step in the process. “How long have you known about this place?”

He shifts to work on another peg. “My uncle brought me up here last May. I was pretty surprised by the whole thing, too, believe me. Before that I had no idea.”

“So you really were camping with your uncle,” I muse, finally putting two and two together. “And here I thought . . .” I stop myself.

He stops hammering to look at me. “You thought what?”

“Oh, nothing. I thought it was an excuse so you could skip. Because of—”

“Kay,” he finishes for me. “You thought I skipped school to dodge Kay.”

“I guess so.”

He starts hammering again. “Nope. But it was because of her, in a way. When I broke up with Kay, my uncle saw that as a sign that I was getting serious about my purpose. So he said it was time. He brought me up here, and we spent the week flying, training, meditating, all that, and then on the weekend the congregation showed up.”

What made my mom decide it was time to bring us here? I wonder. “Did you see my mom?” I ask, because even though she hasn’t been up front with the angel info, part of me still can’t believe that she was involved with all of this and never told me.

“No. I heard some people mention a Maggie,” he answers, “but I didn’t know who she was.”

“Oh.” Suddenly I realize that I’ve pretty much been peppering him with questions for the past half hour, and he’s done most of the work putting up the tent.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” he says then.

I look up, startled. There are a lot of words I’d use to describe Christian Prescott: mystery, enigma, conundrum, destiny, terrifying, and, well, just plain hot, if I’m being honest, but the word
idiot
has never crossed my mind. Except maybe that one time at prom. “Idiot?”

“Because all the signs were there, pointing to you being the girl from my vision, you being an angel-blood, and I never figured it out. If I’d only figured it out sooner, maybe . . . ,” he trails off.

I swallow. “What signs?”

“I always felt like there was something different about you, even the first time I saw you,” he says.

“You mean when I passed out in the hall? I guess I must have seemed different, all right.”

“I hadn’t had my vision yet,” he says. He sits back in the grass. “I thought I did something bad to you, and that’s why you passed out.”

“Something
bad
to me?”

“With my mind.”

“Like your talking-in-my-head thing.”

He starts picking at the grass, pulling on tufts and smoothing it between his fingers. “I didn’t know how to control it yet,” he says.

“Have you always been able to do that? Talk in people’s heads?”

“It started last year, right before you showed up, actually. I still can’t do it with everybody.

I can pick up what people are thinking, and sometimes I can send thoughts back, but I think the person has to be able to receive them, too.”

“So that day in the hall, you talked to me?”

“I tried to.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I said . . . hello.”

“And then I . . .”

“Then you dropped to the floor like I’d hit you over the head with a baseball bat.” I groan at what a graceful picture that must have been.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t do anything, Christian. I passed out because, when I saw you, I had the vision.

It was the first time I ever saw your face, and then the fire came, and everything was so intense, I blacked out.”

“Oh,” he says a bit sheepishly.

“I didn’t figure things out, either, you know. So if you’re an idiot, I guess that makes two of us.”

He seems relieved to hear me say that. I guess idiots love company.

Then we both hammer the stakes, an awkward silence between us, until I blurt out, “What about the other signs?”

He smacks the last stake, sinking it into the ground, before resting back on his heels.

“Nothing much. The way you danced at prom,” he says. “The way you talked about your future that night out on your porch, when I came to apologize about prom.” He glances at me, then down at his bare feet, smiling. “Once I knew it was you, I sensed that I was supposed to do more than save you.”

I try to react casually, but my heart starts to pound anyway. Because, deep down, I knew it too. And it may be the thing that confuses me most out of this whole situation.

What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?
Tucker had asked me when he brought me home from prom, and I’d said I didn’t know, because I couldn’t explain it to him. I still can’t explain it.

Tucker. I didn’t even tell him I was coming here. Some guardian I’m turning out to be.

Some girlfriend.

“Okay,” I say too loudly. “Uh, thank you, Christian, for setting up my tent.” I start collecting the tools we used, acting busy, brushing grass from my pants that isn’t really there.

“I’m sure Angela would thank you, too, but I think you’re going to be in her doghouse for a while. There are no secrets in Angel Club, remember?”

“I never agreed to that,” he protests. “Besides, it’s not like Angela’s such an open book herself.”

I wonder what he knows. But before I get a chance to ask him, someone calls his name, a man’s voice floating over to us from the center of the meadow. We both turn.

“We should go over there,” Christian says. “The fire’s started.” He jumps up, then holds out his hand to me.

“Come on,” he says. “You’ll like it.”

I only hesitate for a moment before I put my hand in his, let him haul me to my feet, then quickly pull away and start walking toward where I can see the smoke billowing up from a large campfire people are building in the center of the meadow.

“Okay, bring on the fire,” I say.

Christian jogs along next to me, grinning his slightly lopsided grin.

Don’t you dare admire his smile,
I tell myself.

I can’t deny it, though. His hand in mine felt as familiar as my own.

Chapter 8

Summer Without Crickets

I’m crammed shoulder to shoulder between Mom and Angela in the circle by the fire, looking around at the faces lit by its glow. Billy is spinning this tale about one time back in the thirties when she and my mom literally bumped into a Black Wing at the Santa Anita racetrack.

“It was Asael,” Billy says. “In a three-piece dove-gray linen suit, if you can believe that.”

“What did you do?” someone asks in a hushed voice, like this big baddie might be able to hear us.

“We couldn’t exactly fly away, now could we?” Billy says with a wry smile. “There were so many people around. But then he couldn’t confront us, either, not the way he would have wanted to. So we went back to our seats with our lemonade, and he went back to his, and after the race he was gone.”

“We were lucky,” Mom says.

“Yes, we were,” agrees Billy. “Although I’ll never for the life of me figure out what he was doing there.”

“Betting on Seabiscuit, like everybody else,” Mom says.

A few people laugh.

Billy sighs. “What a race that was. You can’t find sport like that anymore. Things aren’t the same now.”

“You sound like little old ladies,” says Jeffrey good-naturedly, though not about to let anybody knock his beloved sports. Then he does his old lady impression: “Back before the war . . .”

Billy laughs and reaches to ruffle his hair. He blushes. “We are old ladies, kid. Don’t let our appearance fool you.” She slings an arm around my mom and squeezes. “We’re crones.”

“If you could have flown—I mean, if there hadn’t been so many other people around to see you—would it have made any difference?” pipes up Angela. “Can Black Wings fly?” Everybody gets quiet, sobering fast, the only noise the crackling of the fire.

“What?” asks Angela, looking around. “It was only a question.”

“No,” answers my mom finally. “Black Wings don’t fly.”

“Unless they turn into birds,” corrects Billy. “I’ve seen them do that.”

“Black Wings don’t have anywhere to go but down,” says a man with red hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. Stephen, I think I heard my mom call him. He has a deep voice, like one of those movie-trailer voices. The voice of doom.

I officially have goose bumps.

“But not literally down, right?” says Angela. “Because hell is a dimension underneath our own, so it’s not some sort of bottomless fiery pit.”

“Right,” Mom says, which blows my mind. Why is she suddenly so free with information?

I remind myself that this is a good thing, although my brain is already starting to overload with so much new stuff to take in.

“Plus hell is typically chilly. Nothing fiery about it. Lots of cold days in hell,” says Billy.

“And how would you know that, Bill?” someone from across the fire teases.

“Mind your own business,” Billy retorts with a grin.

“In all seriousness, though,” says Stephen, since he’s a serious kind of guy. “None of us has ever been to hell, so it’s pure speculation about the temperature.” I dare a glance at Mom, who doesn’t meet my eyes. So she hasn’t told them about our fantastic trip to the underworld with Samjeeza, and if she hasn’t told them, I’m certainly not going to.

“Why?” Angela never did know when to shut up. “Why haven’t you been to hell?” You’d think the answer to that would be,
Because we’re not evil, thank you very much
, but instead Stephen says, “Because we can’t pass between dimensions on our own. We need the Intangere to help us, and no angel-blood who’s been taken to hell by a Black Wing has ever returned to tell us what it’s like there.”

Again I look at Mom. Again she looks away.

The campfire gives a sudden loud pop, which makes us all jump.

“Steve, you’re scaring the children,” Mom scolds.

“We’re not children,” Jeffrey says. “We want to know.”

Billy nods. “Understandable,” she says, casting a significant glance at Mom. “That’s why you’re here. To get answers.”

I get a glimmer of what Mom’s feeling. Resignation. But she’s accepted that this is going to happen, even if it’s so very dangerous for us. It makes her heart beat fast, but she sits there and tries to keep her breathing even.

I guess we really are going to get some answers.

“So you fight the Black Wings?” I ask. “Is that the point of the congregation?”

“No.” Billy shakes her head. “We don’t fight them, not physically speaking, at least not if we can help it. We’d lose, nine times out of ten, maybe ten times out of ten. Our best defense against Black Wings is to stay undetected. Which we’ve largely managed to do. Most of the people here have never even seen a Black Wing, let alone fought one.”

“So what do you do, then?” Jeffrey asks, a tad belligerently, like he’s disappointed not to be battling the fallen angels one-on-one. “If you don’t fight them?”

“We track down angel-bloods,” answers Mr. Phibbs. “Get to them before the other side does. Tell them about who and what they are. Help them.”

“And we follow our purpose,” Mom adds, finally looking at me. “That’s how we do our part. We figure out what we’re supposed to do and we do it.” Interesting.

I’m still not going to accept my purpose if it means that Tucker has to die.

Walter Prescott suddenly stands up on the other side of the fire. “Enough talk,” he says. “I think it’s time for s’mores. Who wants s’mores?”

I look across at Christian. He’s holding a bag of marshmallows in one hand and a bag of chocolate bars in the other like some sort of peace offering. He smiles.

“I do,” Jeffrey says.

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, my brother and his stomach.

Everyone settles into eating. Angela looks downtrodden that the Black Wing conversation is done, but in a few minutes she’s over it, leaning forward again, listening to more stories with a glow in her golden eyes, big smile on her face. She’s on cloud nine, basking in this sense of community she’s never had before. Even Jeffrey likes it here. Earlier he played a game of soccer with some of the other angel-bloods, a real game where he didn’t have to hold anything back.