Dark Hope (30 page)

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

M
ichael 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.

Later in the morning, we pulled into an empty gravel parking lot. All around us, red and brown mountains and plateaus rose from the desert plains, their rocky surfaces dotted by fantastic formations.

“We’re here,” Michael announced as he turned the key in the ignition. “Snow Canyon State Park.”

I squinted against the sun.

“Where do we go from here?”

“We’ll have to hike in. Grab some water from the trunk and make sure you have sunscreen,” he added as he slipped out the door.

Hiking. How very … human. And limited. You would think an Archangel could do something more impressive than that
, Henri sniffed.

Shut up, Henri; it’s not as if you’re the one doing any actual hiking
, I thought as I unfolded myself from the seat and stood outside. I stretched, feeling the dry heat that was already radiating off the desert floor.
By the way, nice of you to show up this morning
.

Oh, I’ve been here the whole time. Even through that dreary history lesson of Michael’s
.

I giggled, forgetting myself. Michael looked at me over his sunglasses from where he was rummaging in the trunk.

“Something amusing you?”

“Oh, um, no. Just remembering an old joke,” I said lamely.

He arched his eyebrow quizzically, but he didn’t pursue the matter any further, choosing instead to toss me a light backpack.

“This should have everything you need. I’m not sure exactly where we will find him, but I have a rough idea. You should be prepared to hike for a few hours. Think you can make it?”

“Of course,” I said firmly, lifting the bag onto my back. “I definitely don’t want to sit here and wait. I’m coming with you.”

“Then let’s go.”

There was a clear trail leading straight from the parking lot. The immediate area was sandy, forcing us to wade slowly through the dunes until the path firmed up and headed into more rocky terrain.

Michael kept a swift pace, but I didn’t mind. I hung back slightly, glad for once not to have to worry about him watching me, his
probing eyes seeing everything I was thinking and feeling. Several times I caught myself following the movements of his sleek muscles, the way his broad shoulders tapered down to his impossibly thin waist, and I blushed, thankful yet again to be away from his watchful eyes.

For a long time, we just moved deeper into the park, cutting through rock formations until we were further and further away from the parking lot, our car just a speck in the distance.

Then we began to climb. We went through a rapid series of ascents and descents, no way around the monumental peaks that stood in our path. Despite how fit I was from running, my breath grew heavier, more labored. Michael noticed but did not pause or comment. Instead, he began a running commentary on the landscape and the history of the region, explaining the names of the strange formations, talking about the elevations and the medicinal purposes of the alien vegetation that crowded against the trail—everything and anything, anything at all to distract me from the climb.

When I thought I could climb no further, he led us through a gap in the rock into a natural amphitheater. The sandstone below our feet had been hollowed into a great depression that still held water left over from the torrential rains that had periodically swept the landscape. Tufts of hardy grass poked out here and there. Only a narrow opening at the opposite end revealed a sliver of endless blue sky. It was almost as if we were hidden inside a bowl, safe from prying eyes.

“The Mormon settlers used to drive their cattle here during droughts so that they could have water,” Michael said, turning toward me at last. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of water, quenching his thirst with a long drink. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from his Adam’s apple, bobbing with each
swallow. He finished drinking, pulling his arm across his mouth with a satisfied smack of the lips.

“Your turn,” he said, offering me his bottle. I reached for it and our fingertips brushed, a lick of flame running up my arm before I snatched the bottle away.

He looked at me as if he was about to say something, and then he turned away, swinging his backpack off his shoulder and settling down onto the rock. I took a drink of the water and waited for him to speak.

“Here is as good a place as any for us to take a break,” he said. “We’ll wait for a bit, catch our breath. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll have to keep going.”

That doesn’t seem like a very promising plan
, Henri whined inside my head.

Shhhh
, I thought, though secretly I agreed with him. I leaned against the cool rock walls, getting as much of my body into the shade as I could. I had a clear view of Michael’s back silhouetted against the sliver of blue ahead of us. He stretched with catlike grace, settling in to wait, basking in the fullness of the sun.

I stared at the opening in the rock, my apprehension growing with each minute that passed. But then we heard a small sound, like a scattering of gravel and sand, as something or someone shuffled toward us. A figure appeared, blocking out the sky in the opening. As he moved toward us, I could see he was old—not ancient, but old, with a flowing white beard and grizzled brown skin. He was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and a brown sunhat with earflaps. He moved slowly and deliberately, leaning on two walking sticks that had plastic grips and tips that looked as if they belonged to ski poles.