Eternity (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

As I lay my head down on my enticingly soft pillow on Sunday night, really Monday morning, I glanced over at the clock. It read 5:48. I did a quick calculation and realized that I’d have only seventy-six minutes of sleep before the alarm rang for school.

I figured it wasn’t even worth nodding off for those scant minutes; past experience taught me that sometimes a little sleep was worse than none at all. It left me groggy and ill-tempered. So I lay there, watching the clock change: 5:49 and 5:50. I remembered the clock hitting 5:51 before my mom shook me awake for school at 7:04. She’d never had to do that before.

After my mom left my room, I lifted off my sheets and lowered myself from my high sleigh bed to the floor. Every single muscle in my body ached. No, screamed in pain. What had Rafe done to me? How did he expect me to fight off the fallen in this condition?

Hobbling down the hallway to the bathroom, I prayed that a hot shower and some ibuprofen would take the edge off the agony. I allowed myself a few extra minutes in the steam, and then eased myself out of the shower and into my clothes. My muscles didn’t shriek, at least. Maybe I’d make it through the school day, although I wasn’t too optimistic about another evening of Rafe’s instruction.

When I finally made it down the stairs, I found my mom at the kitchen counter, preparing my usual wheat toast and raspberry jam. Hiding my pain, I chatted with her about the day ahead, as we always did. For the first time since I returned from Boston, it wasn’t hard to make pleasant small talk with her. The anger I felt at my parents’ deceptions had subsided, replaced by empathy. Rafe had helped me to better understand what they’d risked to raise me in what they thought was necessary ignorance.

A honk from Michael’s car interrupted our innocuous conversation. I slung my bag over my shoulder and said good-bye to my mom. A sudden compulsion overcame me, and I spun around and hugged her. No matter what—angel or mortal, fallen or redeemed, birth or adoptive—she was my mom, first and foremost. Who knew when I would next have the chance to embrace her or my dad? I needed to cherish every last second with them.

“Is everything all right, dearest?” my mom asked as I broke away and headed toward the door. She looked concerned.

“Of course,” I said, with the brightest smile I could manage. “Why wouldn’t everything be all right?” Then I waved good-bye.

I eased myself into Michael’s idling Prius. As I leaned over to give him a kiss, I noticed dark circles under his eyes and a pale sheen to his skin. I’d never seen him looking so exhausted.

We had shared many near-sleepless evenings together, but nothing like the last couple of nights. We were accustomed to leisurely flights, followed by long hours of intimacy, not relentless physical torment. With the prospect of more tonight.

My attempts at conversation—of the lighthearted variety recommended by Rafe for any talk outside our protected field—were met by little more than grunts, and I stopped trying after a few minutes. We hadn’t had much chance to talk alone over the weekend and I figured he was still mad at me for springing Rafe on him. Although he didn’t have much right to be angry. Normally, I’d be upset by his coldness, but today, I was so tired myself that I didn’t care. It was a relief to ride to school in silence. Anyway, I felt calmer being near him, regardless of his gruffness.

I barely made it through the day with my facade intact. Normalcy seemed so futile in the face of the coming Armageddon. Only Rafe’s reminder of the importance of appearances kept my eyes from closing during Miss Taunton’s droning on about Edith Wharton. Only his warning against confiding anything to Ruth—for her own protection, he said, as she was already vulnerable—kept me from divulging the latest developments to her over lunch. Instead I listened to forty minutes’ worth of Jamie stories, while struggling to keep my eyes open.

My contact with Michael throughout the day was minimal. Unusually so. Except for a brief meeting at my locker before he headed off to football practice—God knows how he’d manage to make it through Coach Samuel’s notorious drills—I hardly saw him. Truly, all I could think about was an after-school nap, and I guessed he felt the same.

I awoke from it, feeling refreshed and healed. Almost magically so. I had a pleasant dinner with my parents, in which we laughed over some e-mails from a Kenyan colleague from last summer. As we did the dishes together, I couldn’t stop thinking about the story Rafe had told me about the beginning, about all they had sacrificed to regain grace, about all the love and caring they’d given me. After we finished, I hugged them tightly, and excused myself to go upstairs for homework and bed. The entire evening felt like the beginnings of good-bye, and I had to keep my emotions under wraps. For their protection.

I settled into my bedroom, and awaited Rafe.

Over the weekend, Rafe had explained that he didn’t want Michael or me to venture to the field alone. He would be watching over us during the day to ensure that the exercise of our powers hadn’t lured any more fallen. However, he said, it was harder to monitor them—and us—at night. Hence the escort.

Even though I expected him and even though I watched his arrival on Saturday and Sunday nights, the sight of Rafe’s chocolate hair and inky eyes in the window still startled me. I’d grown used to Michael’s pale hair and green eyes looming outside my windowsill. Resorting to my old tricks, I eased the creaky old window up, and slid out into the night. Fingers crossed that my parents didn’t hear, although for very different reasons than before.

As Rafe explained that he’d already taken Michael to the field, I took his hand, and we lifted off into the pitch-black sky. Even though we’d done nothing untoward, the act seemed very personal to me.

As we coasted over Tillinghast’s little downtown and the university campus, I tried to keep my focus on the familiar landmarks or Rafe’s tutorial on the types of winds through which we were flying. Yet I couldn’t stop some of those initial feelings I’d experienced with Rafe from creeping in. Despite the fact that the angelic Raphael had replaced the human Rafe, and had become a mentor to me in the process, the two Rafes were very similar. They both shared a unique blend of strength and sensitivity, bursts of humor, and a core faith in humankind that was very attractive.

Hands still locked, Rafe and I landed on the field. As we alighted, I watched Michael study me and Rafe, our hands in particular. The scrutiny made me uncomfortable, and I raced over to Michael’s side. Very pointedly, Michael grabbed me for a rough embrace and enveloping kiss. The affection seemed to have little to do with me; he seemed to be sending a message to Rafe. Because, as soon as Rafe looked away, Michael abruptly let go of me.

Rafe seemed impervious to the little display.

“Ellspeth and Michael, tonight we will focus on weaponry.” Rafe gestured around the field. “I’ve assembled a fair representation of readily available armaments.”

We looked at the items spread across the springy grass. Nestled in among the heather, tufts of autumn wildflowers, and green ground cover was an incongruous array of gleaming arms. Axes, knives, spears, and swords sat alongside a host of weapons I’d never seen before. Rafe had a very strange sense of the average, everyday human world if he deemed these items to be “readily available armaments.”

“Select one and follow me into the skies. That is where your war will be waged, so we should practice there.”

I reached for a golden-handled sword with a medium-size blade—it seemed the most manageable of the daunting lot—and soared into the chilly night air. Michael and I hovered next to Rafe as he displayed some basic sword skills, like thrusts and parries. Then he showed us how to injure the fallen enough to draw blood, not kill. The moves appeared effortless in Rafe’s capable hands, but I knew he made it look deceptively easy.

As Rafe conducted his demonstration, he advised, “Your initial goal is to wound, not kill. Never forget that you must draw and ingest the fallen’s blood first—and only then attempt destruction. Otherwise, the fallen’s wound will heal almost immediately, and you will be very close to a very angry angel.”

Rafe’s comments made me wonder about my own recuperative powers. I’d healed quickly, despite last night’s exertions. “Do our wounds heal fast too?”

“Faster than a normal human’s, although not as fast as a full angel’s. Remember what I told you yesterday. Your power is half theirs.”

“Does that mean we are physically less vulnerable than a normal human?” I quickly reviewed my past medical and physical history. I was almost never sick, and I couldn’t remember a single injury of any sort. Not even the typical childhood breaks and cuts requiring the emergency room.

“Yes.” Rafe could see where I was going with my line of questioning. “But you are not immortal, Ellspeth. Only full angels never die.”

“Fallen and full angels, like you?”

“The fallen and full angels have the same powers, the same immortality. The primary difference is that the fallen cannot enter heaven, their true home,” Rafe answered. Then, tutorial over, he nodded to Michael. “You first. Do you think you can imitate me?”

Michael smiled a bit cockily. “I think I can give it a shot.”

I watched as Michael reproduced Rafe’s moves almost exactly. Even though I was annoyed with his arrogance, especially toward Rafe, he had every reason to be confident. Michael was a natural.

When Michael finished, he returned to his position next to me and Rafe. His cheeks were flushed from the exertions despite the coldness of the air, and he looked exhilarated from performing so expertly.

Rafe turned to me and said the words I dreaded: “Ellspeth, you’re next.”

I tried. Really, I did. But the blade weighed heavy in my hand, and my thrusts and parries felt more like the limp workings of an overcooked noodle. It was embarrassing to display my awkwardness in its full glory before Rafe and Michael, two of the most agile beings that I’d ever encountered.

My discomfort worsened when I noticed that Michael appeared oddly pleased by my struggles. In fact, he looked downright smug at besting me in the training. Hadn’t Ezekiel said Michael was meant “to be knight to his lady?” There was no evidence of chivalry on Michael’s face.

As usual, Rafe rushed to my side to help me. As he had the night before, he corrected my stance, changed my grip, and showed me how to brandish the sword with the right timing. After several tries, I got the hang of it. Still, I didn’t think I’d stand a chance against a determined fallen. And Rafe seemed to agree.

“Michael, you’ll do well in hand-to-hand combat against any of the fallen. Ellspeth”—Rafe paused, as if weighing whether to state the obvious. “I have serious concerns should you find yourself in battle. For Ellspeth’s sake, I’m going to train you both in one more weapon for your arsenal, even though I’m reluctant to do so. You must use this weapon only when you have absolutely no other recourse, because summoning the weapon and using it will weaken you tremendously. If you miss your mark, you’ll be so weak that you’ll be an easy victim for the fallen. And never, ever use it alone. Only use it when the other is present. Because if either of you miscalculate, the other must have your back.”

“What is this weapon?” Michael asked, ever eager when it came to all things battle.

Rafe backed away from us, about a hundred feet. He extended his arm, stretched out his fingers, and closed his eyes. From his fingertips emanated a stream of light, not unlike the arcs of light that radiated from our backs during flight. Almost laserlike in its intensity, the light soon formed a shape. It became a blade, resembling the flaming swords I’d seen in many Renaissance paintings of angels.

“This is the sword of fire, our purest weapon. It is a weapon of the mind and soul—rather than the body. You must concentrate with the core of your being to summon it.”

Rafe stood us side by side. Rather than having us attempt the summoning one after the other, he wanted us to try it simultaneously. Perhaps he sensed that Michael’s prowess was intimidating me.

“Close your eyes. Imagine the blade. Call to it,” Rafe whispered.

At first, I felt nothing but stupid. Calling to a nonexistent blade? Come on. I screwed my eyes shut and concentrated as hard as I thought I could. Nothing happened.

When I opened them, Rafe was staring at me with a bemused expression.

“Ellspeth, you’ve got to do more than scrunch up your eyebrows to make the sword of fire. You must believe in yourself to summon the blade. Believe that God chose you to be the Elect One. Believe that you have within you the divine power to fulfill that role. Believe that the power can be harnessed and shaped into a weapon of light and strength. Repeat these truths to yourself as you concentrate. Now, try again,” he ordered, and glanced over at Michael. “Both of you.”

I still felt stupid. Regardless, I did as Rafe requested. I repeated to myself his “truths,” although they didn’t seem all that self-evident to me. I told myself that I had been selected by Him, whoever He was, for this job, that I had power enough to fashion a weapon of light. I mouthed the words over and over.

Soon I experienced deep warmth inside my body. It traveled down my arm until it grew almost unbearable in intensity. The heat seemed to ignite and then burst forth from my fingertips. I opened my eyes to witness a perfect blade of light streaming from my hand. I couldn’t believe that I had done it.

“Excellent, Ellspeth.” Rafe grinned, pleased at his star pupil. For once.

I looked over at Michael, triumphant and excited. Finally, I had something to offer him in the way of assistance against our pursuers. I hoped that that he’d be relieved that I could finally help when the fallen came. I thought that he’d be delighted, even.

But there he stood, with only a weak, blue light trickling from his palm, looking none too pleased by my success.

Michael stormed off into the clouds. Leaving Rafe behind, I flew after him.

“Why are you acting this way, Michael?” I yelled, hoping that he could hear me above the howl of the wind.