The Dark Divine (11 page)

“That’s enough,” Dad said. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

Don cowered. “But my granddaddy—”

“Don.” I gave him my best
don’t push it
look. I turned to my dad. “Don needs you. You said you’d help him. You can’t just quit because it’s hard. I mean, what ever happened to seventy times seven and all that ‘be your brother’s keeper’ stuff you’re always talking about?”

Guilt washed through me. How could I say all that? I mean, I was the one who wanted to give up on Daniel just because helping him had turned out to be difficult in ways I hadn’t expected. And I really couldn’t believe I was the one expounding scripture—however crudely—to my father.

Dad rubbed his hand down the side of his face. “I’m sorry, Grace. You’re right. These are my burdens to bear.” He put his hand on Don’s shoulder. “I guess I can talk to Mr. Day one more time.”

Don lunged and wrapped his arms around my father’s middle. “Thank you, Pastor D-vine!”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Dad sounded breathless from
Don’s death-grip hug. “I’ll have to take your knife away for a little while.”

“No,” Don said. “It was my granddaddy’s. The only thing I’ve got of his. I need it … for the monsters….”

“That’s the deal,” Dad said. He looked at me. “Grace, put that thing in a safe place.” He led Don from the room, the latter gazing longingly at his knife as they went. “We’ll discuss its return in a few weeks.”

I put my test in my backpack—today was obviously not the right time to get it signed—and picked up the dagger. I held it out in my hands. It was heavier than I’d expected. The blade was stained with tarnish and other strange, dark-colored marks. It seemed ancient, valuable even. I knew where Dad wanted me to hide it. I tipped back the potted poinsettia on the bookcase and slid out the key it concealed. I unlocked the top drawer of my father’s desk, where he kept important things like the cash safe for the Sunday offerings and his first-aid kit. I placed the knife under a flashlight and locked the drawer.

I replaced the key and felt a pang of remorse. I knew what Don was capable of doing with that blade of cold silver, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for his loss. I couldn’t fathom having only a single item to remember a loved one by.

“Hey.” Charity slipped into the office. “That was really nice, what you did for Don.”

“I did it more for Dad,” I said. “I don’t want him to
wake up tomorrow regretting the things he did today.”

“I don’t think Dad will be back to normal tomorrow.”

I looked up at her. She seemed to be blinking back tears. “Why?” I asked, though I really didn’t want to know the answer. I’d been holding on to the fantasy that I would wake up tomorrow and everything would be the way it was supposed to be: oatmeal for breakfast, uneventful day at school, and a genial chicken-and-rice supper with the whole family.

“Maryanne’s daughters want her funeral to be tomorrow, before Thanksgiving, because they don’t want to cancel some big trip they’ve been planning.”

I sighed. “I guess I should have thought of that. Death is usually followed by a funeral.” Helping Mom prepare loads of rice pilaf and all varieties of casseroles for bereaving families was just another part of the pastor’s-kid gig, but I hadn’t been to a funeral for someone I was actually close to since my grandpa died when I was eight.

“That isn’t the bad part,” Charity said. “Maryanne’s family asked the pastor from New Hope to come over for the funeral. They don’t want Dad to do it. They still blame him.”

“What? That’s not fair. Dad knew Maryanne all his life, and he’s been her pastor for as long as you’ve been alive.”

“I know. But they won’t listen.”

I sank down in the desk chair. “No wonder he’s talking like he wants to give up.”

“You know the worst part? Pastor Clark heard about our duet from Sunday, and he wants us to sing it at the funeral because it was Maryanne’s favorite song.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“Mom says we have to.” Charity sighed. “She says it’s our obligation or something like that.”

Obligation
. I was beginning to hate that word.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE FUNERAL

A somber shadow cast over the parish, touching the hearts of all those who shuffled into the sanctuary for Maryanne Duke’s funeral. School had even let out early for the afternoon service. Everyone was affected by the gloom of it all—everyone except my mother. I could tell she was still in perfection overdrive when she started banging around the kitchen at four a.m. to make a feast big enough for a thousand mourners. Her enthusiastic tone startled more than a few sullen people as she greeted them before the service with Pastor Clark, and she invited anyone who looked the slightest bit lonely to tomorrow’s Thanksgiving extravaganza at our house.

“Invite whomever you’d like,” she said to Charity and me as we loaded trays of food into the Blue Bubble. “I want this to be the warmest Thanksgiving your father can remember. He could really use the company.”

But I wasn’t sure she was right about that. Dad shrank away from his greeter duties before the funeral and ended up sitting in the only deserted corner of the chapel by himself, rather than taking his seat on the pulpit as the presiding pastor of the parish. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was stuck on the choir benches with Charity, watching the back of Pastor Clark’s robes sway as he talked in melancholy tones about Maryanne’s warm heart and giving nature, even though he barely knew her. I scanned the sanctuary and wished I could send a telepathic message to either my mother or brother to go put their arms around Dad, but Mom was busy setting up for the dinner in the social hall, and Jude was nuzzled close to April in the third row.

My eyes shot back to the hem of Pastor Clark’s robes and stayed there until it was my turn to sing. The organ belted out the notes of the song, and I tried to choke out the words. My face began to quiver. I knew I was on the verge of crying, but I pushed that urge way down like always and pursed my lips together. I couldn’t sing another note or I’d lose it. And Charity’s voice was so high and shaky that I couldn’t even tell what part of the song she was singing. I looked out the windows at the dreary, smog-filled sky—even the clouds looked like they were about to burst with emotion—and that’s when I saw him.

Daniel sat in the back of the crowded balcony with his arms folded and his head bowed. He must have felt the heat of my stare because he lifted his chin. Even from
that distance, I could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked down into me for a moment, like he could see every painful feeling I was holding back, and then he lowered his head again.

Curiosity replaced grief as I sat down in my seat. Charity wrapped her arm around my shoulders, no doubt mistaking my shocked expression for extreme emotional distress. The Duke daughters’ droning eulogy went on for ages. Angela Duke even worked in a few well-placed jabs at Dad. When the service finally ended, and the procession of those mourners headed for the grave site had filed out, I watched Daniel move toward the balcony staircase that led to an outside exit. I jumped out of my seat, waving off someone who tried to thank me for my singing—or lack thereof—and pulled on my charcoal-gray dress coat and leather gloves.

“Mom wants our help,” Charity said.

“In a minute.”

I made my way through the aisle, sidling around the church ladies who murmured about the lack of heart in Pastor Clark’s portion of the service. Someone pulled at my sleeve as I passed and said my name. It may or may not have been Pete Bradshaw, but I didn’t stop to find out. It was like an invisible thread was hooked into my belly and drew me out the doors of the parish and into the parking lot. My pace quickened without any direction from my brain when I saw Daniel hop onto a
motorcycle in the far reaches of the lot.

“Daniel!” I called as the engine roared to life.

He shifted forward on the seat of the bike. “You coming?”

“What? No. I can’t.”

“Then why are you here?” Daniel looked at me then, his mud-pie eyes—still splotched with red—searching my face.

I couldn’t stop it—that invisible thread pulled me right up next to him. “You got a helmet?”

“This is Zed’s bike. You wouldn’t want to wear his helmet if he had one.” Daniel booted the kickstand. “I knew you’d come.”

“Shut up,” I said, and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.

ONE HEARTBEAT LATER

The hem of my simple black dress hiked up my legs and my matching Sunday heels suddenly seemed sexy as I placed them on the footrests of the bike. The engine roared again, and the bike went flying forward. I threw my arms around Daniel’s waist.

Cold air clawed at my face, ripping tears from my eyes. I buried my face deep into Daniel’s back and breathed in a mixture of familiar scents—almonds, oil paint, earth, and a hint of varnish. I didn’t even question why I was on that bike. I just knew I was supposed to be there.

We rode in a straight, steady shot for downtown. Daniel’s shoulders tensed and trembled like he craved more speed but was taking it slower for my sake. The sun was drowning in a crimson sunset behind the city skyline when we finally pulled over in a deserted alley in an unfamiliar part of town.

Daniel cut the ignition. The following silence made my ears throb.

“I want to show you something,” he said, and got off the bike with ease. He hopped up onto the curb and kept walking.

Shocking pain surged up my frozen legs when I hit the ground. I wobbled and swayed as I followed, like it had been years since I stood on solid ground. Daniel disappeared around a corner.

“Wait,” I called, trying to pull my more-than-wind-blown hair back into the French twist it had been in before we left the parish.

“It’s not far,” his voice wafted back.

I rounded the corner and went down a dark, narrow alleyway. Daniel stood at the end of the passage in front of two brick pillars and a wrought-iron gate that blocked his path.

“This is my sanctuary.” He grasped one of the iron bars of the gate. A brass plaque on one of the pillars said:
BORDEAUX FAMILY MEMORIAL
.

“A graveyard?” I hesitantly approached the gate. “You hang out in a graveyard?”

“Most of my friends worship vampires.” Daniel shrugged. “I’ve hung out in a lot of weird places.” I stared at him, openmouthed.

Daniel laughed. “This is a memorial, not a cemetery. There are no graves or dead people—unless you count the security guard. But this is the back entrance, so we shouldn’t run into him.”

“You mean we’re sneaking in?”

“Of course.”

A jangling noise echoed from the street behind us. Daniel grabbed my arm and pulled me into a shadowed alcove of the adjacent building.

“They lock the gates in the evening to keep vandals out.”

His face was so close to mine that his breath grazed my cheek. The deep chill in my bones disappeared and warmth tingled through my body.

“We’ll have to hop the gate and stay out of spotlights.” Daniel leaned his head to the side to check if the way was clear.

“No.” I shrank back in the alcove, feeling colder than ever. “I don’t do stuff like this. I don’t sneak into places, or break laws—even little ones.” At least I tried not to. I really did. “I’m not going to do it.”

Daniel leaned toward me until his warm breath lingered on my face again. “You know, some religious scholars believe that when faced with overwhelming temptation”—he reached out and brushed a tangled
strand of hair off my neck—“you should commit a small sin, just to relieve the pressure a bit.”

In the shadows, his eyes seemed darker than usual, and his stare didn’t just make him look hungry—he was starving. His lips were almost close enough to taste.

“That’s stupid. And … and … I don’t need any pressure relieved.” I shoved him away and stepped out of the alcove. “I’m going home.”

“Suit yourself,” Daniel said. “But I’m going in there, and unless you know how to drive a motorcycle, you’ll have a long wait until you can get home.”