decide.”
“Deal.”
I did my best to make out his profile in the dim cab. “You used to always be searching . . .” I cleared my throat. “For a way to go back.”
Alex was officially a fallen angel, but he lacked the cold black heart of the real baddies. He wasn’t welcome to go back to grace and he didn’t want to go to the seventh level where the truly fallen live. So he was earthbound—which meant he was never really anywhere.
He gave me a quick glance and went back to studying the road. “I think about it every day. I don’t know why, since it’s useless.”
Again, he shot me a quick look and then looked away. We both knew what he meant—for him to return to grace, he would have to return the Vessel of Souls that he had stolen and subsequently lost. For him to retrieve the Vessel of Souls, he would have to kill me. As murder is a mortal sin, he would be cast back down to Hell. His life cycle was pretty much a theological catch-22 and as the blasted Vessel placeholder, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I just . . . was wondering.”
I went back to staring out the passenger-side window. Alex snaked an arm across the seat back and laced his fingers in my hair. His touch was soft, the movement intimate. My heart ached for him and I blinked away tears. I knew what it was like not to fit anywhere. I didn’t know what it was like to have a place to go, but no means to ever get there.
I was sitting on the grass, my skirt spread over my knees. I could feel the way the grass pricked at my palms when I reclined, could feel the slight moisture of the earth against my hands. It was bright—a perfect day, really—and I squinted as the yellow-white sunlight streaked off the ripples of the lake in front of me. I could hear slight murmuring and laughter punctuated by the sound of honking geese. And the laughter again . . . I realized it was coming from me, from my own mouth, as I watched my mother and father facing each other, holding hands and spinning—the way little children do. Just spinning round and round, my mother with her head thrown back, her lips bright red arches as she laughed. My father spun her, laughing too, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes the way hers did.
Suddenly, I was cold. I could feel the bay chill and moisture in the air and I scratched at my bare shoulders as though there were a sweater there. My fingernails were digging into my flesh, dragging angry red lines that burned. I watched, fascinated, as my skin split and dots of blue-red blood bubbled up. The cold was everywhere now and everything was getting louder—the geese honking, then car tires squealing. The crashing sound of windows breaking, a rumble from the bottom of my feet. I knew that buildings were tumbling and my hands went to the grass, grabbing uselessly at blades that broke off. The world was spinning out of control, and when I looked to my parents, their joyous, egg-shaped arc had gone crazy. I was mesmerized by my mother’s bare feet, by the tiny, frantic steps she took, her toes first on the lush green grass, then stepping among shards of broken bottles and glass.
“Mom!” I tried to reach out, but I was rooted to the earth and my voice was lost in the swirl of wind from their movement. “Dad!” I tried again, and this time my voice was thick and strong. My father stopped, snapping to attention, his eyes—an inky, ominous black—laser focused on mine. I watched my parents’ fingers loosen; then his slipped out of hers. She was still reaching, clawing, desperate for him to save her, but he wouldn’t. He stared at me with a tiny, whimsical smile while his hands fell listlessly to his sides and my mother went on spinning—dangerously, wildly out of control. She called for me, but I didn’t answer. I flinched when the water came.
And suddenly, she was gone.
I looked down at my palms and they were red, blood red. I studied the viscous liquid
“Deal.”
I did my best to make out his profile in the dim cab. “You used to always be searching . . .” I cleared my throat. “For a way to go back.”
Alex was officially a fallen angel, but he lacked the cold black heart of the real baddies. He wasn’t welcome to go back to grace and he didn’t want to go to the seventh level where the truly fallen live. So he was earthbound—which meant he was never really anywhere.
He gave me a quick glance and went back to studying the road. “I think about it every day. I don’t know why, since it’s useless.”
Again, he shot me a quick look and then looked away. We both knew what he meant—for him to return to grace, he would have to return the Vessel of Souls that he had stolen and subsequently lost. For him to retrieve the Vessel of Souls, he would have to kill me. As murder is a mortal sin, he would be cast back down to Hell. His life cycle was pretty much a theological catch-22 and as the blasted Vessel placeholder, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I just . . . was wondering.”
I went back to staring out the passenger-side window. Alex snaked an arm across the seat back and laced his fingers in my hair. His touch was soft, the movement intimate. My heart ached for him and I blinked away tears. I knew what it was like not to fit anywhere. I didn’t know what it was like to have a place to go, but no means to ever get there.
I was sitting on the grass, my skirt spread over my knees. I could feel the way the grass pricked at my palms when I reclined, could feel the slight moisture of the earth against my hands. It was bright—a perfect day, really—and I squinted as the yellow-white sunlight streaked off the ripples of the lake in front of me. I could hear slight murmuring and laughter punctuated by the sound of honking geese. And the laughter again . . . I realized it was coming from me, from my own mouth, as I watched my mother and father facing each other, holding hands and spinning—the way little children do. Just spinning round and round, my mother with her head thrown back, her lips bright red arches as she laughed. My father spun her, laughing too, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes the way hers did.
Suddenly, I was cold. I could feel the bay chill and moisture in the air and I scratched at my bare shoulders as though there were a sweater there. My fingernails were digging into my flesh, dragging angry red lines that burned. I watched, fascinated, as my skin split and dots of blue-red blood bubbled up. The cold was everywhere now and everything was getting louder—the geese honking, then car tires squealing. The crashing sound of windows breaking, a rumble from the bottom of my feet. I knew that buildings were tumbling and my hands went to the grass, grabbing uselessly at blades that broke off. The world was spinning out of control, and when I looked to my parents, their joyous, egg-shaped arc had gone crazy. I was mesmerized by my mother’s bare feet, by the tiny, frantic steps she took, her toes first on the lush green grass, then stepping among shards of broken bottles and glass.
“Mom!” I tried to reach out, but I was rooted to the earth and my voice was lost in the swirl of wind from their movement. “Dad!” I tried again, and this time my voice was thick and strong. My father stopped, snapping to attention, his eyes—an inky, ominous black—laser focused on mine. I watched my parents’ fingers loosen; then his slipped out of hers. She was still reaching, clawing, desperate for him to save her, but he wouldn’t. He stared at me with a tiny, whimsical smile while his hands fell listlessly to his sides and my mother went on spinning—dangerously, wildly out of control. She called for me, but I didn’t answer. I flinched when the water came.
And suddenly, she was gone.
I looked down at my palms and they were red, blood red. I studied the viscous liquid
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