Hallowed: An Unearthly Novel by Cynthia Hand Page A

Phibbs in flip-flops. My head is going to explode.

    “A bit of a shock?” he says good-naturedly, taking in our expressions, as if it has only now occurred to him that we might be surprised to see him. “We decided that it was for the best if you didn’t know.”

    “Who decided?” I can’t help but ask.

    “Your mother, mostly,” he says. “But it was something we all agreed upon.”

    “You’ve known about us all this time?” Angela manages.

    He snorts, which is the strangest sound ever coming from him. “But of course. That’s why I’m there. You kids need someone to keep an eye on you.” He turns back to the grill, whistling. He serves us up two hamburgers each, which we balance on paper plates with potato chips and fruit salad like this is a Fourth of July picnic. We wander off dazedly to sit in the grass and eat. I discover that I’m ravenous. And the food is wonderful.

    “Oh my God,” Angela says, when she finally stops eating long enough to talk. “This is so cool. I would never have guessed there’s a group . The congregation.” She says the word like she’s trying it out on her tongue, like it’s a word with magic powers. “I want to talk to Billy again.
    She seemed fabulous. Holy geez,” she exclaims, pointing across the meadow. “That’s Jay Hooper, you know, who manages the rodeo arena in Jackson.”

    “Are all these people from Jackson?”

    “Don’t think so,” she says. “A few, though. I can’t believe that I’ve lived here for my entire life and I didn’t know about this. I wonder if it’s like this in every city, or if it’s just Jackson. I have that theory that angel-bloods are attracted to the mountains, did I ever tell you?
    Whoa, that’s Mary Thorton. Wow, I wouldn’t have pinned her as the angelic type.” I stare at her blankly.

    “I guess you never know,” Angela says, still looking around. “Oh, and there’s Walter Prescott. He owns the bank.”

    “Walter Prescott?” I whip around to see where she’s looking. “Where?”

    “The blond one, in front of that big green tent.”

    I locate him, a tall light-haired man building a fire. I wouldn’t have guessed he was Christian’s uncle, looking at him, mostly because his hair is that towheaded blond that almost looks white, nothing resembling Christian’s dark messy waves.

    “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