“Obviously,” Michael’s mom interrupted.
“And we were hoping that you might send one of your friends to do the same,” my mom finished.
“We would be happy to do so, Hananel.” Michael’s mom paused and then said, “Thank goodness, Michael doesn’t know anything.”
“Nothing?” My mom sounded skeptical.
“He senses his powers, of course. But, otherwise, he seemed perfectly normal at dinner tonight. If a little subdued.”
“He didn’t mention a fight with El speth?”
“No. But then, you know how teenagers are.”
“Are you certain that he is uninformed?”
“Insofar as I can be certain of anything with the limitations of this mortal body.”
“Perhaps you should check on him.”
“Perhaps I should.”
The stairs began to creak as Sariel walked up to Michael’s bedroom. I watched through his eyes as he scurried back to his bedroom and threw himself under the covers. The wooden floorboards squeaked as she approached his bed and hovered over it for several minutes. Then she tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
The image faded. I stood before Michael, staring into his waiting eyes. He looked almost sick as he anticipated my judgment on the image he had summoned up for me.
“Do you believe me? Do you believe that Ezekiel doesn’t have a hold on me any longer?”
I did. I knew he was tel ing the truth. In fact, I sensed the very moment when the cord between Michael and Ezekiel was cut—it was when my dad mentioned Ezekiel by name—and I knew that Michael came to Boston of his own volition. Not under Ezekiel’s sway or for Ezekiel’s purposes.
“I do, Michael.”
“Thank God.”
Michael wrapped his arms around me, and I let him. I didn’t return the embrace. I wasn’t ready. But I couldn’t stay mad at him either. Through Ezekiel’s eyes, I’d seen Ezekiel turn powerful, grown men and women into his fol owers. Into monsters. How did I expect Michael to resist?
“El ie, I promise that I wil never betray you again. We’re in this together, against Ezekiel.”
“I hope so, Michael.” I real y did. But how could I be certain that Michael wouldn’t fal under Ezekiel’s influence again? I knew Ezekiel would be a constant presence, in one form or another, and Michael seemed to be susceptible to Ezekiel in a way that I wasn’t. I would have to be vigilant, to constantly assess Michael for any changes, by touch or by blood if necessary.
But for now, it was enough that Michael was back. And that I was no longer entirely alone.
Chapter Forty-two
Hand in hand, we raced across the Harvard campus toward the square. The lights from the stores and restaurants and theater blinded my sensitive eyes after the dimness of the campus pathways. In the few seconds it took for them to adjust, Michael led me down into the murky tunnels of the T; the strange disorientation I’d experienced on the Harvard campus must have been an Ezekiel trick. I bristled at the thought of being underground—
trapped—but with Ezekiel so near, we had no choice.
I had told Michael where we needed to go and how fast we needed to get there. To his credit, he didn’t ask why. He just asked how he could help us reach Professor Barr.
At Michael’s suggestion, I had tried to reach Professor Barr by phone first, without success. The time difference was working against us, so we decided the quickest—and perhaps only—way to reach him under the circumstances was to fly to London.
After quickly mapping out the necessary connections to get from the Harvard Square Station to Logan Airport, we stood on the train platform.
Using Michael’s cel , we booked seats on the British Airways flight to London. And then we waited. An ancient clock loomed over our heads and tapped out the minutes, as if reminding us how little time we had before the gate would close. I wished that we ourselves could fly to London, but neither of us knew whether we had the ability to fly such far distances.
Final y, final y, in the far distance, I heard the rumbling of the train. I thanked God. I didn’t think my nerves could stand one more second of delay.
One more second for Ezekiel to find us.
The crowds started to converge on the cramped platform as the train slowed down. As the doors opened, people jostled for spots in the already packed train car. I reached for Michael’s hand to make sure we didn’t lose each other. Before his hand gripped mine, I saw a familiar head of blond hair in the crowd pouring into the train.
I stopped. Was it Ezekiel?
I felt the warmth of Michael’s hand in mine, and yet I stil couldn’t move. The man looked like he was about to hop on board, but was hesitating.
Should we stay here—and risk missing our flight—or get on an enclosed subway car with Ezekiel for company?
Michael pul ed me toward the open train doors. They had started to beep in anticipation of closing. “Come on, El ie. The doors are about to shut.”
My body was rigid. Michael spun around and saw my expression. He fol owed my gaze and understood immediately the source of my fear.
“El ie, it’s not Ezekiel.”
The man was facing the other way, so I couldn’t see his features. But his hair so resembled Ezekiel’s distinctive color and style, I didn’t trust Michael. “How do you know?”
Rather than wasting precious time explaining, Michael released my hand, ran over to the man, and tapped him on the shoulder. When the man turned around, I saw the ruddy face of a young col ege student. Not Ezekiel.
Just before the doors slid shut, Michael dragged me on board. Col ege students jammed the car, so we clutched onto the metal rings for support as the train lurched forward. I exhaled in relief and wil ed my heart to stop racing.
At the next stop, the Central Square Station, most of the students got off. A bench opened up. We grabbed it and settled in for the fifteen-minute ride to South Station, where we’d transfer to the bus for Logan.
We rode in silence. I became acutely aware of al that we hadn’t talked about: the overheard conversations of our parents, my discussions with Professor McMaster, Michael’s time alone with Ezekiel. The unspoken words hung between us, like a screen separating us. I didn’t want to feel so detached from Michael, but I didn’t know where to start. Or how to break through the divide.
Final y, Michael tried. He looked at me, with a serious and sad expression, and asked, “El ie, what are we?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t certain of my conclusion at al , but he deserved to know the most logical assumption. “I think we’re something cal ed Nephilim.
But I’m not real y sure what that means.”
Michael’s lips formed the first of many questions, but my eyes suddenly grew heavy. I hadn’t slept for nearly two days. He whispered, “It’s al right, El ie. Go to sleep. We have plenty of time to figure this al out. I’l stay awake so we don’t miss our stop.”
His arms enfolded me, and I returned the gesture. I hadn’t hugged him since he returned to himself. And it felt good.
For the first time since I met Michael on Ransom Beach, I relaxed and closed my eyes. His arms and his reassurances that we would uncover the mysteries of our beings together soothed me. I wanted to thank him, so I forced my eyes open a little.
My drowsy vision settled on a sweet-faced blond girl wearing a Harvard sweatshirt walking down the train car aisle. She resembled the helpful girl from the peaceful brick courtyard, the one who advised me to think about the questions. I thought she smiled at me. I started to smile back, but then a disturbing question crossed my mind. It wiped away al thoughts of sleep. With al the thousands of col ege students in Cambridge, what were the odds that I’d run into the same person twice within a few hours? Slim, very slim.
Chapter Forty-three