Cynthia Hand
Unearthly
The Nephilim were on the earth in those days — and also afterward — when the angels went to the daughters of men and had children by them.
They were the heroes of old, men of renown.
Prologue
In the beginning, there’s a boy standing in the trees. He’s around my age, in that space between child and man, maybe all of seventeen years old. I’m not sure how I know this. I can only see the back of his head, his dark hair curling damply against his neck. I feel the dry heat of the sun, so intense, drawing the life from everything.
There’s a strange orange light filling the eastern sky. There’s the heavy smell of smoke. For a moment I’m filled with such a smothering grief that it’s hard to breathe.
I don’t know why. I take a step toward the boy, open my mouth to call his name, only I don’t know it. The ground crunches under my feet. He hears me. He starts to turn.
One more second and I will see his face.
That’s when the vision leaves me. I blink, and it’s gone.
Chapter 1
On Purpose
The first time, November 6 to be exact, I wake up at two a.m. with a tingling in my head like tiny fireflies dancing behind my eyes. I smell smoke. I get up and wander from room to room to make sure no part of the house is on fire. Everything’s fine, everybody sleeping, tranquil. It’s more of a campfire smoke, anyway, sharp and woodsy. I chalk it up to the usual weirdness that is my life. I try, but can’t get back to sleep. So I go downstairs. And I’m drinking a glass of water at the kitchen sink, when, with no other warning, I’m in the middle of the burning forest. It’s not like a dream. It’s like I’m
Right away I run to wake Mom. I sit at the foot of her bed and try not to hyperventilate as I go over every detail of the vision I can remember. It’s so little, really, just the fire, the boy.
“Too much at once would be overwhelming,” she says. “That’s why it will come to you this way, in pieces.”
“Is that how it was when you received your purpose?”
“That’s how it is for most of us,” she says, neatly dodging my question.
She won’t tell me about her purpose. It’s one of those off-limits topics. This bugs me, because we’re close, we’ve always been close, but there’s this big part of her that she refuses to share.
“Tell me about the trees in your vision,” she says. “What did they look like?”
“Pine, I think. Needles, not leaves.”
She nods thoughtfully, like this is an important clue. But me, I’m not thinking about the trees. I’m thinking about the boy.
“I wish I could have seen his face.”
“You will.”
“I wonder if I’m supposed to protect him.”
I like the idea of being his rescuer. All angel-bloods have purposes of different types — some are messengers, some witnesses, some meant to comfort, some just doing things that cause other things to happen — but
“I can’t believe you’re old enough to have your purpose,” Mom says with a sigh.
“Makes me feel old.”
“You
She can’t argue with that, being that she’s over a hundred and all, even though she doesn’t look a day over forty. I, on the other hand, feel exactly like what I am: a clueless (if not exactly ordinary) sixteen-year-old who still has school in the morning.
At the moment I don’t feel like there’s any angel blood in me. I look at my beautiful, vibrant mother, and I know that whatever her purpose was, she must have faced it with courage and humor and skill.
“Do you think.,” I say after a minute, and it’s tough to get the question out because I don’t want her to think I’m a total coward. “Do you think it’s possible for me to be killed by fire?”
“Clara.”
“Seriously.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It’s just that when I was standing there behind him, I felt so sad. I don’t know why.”
Mom’s arms come around me, pull me close so I can hear the strong, steady beating of her heart.
“Maybe the reason I’m so sad is that I’m going to die,” I whisper.
Her arms tighten.
“It’s rare,” she says quietly.
