Hallowed

“No,” answers my mom finally. “Black Wings don’t fly.”

“Unless they turn into birds,” corrects Billy. “I’ve seen them do that.”

“Black Wings don’t have anywhere to go but down,” says a man with red hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. Stephen, I think I heard my mom call him. He has a deep voice, like one of those movie-trailer voices. The voice of doom.

I officially have goose bumps.

“But not literally down, right?” says Angela. “Because hell is a dimension underneath our own, so it’s not some sort of bottomless fiery pit.”

“Right,” Mom says, which blows my mind. Why is she suddenly so free with information?

I remind myself that this is a good thing, although my brain is already starting to overload with so much new stuff to take in.

“Plus hell is typically chilly. Nothing fiery about it. Lots of cold days in hell,” says Billy.

“And how would you know that, Bill?” someone from across the fire teases.

“Mind your own business,” Billy retorts with a grin.

“In all seriousness, though,” says Stephen, since he’s a serious kind of guy. “None of us has ever been to hell, so it’s pure speculation about the temperature.” I dare a glance at Mom, who doesn’t meet my eyes. So she hasn’t told them about our fantastic trip to the underworld with Samjeeza, and if she hasn’t told them, I’m certainly not going to.

“Why?” Angela never did know when to shut up. “Why haven’t you been to hell?” You’d think the answer to that would be, Because we’re not evil, thank you very much, but instead Stephen says, “Because we can’t pass between dimensions on our own. We need the Intangere to help us, and no angel-blood who’s been taken to hell by a Black Wing has ever returned to tell us what it’s like there.”

Again I look at Mom. Again she looks away.

The campfire gives a sudden loud pop, which makes us all jump.

“Steve, you’re scaring the children,” Mom scolds.

“We’re not children,” Jeffrey says. “We want to know.”

Billy nods. “Understandable,” she says, casting a significant glance at Mom. “That’s why you’re here. To get answers.”

I get a glimmer of what Mom’s feeling. Resignation. But she’s accepted that this is going to happen, even if it’s so very dangerous for us. It makes her heart beat fast, but she sits there and tries to keep her breathing even.

I guess we really are going to get some answers.

“So you fight the Black Wings?” I ask. “Is that the point of the congregation?”

“No.” Billy shakes her head. “We don’t fight them, not physically speaking, at least not if we can help it. We’d lose, nine times out of ten, maybe ten times out of ten. Our best defense against Black Wings is to stay undetected. Which we’ve largely managed to do. Most of the people here have never even seen a Black Wing, let alone fought one.”

“So what do you do, then?” Jeffrey asks, a tad belligerently, like he’s disappointed not to be battling the fallen angels one-on-one. “If you don’t fight them?”

“We track down angel-bloods,” answers Mr. Phibbs. “Get to them before the other side does. Tell them about who and what they are. Help them.”

“And we follow our purpose,” Mom adds, finally looking at me. “That’s how we do our part. We figure out what we’re supposed to do and we do it.” Interesting.

I’m still not going to accept my purpose if it means that Tucker has to die.

Walter Prescott suddenly stands up on the other side of the fire. “Enough talk,” he says. “I think it’s time for s’mores. Who wants s’mores?”

I look across at Christian. He’s holding a bag of marshmallows in one hand and a bag of chocolate bars in the other like some sort of peace offering. He smiles.

“I do,” Jeffrey says.

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, my brother and his stomach.

Everyone settles into eating. Angela looks downtrodden that the Black Wing conversation is done, but in a few minutes she’s over it, leaning forward again, listening to more stories with a glow in her golden eyes, big smile on her face. She’s on cloud nine, basking in this sense of community she’s never had before. Even Jeffrey likes it here. Earlier he played a game of soccer with some of the other angel-bloods, a real game where he didn’t have to hold anything back.

He’s got this air about him of deep satisfaction, like that’s all he ever wanted, just to play some serious sports and eat some good food and not have to be anything but what he is.

I should feel like that too, I guess, enjoying this thing. So why don’t I?

Let’s see, chimes the voice in my head, well, you failed at your purpose. How many of the people here did that? And it looks like your boyfriend is destined to die. And your mom clearly doesn’ t trust you as far as she can throw you. And you don’ t know these people, but they’ re all looking at you like they know you.

“So, Mr. Prescott,” says Mr. Phibbs when we’re all tapped out on s’mores, sticky with marshmallow and smeared with chocolate. I wonder if angel-bloods can have sugar comas.

“Me?” asks Christian. He has chocolate on his chin.