Under Attack

“Open the door.”

I pushed the door open a few inches and poked my nose toward the opening, sniffing cautiously. The overwhelming scent of garlic and oregano floated up to greet me and my mouth watered. I reached out and snatched the bag, examining it from every angle and sniffing like a patrolling bloodhound.

“Are you satisfied?” Alex asked, coming in and shutting the door behind him. “It’s dinner.”

I examined the dinner-plate-sized grease stain on the side of the bag. “It certainly looks like Bambino’s.”

“Lawson ...”

I put down the bag and put my fists on my hips. “Look, you’re the one who told me to be careful. I think you once even said, ‘You never can be too careful.’ Or maybe that was on Court TV, but either way, I think it’s good advice.”

Alex cocked his head, a half-smile playing on his full, tasty lips. “You’re cute when you’re belligerent.”

“I’m not belligerent.”

Alex opened the bag, removing tinned boxes of marinara-stained takeout. “I’m glad you’re being extra careful, but you know you can trust me.”

Do I? The thought lodged in my cerebral before I even had a chance to challenge it. I tried to shrug it off, to ply it with hunks of cheese-covered bread, but the nagging thought remained.

Alex pointed at me with a handful of plastic utensils. “Here, sit.”

I did as I was told and Alex helped himself to the two plates I owned plus a heap of paper napkins.

“Mangia.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are—were—you Italian?”

It occurred to me then that beyond the cut-glass blue of his eyes and his dark chocolaty hair, beyond his chiseled chest and a light introduction to his supernatural history, I didn’t know much about Alex Grace.

He nodded as he chewed. “Half. On my mother’s side.”

“And your father?”

Alex shrugged, reaching for a fork. “American mutt, I think.”

“Didn’t you know him well?”

Alex put down his fork. “I don’t remember.”

I swallowed. “It’s been that long?”

“When—when you die and come to grace, the events of your death are erased. You don’t remember. The longer you’re in grace, the less you remember about your Earthly life.”

“Well, that seems kind of lousy—having no memories?”

“You have no bad memories. You don’t miss anyone. You just ... are.”

I frowned. “So, how do you know about your parents?”

Alex and I reached for a piece of garlic bread at the same time, our hands touching. He pulled back, then pushed the plate closer to me. “The longer you’re fallen or earthbound, the more you start to remember.”

I nibbled the edge of my bread. “Isn’t that good?”

Alex swung his head. “No. The memories that start to come back—they’re the worst ones. You remember the pain, the hate—the miserable way people treated you.”

I shuddered. “That’s awful.”

“It’s a powerful way to bring people to the dark side. They can’t remember anything good—can’t remember ever being at peace. They get angry, violent.”

“Like Ophelia.”

“Yeah. That’s how he persuades you to take the dark path.”

“He? He like ...”

“The devil.”

I felt a cold shiver—like a shot of ice water—speed through my veins, piercing my heart. “That sounds awful.”

We ate in silence for the next few minutes. I steered clear of the spaghetti—images of maggots kept coming back—but went headfirst into the meat lasagna. I was crunching through my third slice of the ultra-buttery garlic- bread goodness when Nina pushed through the front door, Vlad in tow.

Nina rushed over toward me and threw her arms across my shoulders, tugging me to her marble-cold chest. “Poor thing! Are you doing okay? You looked horrible at the office. Like, like—” I peeled myself away from Nina, wiping my greasy lips on a napkin. “Like that,” she finished.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said, patting her arm softly.

“What happened?” Vlad asked, keeping his distance from the dinner table.

“Sophie was attacked. And mugged!”

Vlad’s eyes widened, and I could see the rise and fall of his paisley silk ascot as he swallowed slowly. “By whom?”

Nina pointed a well-manicured finger in Alex’s direction. “His ex-girlfriend attacked her. But we don’t know who mugged her.”

Alex put down his fork. “We’re working on it.”

Nina crossed her arms, jutting out a single bony hip. “How are you working on it? Because it looks an awful lot like you’re sitting here, stuffing your face, wining and dining my roommate, not out trolling the clouds or galaxies or wherever you angels go when you’re not breaking our pottery.”

“It was an IKEA vase,” I protested.

“How can you just sit there, eating?”

Vlad’s nostrils flared. “Is that garlic?”

Nina pierced him with any icy stare. “Go get the donation clothes. The grown-ups are talking.”

“Oh whatever!” Vlad moaned, stomping all the way to Nina’s room.

I took another bite of garlic bread. “What else do you expect us to do?”

Nina stomped her foot.

Vlad poked his head out of Nina’s room. “Uh, Auntie?”

Nina held up a silencing hand and glared at Alex and me. “We need to be doing something.”

“We’re eating.”

Vlad stepped out of Nina’s room, his arms weighed down with a monster-sized heap of Nina’s discarded couture. “Nina?”

Nina shot him another glare, then focused back on us. “Sophie was practically useless at work today. Can’t you see how this is tearing her apart?”

Vlad stepped out and dumped the load of clothes on the living-room floor. He produced an iPod from his pocket and popped in the earbuds, then disappeared back into Nina’s room, shutting the door with a slam behind him.

I swallowed while Alex fished around in the Bambino’s bag, extracting a handful of red-pepper packets. “We’re going to get to it, but first we have to eat. Not all of us are—you know, dead.”

I poked at the remains of my lasagna and Caesar salad while Alex and Nina bickered.

“We’re close,” Alex was saying. “I know we’re close to finding the Vessel.”

“Yeah, but Ophelia actually has that going-out-and-looking-for-it thing going on. What have we done? Nothing. Nothing!”

“We’re researching,” Alex said, the muscle flicking in his jaw—the way it does when he is desperately trying to remain calm.

There was the faintest giggle—gentle, like the sound of tinkling bells—trilling in my head. They can’t help you, Ophelia’s voice intoned. They don’t even know where to begin. Your little friends have no idea how to deal with people like us. Us, Sophie ... you and I are one and the same.

“I am not dead!” I stood up, my fork clattering to my plate, my chair flopping onto the ground behind me. Nina and Alex’s faces swung toward me.

“Um, Sophie?” Nina asked, her dark eyes wide with alarm.

I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temples. “It’s Ophelia,” I said, “I can hear her.”

Alex stood up. “Where? Is she here?”