Under Attack

time.”

Alex snorted. “Angels. Mythological. Whatev.”

I grinned. “Don’t get your wings in a bunch.”

Alex scanned the bookshelves, the blue-white light of his flashlight illuminating the spines.

“Communicating with the dead, waking the dead,” he murmured, “your dad was sure death-occupied.”

I crouched down to get a better look at a stack of papers on the bottom shelf. “Well, that’s a plus.”

Alex looked at me, confused.

“I would think Satan would know how to talk to the dead, so maybe Lucas is just ...” I struggled not to say Dad. “A guy.” I snagged a book off the shelf and wagged it in front of Alex. “Also, I don’t think Satan reads Janet Evanovich.”

He grinned. “I guess that’s good news.”

I shoved the book back and continued searching. “Maybe he is just a guy. Maybe he was just trying to contact my mother. Or Ophelia.”

“Why would he want to contact—”

“Ophelia,” I said again.

I held the yellowed Chronicle newspaper clipping in my shaking hands, staring into Ophelia’s eyes. She was young, with a printed jumper and pigtails, but her eyes were still the same, vivid, even through the pixilated and fading print. The last time I had looked into those eyes she had vowed to kill me and now there she was, snuggled up against the man who was supposed to be my father, the man who was supposed to have been photographed with me on his knee.

“Lawson?” Alex whispered.

I dropped the newspaper clipping and took the stairs two by two. I was vaguely aware that Alex was behind me, calling to me, but something drove me. I darted down the hall, pushing open doors as I went. I paused at the last door and sucked in a breath. Closing my hand on the knob, I pushed the door open.

It was a young woman’s room, but still held the pale pink remnants of little-girl life. The frilly lace lampshade was now partly covered by an orange and black Giants baseball cap. The rolling pink teddy bears on the wallpaper were now mostly covered by concert posters, magazine clippings, and photographs of smiling teenagers, their arms entwined, their youth captured forever. The fresh, bright smell of freesias still hung on the air, their sweet scent making me nauseous.

“This was Ophelia’s room,” I said slowly. “This is where she grew up.”

A yearbook was askew on her night table, its binding creased and old, as though someone had leafed through the book often. Alex picked it up and it fell open. He turned the book to face me.

There, with a demure look as she stared over her shoulder, was a full-page photograph of Ophelia. Underneath, it read: In Memory of Ophelia Szabo: a bright light gone out much too soon.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Oh my God. She was my sister.”

Chapter Eighteen

I felt a coil of anger in my stomach. “Did you know?”

“No, Sophie, I swear. How would I have known?”

“You dated her, Alex! You dated her and you didn’t know where she came from before?”

I was spitting mad now, feeling the emotion roiling through my veins. I was standing up, cornering Alex. “How could you not have known?”

Alex put his hands on my arms, holding me at arm’s length. His eyes were hard, cold. “I didn’t know, Sophie. Angels in grace don’t have any knowledge of the circumstances of their death or anything that happened before it. Time moves differently there. There is no way I could have put this together.”

I knew he was right, but I balled my hands into fists anyway, felt the tears spring into my eyes. I looked around the room, looked at the sweet pink sheets on the still-made bed, at the photographs of Ophelia and my father sharing family moments—at the beach, under the Christmas tree.

“He knew me and he didn’t want me,” I sobbed. “He knew how to be a dad, he just didn’t want to be one to me.”

Alex put his arms around me and I crumbled into him, sobbing, hiccupping. “I don’t care, I swear,” I sobbed. “He never even tried to find me.”

I gathered myself and used the tail of my black evening gown to wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I sniffed.

Alex just squeezed my shoulder and led me out of Ophelia’s room. We picked our way down the stairs, peeking in rooms and thumbing through bookshelves until we came to my father’s den. Alex was rifling through the top desk drawer when he suddenly stopped and withdrew a large manila envelope. He dumped the contents on the desk.

“Uh, Lawson?”

I dropped the statuette I was holding and went to the desk, sucking in a gasp as I did. I stared down into my own eyes. Into my own face.

“What the—?” I pawed through the heap of photographs—they were all me, from every angle. I was a pudgy, round-eyed baby in some shots, then a toddler, gripping my mother’s hand. There was a long gap, and then the next few pictures were more recent.

“Maybe he was looking for you.”

But they weren’t the photographs of a father longing for his child. There weren’t shots of me grinning, shopping at the Farmer’s Market, snuggling the family dog. They were banal: shots of daily tasks, close-ups of my face, my hands, slipping into the doors above the UDA.

Four days after I was born ... I thought. He was seeking the Vessel; it consumed him... .

I put the photograph I was holding back on the desk. My saliva went sour, my face hot.

“Sophie?”

Alex’s voice sounded tinny, far away.

Now don’t you see? You’re the only one who didn’t know. Poor, dumb baby sister ...

It was Ophelia’s voice and it was happy, giggly.

You know the truth, she said. You know it’s there.... You’ve always known that you weren’t right, you never fit in.... But a prize? Nah. Just a thing. You were always just a thing, Sophie. We know it, Daddy knew it, and now Alex knows it, too.

She whispered the last part and her breath echoed in my mind, ran shivers up my spine.

“You.” The word caught in my throat, hung in the air.

“What?”

I took a step back. “You know ... about me. He knew. My dad knew.”

Alex looked at me, his eyes wide. “What are you talking about? Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.” Alex reached out for my hand and his touch—usually warm and comforting—was icy and I pulled my hand away, stumbling.

“You know about me.”

Alex opened his mouth and then closed it, and I watched the flash of realization cross over his eyes. “You are the Vessel of Souls.”

I nodded, every inch of my body tense, on high alert. I was aware each time my heart beat, was certain of each pump of blood. I was ready to run but Alex just sat, stunned.

“You.”

I could feel the tears pooling behind my eyes. “You didn’t know?”

Alex wagged his head. “I had no idea. When did—did you always know?”

“No. Will told me.”

“Will? The guy from your apartment building?”