“We know. Now.”
“What am I?”
My mom stepped in. “We cannot tel you just yet. It isn’t time. But we wil . Please trust us.”
My dad reached over and touched my cheek. “Maybe it’s better for you to get some rest, dearest. We can talk more tomorrow and answer some of your questions. At dinner.”
Sleep? Who could sleep with al this revelation? The very suggestion made me mad. They wanted me to sleep on a secret they’d kept from me for sixteen years. A major, major secret. I needed answers about my nature, my powers, and my immortality—for God’s sake. And I needed them now.
“No way. There is no way you’re going to spring al this on me, and then expect me to go to sleep.” I was as angry at my parents as I’d ever been.
“We know that you are angry, dearest. It is perfectly understandable under the circumstances. But there’s time enough for your questions when you’ve slept,” my dad said. His voice had a curious, singsong quality to it.
I started to object, when al of a sudden, sleep real y did seem like the most logical suggestion in the world. My dad took me by the hand and brought me to my bedside. My mom pul ed back the quilt and motioned for me to slide into the sheets. I had no choice but to fol ow them like an obedient child. Even though a tiny voice in my head wondered whether they stil had some of those angelic powers of persuasion and were using them on me.
Snuggling down into my covers, I looked up at my parents. My mom cast upon me a smile that could only be described as beatific, like some Madonna. Or maybe I was just seeing angels and saints everywhere.
The last words I remembered hearing before I drifted off into a deep sleep came from my mom. She said, “El speth, try to shroud—in your mind—
what you’ve learned tonight from Michael.”
The last thought I remembered thinking before I drifted off into that deep sleep was that it took a curiously long time for them to mention Michael.
Especial y since he and I were the same.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Michael was waiting for me at school the next morning.
“Where were you last night? I was so worried about you,” he said before I could even get my locker door open.
I quickly scanned the hal to make sure no one was listening. Fortunately everyone looked just as rushed as I was; I was seriously late for Miss Taunton’s class. “My parents caught me,” I whispered.
“Caught you?” Inexplicably, he seemed confused.
“Caught me trying to sneak out.”
A look of horror crossed his face. “They didn’t see you—”
I knew he was about to say “flying,” so I cut him off. “No, they didn’t see me do that.” The words were technical y true—if not accurate. My parents knew about my flying; they just didn’t witness it last night. Why didn’t I tel him?
I wondered why I felt uncertain. I’d woken up confused about what my parents had told me, and mad that they’d kept such secrets from me. But at the same time, I retained that sense of lightness I first experienced when they told me, at the thought I might be part of something better and bigger than myself. That hopeful sensation stayed with me as I got ready for school and drove in with my mom—even when she fended off my relentless questions with assurances that we’d talk later and even when I started to get angry at her withholding explanations. Al morning, I could barely contain my excitement to tel Michael what I’d learned about my identity, our identities. Despite my promises to my parents to the contrary.
Yet now that the opportunity was at hand, I wavered. There was something different, even off-putting, in Michael’s manner—something I couldn’t quite describe—that made me hesitate. And I hadn’t hesitated with him for a long time.
“Thank God for that,” he said.
“Thank God.” I smiled a little; the phrase had taken on new meaning.
He took me by the hand and asked, “Do you think you’d be able to get away after school today? I know it’s tough with your grounding and al , but something happened last night. I want to tel you about it.”
“I don’t know, Michael. The grounding isn’t my only problem. After my parents caught me trying to sneak out last night, they specifical y told me I couldn’t see you anymore.”
He withdrew his hand. “Me? Why?”
“They guessed that I was going to meet you. Not that I admitted it.”
“Great,” he said sarcastical y. “Now we’l only be able to see each other during the supervised school hours of eight thirty to three thirty and after midnight. Assuming your parents don’t camp out in your bedroom.”
“Assuming they don’t camp out in my bedroom,” I repeated, sadly. Although, given what I knew they knew, I was pretty certain that’s just about what they’d be doing.
Michael grabbed my hand again and pul ed me away from the throngs of students racing to class. He led me down a dark corridor that led to the empty auditorium. Backing me up into a niche holding a set of double doors, he breathed into my neck. “El ie, I won’t be able to stay away from you at night. One night was hard enough. Say you’l meet me at Ransom Beach after school.”
Al morning, I’d experienced a sense of lightness, like the black fog in which I’d been living had lifted. But now, with Michael so close, I felt the bloodlust again, along with the intoxication of the darkness. And I knew I’d find a way to meet him after school.
