unharmed and flying of his own accord—right here.”
“No, El ie!” Michael yel ed back.
“Yes, Michael.” I pointedly looked down at the exposed iron rod, hoping desperately that Ezekiel didn’t catch my meaning as wel . “It is the only way.”
“You have made the right choice, El speth,” Ezekiel cal ed out.
Side by side, they began their descent. Ezekiel was careful not to touch Michael, but he didn’t let him out of his sight either. I stood near—but not next to—the iron rod, and watched as they neared the floor. Just before they touched down, I stretched out my arms to Ezekiel, to distract him.
“It is almost time,” I said. As if to Ezekiel.
Ezekiel reached out his arms for me. With an expression of triumph, he looked away from Michael and smiled at me. Just then, Michael flew at Ezekiel’s back and shoved him into the iron rod with al his strength.
We raced to Ezekiel’s side to make sure the deed was done. But we needn’t have. Within seconds, the smel of the blood pouring from his body was overpowering. He seemed weak—even near death—but his eyes were stil open and blinking.
“I am not alone. There are others. Others even more powerful than me. Like your father,” Ezekiel whispered, and smiled his sick smile out at the crowd. And then the blinking stopped.
I looked out at Quincy Market, in the direction of Ezekiel’s final gaze. There, in the throngs, I spotted a man with black hair and bright blue eyes staring right at us. As if he saw us. Then he disappeared.
Tamiel raced to our sides. She nodded in agreement with Ezekiel’s last words. It was over, but only for the moment.
I didn’t care. I stood up and hugged Michael as hard as I could. Even if we had only a short time of peacefulness together, even if I was this other, elect, strange creature, I wanted this moment, this moment of peace.
We looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. I closed my eyes and surrendered into the warmth of Michael’s arms.
Chapter Forty-seven
I opened my eyes. I was in my bedroom.
My bedroom.
I had no memory of returning to Til inghast from Boston.
How had I gotten here? The last thing I remembered was holding on to Michael in Quincy Market, after we looked down at the body of Ezekiel. Oh my God, Ezekiel.
I sat up in my bed. I lifted up my quilt, blanket, and sheets. I was in my flannel pajamas. Who had dressed me in these? I looked at the clock. It said seven A.M., but I had no idea what day it was.
Pushing off my quilt, blanket, and sheets, I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet. I tottered over to my desk, where my bag sat. I picked it up, looking for any scrap of evidence that I’d been to Boston. I found my notebook fil ed with the usual scribbles, my wal et with my identification and money, and my toiletry bag stocked as always. There were no ticket stubs or receipts or even any of the lists of questions I’d made on the train to Boston or during that long night in the Harvard Square coffee shop. But my cel was there. The cel phone I’d thrown into the garbage can at the Til inghast train station.
Had it al been a dream? The flying and the blood? Ezekiel and the trip to Boston? Al that stuff about the Nephilim and the Elect One? Was Michael a dream too?
I ran downstairs, not sure what to hope for. My mom stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast and pouring orange juice, like she did every morning. She looked up at me, unsurprised that I stood in the kitchen. But she was surprised at my state, given the hour.
“Dearest, why are you stil in your pajamas? You have to leave for school in five minutes.”
I stared around the kitchen, as if I hadn’t seen it in months. The kettle sat in its typical place, and the magnets on the fridge held up the normal pictures and reminders. Everything looked the same as when I left. But I felt entirely different.
My mom marched over to me and placed her hand on my forehead. “Do you feel sick, El ie? You look a little peaked, but you don’t feel warm.”
I was afraid to speak. Almost any sentence that came out of my mouth could be real y out of place. Even crazy.
“Dearest, is everything al right?”
Words final y croaked out of my mouth. “I’m okay, Mom. I just woke up from a real y weird dream.”
Her eyebrows rose in alarm, but her voice sounded calm. Very, very calm. “What was the dream, dearest?”
“Nothing. Just a dream. I’d better get ready.”
I walked back upstairs and opened my closet to pick out an outfit. Hanging on the rack were some of the more daring clothes I’d bought since I started seeing Michael. And the red dress I’d worn to the Fal Dance. That wasn’t a dream, at least. Maybe Michael wasn’t either.
I grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater and headed into the bathroom. Standing against the closed bathroom door for a long moment, I final y went over to the sink and turned on the hot water. As the steam rose up, I stared at myself in the foggy mirror. How could I look like the same old El ie when so much had happened? Or had it?
But what choice did I have but to go through the motions of normalcy? I washed my face with my favorite lemony soap. I brushed out al the knots in my hair. I put on some blush and mascara, and I got dressed. Al the while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
