Fallen Angel Part 13

"I know about you and Michael-and the flying."

I was stunned into speechlessness.

Ruth looked down at her hands, almost embarra.s.sed by what she'd said and how she knew. "I told you earlier that I just didn't understand the whole Facebook thing. It seemed totally out of character for you, and you acted so different afterward. So I started eavesdropping here and there. I overheard you saying to Michael that you'd see him later that night-even though you were grounded. It got me wondering whether you two were sneaking out, and whether Michael was the reason you changed so much. So I began to follow you-at night. That's when I saw you fly for the first time."

"You saw us." I couldn't believe my ears.

"Yes." She smiled despite herself. "It was really amazing to watch."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"Ellie, does the trip to the train station have something to do with your flying?"

"Yes, in a way."

She paused again. It was strange for me to watch my best friend of seven years acting so uncomfortable around me. "What are you, Ellie?"

I didn't have an answer, although I wished desperately that I did. "Would you believe me if I told you that I honestly don't know?"

Reaching out toward me, she clasped my hand. "After seeing you two fly, I'd believe anything."

I didn't want to push her along, but I knew I was running out of time. "So you'll take me to the train station?"

"Do you really need to go? I don't know what I'll do without you, Ellie. Especially now that you are back. The real you, I mean."

Tears started welling up in my eyes at the idea of leaving my poor parents behind. And Ruth. And Tillinghast. But I knew I couldn't stay. Ezekiel had warned me.

"I have to go. It's in everyone's best interest," I said, knowing that Ruth couldn't possibly comprehend-or believe-the danger I'd be thrusting upon Tillinghast if I didn't leave.

"Take me with you, Ellie," she said suddenly. Although I could tell she'd been mustering up the courage to make her request.

"You don't want to be a part of this. I promise you."

"Ellie, I don't know what you are, but I know you are more than human." She started to cry too. "I've seen up close what it means to be human. With my mom's death. And I don't want to end up like that. I'd rather be like you."

Watching Ruth cry made me cry harder. "Oh, Ruth, even if I wanted to, I couldn't turn you into whatever I am. And anyway, I don't think my differences make me immune from dying."

We hugged each other for a long time. Ruth broke away first, and turned the car back on. "I guess I should take you to the train station."

Chapter Thirty-four.

I walked into the back entrance of the sleepy Tillinghast train station feeling more alone than ever before. It wasn't because the station was empty except for a lone ticket agent or because I was uncertain about my destination. It was because I was truly on my own.

I didn't know when-or how-my solitude would end. I couldn't see or even contact my parents until I could be certain I wouldn't cause them harm. The same applied to Ruth. As for Michael, well, he had chosen Ezekiel over me; he was gone. And there was no one else.

As I stared up at the train destination board, a tear ran down my cheek. For a split second, I was glad to be alone. I didn't want anyone to see my weakness. I needed to be strong to face the coming days.

Wiping the tear away, I concentrated on the board. I scanned the list of trains slated to leave the station in the morning, but immediately rejected those as departing too late. I couldn't chance staying overnight in the station. I didn't doubt that Ezekiel could descend upon me if he so chose, but I did not want my parents to find me and suffer Ezekiel's wrath.

Then I noticed that one last train was due into the station that night, just after eight P.M. P.M. Called the Downeaster, the train stopped at the Tillinghast station in fifteen minutes. It would arrive in Boston in about three hours-Boston. I had my destination; it couldn't have been more perfect if I'd planned it. Called the Downeaster, the train stopped at the Tillinghast station in fifteen minutes. It would arrive in Boston in about three hours-Boston. I had my destination; it couldn't have been more perfect if I'd planned it.

I waited until the station agent stepped away from his post to buy my ticket from the ticket machine with cash. Purchasing it from the automated teller rather than the agent seemed wiser. I'd gain some lead time if Ezekiel and Michael changed their collective minds and followed me, instead of waiting as Ezekiel initially instructed.

Ticket in hand, I headed into the ladies' room to wait until I heard the train pull into the station. I didn't want to give the agent any additional time to identify me. I paced around restlessly, listening intently for the train and making a few critical internet searches before I tossed my cell phone. I didn't want anyone to trace me that way either.

As I jotted down the vital pieces of information from my research, I heard the chug of the train. Then I threw my cell into the trash.

Peering out the bathroom door, I didn't see the agent anywhere. I darted from the bathroom into the train, quickly grabbed a seat, and buried myself in a book I s.n.a.t.c.hed from my bag. I didn't want to look as if I'd just boarded, in case the Tillinghast agent peeked in.

I didn't really exhale until the train pulled away from the Tillinghast station. Only then, and only surrept.i.tiously, did I a.s.sess my fellow travelers. In the rear of the car sat two businessmen talking about a meeting they had the next morning with a prospective client. In the occupied seats closest to mine were a few kids that looked like they were headed back to college. I kept an eye on them. Their sweatshirts, backpacks, and other paraphernalia bore the Harvard logo, and I thought they might prove useful.

The door separating the cars suddenly slid open, and I jumped. It was only the conductor ready to take my ticket. As I pretended to rifle through my bag so I wouldn't have to look directly at him, I handed it over. He punched it and then placed the stub in the slot above my head. His business completed, he left the car.

I had three hours until we reached Boston. Three hours to prepare. Three hours to map out a game plan.

I decided to start by a.s.sessing my resources-whatever was in my bag. I hadn't exactly planned my departure in advance, so I was limited to what I carried. When we traveled, my parents always insisted that I carry on my person all the necessities should I ever be separated from them-a couple hundred dollars, identification, a toiletry bag with essentials, credit cards, and an ATM card that now I'd have to avoid using except when absolutely necessary. I'd gotten into the habit of carrying these things. Lucky that I did. It made me prepared for a day like this. Maybe that was their intention all along; maybe they knew a day like this would come.

Thinking about my parents-and I would always consider them my mom and dad, birth parents or not-made my eyes start to well up again. I wasn't mad at them anymore for keeping secrets; I understood that they were just trying to protect me. They'd even given up their immortality to shield me. And even though Ezekiel couldn't be trusted, I believed what he said about their sacrificed immortality when I thought how my parents had aged in the past sixteen years after staying youthful for over a hundred years of pictures.

But if they weren't my real parents, who were? Were my real parents still alive? Why did Hananel and Daniel have to raise me? Who did they make that arrangement with?

They would be worried sick about me by now. I wondered if they would file a police report or conduct a search for me on their own. I hoped they still had some residual powers on which they could draw.

But I didn't have the luxury of emotions, and I certainly didn't want to draw attention to myself by crying. So I took a pad of paper and pen from my bag and scribbled down all my questions.

The train rocked back and forth and stopped from time to time during the three hours to Boston. But I was so engrossed, these events hardly registered with me. By the time the train screeched into Boston's North Station, I had made a list of the questions I had about my nature and future.

I looked down at my notes: 1. What was I? My gifts sounded a lot like the ones Dad had described for angels. Did that mean I was an angel, fallen or good? Or was I some other kind of supernatural being? Mom had said I was "somewhat different" from the angels.

2. What was my purpose? Dad said that the angels were meant to use their gifts-flying, flashes, and persuasive powers-to guide souls to G.o.d. Was that what I was supposed to be doing with mine? After all, before the whole Facebook thing, I'd experienced that intense compulsion to help others. But Mom and Dad had hinted that I had some kind of special role. What was that role?

3. Who was Ezekiel, and why was he so interested in me? I had guessed that he was one of the fallen angels, but not the kind seeking redemption. If so, why didn't he just use his persuasive powers to force me to his side? It seemed like he had some kind of influence over Michael in that way. And how did Ezekiel find me and Michael anyway?

4. If I could even believe Ezekiel about my parents, who were my birth parents? And where were they? And why had Hannah (I couldn't think of her as Hananel) and Daniel agreed to raise me?

5. Had I lost Michael to Ezekiel forever?

I prayed that these questions might be answered in Boston, because, without the answers, I was paralyzed. And terribly confused. But armed with this information, I might stand a chance against Ezekiel, and might be able to protect my parents in the process.

The students riding along with me were headed to the same place, so I followed in their wake. I hoped that it would make me seem like just another college student. I trailed along after them as they connected into Boston's subway system, the T, and hopped on a Red Line train headed for Cambridge. Nowhere along the way did I sense that I was being tracked.

I alighted when the students did and tagged along-at a distance-as they walked to their campus. As they filed into their dorms, I started to get concerned. What was I going to do until tomorrow morning? I wasn't worried about staying awake until sunrise-I'd had too many long nights with Michael to worry about that-but staying safe and inconspicuous.

Then I remembered we had pa.s.sed an all-night coffee shop when we walked from the T stop toward the dorms. It seemed to cater to students with its late hours and free internet. So I headed back in that direction.

When I opened the door, I saw that it was populated by bleary-eyed undergrads studying and cranking out papers, fueled by coffee and cookies. I knew I had my waiting spot.

I had nearly nine hours to kill until nine A.M. A.M.-when I could try to meet with Professor McMaster.

Chapter Thirty-five.

I didn't know why I felt so certain that a man I'd merely read about on the internet could answer my questions. Especially since his specialty was vampires, and I'd come to believe that I was something else entirely. But I was desperate for answers, and desperation bred overconfidence, I guessed. I thought that if he could just tell me what I was-and my purpose-I'd be able to make sense of this madness.

When morning came, I cleaned up as best I could in the coffee shop bathroom and left my little haven for a bookstore, camping out at a Dunkin' Donuts afterward. It offered an excellent view of the entrance to the building where Professor McMaster held office hours. At exactly two minutes to nine, I watched as a disheveled-looking elderly man with frizzy gray hair raced into the building. At first, the man caught my attention because he was seriously underdressed for the cold, wearing only a tatty-looking blazer tossed on over a b.u.t.ton-down shirt. Then I realized that the man resembled the photo from the Harvard website, even though he looked significantly older. I decided that it was definitely Professor McMaster.

I waited two minutes, and then followed him into the building. I didn't want to bombard him, but I needed to be the first in line for his nine A.M. A.M. to eleven to eleven A.M. A.M. office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Pa.s.sing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door-which was closed. office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Pa.s.sing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door-which was closed.

Double-checking the posted office hours to be sure I had the right time, I knocked on the door. Other than a rustle of papers and the squeak of a desk chair, I didn't hear anything. So I knocked again.

"I heard you the first time. I'll be with you in a moment," a gravelly, very slightly accented voice answered. And he didn't sound happy.

"Thanks," I said sheepishly. This wasn't exactly the start for which I'd hoped.

A few minutes later, I heard a series of locks jangle. Then the door creaked open, just a sliver. "Come in, come in," he said impatiently.

I slid through the small opening Professor McMaster provided. He then closed and locked the door behind us. After the greeting I'd received and the frazzled state of the professor, I wasn't exactly excited to be in a locked office with him. But what were my choices?

I didn't want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" He gestured to the guest chair.

I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper-The Harvard Crimson-that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I'd even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the Crimson Crimson on top of my notebook. But the professor's manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor's irritation. on top of my notebook. But the professor's manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor's irritation.

He stuck out his open hand in my direction. "Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?"

"Got what?"

"Your seminar paper. Today's office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students."

He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. "You are in my seminar, are you not?"

"No, I'm not. I am actually a-"

He cut me off. "Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday."

"I'm afraid I really can't wait until Friday, Professor McMaster."

"I'm afraid you do not have a choice, Miss-"

"Faneuil."

"Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you will have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority."

I launched into my little plan. I thought I'd play on his vanity with The Harvard Crimson The Harvard Crimson interview-everybody liked to talk about themselves-and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn't scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn't ask for any interview-everybody liked to talk about themselves-and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn't scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn't ask for any Crimson Crimson identification. identification.

"I promise I won't take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I'm a writer with The Harvard Crimson The Harvard Crimson, and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would've set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fill it with an interview of you." I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. "My staff told me that we've never done a formal interview of you, and we'd like to rectify that situation."

The professor's face softened. I could tell that he really didn't want to do an interview, but felt obliged. He said, "My apologies, Miss Faneuil."

"I'm the one who should apologize, Professor McMaster. As I said, I really should have made an appointment with your secretary. Especially since this seems like a really busy time."

"It is indeed. I am fully committed to student appointments through the afternoon. However, I can offer you fifteen minutes right now, before the first student starts clamoring for his meeting."

"I really appreciate it, Professor." I looked back down at my notepad of "interview" questions, and said, "Let's not waste a minute."

Quickly, I asked him a series of basic questions about his background and areas of expertise. He was responsive enough, although he was visibly uncomfortable. His discomfort increased when I started on the questions I really wanted to know about-the characteristics of vampires. And what-if anything-he knew about other supernatural creatures.

He interrupted me. "Miss Faneuil, I informed you that I could spare fifteen minutes. I believe that I kept to my promise. I cannot offer you a moment more."

The professor stood up abruptly and came around to my side of the desk, presumably to escort me back to the locked door. As he took me by the hand to lead me out of his office, I got a flash from his touch. It was mild, but astonishing in the breadth and potency of its information. And not surprising in its contents given that we'd just been talking about his upbringing. I didn't want to use what I'd learned to get his attention-that seemed too fallen, for my purposes. But I had no choice.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist on a few more minutes... Professor Laszlof."

Chapter Thirty-six.

The professor recoiled from my touch, as if I'd burned him. "What did you call me?"

"Istvan Laszlof. That was your given name, wasn't it?"

He didn't speak. Maybe he couldn't. It had probably been fifty years since anyone had called him by his birth name.

When I touched him, I learned that he had been born in Eastern Europe in the nineteen thirties, as Istvan Laszlof. He came to this country with excellent credentials as a historian and spoke near-perfect English-but no one would admit him into their doctoral program at that time. They'd rather see a former adherent of Communism mopping the floors of their hallowed halls. Not one to be cowed and so thirsty for knowledge that nothing could stop him, Istvan bought himself a new ident.i.ty and reapplied to all the top programs as Raymond McMaster. If the truth about his falsification became known, Professor McMaster's career would be destroyed.

"Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It most certainly does." His naturally unpleasant tone was getting nasty.

"Professor, I have no intention of sharing your secret with anyone else. I just want a few more minutes of your time."