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He should tell them the truth; that he wanted to caress her with one hand, and push her away with the other. That her emotions evoked suspicion and protectiveness like twin daggers. That she had seen a soul seeker as easily as she had seen him in spirit form. That her scar had regenerated overnight, and that occasionally something dark passed over her soul and blocked her aura. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even with piles of doubt building like the storm clouds outside, he couldn’t stop himself from coveting her secrets for himself.

While Michael contemplated the uncertainty of Sophia, his brothers sifted through his strange emotions as though panning for gold. Michael deadened his feelings and turned away.

“Well, I have a theory,” Gabe declared. “Suppose she’s here for you, Michael, as a test.”

“Test for what?”

“Suppose the Halos of the Son sent her to test your loyalty, your strength. Or just you in general.”

Raph bolted upright, leaving the basketball spinning in the air above his head. “Would they do that?” His voice was loud and full of wonder.

Michael considered.

Halos of the Son was the elite force second in training, gifts, and respect only to Archangels. And like the Archangels, they were feared in battle and armed with holy weapons used specifically against anything belonging to Hell. With these weapons, Halos of the Son protected more humans and killed more demons than any other force.

Upon his eighteenth year, Michael had become eligible for consideration by the Halos. It was his dream to join the legion and he had been working hard to perfect his gifts, to become the best guardian possible. There had been no complications until Sophia St. James arrived.

“If the Halos of the Son sent her to tempt you, to detect your weaknesses,” Gabe mused, “that could mean they’ve been watching you, considering you.”

“Dude! Do you know how long it’s been since the Halos initiated a new team member?” Raph grew excited by the possibility of having a brother as an elite soldier.

“Five hundred and sixty-four years, three months, two weeks, and four days,” Michael murmured, staring absently out the window. As secretive as the Halos were, he knew everything a non-team member could know about them. What he didn’t know was their protocol regarding pre-candidates. Would they test him before the trainee selections were even announced? Was it possible that Sophia was sent as his personal adversary? Would it explain her ability to see him in spirit form and her unusual aura? Maybe. But if she was working with the Halos, why did she lack confidence? Why was she so anxious and suspicious of everyone?

“You should stay away from her,” Raph said. “Just in case. You never know.”

“I told her to stay away from me but—”

“But what?” Gabe asked.

“Well, it seems we’re partners for an astronomy project. Aside from that, she appears to be very … stubborn.”

Gabe scoffed. “Yes, well, you don’t have to be a guardian to sense that about her.”

“Maybe
I
should keep an eye on her.” Raph reclined and resumed spinning the basketball. “I like her. She smells good.” Michael’s adrenaline spiked, and Raph snagged the ball from the air and stared at his brother. “What the hell was that for?”

“
I
will take care of Sophia,” Michael said, striding toward the door. He didn’t like
the idea of anyone else watching Sophia, and he didn’t have a valid reason to admit it. He needed to leave before he gave too much away. “And if the Halos want to test me, I’m game.”

Gabe snagged his arm. “Hey, it was only a theory. She could just as easily be a demon.”

“Who said anything about a demon?” Michael snapped, jerking his arm free.

“Well, she did see you in spirit form the night of the accident,” Gabe said as if Michael needed reminding. He looked at Raph to gage his opinion.

Raph shrugged. “Smells awful good to be a demon. But then what do I know?”

Michael’s jaw flexed with fresh anger. He hadn’t considered Sophia’s uniqueness to be demonic characteristics, but it would account for her ability to see him
and
a soul seeker. Not to mention her scar regeneration. The possibility upped the ante; if a demon could provoke an angel into exposing his identity in front of a human, said angel would be recalled home. Immediately. And those souls under his protection would be left vulnerable for a thin slice of time. That thin slice was commonly known as a demon’s happy hunting ground. Entities from below were constantly trying to trip up guardians and spirit walkers, or turn them away from the Light altogether, so the idea wasn’t out of the question.

“If I sense an ounce of demonic activity in her, I’ll do what I always do to demons. And that will be the end of Sophia St. James.”

Chapter 11

Things I’m Not Supposed to Know

She had the face of Sunday morning, so full of peace and hope and love. Her voice was lilting like a bird catching a breeze on a cloudless day and gliding for miles without care. She was a mystery, deep, bottomless pools for eyes, flaxen hair, a cloak to her visage. She would drift, caught between the spaces of numbers on a clock. Dreams of something more swirled about her, thick as fireflies, and I would trail in the afterglow begging to know what she wanted most. She was never really mine, I knew. Always fleeing, always searching, always straining to hear what she called “confection in the air.”

“Do you hear it, Sophia honey? Do you hear them going home?” No, she did not belong to me, but then to whom did she belong? Who tugged the corners of her mouth into a secret smile? Who coaxed tears from her eyes?

She passed through me like wind through branches, reminding me that we are never so carless with anything as with time.…

*  *  *

When I finally wake, I have tears in my eyes and the feeling of Mom in my arms. I am trembling at the bone as though she is gliding across my soul in her flowing white dress, her restless hair tickling my heart.

I swing my legs over the bed and stare at the floor, dizzy. I’ve never felt more at the mercy of gravity. Telling Bailey and Rachel about Mom has conjured up the agonizing dream that racks me with guilt.

I miss Mom so much, it is a constant ache in the deepest part of me. The dream leaves her faint gardenia perfume lingering in the air, and like always, I am physically drained. I feel sick, but not as sick as knowing that if I don’t stop this, I’ll lose myself completely. Hearing Mom in my head is the next step to crazy. Her voice is beginning to overlap my own and if it doesn’t stop, my mind will eventually fail to separate us.

I need help or I’m not going to make it.

I am still shaking when I pull on jeans and a T-shirt. I push through my morning
ritual with all the enthusiasm of walking to the gallows. Plodding downstairs, I find Dad in the breakfast nook, his nose in scriptures and his coffee cup at his fingertips. He looks as horrible as I feel, which makes what I am about to do rather cruel, like complaining about a sore throat to a cancer patient.

“Dad?”

There is a long, loose pause before he acknowledges me. “Hmm?” He turns the page, eyes tracking left to right.

“Dad … why was Mom so sad?”

It’s like tossing a snake in his lap, and he catches his breath. I almost hate myself but I know if he could answer just
one
question, I might be able to move on, to let her go. But Dad is tense and unresponsive.

“Please,” I beg. “Just tell me one—”

“You don’t have to know
everything
.” His voice is pitiless, unforgiving.

“Dad! I—I don’t know
anything
!” I cry out like a pathetic child begging for treats. Mom would disapprove of my weakness but I don’t care. “Everything you’ve told me is vague. ‘She was lost.’ ‘She was lonely.’ ‘She was not meant to stay.’ ” I feel like I’m trembling and frozen at the same time.

Please, Dad, say it wasn’t me! Say I wasn’t the reason for her sadness. Say my existence was not a rope mooring her to lesser things, keeping her from things she wanted most. Please, Dad, give me something tangible to hold so I can let go of it!

Dad stands sullenly and his tortured eyes turn to me. His face is crumpled paper smudged with grief; I have made him an old man at thirty-eight. His voice is a hollow coffer when he speaks.

“Sophia, your mother always knew she would leave us early. She just knew, you see? It’s all she gave me, and it’s all I can give you. Some people are like that. They just know …” He pats my shoulder awkwardly as he walks by, and I’m left standing alone in the kitchen.

And I know.

For the first time, I know Dad hasn’t been keeping things from me. He has given me everything he has, everything Mom gave him. Now I know that Mom never shared with him, never belonged to him. She was free and never owned. And I feel it, too, a disconnect that says I don’t belong to him either. I am free and will never be owned. Set adrift, I am just the air Mom breathed, the unanswered questions she left meandering through life until I, too, can hear confection in the air.

*  *  *

After all this time, I feel myself letting go and placing Mom on a pedestal in the corner of my mind. No, wait, not a pedestal. She would never agree to that. So I will cup her in my hands and blow her spirit across skies and oceans and valleys and mountains, giving her back to those who call her. For the first time, I feel as though I am freestanding on the pinpoint of my life, searching the deepest part
of
me
for
me.

Those questions Mom always asked but I never answered come to mind, and I decide to answer now.

Who am I?
I am my mother’s daughter.

What do I want most?

Hmm. I ponder the practicalities of friends, school, and work, and bypass them. This question begs something deeper, something beyond the tangible. What do I want most?

I want to know something others don’t. I want to experience something no one else has. I want to be useful, to know the reason for me. I want to understand things beyond my comprehension. I want … to know what it’s like to be dead.

Okay, that was weird. But the thought returns like a favorite old song. Yeah, I used to wonder about it all the time growing up. What’s it like to be dead? What do you see? Hear? Feel? Experience?

I’ve never been afraid to die. I don’t care about subterranean critters munching on my shredding skin. It is the
absence
of life I fear. But still, for now this question has hit my curiosity button, and hunting down the answer will be a nice preoccupation.

Before I leave the house, I formulate a personal resolution, with apologies to Mom. I hereby vow to focus on anything but her. Hence—yeah, I occasionally use the word
hence
—hence, I’m going to ask the one person who might know what it’s like to be dead. Casey James.

*  *  *

The town square is shiny like a new penny. Last night’s storm washed away all remnants of summer, scrubbing the town behind the ears and under the armpits. Ready to change seasons like a new pair of shoes. Everywhere are volunteers preparing for this Harvest Festival thingy. On my way around the square, I see Abigail Monroe and the McCarthy twins standing out in their customary red and purple. They’re arguing about God knows what. There is Vern Warner with his mailbag, flitting in and out of shop doors like a bee among flowers. He’s more paranoid since the flour-in-the-face incident and constantly
checks over his shoulder.

The Naughty Nectar Café is packed this morning but I’m late. I know Bailey and Rachel and the others are probably at school already. I drive straight there, which takes exactly twenty-five seconds.

*  *  *

“Whoa, Lady Gaw Gaw, you look like shaight,” Bailey greets me with unprovoked honesty as I slide into my seat. “Somebody rufie you last night or what?”

The dream always saps my energy and I suspect I’ll need to jump start my dendrites just to say hello.

I grumble something unintelligible and crack open my bio book. The second heartbeat flicked on the minute I walked into the room, like saying,
Hey, chin up, kid, at least you’re still alive
.

I hear my name whispered in a private conversation and look over at Lizzanne and Sarah. Their eyes cut me to ribbons so I slouch and check my clothes, making sure I hadn’t accidently grabbed the same thing I wore yesterday.

They break out laughing and I groan. Oh yeah, this is gonna be a great day.

The bell rings just as Duffy swaggers in wearing a black fedora and a pink breast cancer T-shirt that says,
BIG OR SMALL, LET’S SAVE THEM ALL!
He cops a walk to ensure he’s noticed and then takes a seat and starts talking about Friday night’s big football game.

“Hey, sugar, you like watchin’ football?” he says in a seductive voice, like he’s asking to do Jell-O shots from my navel.

I suppress a smile. “I don’t know. You any good?”

His eyes blow up like balloons. “Fastest guy on the team!”

Raph laughs. “That’s like being the fastest snail.”

Duffy falls against his seat. “You’re killing me, man.”

Everybody laughs, and Raph winks at me, and I smile. I look at Michael and my smile slides off. He is the enemy of fun.

Michael is looking at me like he wants to tear my head off. I roll my eyes and turn away. Sir Scowls Alot has been officially added to my resolution of things to be ignored.

*  *  *

Okay, so the day cruises by at the appropriate altitude—nothing over my head. But I haven’t met my goal regarding Casey James, which is fine since I don’t know, exactly, how to ask, exactly, what I want to know. Exactly.

Taking some sage advice from my favorite zombie hunter in
Zombieland
, I decide to “nut up or shut up” during lunch.

I see Casey bribing a Coke from the vending machine so I walk over. What should I say … 
Hi, so you died yesterday, huh?
Or how about,
So what’s it like to be dead?
No, no, no. Not cool.