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What worried Michael most was his mother’s inability to foresee Sophia at the accident, which begged the question: If spiritual entities in the upper realm couldn’t detect Sophia, did that mean entities below could? If so, would that imply she belonged to the regions … from Hell?

The idea irritated Michael and he told himself it was speculation. Pure conjecture. He would not share his theory with anyone until he understood what happened tonight when Sophia slammed into him. The rush of emotions and energy had been so overpowering that he’d been rendered speechless. Was it a manifestation of Sophia’s doing? Or was someone else pulling the strings?

Certainly someone must have helped her deflect his subliminal suggestion. She should’ve gone easily into an idle state of awareness so that he and Milvi could deal with Degan, and they could remove her memory of the strange incident. Thank God none of the others had been around. But the fact that Sophia resisted was unnerving. Another
secret he would keep. For now.

“She got dizzy.” Michael finally told his brothers, knowing it was only half true.

Gabe was perched on the edge of the desk, perusing the ancient
Book of Spiritual Auras
. “Well, there could be another explanation for her.”

“I’m all ears,” Raph said, grabbing a bar hanging from the ceiling for a set of chin-ups.

“She is a vessel.”

Raph scoffed between reps. “I object on the grounds that she smells too good to be a vessel. You know how those things reek like wet dog.”

“Is all your reasoning connected to your olfactory?” Gabe complained, and then looked at Michael. “What do you think?”

Michael was rifling through his sock drawer. “Actually, Raph has a point. Human vessels used by spiritual entities emit a definite aroma. Not sure I’d call it wet dog, but it’s definitely non-human. More of a medicinal flavor, like Nyquil.”

“Original or cherry?” Raph asked.

“Original.”

“Original smells like black licorice.”

“Exactly.”

“Good grief!” Gabe yelled. “Stay focused! This is serious.” But his brothers laughed, making him feel unworthy of their peculiar brand of humor. He toyed with the corner of a page and grumbled, “Well, what does Sophia smell like?”

“Honeysuckle,” Michael and Raph answered together. Their eyes locked and they stared uncomfortably, trying to assess each other’s emotions. Michael broke away first, slamming a drawer. He finished dressing, and they followed him out.

“Where are you going?” Gabe waved the book. “I thought we should hash out some theories. There are several variations we haven’t touched upon and—”

“I have to be somewhere,” Michael said flippantly and immediately sensed their suspicion. It was unlike him to be vague; their work dictated they stay in constant contact. He turned on the landing. “Look, you guys can stay here and discuss all the possible theories about Sophia St. James, but I’m going to get some answers. By the end of the night, I’ll know if Sophia is a demon or a test or a vessel or a variety of whatever. And when I know, you’ll know. Got it?” He didn’t mean to be rude, but after today Michael was more determined than ever to figure out who Sophia was or who she worked for.

Chapter 14

Star Light, Star Bright, First Star I Smack Tonight

It’s late and Dad and I are sharing a typical dinner of frozen pizza, salad, and silence. I am dying to tell him what happened tonight with Michael and the grungy guy at the mud pit, but giving Dad another opportunity to think I’m a distrusting suspicion-junkie isn’t on my bucket list. No, I have a need to shake off our old ways like a deciduous tree in autumn. I know I should say sorry about yesterday, not to mention the last two years since Mom died. But am I truly sorry for wanting answers? Isn’t that what life’s all about? Understanding things?

Whatever I was looking for seems found, or at least revealed enough to bring closure. I understand Dad didn’t have my answers, and I have moved on. I want that for him, too.

“Dad, are we okay?”

The sound of my voice makes him twitch, and I pay my restitution with a pang of guilt; it is owed. So many of our conversations have begun with me accusing him of something or demanding something.

I lean in to catch his eyes and offer a smile. “Really, I mean, I know I’ve interrogated you about the way Mom died and … I put us through a lot and … 
I’m sorry
. But we’re gonna be okay, right?”

He searches my face like a reluctant lion tamer, skittish and uncertain. “Well … I know things were hard and … yes, if we can move on we’ll be fine.”

It’s all he can offer so I take it. I want to pat his hand to smooth out his worry but I know it won’t be enough.

A knock on the front door makes Dad jump. His hands tremble, and a seed of suspicion takes root in me.
Is something else bothering Dad?
With Sundance barking in the hallway, there’s no time for my thoughts to germinate. I start to get up, and Dad reacts.

“No, no. I’ll get it.” He drops his napkin on the table and hurries away. I contemplate following but decide I’ve had enough strain for one night. After the bizarre
encounter with Michael and the unrealistic fear that he can actually read my mind, I’m emotionally exhausted.

Male voices mumble in the hallway, and after a few minutes Dad returns. “Sophia, there’s a young man here to see you.” He seems unexpectedly relaxed and is smiling for the first time in ages.

“Huh?” I frown and unfold from the chair. Tugging at my baggy sweats, I shuffle down the hall in my fat house socks and stop cold.

Michael is in the foyer with his arms full of Sundance, jumping against his chest. He ruffles him playfully and laughs at the sloppy response.

“Sundance!” I yell and snap my fingers, but Sundance just looks over his shoulder and his big red tongue flops out.

“He’s okay,” Michael says, as mutual affection continues.

The second heartbeat in my chest is a war drum signaling an impending battle. I imagine ways of torturing information out of Michael.
Why won’t he explain about the grungy guy, or the weird way I slammed into him?

When I don’t speak, Michael pushes Sundance aside and graces me with his full attention. “You forgot.” His voice is a hammer striking a nail.

I cross my arms and raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Nine o’clock.” Another hammer strike and my smirk falls off.

I lower my arms. “Oh.” The stupid astronomy assignment.

“Unless you’re too
busy
?” It’s not a question but an invitation for me to lie, which I am about to do when Dad breezes by heading for the living room.

“Of course she’s not too busy, Michael. You kids can have the kitchen if you like. I’ll stay out of the way.” Dad is strangely cheerful, as though meeting Michael has made his day.

I open my mouth to protest but Michael is faster. “Actually, sir, we’ll be studying outside. It’s an astronomy assignment.”

“Okay then,” Dad calls out, as he settles into his chair and clicks on the TV. He is not the least bit concerned that it’s nine o’clock on a school night and I might possibly be lured out by a serial killer.

“I’ll wait,” Michael says in a challenging tone. He crosses his arms and lounges against the doorjamb; the Leaning Tower of Pissed-off. It seems my evening has been planned without my consent so I stomp up the stairs, each step an exclamation point to my anger.

I slide into jeans and a long-sleeved pink V-neck. I braid my damp hair, letting it rest over my shoulder. Astronomy book and packet in hand, I’m ready.

Michael’s manners are impeccable. He says good night to Dad and holds the door open for me.
Sure, be polite now when Dad’s around
. I roll my eyes and walk onto the porch. “Are we going somewhere?”

Michael marches to his truck, yanks open the door, and flicks his wrist impatiently. Apparently this is a sign for me to get in. I huff and climb into the cab.

His truck smells soothing like an aromatherapy candle, not the gym locker I expected. I settle back and wait for him to explain the plan. He doesn’t. He drives.

I left my patience at home so I launch into it. “What happened back at your house?” No reply, no surprise. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Michael is tense, focusing on the road, on anything but me. We follow Heartstone Street past the courthouse. Near the school, he turns right and we leave the glowing streetlamps of Haven Hurst behind. We take a gravel road for about thirty yards, and then it turns to dirt as we pass through a scrappy gate barely hanging on to its hinges. The black night swallows us. We turn left onto a narrow path with bushes that claw the truck. We bounce and toss, and the truck does all the talking. The headlights rock side to side as we overtake a steep ravine. I think about grabbing the door handle for support but stubbornly refuse to show helplessness.
If he would just slow down!

The truck slows at once, and we creep along unaffected. I look at Michael in surprise. He is unreadable.

We continue in silence. No conversation. No music. Just a lot of screaming in my head.
Where is he taking us? Is this really the best way to get there?
We stop abruptly at the foot of a hill. Michael cuts the engine and grabs a blanket from the back. He slams the door, which feels like a slap in the face. Headlights fade to black.

My door is thrown open and a flashlight clicks on. “You don’t need your book,” he states, emotionless. I grab the astronomy packet and climb down, following the light beam. Michael easily maneuvers up the grassy hill and shines the light down on me. I squint up at his dark silhouette.

“Is this really necessary?” I whine. “What are we doing?”

“Climb the hill, Sophia,” demands the voice behind the light, like Charlton Heston bellowing an eleventh commandment. Then softly he adds, “Do you need help?”

“No!” I snap indignantly.
I don’t need anyone’s help
. I cram the packet into my back pocket and claw my way up the stupid hill. “I thought we were going to the library or something,” I pant as I reach the top of the hill.

Michael spreads the blanket and reclines on it. When I don’t move, he flashes the light on me. “Lay down, Sophia.” The twelfth commandment. I bristle, consider my options, and find none. Throwing the packet on the ground, I sit on the edge of the
blanket—as far away from him as possible—and lay back. The light dies and a million stars pop alive, a glowing canopy clear and bright. I’m in awe.

You never see stars like this in LA, maybe inland in the dessert, but certainly not in the places I’ve lived. It’s surreal.

And quiet. Night noises dissipate as if warned not to disturb us. Tension fades like an echo in the air, and I am heavy on the earth, intoxicated with peace and just being. I can feel Michael’s presence three feet away and I imagine we are the only two people left on earth, and the grassy hill is lifting us up like an offering to the stars, pristine pinpricks in Heaven’s floor.

God is spying on us.

Michael’s breathing is gentle, and the throbbing in my chest matches the slow cadence. The strange pulling sensation I felt at the mud pit returns but it’s faint, like a fish tugging a line. I relax into the body that no longer seems mine and take the rich, earthy aroma into me in deep breaths. It fills me up, leaving almost no room for the questions flying around inside my head.

Almost.

“Relax your mind,” Michael murmurs as though he knows I am working overtime. I look at him. His eyes are lost in the stars and his perfect profile cuts a negative shadow against the midnight sky. Soft blond curls fall away from his forehead, and shade darkens the plane of his cheek.
Delicate beauty that lies
. Michael is not fragile but strong, demanding, and full of secrets; his temper is the edge of a knife.

He turns his head and looks at me, and my breath freezes in place. His eyes are liquid blue and heavy, with black lashes weighing them down. He blinks slowly like he’s sedated, and it is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. My stomach clenches and I tingle deep inside. My blood suddenly throbs in strange, unfamiliar places, and I feel my face grow hot. I am blushing.

Holy crap, this is unexpected
.

We stare and I realize I am panting, again. I can’t look away but force myself to focus on the business at hand. Anything but the way my body is trembling.

Michael’s brow twitches with curiosity and his eyes narrow. He watches me closely, analyzing and searching. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to recognize his effect on me. His eyes are full of questions about … what? What can Michael possibly want to know from me?

He
has all the answers.

I swallow and clear my throat. “Why won’t you explain?”

“We should get started,” he commands in a harsh tone. He looks away and holds
up the packet and flashlight.

“You like to play games, don’t you?” I push, and he reacts like I’ve hit his panic button. His head snaps back around.

“Is this a game to
you
?” His eyes fill with suspicion, and I feel accused of something.

“I just mean you’ve avoided every question I’ve asked since I met you and—”

“And you have a lot of questions, don’t you, Sophia? Every time I turn around, there you are, watching.” The weight of his accusation is staggering and embarrassing, like I’m a stalker or something. I scoff.

“No I’m not.” I look up at the sky wishing I could sink into the ground. I calm my breathing and look back at Michael.

He is upset, and I don’t know if it’s with me or with himself. He rustles the paper in his hand and begins reading in an instructional tone. “ ‘We’re beginning with Celestial Navigation, the technique used to help sailors cross the oceans …’ ”

I’m not listening because my mind is cataloging every occasion I’ve seen Michael and the peculiar events that keep me wondering if I’ve really witnessed what I think I have, or if I’m losing what little common sense I’ve acquired. Soon enough though, those peculiar events lead me to the way Michael swung me into his arms at the mud pit. I remember how he threatened to take off more than my shoes. Mostly, I remember how my body had quivered at his touch and how I tried to ignore it. Just like now when he looked at me with a strange sense of peace.