I pulled into the driveway as my grandfather emerged from the small storage shed in the backyard, carrying a weathered cardboard box. He stopped and waited for me to join him.
“Knickknacks for your gran,” he explained. “She said it was safe to bring them out again.”
“Safe?”
He carefully ignored my question, set the box down, and removed a bronze, scalloped picture frame from it. It was a photo of a young boy with a pointed collar and shaggy haircut. I’d never seen the boy before, but I recognized him all the same. It was the boy I saw sitting in the church!
“He’s a little younger than you here, but I’d say you definitely take after him!” my grandfather enthused.
“Who?” I gulped, wanting my grandfather to confirm it.
“Your father, of course,” he answered.
My chest seized up. How could I possibly have seen my dad—or his ghost, or whatever that was—when I didn’t even know what he looked like at that age? I was almost used to the frightening, futuristic nightmares, but now I could somehow see into the past too? In broad daylight? What was wrong with me? I wondered if I was going crazy, or if maybe these were all signs of an early brain tumor or something . . .
My grandfather noticed my shock. “You’ve never seen a picture of your father at this age, have you?” I shook my head. “Well, it’s about time they went back up on the walls,” he declared.
“Why?” I sputtered.
“I suppose because we never sent any to your mother,” he said, answering only why I’d never seen a photo of my dad before and not why they were locked in a storage shed.
“So you did have a problem with my mom,” I challenged. My grandfather glanced away. I rested my hand on his wrist and softened my voice. “Please,” I said. “I need to know the truth.”
He looked over his shoulder at the house, as if seeking permission. “Yes,” he finally sighed. “Your gran . . . I mean we were not happy they married.”
“Why not?”
“It was very unfair of us, I suppose, but we were afraid . . .” He trailed off. “She recruited him, you know. We didn’t want him working for that place, and I guess we blamed her for convincing him. All those secrets, the danger . . .” He clucked his tongue.
I hadn’t wanted to believe Hunter about the Abbey, but my mother’s demon journal and now my grandfather’s admission suggested she was right. Why was I the only one who thought they just worked for a benign computer company? I was about to ask how much more he knew when I felt his hand over mine.
“It’s not time yet, Maren,” he said. “Your grandmother can’t cope with it all just yet. We’ll talk more soon, I promise, but give her time. These photos are a big step.”
I nodded, and he let go of me.
Back inside, I couldn’t wait to pore over my mother’s journals again. I was bounding upstairs when my grandmother stopped me.
“Maren?” she called out from the living room. “Is that you?”
I hesitated on the fifth step. “Yes,” I tried not to sound exasperated. And failed.
“You’ve got a guest.”
I turned and shuffled down toward the front room, knowing that Jo or anyone my age would be in the kitchen, and dreading the old person I knew would be sitting in there. Probably a friend of my grandma’s, excited to meet me. I didn’t feel like playing show-and-tell in front of a stranger for the next hour. I would say hi like a good girl, then beg off to do homework or something.
When I entered the sitting room, I felt as if I’d walked into a brick wall. Gavin was sitting on the couch, grinning at me like we were best friends.
It was almost funny, his muscular body on the peach-colored couch, his rough hands holding a dainty cup of tea. He was wearing his hunting kilt again, and if it was possible, he was even more gorgeous. His eyes danced at my obvious surprise; his smile filled the whole room with light. My grandmother was taken with him as well.
“Look, dear, it’s Gavin,” she gushed. “Your Gaelic tutor from Kingussie. Isn’t it kind of him to stop by on a Saturday?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. Tutor, huh?
My grandmother stood up. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
I couldn’t wait to grill him, but not anywhere in the house, where my grandparents could hear us.
“We’re actually going to go outside,” I stated, carefully not asking permission. “I really need to learn the names of . . . the trees and stuff.”
Gavin stood up, locked eyes with me. “I was just going to suggest that,” he agreed.
“Alrighty, then.” My grandmother shooed us out the front door. “Have a nice time.” She was as giddy as if she’d played matchmaker. I marveled that Gavin even had an effect on old ladies.
We scuffed along the loose gravel driveway, clouds of dirt hovering about our ankles. As soon as we were out of earshot, Gavin spun around, his face completely changed. It was sour and dark.
“I hope you’re happy now,” he scowled. “You got your wish. I’m stuck with you.”
I was as offended as I could be at his beautiful face. Why was it so hard to be mad at him? Good looks shouldn’t get him off the hook for being rude and nasty. Why did I like him? It couldn’t just be because he was hot. There was something more. Something magnetic that drew me to him, told me that I was supposed to be with him, that my life wouldn’t be the same without him.
I was starting to wish it would wear off.
“Me? This is my house. You’re stalking me now, not the other way around,” I reminded him.
“I was serious when I told you at the post office to stay away from me, but you couldn’t do it, could you?” he practically snarled.
“What? You mean this morning? That was a total coincide . . .” I trailed off, remembering Hunter’s view about coincidences. And I had convinced myself while talking to Jo that I’d only dreamed being in the woods.
“Yes, this morning,” he confirmed. “What were you doing out there?”
So I hadn’t imagined it. It was real! “I was just . . . on my way . . . to the library,” I stuttered.
“There’s no library in the forest,” he said sarcastically. He turned and stomped across the lane. Like an idiot, I followed.
“A tree fell near my car, and I didn’t know what to do,” I explained. “And you ran past, and I thought . . .”
“You thought what? That I’d rescue you? That’s not my job.” His eyes were cold, taunting.
A hot wave of anger flushed through my body. Attraction or not, no one was going to talk to me like that. I was done trying to be nice to him. “Yeah, I know, apparently your job is killing innocent people,” I spat out.
“What?” He had the nerve to look offended.
“I saw you,” I said. “You killed that old guy in the woods. Bertie.”
“You think I killed him?” he asked incredulously.
“Um, yeah. The blood sort of gave you away.”
“That wasn’t Bertie’s blood,” he said. He looked hurt, and I almost felt sorry for him. But how do you feel sorry for a killer? “I was protecting him,” he continued.
“I thought you didn’t protect people,” I countered.
“I protect people who are being attacked,” he explained. “I don’t protect daft teenage girls who wander into places they shouldn’t.”
“Really, I’m daft? Then you’re a . . . gobermouch!” I shouted at him, pleased I’d remembered an Old English insult I’d learned from watching the History Channel with Mom. Swearing wasn’t really my thing, but my blood was boiling. I wished I had the nerve to slap him.
He jerked a little, as if I had actually struck him. “I’m sorry if it seems I’m insulting you,” he exhaled, “but I don’t know how else to explain it. Your interference got me taken off my mission and put on Guardian patrol. I’m frustrated because I’m a Warrior, not a babysitter.”
“Oh, I know what you are.” I was seething inside. “You’re lucky I don’t turn you in to the police.”
He raised one side of his lips in amusement. “The police couldn’t touch me.”
I wanted to wipe the smug smile off his face. “Of course not.” I raised my palms in surrender. “I forgot: you’re a big, bad demon. No one can touch you. Except you seem aggravated enough by a dumb teenage girl who’s not scared of you one bit, by the way.”
He looked stunned. “What did you call me?”
“It’s all right, I know what you are, but I don’t care. For some insane reason, I keep trying to be friends with you anyway. Even though it appears you’d rather slit my throat than talk to me.”
He stopped walking, and grabbed me by the arm to stop me as well. His touch was electrifying. “You think I’m a demon?” he asked.
“I don’t think, I know.” I loved having his fingers on me, but I shrugged his hand off and took a step back in defiance.
He started laughing. Not a little chuckle, but a deep-down belly laugh. It sounded like music, but it aggravated me all the same.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“Oh that’s rich, that’s really rich. You think I’m a demon,” he chuckled.
“You prefer ‘cold-blooded murderer’?”
He wiped his eyes. “I’m no murderer, Maren,” he said. “I’m not even allowed to kill humans. And I’m certainly not a demon.”
He stopped talking and stared into my eyes like he was trying to penetrate them, to see more deeply inside of me. His blue eyes were like calm water. I wanted to swim in them. I couldn’t help myself, but I still wished that he would lean in and kiss me. I more than wished; I prayed for it. His face was sweet again and he looked happy, like he’d figured something out.
When he finally spoke, his voice made my knees weak. “Maren,” he said softly, “I kill demons. The blood on my hands was demon blood. They attacked Bertie, and I was too late to save him. You saw the demons running away like the pigs that they are, but more importantly, they saw you. That’s why I have to guard you now. Until their group leaves the area.”
I was confused. I was so sure he was a demon. If he isn’t a demon, what is he?
“I’m sort of the opposite of a demon, Maren,” he said, answering my thoughts. “I’m an angel.”
I blinked. Special forces, secret police, even mobster I was prepared for. But an angel?
“You are not,” I said.
He looked at me again with a sweet sincerity that seemed almost heavenly. “You don’t believe in angels, then?”
“No, I . . . I do. I believe in angels,” I said. “But they’re just . . .”
“They’re just what?” He smiled gently.
“They’re all good and perfect and passive,” I said. “They’re calm and nurturing, and they don’t fight!”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
“Angels are little, and they help you sleep,” I said stupidly.
“I think you’re talking about fairies, and those are fictional.” His bemusement was palpable. I wanted to melt into the ground in embarrassment. “You’ve never seen angels depicted in paintings or on cathedral walls or anything?” The statue of the angel on the side of the church flashed in my mind. “Young men with flaming swords?” he continued. “We figure pretty heavily in the Bible.”
He was right, of course. Angels in the Bible were always smiting demons and bringing wrath to the wicked. My heart heaved with guilt. While my mom and I didn’t go to church regularly, the Bible was required reading every Sunday morning in our house . . . at least until she died. Babbling about baby angels made it sound like I only got my religion from greeting cards.
“We’re not perfect,” he said. “We’re flawed and we struggle, just like humans. The only difference is we’re immortal, and we were created for one purpose: to counteract evil.”
Could it be true? Was it even possible? He certainly looked human, although he was insanely handsome. His smooth voice and amazing accent made me want to believe anything he said. He could tell me he was half pumpkin and I’d buy it. I didn’t like that he had such sway over me. I didn’t want to be gullible just because he was gorgeous. Especially since, as hard as I tried not to, I was falling for him.
I had to know who he really was.
“Prove it,” I demanded.
“Prove what?”
“Prove that you’re an angel. Fly or something,” I said.
He motioned at my grandparents’ house. My grandmother was high-fiving the windowpane like a fruitcake. Horrifying.
“I can’t exactly just take off in front of her,” he explained.
“Likely story,” I answered.
“I can take you home with me,” he suggested. “Will that work? Will you believe me then? A fighting party went out today that I was supposed to be a part of.” He scanned the sky. “I would like to know how they made out.”
I had no idea if his “home” would prove anything, but I was dying to see where he lived. If he had a normal house with a normal mom, maybe she could explain his lunacy. Remind him to take his medication . . .
“Sure,” I agreed. “Where is it?”
“My clan is here in Scotland,” he said.
Angels live in clans? Interesting.
“Why do you live on earth and not in heaven?” I asked.
“Angels were sent to earth to help battle the forces of darkness,” he explained, “but as the human race grew, so did their need for protection. So we could be where we were needed more quickly, we set up camp around the world.”
“So where is it? This clan of yours?”
“My village is in a valley a few miles from here. In a different dimension, of course, that humans can’t see.”
“Of course.” I nodded. His story was getting more bizarre by the second, but I wanted to see where it was going.
“How do we get there?” I asked.
“We walk.”
“Walk? You can walk into another dimension?” How convenient. He wouldn’t be able to prove anything when we walked right up to his regular house. Except that he was crazy, and I wasn’t. I couldn’t believe in the space of an hour I’d gone from liking someone who’d shifted from a murderer to a demon to an angel or possible mental patient. A super-hot mental patient, but still . . .
“Aye,” he answered. “As long as you’re walking with me. Come on. You’ll see.”
He spun on his heel, and headed into the woods. I held my hand up and squinted at the house. My grandmother was still in the window. I motioned after Gavin, and she nodded. Gavin seemed to have charmed her out of any parental fears about me hiking into the woods with a strange boy. Cool.
As I followed, I wondered why I wasn’t afraid of him. I had seen him that morning, covered in blood. I had no proof he wasn’t a killer—aren’t serial killers usually good-looking?—I had no proof of anything. Yet I was blindly following him into the forest. I hoped my intuition wasn’t on the fritz, but somehow in my heart, it felt right. I felt safe with him. Safer than I had ever felt in my entire life.
He was walking much faster than I was, and I had to admit, looked incredibly handsome in his open white shirt and rugged kilt. Walking behind him was no chore. The muscles in his calves flexed with each step.
As I sprinted to catch up, I noticed the handle of a small weapon peeking out from the top of his right boot. Score one for serial killer . . .
“You’ve got a knife?” I asked.
“Och, you’ve really been looking me up and down today, then,” he said. My face caught fire.
“No,” I stammered. I hoped he couldn’t tell what I’d been thinking. I cleared my throat and tried to recover. “I would just like to know if my ‘guardian’ is armed and dangerous. Clearly, you’re armed.”
He stopped so suddenly, I almost ran into him. He swung around and leaned toward me. “And I’m most definitely dangerous,” he whispered.
In a flash, he was holding the dagger beside his face. Considering that his face was inches from mine, I was glad to see the blade was covered by a black sheath.
A giant smile broke over his face. If I had freckles, I’m sure they would have melted off my cheeks.
“It’s called a sgian dubh,” he said, pronouncing it “SKEE-in dew.”
I couldn’t resist. “Can I hold it?”
“Sure.” He pressed it into my hand. “Just don’t take the blade out.”
“Why not?” I turned it over, my stomach fluttering with excitement. It was about twelve inches long from the silver-embossed tip to the amber-colored stone set in the handle.
“Because if the sgian dubh is drawn,” he answered, “it must taste blood before it can be resheathed. And I would hate to have to use some of yours.”
“You’re kidding!” I said, handing it back to him, sincerely hoping he was. He restored it to his boot as quickly as he had drawn it. “You would never hurt me . . . right?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I would only give your finger the tiniest prick. Wouldn’t hurt at all.” He winked, then turned and continued walking. “Where’d you get your necklace?” he called out over his shoulder.
“You’ve really been looking me up and down today, then,” I answered. When he chuckled in response, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. “It was my mom’s.”
“She worked for the Abbey?” he asked.
My ears pricked up at the mention of the secret agency. “How do you know about the Abbey?” I asked.
“Who do you think helps the humans fight demons?” he asked. “The Abbey was created as a human and angel consortium. Humans can get a lot of places we angels can’t, and vice versa. So, your mom worked there?”
“Yeah, and my dad, apparently,” I said.
“That explains the attraction,” he mumbled.
“The what?” Does he mean “attraction,” like between my parents, or like he is attracted to me? I could barely contain my excitement at the possibility. I wanted him to confirm, to clarify, to at least say it again. No luck.
“I said, it’s no wonder you can’t keep your nose in your own business,” he replied. “It’s in your genes to want to get involved. Good for your folks. It’s a great organization.”
“Do you work for the Abbey?” I asked, thrilled to be on a little adventure with him, even if it was only to his house.
“I wish. It’s only for the most elite Warriors . . .” He trailed off, and I decided to stop talking for a bit. Better not to remind him that babysitting me was keeping him from pursuing his supernatural military career.
We walked for what seemed like a couple of hours, but it was hard to tell which direction we were going. I wondered if Gavin had purposefully walked us in circles to mess me up. I had to give up trying to figure out where we were and trust that Gavin would bring me back. Hopefully alive.
We emerged from the forest onto the edge of a cliff. A sweeping, green valley rippled with sloping hills, all falling away from the tree-topped mountains spread out before us. Thin waterfalls shot out of the rock face and fed fast-moving streams that twisted down to the bottom.
“There.” Gavin pointed into the valley.
“Your home is down there?” I asked, rather doubtfully. I couldn’t see the bottom. It was completely obscured by fog.
Gavin nodded, still gazing into the distance. “Aye, my village.”
“How do we get there?” I asked. “This hill is, like, straight down and covered in rocks.”
While the valley seemed green from our vantage at the top, at my feet I saw the sides were actually made of small, flat rocks with bits of emerald-colored scraggly plants somehow growing out from under them.
“It’s not rocks,” Gavin said. “It’s—”
“Scree,” I interrupted. “The slippery shale that lines the glens is called scree.” I instantly regretted how geeky I sounded. Why couldn’t I stop things in my brain before they came out of my mouth?
“I see you’ve read your Scottish geography books.” He said, seemingly not put off by my being a huge know-it-all. Only I hadn’t read any geography books, and I’d never heard of scree before it popped into my head. Weird.
“Why is it called scree?” I asked, trying to redeem myself by proving I didn’t have all the answers. “Because of the noise you make when you fall down it?”
“It’s from the Old English word for ‘slip,’ actually,” he answered.
“You don’t say,” I replied, peering anxiously over the side at what could be my imminent death, or at least a lot of ugly scabs.
“You can snow ski, right?”
“Kind of,” I answered. Skiing down a big hill into powdered snow was one thing. Hitting rocks that would hurt like heck, if not rip the skin right off me, was another.
“Perfect, because we’re going to slide down it rather quickly, like skiing. All you have to do is stay upright.” He reached out his hand. “Are ya ready?”
I probably grabbed his hand a little too eagerly, and as I did, a delicious shock reverberated through my entire body. “R-r-ready,” I answered in my best Scottish accent, slightly rolling my r. He smiled at my pathetic effort.
“The trick is to just keep going,” Gavin said, “and stay a little ahead of the slide.”
The first step was beyond scary, because the ground seemed to slip away from under my shoe, but I figured out that as long as I picked up my feet every once in a while to control my balance, and stopped whenever I could, it was actually not too bad. And once I made it halfway down without wiping out, it got fun. The thrill seemed to echo down from the pit of my stomach in a tingly, happy way.
Gavin began showing off, scree-ing backward, and doing little circles around me. “Come on,” he laughed. “Give it a good go. Show me what you’ve got.”
He didn’t know I’d grown up ice skating on the knobby frozen ponds near my house. If I wanted to, I could deliver a wicked hockey stop. And I wanted to.
I waited until he was in front of me, then dug in for an abrupt, angled skid that sent a shower of rocks spraying over him. He opened his mouth in surprise, and when the deluge stopped, he grinned and spat a pebble out in a tiny arc. I laughed so hard, I thought my sides might split. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually laughed like that.
“Will ya look at that?” he marveled. “She’s happy. Deep down, honest-to-goodness happy to her bones.”
I continued to laugh, grateful for the joy that seemed to spread to every part of my body. Joy that wasn’t tainted with even the slightest bit of sadness or guilt. Finally! I gulped it down greedily.
We continued our rollicking descent until we were enveloped in the cool, speckled fog. The scree ended abruptly, and we hopped onto a grassy path, stumbling for a few steps, and holding on to each other for balance.
“That was amazing!” I breathed.
“Ach, no,” Gavin answered. “‘Amazing’ is just round the bend.”