Dark Before Dawn Page 9

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Fallen do not torture mankind, tempting them to sin, out of idle boredom. Their goal is to alienate God and man. The holdouts refuse to admit that Christ’s redemption of man will stand for all time, even after Christ told them himself that it would.”

  “1 Peter 18–20,” I said, recognizing his reference to Jesus speaking to the imprisoned spirits—or, as we knew them, the Fallen Angels.

  “That’s right. They still think they can prove to God that His creation is flawed. Irredeemable. They want to get Him to change His mind; they’ve always thought that they can provoke mankind into such horrible acts that God will have no choice to but acknowledge their point of view. Those who refuse their own redemption—the forgiveness hard won by you and Michael—still cling to this fantasy. And as long as they do, the Prophecy may forever remain unfulfilled. Lucas being the prime example.”

  His mention of Lucas jolted me.

  “What do you think happened to him, Enoch? What has he been doing all this time?” I whispered, almost afraid that speaking of him aloud would somehow invoke him or summon his presence.

  “Michael’s defeat of him only merited us a temporary spell of peace,” he said. “He can only be truly destroyed by God’s hand, and no matter how hateful he is, I don’t think God is ready to do such a thing. So I imagine he has been waiting. Gathering his strength. Plotting his revenge while God doles out his punishment.”

  I shuddered.

  “Have you known all along what would happen, Enoch? Back in the desert, did you know?”

  The corners of his lips tightened. “I thought I knew. But I couldn’t be certain. And in the end, it didn’t matter what I knew. You two were the ones who needed to find the truth.”

  “But you understood what the words of the Prophecy meant, didn’t you?” I pressed him.

  He tilted his head in assent.

  “And that’s why you sent Arthur to my parents when I was a baby. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  He looked bemused. “Did Arthur tell you that?”

  I shook my head, half-smiling as I remember how tortured Arthur had looked while Michael and I had grilled him. Over the years, we’d tried to pry it out of him, but all he’d ever say was that he’d been entrusted with a mission to make sure I came of age with both parents intact so that the Prophecy might be fulfilled. Try as we might, he wouldn’t divulge who had sent him on this mission.

  “No. But I don’t think that many people really understood the Prophecy. I can’t think of anybody but you.”

  He made a gruff noise in the back of his throat. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  I ignored his attempt to dodge the question and got to my real point. “Did you mean it, Enoch, when you said the Prophecy remained unfulfilled?”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I cannot be certain. But if the highest amongst the Fallen—those who were among the leaders of the rebellion—reject the sacrifice made on their behalf, then I worry we are left with unfinished business, Hope. Eventually, Lucas will be free again. We will need to reckon with him when that time comes.”

  I felt an unwelcome shadow cross my heart.

  “Surely that’ll be a long time from now,” I said. “I can’t imagine God would look lightly upon his attack and rebellion.”

  Enoch shrugged. “God’s time—and God’s methods—are not always discernible to humans. Or His angels, for that matter,” he acknowledged, spreading his hands wide. “I hope for all of our sakes that you are right.”

  There was a gentle rap on my door. Elaine poked her head in. She eyed Enoch speculatively as she delivered her message.

  “Just a reminder—five minutes until your next meeting. And Mr. Anderson asked me to remind you that he needs that amicus brief before seven tonight,” she added, glancing over at the pile of files on my desk. “Will you be needing another consultation? Shall we set up a file for Mr. Angelus?”

  I sighed. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Elaine pulled the door closed behind her as she slipped away.

  “I suppose you have to go now,” I said to Enoch.

  He hoisted himself up from the table and waddled over to me. “Think about what I said, my dear,” he admonished, placing his hand on my shoulder. He looked around my office one last time. “Think very carefully about just how important these stacks of papers, the polished marble and wood, are to you. And how important you are to them.”

  Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he was gone.

  I looked around my office. Was he right? Were the mounds of files—cases pending, motions to be filed, precedents to be researched—really that meaningless in the scheme of things? I knew that if I chose to abandon it, the office would not skip a beat: my boss would simply shuffle another eager associate into my office, my caseload, and my spot in the queue for the DA’s office. I would be forgotten within weeks.

  But would I be the same if I left it all behind? And if I wouldn’t be, did it really matter?

  My talk with Enoch had only deepened my worry. My mind was filled with warring thoughts about my relationship with Michael, the choices I had to make, and what I could expect when the eventual confrontation with Lucas came to pass—not to mention the intricacies of the Ike Washington case at work. I was so preoccupied that I barely noticed the abnormal quiet surrounding our traditional Sunday night family dinner. That is, until my mother started interrogating both Rorie and me.

  “Something is clearly troubling you both. Neither one of you has touched a thing on your plates.”

  I quickly pushed my mashed potatoes around on my plate before answering her. “Just a tough case, Mom.” I smiled.

  “Rorie?”

  Rorie was staring off into space.

  “Aurora?” My mother insisted, her tone sharper. “Are you listening to me at all?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rorie answered, flushing a deep red. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about school.”

  “I didn’t know middle school algebra and Georgia history could be so fascinating,” my mother retorted dryly. “If you’re so preoccupied you can’t even focus on your dinner, you may be excused.”

  That was all the encouragement Rorie needed. She chugged her glass of milk as she got up from the bench and dashed off, swiping the top of my mom’s head with a kiss as she went by.

  “I wonder what’s eating her?” I asked. Rorie was normally sunny and outgoing. It wasn’t like her to mope.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s just normal teenage angst,” my mother replied. “Nothing to worry about.”

  I hoped she was right. But I had my doubts. And of course, normal wasn’t exactly a word I expected to hear people use to describe my family.

  Surprised to find myself, rather than my mother, being the suspicious and careful one this time, I excused myself from the table to seek out my sister. I found her hunkered down on the porch swing, listlessly pushing it with one foot.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” I asked, tucking a strand of her loose blond hair behind her ear as I plopped down next to her. “You seem a little down. Something going on at school?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s just …”

  I waited patiently, watching the shifting emotions flit across her face while she struggled to put her feelings into voice.

  She looked down at her hands. “Girls can be so … so spiteful. So mean. Even I can be, sometimes. I don’t mean to be, but it just happens. The words just come out, and then I feel so awful afterward. And I want to stop it, I want to stop all of it.” Her hands twisted helplessly in her lap, the words spilling out without pause now. “But sometimes I can’t. I see things happening that are wrong, and I try to stop them from happening, but sometimes my friends won’t listen to me. And sometimes when I try to help somebody, it turns out worse because of me.”

  She turned in the seat, her eyes plaintive.

  “Did that ever happen to you, Hope?”

  I
gripped her hand tightly in mine, my soul aching at the thought of the petty slings and arrows that I was certain littered her middle school life. I remembered how painful it was to learn the truth of unintended consequences—to learn that good intentions, no matter how heartfelt, could never make up for bad outcomes. Her world might seem small, the outrages she suffered and witnessed tiny in the scheme of things, but at her age her little group of friends was her entire universe, and the hurt would be deep, even if it was fleeting.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, squeezing her fingers in mine, pulling her in to sag into my shoulder, hoping she would draw some strength and comfort from me. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  seven

  LUCAS

  I love it when a good plan comes together.

  At first, I had expected this to be a tad more challenging. I had thought that I might need to call upon some of my greater angelic powers by this stage. But not even the so-called security of a top-notch private school proved much of an issue—how could it, when we angels can change our guise at will? All I had to do was have one of my crew appear momentarily as Macey’s foster mother—an uptight country club hoverer if there ever was one—and voila! Just like that, Macey’s “cousin,” Luke, received authorization to pick her up after school. I got a sticker for the window of my car and everything, gaining me free entry into the carpool.

  Of course, I wouldn’t be picking up Macey all the time—just every now and then. To help out. Because being a suburban mother, as we all know, is so dreadfully challenging and busy.

  It didn’t take much to get Macey to lie to her foster parents. We’d practiced it in the car, over and over, just like I wanted her to say it. How excited she was to get to work on the backstage crew for the fall musical. How she was making new friends. How sometimes, with it being theater and all, her schedule might get erratic, but she would always find a ride home so that she wouldn’t inconvenience her uptight parents. How she begged them please to not to embarrass her by coming to watch the rehearsals—none of the other kids’ parents did that; she would just die if they did that to her.

  When she did it right, I showered her with praise and flashed her my brightest, most beaming smile. Awash in my attention, she was eager to lie to them, eager to let them hear what they wanted to hear.

  Daddy and Mommy were nearly bursting at the seams with relief, I’m sure, when Macey told them her news. Messed-up little Macey was finally adapting. Was finally becoming normal. They would do anything to help her fit in—even if it meant holding their eager selves back and waiting, patiently, for the opening night of the musical, marked in a big red circle on the family calendar, when they could finally see just what Macey had been up to all this time.

  They didn’t stop to wonder just why they seemed to have avoided all of the pains of adjustment and rebellion—all the things that would be absolutely normal for a girl in Macey’s situation—that the Social Services case worker had advised them to be mindful of. Why should they be surprised that she’d blossomed overnight? They’d been lucky all their lives, lucky and blessed. This was just another episode of perfection in their perfect Buckhead lives.

  If they had questions—Who was in the show? What work was she doing on the set?—Macey was prepared, drilled by me with answers to hypothetical questions. We even made up cute stories of backstage intrigue and forgotten lines, understudies thrust into the limelight due to sore throats, the time the upper story of the set nearly collapsed during an early dress rehearsal when a main character’s costume got stuck on a nail, the stranded child tugging so hard to get free and complete her blocking that the entire thing swayed, yet she never flubbed her lines as the crew watched in amazement. All of this, just to spin the fantasy of happy Macey for her foster parents. Macey did it willingly: after all, she loved me, and she wanted her foster parents to be happy.

  Like I said, too easy.

  I looked at the clock on my dashboard. It was time.

  I turned my expectant gaze toward the steps of the school. Like clockwork, the big doors of the brick building opened and began to disgorge little khaki-and-plaid-clad drones. Some of the students dared to rebel against the required uniform, showing individuality with the meager options at their disposal—rioting socks, a more shocking haircut. But very few chose to stand out.

  And that was why it was always so easy to spot my Macey in the crowd: Macey who never quite mastered her hair bow, so that her coarse hair always flopped into her face; Macey who still tugged at her ill-fitting skirt, uncomfortable and self-conscious; Macey who usually had some unsightly stain on her white polo shirt, which strained at the buttons; Macey who always trailed at the edge of some group, dragging her backpack on the ground behind her, not quite fitting in.

  What was this?

  I squinted to be sure. Then I leaned back in my seat, grinning.

  Today, Macey was not alone.

  I waited in the driver’s seat, my fingers drumming a beat on the steering wheel. This was about to get more interesting.

  Macey climbed into the front seat and pulled the door closed behind her. I looked her over. She was wearing the makeup I’d bought for her—a slash of red lipstick so bright it looked like her mouth was bleeding, heavy eyeliner and mascara, bright spots of pink on her cheeks. It made her look a little older than her twelve years, especially if one wanted to convince oneself that she was not just a little girl.

  Macey looked at me anxiously, waiting.

  I rewarded her with a smile. “Hello, beautiful.”

  She returned a shy smile. “Do you like my makeup? I did it just the way you said.”

  I took her hand in mine. “You did it perfectly. I knew you would. Thank you for doing it for me.” I tilted my head toward the window. Through the tinted glass I could see Macey’s friend, tapping her toe. “Is that Rorie waiting outside?”

  Macey nodded. She fidgeted in her seat. It had been just a few weeks, but she was already aware of the rules. She already knew that I could get angry if she didn’t follow them exactly.

  “She asked to come with us. I told her that I didn’t know, but that I would ask. Can she, Luke? Since I’ve been spending so much time with you, I haven’t been able to see her for a while.”

  “You know I like to have you all to myself, Macey.” Her face turned deep red. She was stung by my rebuke. But was it enough? I had hoped by this point she would be willingly leaving behind the few friends she did have, centering her whole life on me, like a flower turning its petals to the sun. I turned my face into a mask, testing how much control I had over her.

  She darted a pleading look through her thick eyelashes. “Please?” So she was testing her own powers, as well.

  Oh, little girl, I thought. You have no idea what you are playing at. But so be it.

  “All right,” I conceded, watching her bounce in the seat in delight. “Just this once. I had something special I wanted to show you, but I guess Rorie can come along, too.”

  The person behind me in carpool honked at me. I glared into the rear view mirror. “Hurry up, then, Macey. Get Rorie in here or we’re leaving without her.”

  She flung herself across the front seat to hug me in gratitude, and then she scrambled out of the car to retrieve Rorie.

  My body convulsed in agony as Hope’s little sister climbed in the car. I gripped the wheel, breathing in and out, in and out, the steady rhythm helping me ride the crest of the torment inflicted upon me by God.

  “Luke is taking us somewhere special,” Macey burbled excitedly as Rorie settled herself into the backseat.

  “Where?” Rorie demanded as I pulled away from the curb. She was looking back longingly at their school, as if she was already regretting her decision to come along.

  “It’s a surprise,” I demurred, my lips turning up in a slight grin. “You wouldn’t want to ruin it for Macey, would you, Rorie?”

  “But I have to let my mom know where I am,” she insisted. “So should you, Macey.”

  “Just tel
l her you’re at my house,” Macey countered. The lies were coming easily to her now.

  I peered at Rorie in the backseat. Her arms were crossed, a slight pout settling on her lips. I raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t trust me, Rorie?”

  She flushed, embarrassed to be called out. “It’s not that. I just—”

  Macey interrupted her. “Don’t ruin it for me, Rorie. Please. You always get your way. Let me get my way for once.”

  I watched as Rorie struggled with her conscience. Finally, she answered Macey. “Okay. I guess it won’t hurt just this once.”

  I gave Macey’s hand a squeeze. So far, so good.

  The Atlanta traffic had slowed to a crawl. Why human beings would subject themselves to this kind of tedium was beyond me.

  “Where are we going? What’s my surprise?” Macey interrupted my thoughts.

  “Patience. You’ll see soon enough. Have a snack while you wait.” I tossed her a bag of Oreos I’d stashed away. She hesitated, looked to Rorie in the backseat.

  “I shouldn’t. I’ve been trying to eat healthier like Rorie.”

  A flare of annoyance shot through me. Rorie, Rorie, Rorie. So meddlesome.

  “Go ahead, you deserve it,” I urged her. That was all it took for Macey to tear into the bag and begin stuffing her face with cookies.

  “Where are we?” Rorie demanded from the backseat. Macey looked out the windows. We were almost to our destination, and it was clear from Rorie’s reaction that she had never been to this part of the city. It was run down, the boarded windows and peeling paint of the surrounding buildings giving the whole neighborhood an air of abandonment. Chain-link fences sagged and flopped over. Everywhere one looked, graffiti tagged the walls, decrying the police and promising violence and hopelessness. Used needles jumbled and fought for supremacy with the mounds of trash that seemed to be overtaking every yard. Warning: Pit Bull had been carefully spray-painted over and over on one decrepit house, the words festooned around the walls and stairs.