Fallen Angel Part 14

"Miss Faneuil, if you do not tell me where you learned this information, I will not give you the time you want."

Now I was getting mad. I just wanted to talk to him-why did it require telling him all my secrets? But what were my options? "You just told me about Istvan Laszlof."

"I don't understand."

I spoke slowly, wanting to soften my next statement as much as possible. "I learned about your origins as Istvan Laszlof by touching you just now. Professor McMaster, I'm not like other people. I can see and do things that would probably shock you. I didn't tell you about Istvan Laszlof to scare you-as I have no intention of telling anyone else-but because it seemed the only way to get a little more of your time."

Trembling, he walked back behind his desk and sat down. "That's really all you want? Just to talk?" He looked very skeptical.

"Yes, that's really all I want. I'm not here not to frighten you; I'm here for your help."

In an effort to rea.s.semble the shattered pieces of Professor McMaster and store away Istvan Laszlof, he smoothed his wild hair and straightened his s.h.i.+rt before speaking. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he gestured that I should take a seat and said, "I'd be happy to a.s.sist you, then, Miss Faneuil. Though, I must confess, I do not know very much about psychics. Vampires are my area of expertise."

"Oh, Professor McMaster, I'm not a psychic."

"What are you, Miss Faneuil?"

"I am hoping you can tell me what I am."

He appeared relieved at my request. "I am little used to cla.s.sifying people."

I wasn't about to relinquish my hope so readily. "Yes, but you have some familiarity with creatures that aren't human?"

"I do," he admitted reluctantly.

"And you believe in the existence of such beings? Including vampires?"

"Yes. I have had the acquaintance of a few beings that I would consider to be actual vampires. Hence, the necessity for the locks on my office door; one can enter and exit my office only by my own hand. Evil must be kept at bay as best it can."

"I understand," I said, although I knew that no lock could keep someone like Ezekiel "at bay."

He quickly added, "But, in most cases, the individuals who have made such claims are only humans whose perceived differences can be explained by a thorough understanding of historical and cultural trends." He had slipped into academic-speak.

"I don't think my 'differences' can be explained away so easily."

Professor McMaster sat back in his chair and folded his hands into a triangular shape. While he looked the part of a professor, I wondered whether he truly felt the role or was using it as a protective measure. After all, I'd just strolled in here and bandied about the skeleton in his closet. "Tell me about your"-he hesitated, and then picked the word-"differences."

"You witnessed one of my 'differences' just now. By touching people, I can read certain thoughts, those that are currently pa.s.sing through their minds."

"Yes, that was-impressive. Can you extract people's thoughts by any other means?" he asked, very matter-of-factly.

I hesitated. Was it too risky to tell him? I had no alternative but to divulge my darkest secret to a stranger. "Yes, through their blood."

He did not seem fazed. Had he met others like me? Or just a slew of kooks pretending to be vampires? He continued with his line of questioning. "By touching or tasting their blood?"

I'd gone this far; I might as well disclose everything. "By tasting their blood."

Professor McMaster nodded and continued with his questions, as if processing my credentials. He was remarkably composed. "Do you possess any other special skills?"

"I can fly."

This alone seemed to surprise him. "You mean that you can actually take flight?"

"Yes."

"That is most unusual." He rose and started pacing around his little office. While he didn't appear frightened or repelled by my strangeness, he did seem thrown off. As if I'd messed up his categorization of otherworldly beings.

There was a knock on his door. He muttered something about his seminar students and excused himself. He unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. I heard a m.u.f.fled exchange. It sounded like Professor McMaster was trying to persuade his student to wait patiently for a few minutes.

He returned, closing the door tightly behind him. "Other than an understanding of your skills, do you have any information about your nature or origins? Even an intuition of your ident.i.ty might prove helpful."

"Just what my parents told me." I'd been reluctant to mention my mom and dad. Because of what Ezekiel said, I wanted to keep them as far out of this as possible. But I had to share it; I didn't want to risk getting useless information.

"Your parents know about your skills?" For good reason, he sounded shocked. What teenager would tell their parents about that?

"Yes."

"What did they tell you?" His natural impatience surfaced.

"My father told me a Bible story, and told me it was relevant. It was from Genesis, and it dealt with angels, their Nephilim creations, and Noah's flood."

Professor McMaster went to his shelves and plucked out a well-worn copy of the Bible. He read aloud the verses from Genesis that my dad told me about. Then he stared at me. "Miss Faneuil, your parents didn't explain the relevance of this biblical pa.s.sage to you?"

"No." In fact, I had inferred from my parents' story that I was some kind of angel. Particularly since G.o.d had ordered the annihilation of all Nephilim.

"They just told you a story and let you draw your own conclusions about your unusual powers?" He sounded justifiably incredulous.

It did sound preposterous, particularly without the context of the full story my parents shared and their own ident.i.ty as angels. But I had no intention of telling that to the professor. Obviously, I needed to divulge something more, or risk sounding ridiculous. So I offered him a fairly irrelevant tidbit, for my purposes anyway. "Well, they did say that the vampire legend emerged from the presence of these fallen angels in our world, once they had been cast out of heaven for creating the Nephilim."

He looked confused-but excited. "What did they tell you?"

I tried to clarify. "G.o.d insisted that these angels-the ones that mated with man-remain on earth as punishment, right? My parents explained that, from time to time, these fallen angels appeared at the side of a dying man or woman. For good and bad purposes. Occasionally, mankind witnessed these angels, and man fas.h.i.+oned the vampire myth around them."

Professor McMaster practically leapt from his seat. "Can you repeat that?"

I did the best I could. As I spoke, his eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands. "This is terribly exciting. It is a very interesting-indeed unique-explanation for the creation of the vampire myth. Even an explanation for the existence of vampires themselves."

Odd that he seemed more excited about uncovering the origins of a legend than he did about the possibility of finding a real live supernatural creature in his office. But I supposed there was no accounting for the eccentricities of academics.

He seemed to realize the idiosyncrasy of his behavior and backtracked by saying, "But of course, we need to focus on your question, Miss Faneuil. I confess to no great familiarity with Nephilim or biblical creatures, but we could talk further and do some investigation. And I have an acquaintance with a noted scholar in the field that we might contact."

"I would really appreciate that, Professor McMaster." I wondered if he was being so helpful because he feared my knowledge of Istvan Laszlof or because he wanted to hear more about the genesis of the vampire fable. It certainly wasn't due to any innate kindness.

Another knock rattled on his door. He rose and said, "We obviously need some uninterrupted time. Let me meet with some of these anxious students, and let us meet back in my office at five P.M. P.M. today. I will see what I can find out in the meantime." today. I will see what I can find out in the meantime."

Five o'clock sounded so far away. "Is there no way to meet sooner? I'm afraid there's some urgency to my question."

"No, Miss Faneuil. It would be impossible." His door shuddered with a knock-again. "Not without constant disruption."

My heart sank at the thought of waiting around until five.

Not so for Professor McMaster. His eyes lit up, and he said, "Later, you can tell me all about the beginnings of the vampire myth." Hardly my interest.

Chapter Thirty-seven.

I walked out of Professor McMaster's building and into the sea of students that filled up Harvard Square. For a split second, I felt like one of them, caught up in the excitement of fresh discoveries and the frenzy of deadlines. I slung my bag across my chest, imagining it to be full of term papers instead of scribbles on the mysteries of myself, and pretended to be a student at the college of my dreams.

But then I saw a distinctive flash of short, white-blond hair across the square. My heart started racing and, even though my gut told me to run in the opposite direction, I followed it as it bobbed away from the square. I needed to know if that hair belonged to Ezekiel or Michael-and whether they had already found me. Plus, I told myself that it would be better to learn the truth while in a crowd. Safety in numbers and all that.

The person moved quickly, darting from one side street to the next in a mad dash somewhere. I tried to keep his pace while keeping my distance, but it wasn't easy; I was no trained detective. Just when I thought I'd hit my stride, he took an unexpected, sharp right turn down a more commercial road and disappeared from my sight. I craned my neck trying to get a look. Countless blond students walked down the road, but none had the distinctive platinum s.h.i.+mmer of Ezekiel or Michael. I slowed down, furious with myself for losing either one of them. If it was really Ezekiel or Michael.

The remnants of adrenaline coursed through me. I allowed the remaining momentum to carry me away from the commercial thoroughfare into the far reaches of the campus. The crowds thinned as the students raced into cla.s.ses, and I found myself in a little brick courtyard bordered by ivy-covered walls. It was straight from a campus movie set, picture perfect-almost too perfect.

The spot looked so inviting. A wrought-iron bench sat in one corner, under a weeping willow tree. I hadn't slept the night before, and nothing in the world looked more enticing than that courtyard and that bench. I slowed my pace even more, strolled over to the bench, and sat down.

For the first few minutes, I just breathed in the calmness of the place and watched the students trickle into cla.s.s. They reminded me of the feeling of belonging I'd experienced just before I'd glimpsed the possible Ezekiel or Michael, the brief fantasy I'd had about actually being a Harvard student. I realized that the fleeting playacting might be the closest I would ever come to being a college student. How could someone like me-whatever I was-hope to move past all this drama and strangeness and go to college?

I started crying. Pretty quickly, the trickle of tears turned into a torrent, and I was sobbing. All I wanted was a normal life-a high school boyfriend, a good college, supportive parents, and nice friends. Instead, here I was, a sixteen-year-old girl, totally on my own-no parents or friends that I could contact, and certainly no boyfriend to speak of-trying to figure out what I was.

Out of nowhere, a sweet-looking blond girl wearing a Harvard sweats.h.i.+rt stood before me. She asked, "Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

Through my tears, I answered. "No, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

Before I could offer her a seat, she sat down beside me. She didn't actually touch me, but her presence felt comforting. Almost as if she'd hugged me.

"You know, when you are looking for answers, it is always best to start with the questions."

"Pardon me?" Her advice seemed an odd choice to offer a sobbing stranger on a college campus, even though her demeanor was otherwise soothing.

She laughed a delightful, tinkly-sounding giggle. "I'm sorry. My friends are always accusing me of being obscure. All I meant was that you look like you are struggling with some big issues. I always return to the questions when looking for answers to a tough problem. Then I start my research."

"I'm sure you're right."

The girl smiled serenely and then handed me a tissue. Abruptly, she stood up and said, "Well, I better run. I'm really late for cla.s.s."

After wiping away the rest of my tears so I appeared somewhat presentable, I looked up to thank her. But the girl had disappeared into the thicket of sidewalks and buildings surrounding the courtyard.

Her words lingered, as did her pervading sense of calm. Maybe she was right. Maybe the answers lay in the questions themselves-in part, anyway. And maybe I should start researching the answers to those questions. After all, I was at Harvard, one of the research capitals of the world.

I stopped the pity party, and really homed in on my questions, the ones I'd scribbled down on the train ride. More than anything, I wanted to know who I was. I didn't know whether I was a fallen angel, one of these Nephilim beings, or some creature related to the biblical stories. But I did know that I was important enough that two "good" fallen angels sacrificed their own immortality to raise me as their own daughter. I also knew that one of the "bad" fallen angels-Ezekiel-said that I was destined to rule at his side. I didn't think his words were mere flattery; given his advanced gifts, Ezekiel could lure any number of people to join his ranks without hyperbole. Whatever I was, the stakes were high. And I needed to find out, to deal with Ezekiel.

Only six hours left until I met Professor McMaster again. I would use the time to prepare-even arm myself-for the coming days.

I left my peaceful little courtyard with reluctance, even though I welcomed the safety of the student crowds. When I finally reached the throngs in Harvard Square, I felt like I'd been tossed a life preserver.

But then I saw that distinctive flash of platinum again. And I knew that evil lurked in the ma.s.ses as well as on deserted streets. Ezekiel was here, and he was taunting me.

Chapter Thirty-eight.

After consulting a guidebook, I decided to visit the Andover-Harvard Theological Library, on the northeast part of the campus. The guide described the library as containing a preeminent collection of biblical research materials, one of the largest in the United States. If I was going to find helpful information on angels or other biblical creatures, I guessed the Andover-Harvard Theological Library would be the place.

The directions from Harvard Square to the library were a little complicated, and I was more than a little distracted by any blond pa.s.sersby. So it took me half an hour to get there, rather than the estimated fifteen minutes. I got more and more anxious with each step; the clock was ticking.

Finally, I spotted the stone gothic building described in the guide: Andover Hall. The hall connected to a building of more modern design, and the library nestled between the two. Following the map, I entered the hall through a center entrance under the gothic tower. I then started down a long hallway called the cloister walk, which was lined in old stones and what looked like discarded church pews.

At the very end of the cloister walk waited a closed door-the library entrance. I opened it with a deafening creak, and then busied myself with a lobby display while I waited for the circulation desk to become busy so I could sneak in. I had read that the library was used primarily by masters' and doctoral students and, while I might pa.s.s as a college freshman, posing as a graduate student was a major stretch.

After skirting past the circulation desk and racing up a flight of stairs, I headed into the Houghton Reference Room. I sat at a computer dedicated to searching the library collections, and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Where should I even begin? I typed in "fallen angels," but got thousands of hits. So I narrowed my search to the unusual word my dad mentioned: Nephilim.

A few matches flashed on the screen. Other than the Book of Genesis from the Bible-which I had expected-I saw entries for the Book of Enoch. What was that?

I quickly scribbled down the reference number for the Book of Enoch and headed into the stacks. Along the way, I grabbed a copy of the Bible-an easy matter in a theological library-so I could look at that Genesis quote again. But finding the Book of Enoch was another matter altogether.

The stacks were endless. And overwhelming. How would I ever find this crazy book and read it in my dwindling time?

I must have looked lost, because a nice, but seriously nerdy-looking, student approached me. "Do you need some help?"

I almost said no, but the pa.s.sing of time nagged at me. I smiled at the bespectacled student, and said, "Thanks so much. I'm looking for a copy of the Book of Enoch. Do you have any idea where one might be?"

"All too well. Follow me."

Silently, he led me down two flights of stairs. We entered the labyrinth of a different, larger set of stacks. Following his lead, I turned right and left and right again. Until he came to dead halt. He reached up to a high shelf, plucked down a book, and handed it to me.

The guy knew the book's location so well that I figured he must know something about its content. So I thanked him and whispered, "You certainly seem familiar with the Book of Enoch."

"I better be. Apocryphal Gospels are my area of focus."

"Apocryphal Gospels?"

He looked at me a bit askance but answered cordially enough. "Biblical books that were considered for inclusion in the Old or New Testament, but that never made it, never became part of the accepted canon. You're not a divinity student, are you?"

"No. Is it that obvious?"

"Just a little." He smiled.

I smiled back. "Can you tell me anything about this Book of Enoch?"