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It was her angel. He was in his human form again. He was here.
The angel looked sharply at me; I could feel the menace radiating off him even from where I was standing. Trembling, I took an uncertain step backward, and then suddenly I felt a strong hand grab my arm. “Get out. Now,” said a low voice.
The dark-haired guy. I didn’t need to be told twice. I turned and ran with him beside me, still clutching my arm. Our footsteps echoed briefly on the pink-veined marble; he shoved open a silver door, and we burst out into the sunshine, pounding down the broad white stairs. Behind us, the preacher’s shouts were thundering out through the microphone: “That girl must be stopped! She’s evil; she plans to destroy the angels! On the angels’ orders, she must be stopped now, before she hurts them!”
“Oh, my God, what’s happening? What’s happening?” I panted.
As we neared the end of the lawn, I glanced over my shoulder and stifled a scream. The angel was in his angelic form again, flying after us, wings on fire with the sun. The dark-haired guy whirled around; he reached under his T-shirt and pulled out a pistol. The angel let out a furious screech, diving right at me.
And then . . . and then I don’t know what happened.
The fear left me. It was as if I’d suddenly grown taller. I was up in the air, and I had wings myself — glorious, shining things that gleamed like frost on snow. I felt the autumn coolness on them as I hovered, shielding my human body with its fragile aura below. I watched the approaching angel, looking it coolly in the eye.
The creature drew back, startled; at the same moment, I heard the gun go off and saw its halo waver and buckle. And then it just — vanished, erupting into millions of petals of light.
“Come on!” yelled the dark-haired guy, grabbing my arm again. Before I knew it, I was snapped back to myself, running alongside him as we tore across the parking lot. What had just happened? Behind us, the crowd was starting to pour down the stairs. Angry shouts drifted toward us: “There she is!” “Get her, before she hurts the angels!” Halfway to my car, my steps faltered as I glanced back. Wildly, I thought, Nina, this was a really bad idea. A man built like a football player was far ahead of the rest of the crowd; he was already at the parking lot, racing across to a silver pickup truck. He wrenched open the door.
The dark-haired guy jerked hard on my arm. “Run, if you want to stay alive!”
I turned and sprinted as fast as I could, clutching my bag to my chest and barely keeping up with him. We passed my Toyota and I pulled on his arm, gasping, “Wait — this is mine —”
He ignored me. We got to the black Porsche; he clicked the doors open. “Get in, hurry. ”
“But —” In confusion, I glanced back at my car and saw that the crowd had reached the parking lot; they were surging across, screaming and shouting; I could feel their hatred like a great wave rolling toward me. The man who’d made it to the pickup truck was so close now that I could almost make out his face.
He was holding a rifle.
As he saw me staring, he stopped and took aim, sunlight gleaming on the black metal. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, frozen in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. This really, seriously could not be happening.
“Get in the car!” shouted the dark-haired guy. Opening the passenger door, he shoved me in; as he ran around to the driver’s side, the sharp sound of gunfire echoed. Flinging himself into the driver’s seat, the boy slammed the door and started the engine; a second later we were roaring away from the parking lot. Twisting in my seat, I saw that the man with the rifle had dropped to one knee, still shooting at us.
“He — he was trying to kill me,” I stammered. We careened onto the main road; the dark-haired guy swung the steering wheel to the left, taking us away from the interstate. “Oh, my God, he really wanted to kill me. ” Suddenly I was shaking so hard I could barely speak.
“They all wanted to kill you,” said the boy shortly.
We hurtled onto Highway 5; in seconds the speedometer had reached seventy, and it was still climbing. He drove expertly, sending us flying down the highway. For a while, neither of us spoke. I huddled against the soft leather seat, so cold that I could barely think. The boy kept checking the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking back and forth. As soon as he could, he turned off onto a back road and then another and another, flinging us around the tight turns. Finally he’d spiderwebbed his way across to Route 20; he pulled onto it with a screech and floored it.
Relaxing slightly, he turned and really looked at me for the first time since we’d escaped. “So what are you, anyway?” he said.
My head jerked up, startled. He was serious. “What do you mean, what am I?”
“Part angel, part human. How?”
My jaw dropped. “Part angel? I am not!”
“Yeah?” His voice was hard. “So what was that thing that appeared above you when the angel attacked?”
I licked my lips, suddenly terrified. “I — I don’t know what you’re talking about. ”
“There was an angel above you with your face,” he said, accelerating as he passed a truck. “It looked like it was protecting you. ”
I couldn’t speak. The wings I’d felt, hovering in the air with the coolness of autumn on them. “I . . . I don’t believe you,” I got out. “I was just hallucinating or something. ”
“Then you did feel something,” he said, giving me a sharp glance.
“No! I mean — it was all confused, I don’t really —” I stopped, pushing the memory away. “Look, I am not part angel, OK? It’s impossible. ”
“Yeah, it should be. ” His eyes narrowed. “But you’re part angel, all right, and the only way I can think for that to happen is —” He broke off, almost scowling as he tapped the steering wheel. “No way,” he said in an undertone. “It can’t be. ”
God, he was as crazy as Beth. Sitting up, I shoved my bag down by my feet. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeated, grating out the words. “I didn’t even know that there were angels until a couple of days ago. ”
“What about your parents?” he asked abruptly. “Who’s your father? Do you know him?”
I was starting to hate him a little. “Who are you, anyway?” I snapped. “You’re not just some random guy who thought he’d check out the church, are you?”
“Answer the question. ”
“No, you answer mine. ”
Though the boy didn’t move, I suddenly had an impression of power from him, like a feral cat that might spring at any second. “I was following you,” he said finally. “My name’s Alex. And you’re Willow. Is your last name Fields?”
I stiffened. “How did you know that?”
His mouth quirked into something like a smile, except that there was no warmth to it. “Because I was in your house this morning. ”
“You were in my house?”
The boy — Alex — sped up to pass an eighteen-wheeler. The Porsche moved like silk on glass. “Yeah,” he said, his voice curt. “I was given orders to kill you. ”
Remembering the gun he was carrying, the air froze in my lungs as I stared at him.