02 Awaken-The Soulkeepers (2 page)

I haven’t heard another word about the Awakening or my training. Michael is no help in finding answers because he doesn’t want me to become a warrior. He says it’s too dangerous. His father is a messenger for The Council of Guardians but even Mr. Patronus doesn’t have access to that kind of information. Since I can’t call upon my fate, I hope it’ll call upon me. In the meantime, seasons change and I wait for something fantastical to consume me.

It’s a gorgeous afternoon, and holiday music crackles over the speakers: Dean Martin singing “A Marshmallow World,” and I almost believe him. The town square is a winter wonderland bustling with commotion: kids building snowpeople, shop owners clearing snowy sidewalks, tires sloshing through the streets. Old-fashioned streetlamps are crowned with pine wreaths and bright red bows. Storefronts are framed in bushy garlands and holly. Shiny brass bells hang from every doorknob while every entrance drips mistletoe. Every window display contains some rendition of Santa Claus with accompanying elves.

There is a towering Christmas tree in the center of the park, but it’s without decorations yet. The town council is huddled beneath it, debating which colors to use this year: red and green, silver and blue, purple and gold …

Abigail Monroe, the president and reigning dictator, is shaking a finger in Mayor Jones’s face. Whatever colors she is insisting upon, it’s safe to assume she’ll get. Abigail Monroe usually has her way.

Dean Martin is interrupted by the courthouse bells, reminding us that it’s noon. We’re starving so we cut across the park, heading for the Soda Shoppe. Vern Warner, our mail-carrier-cum-bandleader-cum-snow-shepherd, is herding snow from the sidewalk. He is wearing a combination Davy-Crockett-meets-Russian-czar fur hat and floppy galoshes. All at once, a snowball smacks him in the head, and Vern flails dramatically as though he’s been shot. We explode with laughter. Vern is always the punch line to someone’s joke—usually Duffy’s.

Vern throws Duffy an accusatory look as he whips off his hat. He shakes out the snow like his arm is wrestling a rabid Russian raccoon, and then smacks it back onto his head. Duffy raises his hands, pleading innocence.

“Hey, man, all my balls are accounted for!”

Duffy has been on his best behavior lately, hoping to avoid Mayor Jones. Around Thanksgiving, Duffy decided it was a
fowl
thing to sacrifice turkeys for the locals’ carnivorous cravings, so he released thirty toms into the town square. As penance—otherwise called community service—Mayor Jones ordered Duffy to wear a giant turkey
suit and stand on the corner to greet tourists. Humiliated to the point of molting, it’s quite possible that Duffy has learned his lesson.

Vern scopes out the park for possible pranksters. There is a pack of kids digging out tunnels and stockpiling snowballs for serious winter warfare. Nearby, the old McCarthy twins, Norah and Gracie, are out walking their ducks, Siegfried and Roy. The twins, like Abigail Monroe, are members of the Red Hat Society and always wear some style of red hat and purple clothing. Today, they’re sporting red pom-pom beanies and puffy purple snowsuits that would do nicely if they decided to hop a space shuttle. Even the ducks are subjected to the fashion fascism and wear purple ties like a pair of fowl gentlemen. No one claims the hit against poor Vern, but Gracie does have an impish grin on her chubby little face.

We all file into the Soda Shoppe, a fifties diner that’s packed with my classmates. A hip, soulful song is playing in the jukebox; “Back Door Santa” by Clarence Carter. It seems to be a local favorite because everybody starts singing and grooving and dancing around the restaurant. For no apparent reason. I laugh and look around for Ferris Bueller.

As the song fades, Bailey and Rachel jive over to a booth by the window. Holden and Rachel are a couple now, so he follows like a dutiful puppy. The freshmen occupying our favorite booth haven’t eaten yet, so Bailey hones in on their leader.

“Hey you, slowest common denominator, take your emojis and squiggle,
el pronto
. Senior priv.
Comprende?
” The kids scoot out, knowing it’s a lost cause. I give her a look to say,
Quit being such a bully
. She says, “What? I’m not here just for my blinding good looks.” She slides in and pats the seat next to her.

Fifteen minutes later, the holiday cheer escalates because the natives are restless. Jordan the Leerer, whose favorite smile is of the cynical persuasion, loads his spoon with whipped cream from Lizzanne’s shake and flings it across the room. Shrapnel doesn’t discriminate, and everybody gets hit. Pacer is firing open ketchup packets at Sarah, and Harper Rose is shooting root beer through the gap in her teeth. She hits Duffy in the face, but he likes it and opens his mouth for more. Casey’s grandma, Nana James, serves a tray of food, and everybody piles over to snag the fries. They are devoured or launched across the room in retaliation.

Bailey and I are noshing on burgers while Rachel is enjoying her vegetarian avocado wrap with a dreamy smile.

“Mmm, this is absolutely deligious,” she says. “Heavenly, you know? You guys should try it. Even Holden likes it.”

Bailey snorts. “There goes your man card.” Holden just smiles and eats what he is told.

Since Rachel and Holden were announced Homecoming Queen and King last month they’ve gone Siamese twins, so I direct my question at Bailey. I’m taking photos of this Friday night’s basketball game, and I ask if she wants to ride with me. Not only am I the local newspaper’s photographer, I’m the official school photographer as well. I’m obligated to attend
every
game. This week we are playing Danbury, and I’ve never been there; I’d love the company. Plus, I know Bailey’s been bummed since Vaughn Raider left town. She never knew he was a demon and she had it pretty bad for him. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if she had known. I’m not sure how serious things got between them, but lately it seems that Duffy hasn’t been enough to satisfy her.

“Might as well,” Bailey grumbles, sounding bored. “Duffy’s been an eh-hole—no a full blown asshole—these days. I wouldn’t ride with him if he was driving the Anheuser-Busch beer wagon. Which reminds me. I’ll see if I can score a geriatric bypass and snag some brewskies after the game. I know some frat guys throwing a party in New Haven. Yeah?”

Rachel scoffs and snaps a photo of her avocado wrap with her cell phone. “Oh yeah, that’s just what you need. Get caught using a fake ID right before finals.”

“Don’t be a fusspot. You know I’m dying to get out of this town. A little customized stupidity never hurt anyone. And since when did you become a pepperazzi—snapping photos of your food all the time. It’s just an avocado wrap, you know, not a newborn.”

“It’s for my foodie followers. We’re documenting our diets. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to pay attention to what you—”

“Are you calling me fat?” Bailey wails, half jokingly, and then viciously bites into her burger like it’s Brad Pitt’s neck.

Rachel shrugs and says, “Tweeters are leaders.” She is forever cheerful, but I’ve lost my appetite. I push my basket of fries away and stare out the window. A bunch of kids are in the throws of a snowball fight. Beyond them, I see that Dad has joined the town council conference to offer his advice on trimming the tree. This is good. Dad has recovered nicely from his brush with death in the courthouse. He’s out of the house more often and his sermons are more dynamic. He tells me he views every day as a gift.

I start to wave at him but a strange thing catches my eye. There is a guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt, old surf shorts, and crappy huarache sandals. He has long dreadlocks of varying colors and he’s strolling around the square with a look of sheer wonder.

What the hell?

I don’t have time to alert the others because Michael walks by our booth right then, making his way down the hall toward the restrooms. I know because I can feel an
intense tugging in my chest. Michael is telling me to follow him. Follow or he’ll drag me out of the booth by my heart.

“Back in a sec,” I say as I start sliding to the left without effort. I play it off so nobody notices. Michael is very impatient today, and I don’t want to get caught stumbling over my own feet. This has happened before when I didn’t respond quickly enough to his kinetic tugging.

As a guardian angel, Michael has the ability to be supremely patient and radiate a sense of calm and peacefulness. When he wants to. Lately, he’s been acting … I don’t know … different. Serious. Demanding. Impatient.

By the time I turn the corner, he’s leaning against the far wall at the end of the hallway. His arms are crossed and he’s sporting his
What took you so long?
scowl.

I stop. “What? Ten seconds not fast enough?” I hope to sound playful and not sarcastic. He’s in a mood.

Michael lowers his chin and gives me a heated look. His eyes travel down my body, making my pulse flutter and my cheeks flush.

“I think you can do better,” he says. The tugging in my chest snaps like a whip and I’m airborne, flying down the long, narrow hallway until I slam into his chest. His arms envelop me, holding me off the ground.

I’m momentarily stunned, like always, when Michael makes me fly. I consider his brazen antics with suspicion, and then wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“I think you can do better, Sophia,” Michael repeats. He sounds uncompromising and stoic but I see his eyes flare. They are churning from pale blue to indigo, a supernatural sign that tells me he’s aroused. Without saying a word, I know he likes my body pressed against his; I know he enjoyed the affection and wants more.

Carefully, I place a chaste kiss on his lips. We have to be cautious with this. The wrong kind of kiss from Michael can suck the life from me. The first time it happened I fainted but thankfully recovered without complications. Since then, we’ve learned to regulate our affection, and I learned to read the warning signs. Angels were never meant to kiss humans, so Michael and I have been educating ourselves. With copious practice, of course.

“I want to be alone with you,” Michael says with a sense of urgency. His commanding demeanor melts, and he snuggles his cheek against mine. “Please, Sophia,” he murmurs, trailing warm kisses down my neck.

I gasp from his physical effect on me. His touch sends a ripple of shock waves through my body, warming private parts and making me squirm. I’m also surprised that
Michael would do this now; he said we could never be affectionate in public. He’s lectured me countless times on the importance of keeping our emotions in check while his family is nearby. Raph is in the restaurant and could easily detect Michael’s forbidden emotions. I doubt hiding around the corner is enough.

I pull back and stare at him. Usually, I’m the one pushing the limits; after all, Michael Patronus is the hottest guy around. In fact, he’s famous for his hotness, being the somewhat elusive most eligible hot guy in the tristate area. At least that’s what I overheard the visiting cheerleaders say at the last basketball game. I had no idea Michael’s hotness exceeded the boundaries of our quaint little town. And no, I don’t blame anyone for wanting him.

Sometimes I can’t believe it’s me he really wants. Sometimes I find myself waiting for him to laugh and say it was all some supernatural joke. Guardian humor. And sometimes I’m afraid I’ll wake up and discover that he compelled me to forget I love him, forget that his heartbeat pounds inside my chest, too.

And then there are times, like today, when Michael’s desire for me seems magnified beyond reasonable proportions.

So why is he taking risks that he said we shouldn’t? What’s changing?

“Please, babe,” he begs sweetly, brushing his nose against mine. “And stop being so suspicious. We’re fine. Now may I see you tonight?”

I smile cautiously and consider. I love when Michael asks to spend time with me, but a pesky feeling is buzzing around my head, and I know I have to be the practical one. So I tell Michael that I’m drowning in homework. My academic adviser has recently tossed out a life raft, and if I hang on and don’t sink to the bottom, I might still have a decent college application.

This is all true, but if I’m being totally honest, this waiting around to start my spiritual training has been driving me to desperate measures; I’ve become annoyingly tenacious about my future college plans. I don’t want to settle for less.

Michael is quiet, disappointed, and slightly pissed.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You know I hate to disappoint you but—”

“Then don’t,” he snaps, and we lock eyes. His are still blazing indigo but when he sees my reaction, they begin to churn back to pale blue. “Sorry,” he mutters, lowering me to the floor and stepping back. He inhales and shoves his hands into his pockets. I feel empty and alone without his touch.

Me and my stupid mouth
.

I really do hate to disappoint him, so I scramble to make amends. “Actually, if I leave now and work on my essays, we can hang out later. Around nine?”

Michael contemplates with a greedy look. “Eight o’clock.”

My eyes narrow, and I decide to ignore his bossy tone, again. “Well, maybe eight-forty-five but—”

“Eight-thirty,” he challenges. He’s being uncharacteristically stubborn and my interest peaks.

“Fine, Michael. Eight-thirty. But I’ll drive to you.” There is a glint in my eyes that says I mean business.
See, I can play tough, too
.

Michael steps closer, towering over me. He grasps my chin and looks hard into my eyes. “Do. Not. Be. Late,” he warns, and then crushes his mouth onto mine in a quick, demanding kiss that buckles my knees.

The faded red barn at the edge of the Patronus property was glowing. Or more precisely, bright blue light was shooting through the cracks and doorjamb like a lightning show. Luckily for Michael, no one but spiritual entities could see the light. It was a spiritually enhanced barn where all manner of spiritual training took place. Humans saw the barn as an aged relic and nothing more.

There was no official training today, just Michael letting off steam. Well, if he was being honest, he was letting off sexual frustration. A few weeks ago, Michael noticed that his forbidden desire for Sophia was growing deeper and stronger than he’d imagined. It had become a daily struggle to hide his excessive energy from his family. Even now, inside the barn, Michael could feel Raph, Gabe, and their young cousin, Uriel, watching him from across the peaceful meadow. It didn’t help that Michael had destroyed three spiritually enhanced punching bags in four days.