Heather Terrell - Eternity (v5)

I didn’t real y exhale until the train pul ed away from the Til inghast station. Only then, and only surreptitiously, did I assess my fel ow travelers. In the rear of the car sat two businessmen talking about a meeting they had the next morning with a prospective client. In the occupied seats closest to mine were a few kids that looked like they were headed back to col ege. I kept an eye on them. Their sweatshirts, backpacks, and other paraphernalia bore the Harvard logo, and I thought they might prove useful.

The door separating the cars suddenly slid open, and I jumped. It was only the conductor ready to take my ticket. As I pretended to rifle through my bag so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him, I handed it over. He punched it and then placed the stub in the slot above my head. His business completed, he left the car.

I had three hours until we reached Boston. Three hours to prepare. Three hours to map out a game plan.

I decided to start by assessing my resources—whatever was in my bag. I hadn’t exactly planned my departure in advance, so I was limited to what I carried. When we traveled, my parents always insisted that I carry on my person al the necessities should I ever be separated from them—a couple hundred dol ars, identification, a toiletry bag with essentials, credit cards, and an ATM card that now I’d have to avoid using except when absolutely necessary. I’d gotten into the habit of carrying these things. Lucky that I did. It made me prepared for a day like this. Maybe that was their intention al along; maybe they knew a day like this would come.

Thinking about my parents—and I would always consider them my mom and dad, birth parents or not—made my eyes start to wel up again. I wasn’t mad at them anymore for keeping secrets; I understood that they were just trying to protect me. They’d even given up their immortality to shield me. And even though Ezekiel couldn’t be trusted, I believed what he said about their sacrificed immortality when I thought how my parents had aged in the past sixteen years after staying youthful for over a hundred years of pictures.

But if they weren’t my real parents, who were? Were my real parents stil alive? Why did Hananel and Daniel have to raise me? Who did they make that arrangement with?

They would be worried sick about me by now. I wondered if they would file a police report or conduct a search for me on their own. I hoped they stil had some residual powers on which they could draw.

But I didn’t have the luxury of emotions, and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to myself by crying. So I took a pad of paper and pen from my bag and scribbled down al my questions.

The train rocked back and forth and stopped from time to time during the three hours to Boston. But I was so engrossed, these events hardly registered with me. By the time the train screeched into Boston’s North Station, I had made a list of the questions I had about my nature and future.

I looked down at my notes:

1. What was I? My gifts sounded a lot like the ones Dad had described for angels. Did that mean I was an angel, fal en or good? Or was I some other kind of supernatural being? Mom had said I was “somewhat different” from the angels.

2. What was my purpose? Dad said that the angels were meant to use their gifts—flying, flashes, and persuasive powers—to guide souls to God. Was that what I was supposed to be doing with mine? After al , before the whole Facebook thing, I’d experienced that intense compulsion to help others. But Mom and Dad had hinted that I had some kind of special role. What was that role?

3. Who was Ezekiel, and why was he so interested in me? I had guessed that he was one of the fal en angels, but not the kind seeking redemption. If so, why didn’t he just use his persuasive powers to force me to his side? It seemed like he had some kind of influence over Michael in that way. And how did Ezekiel find me and Michael anyway?

4. If I could even believe Ezekiel about my parents, who were my birth parents? And where were they? And why had Hannah (I couldn’t think of her as Hananel) and Daniel agreed to raise me?

5. Had I lost Michael to Ezekiel forever?

I prayed that these questions might be answered in Boston, because, without the answers, I was paralyzed. And terribly confused. But armed with this information, I might stand a chance against Ezekiel, and might be able to protect my parents in the process.

The students riding along with me were headed to the same place, so I fol owed in their wake. I hoped that it would make me seem like just another col ege student. I trailed along after them as they connected into Boston’s subway system, the T, and hopped on a Red Line train headed for Cambridge. Nowhere along the way did I sense that I was being tracked.

I alighted when the students did and tagged along—at a distance—as they walked to their campus. As they filed into their dorms, I started to get concerned. What was I going to do until tomorrow morning? I wasn’t worried about staying awake until sunrise—I’d had too many long nights with Michael to worry about that—but staying safe and inconspicuous.

Then I remembered we had passed an al -night coffee shop when we walked from the T stop toward the dorms. It seemed to cater to students with its late hours and free internet. So I headed back in that direction.

When I opened the door, I saw that it was populated by bleary-eyed undergrads studying and cranking out papers, fueled by coffee and cookies. I knew I had my waiting spot.

I had nearly nine hours to kil until nine A.M.—when I could try to meet with Professor McMaster.

Chapter Thirty-five

I didn’t know why I felt so certain that a man I’d merely read about on the internet could answer my questions. Especial y since his specialty was vampires, and I’d come to believe that I was something else entirely. But I was desperate for answers, and desperation bred overconfidence, I guessed. I thought that if he could just tel me what I was—and my purpose—I’d be able to make sense of this madness.

When morning came, I cleaned up as best I could in the coffee shop bathroom and left my little haven for a bookstore, camping out at a Dunkin’

Donuts afterward. It offered an excel ent view of the entrance to the building where Professor McMaster held office hours. At exactly two minutes to nine, I watched as a disheveled-looking elderly man with frizzy gray hair raced into the building. At first, the man caught my attention because he was seriously underdressed for the cold, wearing only a tatty-looking blazer tossed on over a button-down shirt. Then I realized that the man resembled the photo from the Harvard website, even though he looked significantly older. I decided that it was definitely Professor McMaster.

I waited two minutes, and then fol owed him into the building. I didn’t want to bombard him, but I needed to be the first in line for his nine A.M. to eleven A.M. office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Passing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door—which was closed.

Double-checking the posted office hours to be sure I had the right time, I knocked on the door. Other than a rustle of papers and the squeak of a desk chair, I didn’t hear anything. So I knocked again.

“I heard you the first time. I’l be with you in a moment,” a gravel y, very slightly accented voice answered. And he didn’t sound happy.

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. This wasn’t exactly the start for which I’d hoped.

A few minutes later, I heard a series of locks jangle. Then the door creaked open, just a sliver. “Come in, come in,” he said impatiently.

I slid through the smal opening Professor McMaster provided. He then closed and locked the door behind us. After the greeting I’d received and the frazzled state of the professor, I wasn’t exactly excited to be in a locked office with him. But what were my choices?