Heather Terrell - Eternity (v5)

“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 al , I’d just strol ed in here and bandied about the skeleton in his closet.

“Tel 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 passing 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 tel 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 wel 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 skil s?”

“I can fly.”

This alone seemed to surprise him. “You mean that you can actual y take flight?”

“Yes.”

“That is most unusual.” He rose and started pacing around his little office. While he didn’t appear frightened or repel ed 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 muffled 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 skil s, do you have any information about your nature or origins? Even an intuition of your identity 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 skil s?” For good reason, he sounded shocked. What teenager would tel their parents about that?

“Yes.”

“What did they tel 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 wel -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 passage to you?”

“No.” In fact, I had inferred from my parents’ story that I was some kind of angel. Particularly since God had ordered the annihilation of al 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 ful story my parents shared and their own identity as angels. But I had no intention of tel ing 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. “Wel , they did say that the vampire legend emerged from the presence of these fal en angels in our world, once they had been cast out of heaven for creating the Nephilim.”

He looked confused—but excited. “What did they tel you?”

I tried to clarify. “God 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 fal en angels appeared at the side of a dying man or woman. For good and bad purposes. Occasional y, mankind witnessed these angels, and man fashioned the vampire myth around them.”

Professor McMaster practical y 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 real y 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. today. I wil 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 tel me al 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 fil ed 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 ful of term papers instead of scribbles on the mysteries of myself, and pretended to be a student at the col ege 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 fol owed 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 al 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 shimmer of Ezekiel or Michael. I slowed down, furious with myself for losing either one of them. If it was real y Ezekiel or Michael.

The remnants of adrenaline coursed through me. I al owed 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 classes, and I found myself in a little brick courtyard bordered by ivy-covered wal s. It was straight from a campus movie set, picture perfect—almost too perfect.