Dark Hope: Book One of the Archangel Prophecies

Dark Hope: Chapter 7

The next morning, I shuffled toward my locker, trying to stifle a yawn. Our interview with Maria had ignited a sense of urgency in me. I'd pored over Internet sites until long after midnight, absorbing all the information I could about her hometown and the trafficking business. Like a teller at the DMV, I mindlessly processed photo after photo, statistic after statistic, using the rote activity to keep my mind and my emotions at bay until I collapsed into my bed in exhaustion. But in my dreams-or rather, one specific dream, more like a nightmare, that I didn't want to think of right now-it was not as easy to push aside the questions that I did not want to answer. Was my father right in being so protective? Did I run from what I had thought was a prison only to find that I had run right into a trap? And what would have happened to me if Michael had not killed my kidnapper all those years ago?

Michael. The thought of him brought a complicated set of emotions right to the surface. Gratitude, surely. But resentment, too: resentment of the need to be watched, resentment of his lies, resentment and even fear of what his presence implied. And more. I blushed, not wanting to think about those other feelings.

I lifted my head and there he was, stationed at my locker. A casual observer would guess that he was lounging, but I could see the taut look of his eyes and the way his muscles seemed coiled for action. I flushed again more deeply as I took in his sleek body and thought of the warmth that had surged through my own at his touch, as well as the glimpse of physical perfection I'd had when he'd revealed himself to me.

Could it have really happened? Or was it all part of the hazy nightmares that had plagued me last night?

I smiled, nerves on edge as I began to spin my combination.

He leaned toward me nonchalantly, but his tone when he spoke was demanding. "Where were you yesterday?"

I remembered the neat stack of messages my mother had left on the kitchen counter and felt a surge of guilt, like a child who has been caught playing in her mother's makeup drawer.

"I was busy."

"Where?" he pressed. "You weren't at Tabitha's. I checked."

Indignation swelled within me, and I fumbled my combination. Frustrated, I turned to him. "You're not my father. I don't need you checking up on me."

"But it seems you do," he said, his eyes narrowing as he closed the distance between us to mere inches. "You were at home but you didn't want to be disturbed. What was so important that you couldn't talk to me, Hope?"

His stern eyes were shot through with anger. I looked away, but he gently took my chin in his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. "What are you hiding? Or are you just hiding from me?"

A wave of warmth began spreading from his hands, warring with the anger that was swamping my body. Furiously, I pushed his hand away.

"Leave me alone. I don't owe you any explanations. What I do on my own time is my business, not yours." We stared each other down: him, frustrated by my vagueness, me, refusing to let him intimidate me. My cheeks were burning-whether from the lingering effects of his touch or my own fury, I wasn't sure. All I knew is that I didn't want to talk to him about Street Grace or Maria, and he couldn't push me around. The bell rang for first period and I turned to my locker with unseeing eyes. I tried my lock again with mechanical stiffness, willing him to look away. I tried the lock but it wouldn't give. I spun the numbers again-once, twice, three times-until my locker door opened. I studiously examined its contents with exaggerated interest.

Eventually, I heard him sigh. When I turned from my locker, he was gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucas and his friends approaching. Hurriedly, I closed my own locker and headed for my class.