Dark Hope: Book One of the Archangel Prophecies

Dark Hope: Chapter 11

I pushed my face deeper into the pillow, the rustle of sheets reminding me where I was. I groaned. My body ached and my head throbbed with the regularity of the blinking neon signs that decorated the Strip.

Las Vegas.

We'd arrived in Las Vegas that morning. Michael had chosen one of the local haunts on Fremont Street as our base. Even though she'd been newly renovated, the old bones of the El Cortez stood as testimony that this shop was "old school." When we'd stumbled through the riot of slot machines and busy carpets to the front desk, I'd been overwhelmed.

Despite the early hour, there had been a smattering of people nursing their drinks and cigarettes as they mindlessly worked the machines. They didn't even notice us as we picked our way through the cavernous room. Only one man even looked our way, his glazed-over eyes not registering how disheveled and dirty we were despite my best efforts to scrub up in the airport bathroom, before returning to his game. It was as if we were invisible. And while the renovation meant that everything was relatively new, to me it still seemed garish and loud.

"We can't stay here," I had begged Michael quietly, pulling on his arm. I looked over my shoulder at the regulars, who seemed to be growing grayer and saggier before my very eyes. "It's too sad."

He'd sighed, pulling me out of the way of the waitress bearing down with a tray of drinks.

"We need to gamble on the Strip to get access to the traffickers," he explained quietly. "If we stay in a hotel there, though, we will never be able to let down our guard." He searched my eyes to see if I understood. "I will always have to appear like this," he whispered. "As your father. We will never be able to let down the charade. At least this way you can have some semblance of normalcy." One corner of his mouth shot up in a sarcastic grin. "As normal as you can have in Las Vegas, anyway."

I had nodded mutely. It was hard enough being here: half accomplice, half kidnapping victim. It was even weirder to look over, expecting to see a teenager, and instead see my dad. Only the blue eyes gave him away. If it was hard for me, I wondered what a relief it must be to Michael when he could finally slip out of that body, even if only for a few hours.

Then again, the person I knew as my Michael was just a disguise, too. Maybe it wasn't that big of a deal to him. But it was to me. So I'd gone along with his plan.

Now, in our room, I rolled over and looked around. I was grateful that when we'd checked in, he'd managed to get us booked into a newer building across the street that was not connected to the casino. The room was modern, all crisp whites and blacks with bold furniture and accents. It could have been a hotel room in Miami or New York. I could almost forget where we were and why we were here.

We'd drawn the shades against the burning sun, leaving the room shadowy. Only the faint glow from behind gave away that it was afternoon. And there, hunched over in the chair at the foot of my bed, was Michael.

I opened my eyes just a crack to look at him again. He hadn't moved. My eyes scanned him quickly: the golden hair, the impossible tan even in the dead of winter. The way even a button-down shirt clung to his broad shoulders, accentuating every muscle in his lean, perfect body.

I was mildly relieved he had reverted to his normal human appearance after being forced to travel with him posing as my father, but my relief was short-lived as I took him in. He held his head in his hands as he stared absently at the muted television, lost in thought. Images flickered across the screen: fighting in some distant country, hostages at an embassy. The deep lines etched in Michael's face and the shadows under his eyes seemed to grow deeper as he watched the chaos he was unable to stop. I felt a stab of pity, as well as one of guilt. I knew I should be afraid of him, and part of me was. But every minute he spent with me was time away from whatever God had ordained for him; time that would earn him punishment in the form of never-ending pain. It was evident from his face that the pain he was suffering-maybe all because of me-had become more intense.