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?
I didn’t want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” He gestured to the guest chair.
I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper— The Harvard Crimson—that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I’d even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the Crimson on top of my notebook. But the professor’s manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor’s irritation.
He stuck out his open hand in my direction. “Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?”
“Got what?”
“Your seminar paper. Today’s office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students.”
He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. “You are in my seminar, are you not?”
“No, I’m not. I am actual y a—”
He cut me off. “Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday.”
“I’m afraid I real y can’t wait until Friday, Professor McMaster.”
“I’m afraid you do not have a choice, Miss—”
“Faneuil.”
“Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you wil have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority.”
I launched into my little plan. I thought I’d play on his vanity with The Harvard Crimson interview—everybody liked to talk about themselves—and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn’t scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t ask for any Crimson identification.
“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I’m a writer with The Harvard Crimson, and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would’ve set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fil it with an interview of you.” I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. “My staff told me that we’ve never done a formal interview of you, and we’d like to rectify that situation.”