He steps back immediately.
“Okay,” he says. He clears his throat.
I take a deep breath, try to clear my head. The rain’s finally stopped. Night has fallen. We’re both soaking wet, and cold, and confused. I’m still holding his hand. I tighten my fingers around his.
“I’m in love with Tucker Avery,” I tell him simply.
He looks surprised, like the idea that I might be already taken never crossed his mind. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Please don’t be sorry. Anyway, aren’t you still in love with Kay?”
His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. “I feel stupid. Like this is all some big joke. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Me neither.”
I drop his hand. I extend my wings and grab the air, rising from the top of the ridge and up over the burned forest. Christian stares up at me for a minute, then lifts off himself. Seeing him like that, riding the air with those beautiful speckled wings, sends a chill down my spine and a wave of confusion into my already shell-shocked brain.
You’re in big trouble, Clara, says my heart.
“Come on,” I say as we hover for one final moment over Fox Creek Road. “Come with me.”
We stand outside the front door for a long time. It’s dark now. The porch light’s on. A moth is hurling itself against the glass again and again in a kind of rhythm. I fold my wings and will them gone. I turn to Christian. Our wings are no longer out, but he looks like he would rather fly away now and never come back. Pretend none of this ever happened. That the fire never happened. That we don’t know what we know, and everything isn’t impossibly screwed up.
“It’s okay.” I don’t know if I’m talking to myself or to him.
This is my home, the beautiful, secluded log house I fell in love with eight months ago, but suddenly I’m a stranger here, darkening this doorstep for the very first time. So much has changed in the last few hours. My mind is clogged with all I’ve seen, what I’ve survived, battles with evil angels, forest fires, and the implications of what I’ve done. Christian is alive, standing there looking as jumpy as I am, smoke-streaked but beautiful and so much more than I ever expected him to be. But I’ve failed at my purpose. I don’t know what will happen now. I only know I have to face it.
There’s a noise behind us, and both Christian and I spin around to gaze out into the growing blackness. A figure flies toward us through the trees. I don’t know if Christian’s aware of the existence of Black Wings, but instinctively we reach for each other’s hand, as if this could be it, our last moments on this earth.
It turns out to be Jeffrey. He lands at the edge of the lawn, wild-eyed like something’s after him. He’s carrying his backpack over one shoulder, curling his arm around it to keep it out of the way of his wings. He turns to look down our driveway. For a moment his back is to me, and all I see are his wings. The feathers are nearly black, the color of lead.
“Is that your brother?” asks Christian.
Jeffrey hears him and turns like he expects a fight. When he spots us on the porch he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the porch light, squinting to identify us.
“Clara?” he calls. It reminds me of when he was a little kid. He used to be scared of the dark.
“It’s me,” I answer. “Are you okay?”
He takes a few steps forward into the circle of light from the porch. His face is a flash of white in the darkness. He smells like the burned forest.
“Christian?” he asks.
“In the flesh,” Christian replies.
“You did it. You saved Christian,” says Jeffrey. He sounds relieved.
I can’t stop staring at his dark wings. “Jeffrey, where have you been?”
He flutters up to the roof, landing gingerly in front of his bedroom window, which is wide open.
“Looking for you,” he says in an anxious hush before he ducks inside. “Don’t tell Mom.”
I look up at the starless sky.
“We should go in, before anything else happens,” I say to Christian.
“Wait.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to touch my face. I flinch, and then he flinches. His hand stops inches from my cheek, an almost identical pose as what I’ve seen a hundred times in the vision. We both know it.
“Sorry,” he says. “You have a smudge.” He takes a breath like he’s making a deliberate decision and his fingers graze my skin. His thumb strokes a place on my cheek, rubbing at a spot. “There. I got it.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing.
Just then the door swings open and Tucker stands on the other side staring at us, first at me, his eyes sweeping over me from head to foot to make sure I’m all in one piece, and then at Christian and his hand, which still hovers near my face. I watch his expression change from something worried and loving to something darker, a resigned determination that I’ve seen before, when he broke up with me.
I jerk away from Christian.
“Tucker,” I say. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
I throw myself into his arms. He hugs me tightly.
“I couldn’t leave,” he says.
“I know.”
“I mean, literally. I don’t have a ride.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s asleep on the couch. She seems okay, but kind of thrashed. She didn’t really want to talk to me.”
Christian clears his throat uncomfortably.
“I should go,” he says.
I hesitate. I intended to bring him home and sit him down with Mom, tell his side of the story, try to figure out what it all means. That doesn’t seem possible now.
“We’ll talk later,” he says.
I nod.
He turns quickly and goes down the porch steps.
“How are you going to get home?” Tucker asks.
Christian’s eyes meet mine for an instant.
“I’ll call my uncle,” he says slowly. “I’ll walk out to the road to meet him. I don’t live too far.”
“Okay,” says Tucker, clearly confused.
“See you later,” he says, and turns his back on us both and jogs down the driveway into the dark.
I pull Tucker inside before he can see Christian fly away.
“So you flew him out of the fire too, huh?” he asks after I close the door.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t even understand a lot of it yet. And some of it’s not mine to tell.”
“But it’s over? I mean, the fire’s over now. You’re all done with your purpose?”
The word still feels like a knife sticking me.
“Yes. It’s over.”
And that’s true. The fire is over. My vision is done. So why do I get the feeling that I’m lying to him again?
“Thanks for saving my life today,” Tucker says.
“I couldn’t help it,” I say, trying for funny, but neither of us smiles. Neither of us says I love you either, but we both want to. Instead I offer to take him home.
“Flying?” he asks hesitantly.
“I thought we’d take the car.”
“Okay.”
He leans in and tries to press a quick, gentlemanly kiss to my lips. But I don’t let him pull away. I grab his T-shirt and hold on, crushing my lips to his, trying to pour everything out of me into this one kiss, all that I’m feeling, all that I’m still afraid of, all my love, so strong it borders on pain. He groans and tangles his hands in my hair and kisses me enthusiastically, walking me backward until my back hits the door. I’m shaking, but I don’t know if it’s because of him or because of me. I only know I never want to let him go again.
From behind him Mom clears her throat. Tucker steps back from me, breathing hard. I stare up into his eyes and smile.
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Clara,” she says. “How are you?”
“Good.” I turn to look at her. “I was just going to take Tucker home.”
“Okay,” she says. “But then come straight back.”
Afterward, after I drop Tucker off and come back, I take a shower. I stand under the water and turn it up as hot as I can bear. The water runs through my hair and down my face, and only then do the tears come, pouring out of me until some of the heaviness in my chest lifts. Then I summon my wings and carefully wash the soot from them. The water swirls gray around my feet. I scrub at the feathers and they come clean, although they aren’t as white as they were before. I wonder if they will ever be bright and beautiful again.
When the hot water runs out, I towel off and take my time combing out my hair. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I lie in bed, exhausted, but I can’t sleep. Finally I give up and go downstairs. I open the refrigerator and stare inside before deciding I’m not hungry. I try to watch TV, but nothing holds my attention, and the light from the flickering screen casts shadows on the wall that spook me even though I know there’s nothing there.
I think I’m becoming scared of the dark.
I go to Mom’s room. I thought she’d interrogate me when I got back from Tucker’s, but she was already in bed, asleep again. I just look at her lying there, wanting to be close to her but not to disturb her. A shaft of light from the open door falls across her. She seems so frail, so small curled up on her side in the middle of the bed, one arm cast over her head. I move closer to the bed and touch her shoulder, and her skin is cool. She frowns.
Go away, she says. I step back from her, hurt. Is she mad over what happened today? That I chose Tucker?
Please, she says. I can’t tell if she’s speaking out loud or in my head. But she’s not talking to me, I realize. She’s dreaming. When I touch her again, I feel what she feels: anger, fear. I remember how she looked in the Black Wing’s memory, that image of her he’d carried for so long: the short brown hair, bright lipstick, and dangling cigarette, the way she’d looked at him with this knowing little smirk. She wasn’t afraid then, not of him, anyway. Not of anything. She’s a stranger to me, that younger version of my mother. I wonder if I’ll ever know her, if now that my purpose is over she’ll be free to tell me her secrets.
Mom sighs. I pull the quilt up to cover her, smooth a strand of hair back from her face. Then I slip quietly from the room. I go back to the kitchen, but I can still feel her dream if I tune in to it. This is something new, I think, this ability to feel what others feel, like when I felt Tucker as he kissed me, like what I felt when I touched the Black Wing. I reach for Mom with my consciousness, and I can find her, feel her. It’s amazing and terrifying at the same time. I cast myself upstairs to Jeffrey’s room and I can feel him. Asleep and dreaming, and there’s fear in his dreams too, and something like shame. Worry. It makes me worry for him. I don’t know where he was during the fire, what he was doing that weighs on him now.
I go to the sink for a glass of water, then drink it slowly. I smell smoke, the scent of the fire still lingering in the air. This makes me think of Christian. Three miles due east, he said, as the crow flies. Three miles isn’t so far. I imagine myself slipping across the earth, like I’m traveling along the roots of the trees and grass, stretching a line between me and Christian’s house like a piece of string between two tin cans, my own makeshift telephone.
I want to feel what he feels.
And then I do. I find him. Somehow I know it’s him and not anyone else. He’s not asleep. He’s thinking of me, too. He’s thinking about the moment when he wiped the smudge of ash from my cheek, the way my skin felt under his fingers, the way I looked at him. He’s confused, churning, frustrated. He doesn’t know what’s expected of him anymore.
I get that. We didn’t ask for any of this; we were born into it. And yet we’re supposed to serve blindly, to follow rules we don’t understand, to let some larger force map out our lives and tell us who we should love and what, if anything, we should dare to dream.
In the end, when Christian and I flew away together, there were no flames below us. There was no fire chasing us. We weren’t saving each other. We weren’t in love with each other. Instead, we were changed. We were thrown for a cosmic loop. I don’t know if I’ve fallen from grace, or if I’m on some sort of Heavenly Plan B. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
One thing I do know is that we can never go back.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to raise a book. I want to thank:
The brilliant, hardworking team at HarperCollins, including Kate Jackson and Susan Katz, for their enthusiasm and support of Clara and her world; Sasha Illingworth, who turned my plain little pages into such a gorgeous, sparkly book; Catherine Wallace, for all her behind-the-scenes hard work; and so many others who made this book possible, most especially my editor, Farrin Jacobs. I was born under a lucky star indeed to end up with such a wise and thorough editor. I like every colored-pencil Farrin, even blue.
Katherine Fausset, the best agent a writer could wish for, for guiding me so smoothly along the path to realizing my wildest dreams.
My mother, Carol Ware, for staying up late to hear the newest chapter and for (bless her) always loving it, and my father, Rodney Hand, for wholeheartedly supporting my decision to study writing even though he was pretty sure it meant I’d go hungry.
Joan Kremer, my writing partner, a big part of why writing this book was so much fun.
My best friend extraordinaire, Lindsey Terrell, for being a beacon of love and sanity in a crazy time.
My early readers: Kristin Naca, Cali Lovett, Robin Marushia, Amy Yowell, and Melissa Stockham, the most loyal cheerleaders and funniest peanut gallery ever.
My readers from Bishop Kelly High School, Victoria Agee and Katy Dalrymple in particular. You so totally rock.
The friendly and informative rangers at Teton National Park, and the students and staff at Jackson Hole High School, with a special shout-out to Gary Elliott, the now-retired principal, who welcomed me so warmly and answered my endless questions with gracious enthusiasm. Without you, Clara’s world would have been so much more generic.
Shannon Fields (and Emily!) for taking such great care of my son so that I could work without worry.
My amazing and talented students at Pepperdine, who are always eager to hear the latest book news and who keep me honest as a writer, and glad to be one, day after day.
And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank John Struloeff, my husband, co-conspirator, editor, sounding board, and support system, who helped me in more ways than I can name. And my son, Will, who’s the reason I started writing about angels in the first place.
About the Author
CYNTHIA HAND divides her time between Southern California, where she lives with her husband and son, and southeast Idaho near the Teton Mountains. She teaches creative writing at Pepperdine University. This is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.cynthiahand.blogspot.com.
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Praise for Unearthly
“Utterly captivating. Cynthia Hand has brilliantly spun the magic of angel mythology into a modern world of romance and suspense, creating one of the most addictive books I’ve read in a while. Unearthly had me lying awake at night, wondering what would happen next.”
—Richelle Mead, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Vampire Academy series
“A gripping tale of destiny, family, and first love, Unearthly stole my breath and my heart.”—Kimberly Derting, author of The Body Finder
“A page-turning and gripping story. I loved it!”—Alexandra Adornetto, New York Times bestselling author of Halo
Copyright
Unearthly
Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Hand
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, dec
ompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Neely, Cynthia.
Unearthly / Cynthia Hand. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Clara Gardner’s purpose as an angel-blood begins to manifest itself, forcing her family to pull up stakes and move to Jackson, Wyoming, where she learns that danger and heartbreak come with her powers.
ISBN 978-0-06-199616-0
[1. Angels—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Moving, Household—Fiction. 6. Family life—Wyoming—Fiction. 7. Jackson (Wyo.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N35Une 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010017849
CIP
AC
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First Edition
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062043108
Version 06212013
11 12 13 14 15 LP/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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