Page 38 of Stealing Embers
“Are they another type of species then? Are they . . . born?”
“No, not exactly.” She worries her bottom lip. I can feel that whatever answer is coming, it’s bad.
“I can handle it,” I assure her.
“Well, you see, the Forsaken were once . . . us.”
Nope. Wasn’t expecting that.
“More precisely, the Forsaken are Nephilim possessed by the Fallen. Once a Fallen possesses a Nephilim, they change into those things you saw today. The Forsaken. They become the vessels for evil to walk the Earth.”
A chill skates down my spine. When Sable asked Steel who it was that attacked us, and he said Gabe . . . Did I watch Steel fight—and kill—someone he used to know?
The mixed feelings come fast and hot: A flash of pity for Steel, who might have been facing off against a friend. A sharp pang of concern when I realize the ties that bind this seemingly happy family of angel-borns together are broken easily enough. And finally horror. I could become that . . .thing. Any of us could. “Can the possessed Nephilim be saved?”
Ash’s lips pull down in a frown. “No. Once overtaken, the Nephilim is lost. The only way to destroy the Fallen inside is to kill the vessel.”
What have I gotten myself into?
“This must be a lot to process,” Ash surmises, correctly reading my body language. “You probably feel a little like Alice, having fallen down the rabbit hole into a topsy-turvy world.”
I croak out a broken laugh and Ash leans forward, grasping my cold hand in her warm ones. “But I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know how you managed to survive alone, but I promise you sooner or later they would have found you. They hunt us.”
Her hands squeeze mine for emphasis. “The Fallen created us as a way to walk in the mortal realm, never believing we’d fight back. But we did, and we still do. We fight against the fate they planned for us every day. We fight to protect the world from their evil.”
I don’t even know how to respond. My mind is a whirling mess. Suddenly, my enemy is even more formidable than I realized.
In my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine any of this. My life goals were to stay alive and live in peace.
I’m not sure how I feel about all of this—the Nephilim, Fallen, Forsaken, or even Seraph Academy—except that it scares me. Within a single day, my whole existence has flipped upside down.
“You’re not alone anymore. We stick together. We have each other’s backs. And we hunt the hunters.”
Chapter Eleven
Ipick a desk in the rear left corner of the classroom. It’s a normal room, nothing fancy. Six rows of desks, eight desks in each row. Teacher’s desk angled in front of a large chalkboard. A wall of books behind me. Windows line the right side of the room and overlook the lawn’s pristine checkerboard stripes.
I arrived to class ten minutes early, mostly to make sure I could choose a seat as close to the door as possible. Strategic seating is one of my quirks. I have to be sitting in the very back of the class. Under no circumstances can anyone sit behind me. Over the years, I’ve been tormented by too many students to trust my backside to anyone for an entire period.
My other rule is that whatever side the door is on, that’s where I have to be. Being close to the door means being able to make a quick exit. Lingering in classrooms has only ever painted a bigger target on me.
Rolling my number-two pencil between my fingers, I fidget in my borrowed clothes. Ash’s stretchy jeans cling to every inch of my skin. The top I’m wearing is a simple blue graphic tee, but only hangs to my hips and stretches across my chest and stomach in a way I’m wholly unfamiliar with.
I miss my men’s extra-large tees.
Baggy enough to hide my form and long enough to cover my butt—not that there was ever much to see back there since I prefer wearing men’s or women’s pants several sizes too big.
As I pull the shirt away from my chest, the door opens.
Jerking my head in its direction, I watch a female student enter then stumble a step when she spots me. She doesn’t even try to hide the curiosity that washes over her face as she makes her way to the front.
Slanting my head down, a strand of red-tipped platinum hair flops in front of my eyes. I quickly twist it up in my bun and force myself to pretend I’m the only person in this small classroom.
This is just like every other school I’ve attended. People gawk until they get used to me. Then, if I’m lucky, I become invisible.
I refuse to lift my head when the door slams open again and the noise from the hall filters through the opening, along with what I assume are several more students. People will be more apt to ignore me if I keep my gaze down and avoid making eye contact.
I’ve had years to perfect my moves.