He goes with playing dumb. “When?”

“The day of the fire.”

He grabs another block of wood and places it on the stand. “I told you. I was in the woods, looking for you. I thought maybe I could help.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

He falters and the ax strikes the log unevenly and sticks. He makes a noise like a growl and jerks it out.

“Why wouldn’t you believe me?” he asks.

“Um, maybe because I know you, and you’re acting all weird. So where were you? Cut the crap.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.” He throws the ax in the dirt, then gathers an armload of the chopped wood and pushes past me toward the house.

“Jeffrey . . .”

“It was nothing,” he says. “I got lost.” Suddenly he looks like he’s the one about to cry. He goes into the house, and I can hear him offering to make a fire for Mom. I stand in the yard until the first curls of smoke drift out of the top of our chimney. I remember his face when he flew out of the trees that night, tight with fear and something like pain. I remember the hollow way he laughed at me when I told him that I saved Tucker, and suddenly I’m all twisted up with worry for him, because whatever he was doing out there that day, my gut tells me that it wasn’t good.

My brother has his secrets, too.

Chapter 4

Freaking Out

This time in the dream, there are stairs. A set of ten or twelve concrete steps, complete with a black handrail, leading up between two aspen trees. Why would there be stairs in the middle of the forest? And where do they lead to? I grab the rail. It’s rough, the paint flaking off to expose patches of rust. The steps are edged with moss. As I climb I notice I’m wearing nice shoes, Mom’s sensible black pumps, the ones she always loans me for formal occasions.

I see Jeffrey ahead of me in the trees. Others wait there too, shadowy figures at the top of the hillside, people I recognize: Angela, Mr. Phibbs, Wendy. It feels like they’re all staring at me, and I don’t know why. I glance back, and the heel on my nice shoe catches. I lose my balance on the stairs, almost falling, but Christian’s there again, his hand at my waist, steadying me. For a moment we stare at each other. His body radiates a kind of heat that makes me want to step closer to him.

“Thanks,” I whisper, and I open my eyes to my bedroom ceiling, a strong cold wind still rattling the trees outside.

“You’re freaking out,” Angela observes with a mouthful of green bean salad. We’re sitting at a booth in the Rendezvous Bistro in Jackson on a Saturday night, post–action movie, eating salad because that’s all we can afford at this place.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You are so not fine. You should see yourself.”

“Well, it sucks, okay? I just wish I knew if it’s a dream or another vision, or what.”

Angela nods thoughtfully. “Your mom said that some angel-bloods have their visions as dreams, right, while they’re sleeping?”

“Yeah, she said that, before I started having mine, way back when she was okay with telling me useful information. But I’ve always had my visions while I was awake.”

“Me too,” Angela says.

“So it makes me wonder, is this dream thing for real, or is it, you know, the result of bad chow mein at dinner? Is this a divine message, or my subconscious talking here? And either way, what’s it telling me?”

“See, there you go freaking out,” she says. “It’s messed up, C. You won’t even look at Christian during Angel Club. It’s like you two take turns avoiding each other. I’d find it hilarious if I didn’t find it so totally sad.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

She cocks her head at me sympathetically. “I like Tucker, Clara. Really I do. He’s a stellar guy, no one would argue with that. But have you considered the possibility that you’re not supposed to be with him? That you’re supposed to be with Christian, that he’s your destiny, that you’re supposed to fly off into the sunset together?”

“Of course I have.” I put my fork down, not hungry anymore. Destiny can really put a damper on the appetite. “I don’t know why he even cares,” I say.

“Why who cares? Tucker? Or Christian?”

“God.”

She laughs. “Well, that’s the big mystery, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I’m seventeen years old. Why does He care who I . . .”

“Love,” she supplies when I don’t finish the sentence. “Who you love.”

We’re quiet while the waiter refills our drinks.

“Anyway, you should write this dream stuff down,” she says. “Because it could be important. Check for variations, like you did with your vision. You should ask Christian about it too, because who knows, maybe he’s having the same dream, and if he is, then you can figure it out together.”

It’s not a terrible idea. Except that I’m not exactly crazy about spilling to Christian that I’ve been dreaming about him.

“What does your mom say?” Angela asks, gnawing on a bread stick.

“I haven’t told her about it.”

She looks at me as if I just told her I’d been thinking of dabbling in heroin.

“Why should I? She never tells me anything. Even if I did tell her, I’m sure she’d only bury me in platitudes about trusting my feelings and listening to my heart or some crap like that. Besides, we don’t know that it means anything,” I say. “It’s probably just a dream. People have recurring dreams all the time.”

“If you say so,” she says.

“Can we talk about something else now?”

So we do. We talk about the rain, which Angela agrees is excessive. We talk about Spirit Week at school and whether or not it would be fair for us to use our special gifts to win the Powderpuff game on Wednesday. She tells me about this old book she found in Italy this summer that seems to be some kind of angel-blood roster during the seventeenth century.

“It’s like a group of them,” she tells me. “Congregarium celestial, literally like a herd of angel-bloods. A flock. It’s actually where I got the idea to form the Angel Club.”

“Anything else interesting happen in Italy?” I ask her. “With, say, a hot Italian boyfriend you’re now going to tell me all about?”

Her cheeks go instantly pink. She shakes her head, suddenly super interested in her salad. “I don’t have a boyfriend.Italian or otherwise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was silly,” she says, “and I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t hound you about Christian, you don’t talk about my nonexistent Italian boyfriend, okay?”

“You already hounded me about Christian. That’s hardly fair,” I say, but there’s genuine pain in her eyes, which surprises me, so I let it drop.

My mind wanders back to the dream, to Christian, the way he’s always looking out for me, catching me, keeping me on my feet. He’s become my guardian, maybe. Someone who is there to keep me on the path.

If only I knew where that path was headed.

We’re in the parking lot when the sorrow hits me. At least, I think it’s sorrow. It’s not as overwhelming as it was that day in the forest. It doesn’t paralyze me in the same way. Instead it’s like suddenly, in the space of a few minutes, I go from fine, laughing even, to wanting to cry.

“Hey, are you okay?” Angela asks as we walk to the car.

“No,” I whisper. “I feel . . . sad.”

She stops. Her eyes go saucer wide. She glances around.

“Where?” she says much too loudly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t tell.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me through the parking lot toward the car, walking fast but trying to stay composed, like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t ask me if she can drive my car; she goes straight to the driver’s seat, and I don’t argue. “Put on your seat belt,” she orders me once we’re both inside. Then she floors it out of the parking lot and onto the street. “I don’t know where to go,” she says in a half-terrified, half-excited rush. “I think we should stay somewhere well-populated, because he’d have to be crazy to obliterate us in front of a bunch of tourists, you know, but I don’t want to go too close to home.” She does a quick check of the mirrors. “Call your mom. Now.”