Page 22 of Claimed by the Fallen
Absolutelynot.
I’m torn between trusting Mr. Cohen and viewing him as an intruder. I err on the side of caution and step back. “So you decide to break into my house after not seeing me atchurch?”
What if I’m wrong about my teacher? What if Mr. Cohen is a serial killer and I’m his nextvictim?
The thoughts drive my feet back anotherstep.
Mr. Cohen raises his hands, much like the other man in thebathroom.
As if summoned by my thought of him, I hear the other man say, “Looks like you were wrong about her being asleep,Brother.”
I spin around and look at the top of the stairs. The first intruder stands there with his arms crossed. Peri sits at his side, gazing up at him for attention. It seems she’s gotten over her short bout of defendingme.
The man’s address stands out. I look between him and Mr. Cohen. “You’rebrothers?”
Mr. Cohennods.
Well, that explains why the man’s black hair had looked familiar. After a quickglance
at my teacher’s hair, I’d say the color is almostidentical.
“Why are you and your brother in my house?” I modify my question. “What do youwant?”
“We’ve told you,” Mr. Cohen’s brother states, “we know you’ve been sick. We are here to help you feel better.” He begins walking down the stairs, and I’m pleased to see he limps where Peri bithim.
Periwinkle’s claws click against the wood stairs as she follows him down. My attention switches from one man to the other. In addition to their hair, the blue in their eyes nearly matches the other. Both of them watch me with wariness—like I’m some sort of skittish animal. I wish I still had mybat.
I take another step back. I’m closer to the kitchen. If anything should go wrong, I can try to make it to the backdoor and run away. Mr. Cohen continues to block the frontdoor.
When I don’t say anything, my teacher says, “Just give us the chance toexplain.”
I jerk my chin towards Mr. Cohen. Despite the craziness of his presence in my house, my gut tells me my teacher isn’t there to harm me. But perhaps that’s just wishfulthinking.
“Fine. Explain. How do you know I’m sick? Did my parents tellyou?”
“No,” he replies evenly. “We sensed it. Your pain is like a signal shooting into the sky. I thought I felt it last night, but it became obvious when I woke up thismorning.”
I don’t even know what to say tothat.
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Um…what?Did you say you sensed mypain?”
His brother reaches the last step, and I hold out a flat palm. “Stop there. Don’t come anycloser.”
To my surprise, he listens. The man crosses his arms, again, and leans to rest against the wall bordering the stairs. I notice his biceps flex with the movement. He dips his head to Mr. Cohen, encouraging his brother tocontinue.
With surprising reluctance, I tear my gaze from his muscles and blink as I re-focus on Mr. Cohen. If he noticed where my attention had been, he doesn’t say so. “Tell me, Messenger, your birthday was yesterday. Wasn’tit?”
I tell myself it isn’t weird he knows that. Mr. Cohen used to be my teacher, after all. He had access to a lot of information about me through the school’sdatabase.
Still, I say, “Yes.”
“And you turned eighteen?” His brother asks from myright.
Is it my imagination, or does he soundexcited?
My confusion and fear start to morph into frustration. My head swivels towards Mr. Cohen’s brother, and I scowl. “What does my age have to do withanything?”
“Everything,” hebreathes.
