Page 24 of Claimed by the Fallen
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve told you, I sensed yourpain.”
“So you were able to tell I’m sick,” I restate his words. “How?”
“You aren’t just sick,” Mr. Cohen’s brother interjects. I swing my eyes tohim.
He continues to grin at me. “Your symptoms are merely a side effect of your powersdeveloping.”
I blink, believing I misheard him. “Powers?”
“Yes,” Mr. Cohen confirms for his brother, then elaborates, “your angelicpowers.”
My heartrate increases. I’m dealing with crazy people. I’m not sure what to do. I can try to make a run for it, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it far before one of them catchesme.
I pray my parents will not be long at the grocerystore.
I decide to go along with the conversation, hoping to stall them from doing anything else until my parents are back. “What makes you think I’m anangel?”
“Part-angel,” Mr. Cohen corrects, “and angels are always able to detect otherangels.”
I try to hide how rattled his words make me feel. “You’ve known for awhile?”
“Since the day I saw you in my physicsclass.”
The memory of my first day of senior year consumesme.
I’d been walking to physics with Annie, both of us contemplating who the new teacher might be. Mrs. Wallace had retired the previous year, and we’d been afraid the school wouldn’t be able to find anyone qualified for the position. The two of us rounded the corner of lockers and entered the science wing, whispering our hopes and worries for the newest teacher. Then, I sawhim.
Mr. Cohen was standing by his open classroom, greeting students. Even from my distance, I’d been able to see how good-looking he was. Annie had whistled low, admiring our teacher aswell.
When we approached the classroom and Mr. Cohen had looked at me, I was sure my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. He reached out to greet me with a handshake, and I will never forget the jolt of electricity his touch elicited. I remember how he’d stared at me, and I swore he seemed just as affected by the touch as Iwas.
I shove away thememory.
Looking at my ex-teacher, I address his previous statement, “So why didn’t you say anything?” If Mr. Cohen really believed I was an angel, why hadn’t he said something beforenow?
“We aren’t allowedto reveal the truth to Nephilim,” his brother reveals. “Not until the transformation begins,” he finishes and looks at me with unveiledexcitement.
Nephilim? I’ve heard that word before, but only in paranormal novels or sci-fi televisionshows.
He can’t seriously thinkI’m one of those beings, but one look at his expression tells me heis.
I grab the decorative pillow beside me and clutch it to my chest. “What do you mean, ‘transformation’?” I ignore the word, Nephilim, fornow.
“The pain you’ve been feeling,” Mr. Cohen says. “It started on your birthday,right?”
I nod and dig my fingernails into thepillow.
“Nephilim don’t show angelic characteristics until their eighteenth birthday,” Mr. Cohen reveals. “Your powers are rising, and it is known to be a painfulprocess.”
I absorb the tale. My instinct is to deny all of their claims, but I know I need to play along if I have any hope of delaying their next move until helparrives.
“Y-you said earlier that you sensed my pain… What did youmean?”
“Your pain is an extension of your developing powers,” says Mr. Cohen. “As your body adjusts to the change, flares of power and magic will seep out of you uncontrollably. To you, it feels like pain. But those of us gifted with Sight are able to detect the fluxes of power surroundingyou.”
“But don’t worry,” his brother adds, “once the change is complete, you will no longer feel pain like you donow.”
I realize I’m not controlling my expression. I must look horrified to warrant the man’s assurance. I quickly school myfeatures.
