Page 30

T his time when my eyes peeled open, I stared at the perfect wave.

One I’d woken up to every morning since I’d plastered it on my ceiling when I was nine—a flawless curl of turquoise water on the precipice of breaking.

Blinking away the eye crusties, I turned my head from the poster and the rest of my bedroom filtered into view.

Sunlight trickled past the slits in the blinds.

The air was warming up but still had a crispness that tickled my throat.

It was morning. Aside from the hums that slipped beneath the crack of the door, and the new memories rattling in my skull, I was alone.

I grasped a clump of hair near my temple.

Ugh, it was too early to reminisce on the things that did or did not happen yesterday.

At least…I reached over to the nightstand and tapped my phone’s screen to life.

I blew out a sigh of relief.

Yes, yesterday.

So many things.

For starters, the Voices were freaking real.

I could just see the dark humor in Gaia, the sweet breeziness of Fei, the cool indifference of Akosua, as I remembered all the times they had hacked into the sounds of the world, just to speak to me.

And my mom wasn’t just any old angel, but an archangel .

The Angel of Water. Or at least she used to be, before forsaking Empyrea in the name of love.

It didn’t take a huge leap of logic to understand what had happened to her.

She’d been sentenced to the Fall.

I shuddered and swore a faint scream bristled my ears.

There truly was a punishment worse than death.

My arms plopped to my sides atop the duvet, disturbing the comforter’s feathers.

A few slipped through the seams and drifted above me, stuck in the airstream from the overhead fan.

Not only that, but my mom’s betrayal also threw humanity into the middle of a centuries-old battle between two paranormal realms. One where the Voices, the Watchers, were powerless to help because, well, Mira fell for a mortal.

Seemed like a steep price to pay for love.

An unfair one, really.

And where did that leave me?

I honestly had no clue.

I was Nephilim and a descendant of an archangel, but what did that mean?

Was I supposed to take her place or something?

Laughable, really. I couldn’t even control my senses, let alone my Source.

How was I supposed to protect Mortal Earth?

I strained against a tide of pain that didn’t affect my physical body.

Sometimes life really did feel like hell on earth.

Maybe Chthonia had already won.

Shifting to get comfortable despite my spiraling thoughts and the ache in my bones, I pulled the covers up over my eyes and attempted to go back to sleep.

A throb ran from my elbow to my shoulder at the jerk of my arms. In the darkness beneath the blankets, I pressed a hand to my heart.

A hot bolt of panic shot through me when I brushed against skin, not my necklace.

I threw aside the duvet, my back freaking killing me as I twisted to check under the bed, crammed my fingers between the mattress and the bedframe, tossed pillows aside—every place as empty as the pockets of my hard-washed lilac shorts I hadn’t changed out of yet.

Maybe I’d taken it off?

I jumped out of bed and beelined for my dresser, sorting through the tangled pieces of jewelry.

Not there, either. Spinning on my heels, I moved to the door, but when my fingers wrapped around the cool metal handle, I stopped.

My gaze traveled up the length of my arm, lingering on the dried blood and smears of dirt.

Another jolt of panic zinged my core.

How did I even get home?

Obviously, Ryder must have brought me, but did he sneak past my dad?

Had my dad been here?

Oh my God, did they meet?

!

I pressed my ear to the door.

As the muffled sound of my dad’s talking grew louder, I had to think it meant he hadn’t been here for my homecoming—if he had witnessed me being carried in by a hot British guy in leather, knocked out, and covered in blood, I’d be in deeper shit than when the teratorn chased me.

There’s no way I could walk into the kitchen now, flushed and bruised, with matted hair, as if I’d been kissing death itself.

I drew in a long breath, ballooning out my rib cage.

Okay. First, a shower.

Old pipes shrieked with each turn of the knobs, triggering my nerves, an echo of pain that’d been stoking my senses ever since I left the Fall.

I entered the narrow stall, where the steam rose above the tile and enveloped me like a warm cloud.

While I stood beneath the faucet and let the water hit my shoulders, I could almost taste the blood and tears of the fallen.

But it was the salt from my own eyes, the fresh scabs from my own skin that whirlpooled down the drain, injuries Ryder said were not from crossing realms but from the house collapsing on me during an earthquake.

I still didn’t understand his take on the events.

Like, how were our experiences so different?

I’d assumed hours had passed by the time I came to, yet he declared it’d only been a matter of minutes—and that I’d never really left left; I’d just been struck unconscious.

As the water ran from red to clear, my confidence seemed to slip with it.

I found myself wishing for patterns or signs or symbols in the vortex of shampoo and conditioner.

But the water pressure didn’t speak to me.

The vapor didn’t part for me.

The bubbles didn’t change their form.

It was just a shower, and I was just a girl, trying to make sense of it all.

No closer to God or enlightenment, I shut off the valve and opened the curtain to grab my robe.

Dripping wet, I froze, struck by the simple, watercolor portrait of a lighthouse that hung on the wall across from me.

Akosua’s near-forgotten words danced on the tip of my tongue.

“To your watchtowers,” I whispered out loud.

The Watchers may have been citizens of Empyrea, but they were guardians of this realm.

Having some sort of Earthbound base for them to warp to didn’t seem too farfetched.

If I could find their towers, it could lead me to them, and who knew—maybe they could help me hone my Source or explain why demons were chasing me.

Fill in the pieces I was missing.

Letting the idea percolate, I threw on a marbled oversized tee and some stretchy black biker shorts.

After another unsuccessful check around the bed for my necklace, I headed down the hall, nothing but the cold pressed air to fill the bare space at the base of my neck.

As my nose suspected, charred pancakes and crispy pork were the items on the menu that morning.

I faltered when my bare feet reached the kitchen’s cool tile.

Partially hidden behind an unfolded newspaper, his glasses slipping down his burnt nose, one crocs-with-socks-wearing foot bouncing on his knee, my dad looked every part mortal.

An unwelcome pang of hurt rocked my heart.

Did he know about my lineage or was he truly oblivious, as he seemed now?

Clearing my throat, I sat and reached for a plate.

“Hey, River,” my dad said like he just realized I was there.

“You slept well. I’d ask if you want breakfast, but”—he glanced at his watch—“it’s almost noon. Brunch?”

I tried not to let that sting of sadness crawl up my chest into my throat, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his connection to everything.

Dismissing those thoughts with a scratchy swallow, I focused on the most pressing detail for now: the watchtowers and where to find them.

I kicked my voice up and plastered on a too-wide grin.

“Morning!”

“Bacon?” My dad picked up a platter, stopping mid-pass.

“Holy…”

My lips began to twitch, but if this was a test, I wouldn’t let my fake smile slip.

His eyes widened and I couldn’t stop mine from mimicking the movement.

What? What was it?

“That is one hell of a bump you got there.”

My hand shot to my temple; I winced as I tried to hide it from view.

“I, uh…” I, uh, what, River?

C’mon. “I got hit in the head with my surfboard.” Or a piece of plywood.

Or a crystal ball. It was debatable at this point.

“I had a wipeout yesterday, and wham.” I pretended to smack myself, sending a whoosh of air breezing by my forehead.

“Geez.” He leaned in, and I swore it visibly throbbed.

“That thing is huge.”

This was worse than having a giant pimple between my eyes.

I brought my damp hair out from behind my ears, trying to angle the shorter layers so they swept across my temple.

Rolling up his paper and setting it next to him, he asked, “You need ice or something?”

“No.” I needed a subject change.

I needed answers. Instead, I settled for stuffing my face with a blueberry pancake as if that was proof that I was totally fine.

He returned to his own stack, and we ate in silence—until I asked what probably sounded like the world’s most random question.

But if anyone knew random facts, it was humanities professor Corbin Harlow.

“Dad, what do you know about watchtowers?”

“Generally speaking?” He wiped his lenses on his navy collared tee.

“They’re tiered freestanding structures that oversee a particular area. The Romans built epic ones throughout Europe, some that have survived since the early Middle Ages. In fact, I just did a lecture on them.”

I twisted my fork in the syrup covering the strips of pancake in front of me.

“What are they actually used for?”

“To aid those who are lost, to detect threats, to restrain demons.” He winked, returning his glasses to his face, picking up the newspaper again.

“Depends on the geography.”

I tried not to let that last example sink its teeth into me.

“So, a watchtower doesn’t have to be part of a medieval fortress—it could be something simple? Like…a lighthouse?”

“Sure.” He nodded as he gulped down his coffee, the bitter aroma wafting from the cup.

“They’re all essentially built for the same purpose: to protect the people.”

That was good news, because the term watchtower itself sounded all sorts of medieval, and I wouldn’t be dragging myself to Europe any time soon.

But it also expanded my search criteria to limitless.

“Do you think I could take a look at your lecture notes?”

He peered at me over the weekend headlines.

“Seriously? River, it’s Saturday. The waves are pumping, and you want to sit inside and look at my lecture notes? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard?”

“Yeah.” I gulped.

“I’m interested in…history?”

“You’re weird, kid.” He sighed and stood, slapping the paper onto the table.

A few minutes later he returned with a manila folder.

“Go wild.” It left his smudged fingertips for my sticky hands.

“I’ll be surfing at The Hook when your eyes start to hurt.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I gathered up my hair, twisting and tucking the ends into a knot on the crown of my head.

“I’ll do the dishes. Now get out there.”

He ruffled my top bun, buying into my sudden fascination with history without a second thought as he slipped on his sandals and grabbed his Ray-Bans.

To be honest, it killed me to miss this window of swell, and I just about grabbed my wetsuit to join him.

But the only thing I was grabbing when he ducked out the side door and that salty draft came in were the papers that had scattered across the checkered tile.

Two pages fell to a syrupy death; the rest were crinkled and dispersed.

Between the faded ink and the semi-legible scribble, I attempted to put them in order.

There were some common themes I picked up on: military, nonmilitary, modern.

One page in particular stopped me mid-shuffle.

I cast the stack of papers aside as I held the grayscale printout, studying the cylindric tower it depicted.

I’d never really thought about the history of the Santa Cruz Lighthouse—even if I’d spent thousands of days resting against its red brick, watching the surf until its lantern burned brighter than the stars.

It was a pretty standard landmark.

All coastal towns have them.

But according to the article in my hand…

there was some local lore to it.

A tendril of anticipation formed in my stomach and coiled around my heart.

The area surrounding the Santa Cruz Lighthouse plays an important part in the region’s history.

The first mention of it can be traced back twelve thousand years, to the indigenous peoples of this land, who noted massive, geometric markings perfectly cut through the tall grass, similar to a modern-day crop circle.

They respected it from a distance, leaving what they referred to as her land in peace.

Colonizers arrived in 1769, and although they eyed the unsown ground, they refrained from disturbing it until 1795.

I tucked my knees beneath me, too enthralled to get up.

The pitterpatter against my ribs seemed to reverberate through my body, especially in my fingers, the article shaking in my grasp as I read on.

Questions arose amongst the colonists, such as who tended to the luscious patch of soil on the bluffs, and why hadn’t they introduced themselves to the town.

They waited for a sighting, but the owner would vanish, some claimed before their eyes, and there were murmurings that it was a woman.

They marched at nightfall, armed with torches, and incinerated the grass to the roots.

When the fire sputtered out, they saw the intricate designs had been etched deep into the earth.

Spooked by the incident, the townsfolk backed off and the land was once again left alone until 1852, when the newest generation forgot about the tales and construction of a lighthouse began.

The build proved to be impossible: when steel hit stone, the tool ricocheted back.

Some workers lost limbs, another his life, and for seventeen years, the project was put on pause.

Then, in 1869, construction of the lighthouse was finished, seemingly overnight.

There are no records of who completed it.

Goosebumps raised along my arms as a shudder worked its way down my spine.

Myths of the watchtower grew more sinister.

Stories circulated that the original owner of the land never died; that she was a witch, and she was its one, true Keeper; that she harnessed the winter white caps, and her power drew rip tides; that she worshipped the Eldritch and the fog bell would ring not for ships but to conjure evil.

Over time, the whispers have ceased, and its history has become legend.

City officials approved an expansion to accompany the structure in 1967.

The lighthouse has persevered, its original frescos have faded, its filigree dulled by erosion.

But the candle still burns, and the door to the tower remains locked, as if waiting for its Keeper.

I lowered the paper and slid my palm over the text, releasing a breath that’d been trapped.

Loosening my shoulders, I flipped the article over, ready to sort it, when every inch of me tensed.

Hundreds of sketches littered the page.

There wasn’t a blank space left.

Circles, droplets, swirls, and flames.

And four-pointed stars, clustered around them.

Jolting off the floor, I sprinted down the hall to my dad’s den, the flimsy page crumpling in my death grip.

As I flung open the door, shafts of tinted light from the stained-glass window cast the ordinarily brown room into a prism of color.

I marched across the beige carpet, sharp prods of unease cauterizing my stomach.

I’d stood in front of this window millions of times, as I did now, but somehow, this felt like my first. How severely misguided my brain must have been to think these were just simple knights, winged beings, and beasts cut into the glass.

They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse, clashing with their female equivalents: the four archangels guarding the earth.

Gaia’s keen stare, chiseled into chartreuse flames, ensnared me even though it was only a weak imitation of the real thing.

Her lips were carved into a knowing smile, and I swore the image of her winked as my eyes trailed from her porcelain hands set atop her full hips to her platinum locks braided atop her head like a halo.

Wisps of long, black threads of hair from the angel next to her flowed into her frame, as if caught in an immortal breeze.

Fei’s cunning amber gaze bored into me like two brilliant, violent suns, the freckles on her wide cheekbones and her ivory oval face illuminated by their permanent glow.

Her outstretched slender arms brushed the angel beside her.

Akosua’s thick twists of brown hair tousled over her body, which seemed to be built for slaying monsters, as if her sable, steepled palms could birth a spark quicker than a match.

Her smile was like smoke—it reached her crimson, kindled eyes, igniting a fire in me—one I didn’t know if I wanted to put out or let burn.

My blood froze when I reached the Angel of Water.

Because…it was me.

Me with cerulean flames for eyes.

I blinked. Aside from their hair and skin tones, all four angels became faceless, nameless, generic—as they’d always been to me.

Was this what Ryder meant about truly seeing?

A glare from outside illuminated the glyphs in the center of their green, yellow, red, and blue robes—the symbols I’d seen drawn on the back of the article by my dad: earth, air, fire, and water.

My hand floated to the place where my necklace usually rested, the urge superseding the facts.

Anger engulfed me. I curled my fingers and closed my eyes to try and contain the wrath—but those elemental symbols just burned into the darkness behind my lids.

My dad knew .

No matter how badly I wanted to unsee that repeated pattern, to chalk it up to doodles or coincidence.

No matter my desire to pretend he hadn’t kept me isolated from my own source of power and let me mistake magic for madness.

No matter my utter desperation to think he hadn’t lied to me my whole life—he knew.

He fucking knew .

My exhale dragged as I opened my eyes and ripped the article to shreds.

Tears burned my eyes as I mentally sorted through truth and lies.

I couldn’t even think straight, the raw pain razing my insides and turning into white-hot fury.

A violent fire hose of energy thrashed beneath my skin, fighting for me to release it.

My gaze swiveled from the wall-to-wall bookcases to the opened French doors that led to the living room.

I’d wipe out this entire condo—every stupid photo, keepsake, surfboard, I didn’t care.

I needed a conduit for my anger.

Remnants of the paper flittered to my sides, shining so bright in the rays funneling in through the windows that it looked like they had caught fire.

A torn piece with a cluster of numbers landed on the crease between my knees, the scribble stealing my attention.

36.951696, -122.026677

63.

568315, -19.608209 (near)

26.

0 ??

34?

My blip in concentration diluted the brewing power within me, and a guttural, ragged gasp of agony escaped.

The pain lodged itself in my veins like cracks in a vase.

If I didn’t do something, it’d spread and settle in the deepest parts of my soul and break me beyond repair.

Untucking my legs, I kneeled up to standing and went to grab my phone from the kitchen.

I set the scrap of paper on the table, unlocked the screen, and input the first line of numbers into the browsers search bar.

I reviewed the results without so much as blinking, without even a hint of surprise.

How could it be anything but the coordinates of the Santa Cruz Lighthouse?

As I stared at the map, the marker centered on the coastal point’s green, the memories started to flood me.

My wet hair cascading down my back as I rested my bare skin against the brick and listened to the drumbeats of the ocean.

Lying on its slick grass, using the dandelions to point out faces and shapes in the clouds with Javi.

Gripping the iron railing when my senses couldn’t process the sounds of the world and the competing words of the Voices.

A subtle flux of power tickling my skin anytime I drew near.

A faint trace of that power seemed to rush through my veins right now.

It wasn’t just a lighthouse—just a watchtower.

It was sacred, something that called to me like a pulse in my chest.

I shook my head, a gruff blow of air slipping past my lips.

I was done believing any of this was coincidence.

I was enraged, but more importantly, I was empowered.

Hands and breaths steady, I opened my messages to see an unread one from Javi.

The heavy chains of regret tightened around my heart.

It was rare for us to go a couple hours without texting, but we hadn’t spoken since boba.

Days. It’d been days.

How could I let that happen?

My thumb hovered over the screen, and for a moment, I imagined responding—spending the rest of the day in a makeshift fort made out of driftwood we’d found at the beach, perfectly safe, where everything made sense and magic only existed in stories.

But this was no longer a story.

This was my life.

And for once, I was going to claim it.

I clicked the name on the message below his.

“Ryder?” My voice was even, determined, as he picked up.

“Can you meet me right now? We need to talk about what happened yesterday. I think I figured out what’s going on with me.”