Demon's Mark (The Solomon Legacy: Book One)

Chapter Eleven

And by talking, my mom really meant:

"Coralie, we need to totally rearrange your life and blow it all to hell."

That's the gist of it, anyway.

The archangel Michael (still seemed weird to call him that) and his little warrior minions left eventually, but not before my stepfather came home. His face grew tight at the signs of the apocalypse erupting in our home and instead of blowing a gasket like any normal middle-aged man would do, he went to his bedroom and closed the door.

"He knows," my mom said to the archangel, who only nodded.

"I'm glad someone had prior knowledge of all of this," I muttered, obviously kind of bitter that all of these ancient, secret knowledge existed and nobody bothered to tell me that somehow I might end up in the middle of it all.

Later, after the three of us had swept up shattered rooster crockery and pieces of ceiling plaster, we sat at the very same marble island that had held the epic kitchen battle. And we talked.

And talked and talked and about an hour later, I was even more messed up than when we had begun.

My father, it seems, came from a long line of people who found themselves in the middle of spiritual warfare.

"It killed your grandmother at a relatively young age," my mother explained. "A demon caught her by surprise and she died protecting your father and his sisters."

My father had the same abilities to sense demons and cause them to erupt into a frenzy, making him a danger to other people.

"He did everything he could to ignore the signs and suppress these abilities so that it wouldn't draw attention to him," she said. "And by default, us."

I could see that, but why would he stay so close to where the family was from. Wouldn't these creatures know to look for him around here?

"Sure," my mom nodded. "But Michael was always so close by. He's pretty much a natural deterrent and did his best to keep your father cloaked."

My father's face floated into my mind. He had a scruffy beard and kind, blue eyes. He constantly wore a bright orange hunting beanie and a broken-in Carhardt jacket. My father radiated kindness and why any creature, evil or not, would want to hurt him made no sense to me.

"Okay," I said. "Why?"

My mom chewed on her lower lip.

"Why? What did these things want with your father and his family? Honey, I don't know that," she said, wringing her hands. "Your father told me just enough—gave me just enough 'in case of emergency' details. He told me who to run to if something ever happened to him and who to run from if something ever happened to him."

"What were the details?" I pressed.

"Angels. He and his family were linked to them somehow. Helpers? Messengers? I never asked enough questions," she said, pulling her hands through her hair. "Half of me didn't believe him—even the little he told me. And when I did believe him, nothing scary ever happened so we were lulled into this sense of security and it was never an issue."

Heaviness settled right in the center of me. Oppressive, suffocating weight. All of this random, insane nonsense that's been happening to me since that ill-fated bus ride a few weeks ago wasn't so random. It was all somehow linked to whatever abilities or birthright my father chose to ignore.

"Was all of this part of how he died?" My voice was unsteady.

My mom just shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. It was just as hard for her to talk about him as it was for me.