THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Tammar Stein
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stein, Tammar.
Kindred / by Tammar Stein. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Spiritual warfare breaks out when the Archangel Raphael and the Devil deliver assignments to eighteen-year-old fraternal twins Miriam and Moses.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89625-5
[1. Spiritual warfare—Fiction. 2. Good and evil—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction.
4. Angels—Fiction. 5. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 6. Twins—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S821645Ki 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010007071
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
To my own miracles
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Acknowledgments
I.
THE FIRST TIME I MEET AN ANGEL, it is Raphael and I am eighteen.
I am not a religious girl. I do not belong to a Bible study group, though I was invited. Twice. I do not belong to a synagogue at school. Or a church, for that matter. When pressed, I admit a reluctant belief in a higher power. Reluctant, because such admissions invariably open me up to long, intense discussions. The asker wants to know either how I could possibly hold such childish and naïve beliefs, given the state of the world, or, conversely, given my said beliefs, how I could not be attending services, deepening my understanding and devotion of said higher power.
I am as comfortable speaking about my faith as I am about my sex life. That is to say, not very.
The day I meet Raphael is not a good one, though not so horrible as to merit celestial intervention. It is spring break, and I am the only student staying in the dorms on my floor. There are only three of us in the entire building. We chat a bit when we bump into each other in the common room, but the two of them are working on a project for their astronomy class. They are filled with that low-key intensity that comes from having uninterrupted time to work on an extensive project. Whereas I am here, bored and lonely, by default because my spring break plans fell through. This is my brother’s fault. But more on that later.
I have never stayed in a nearly vacant building before. There are the creaks, pops and groans of an aging dormitory resting for a moment. Other than that, it is so quiet I can hear dust mites landing.
In my room, I am obeying the rules of cohabitation even though my roommate isn’t here. Instinctively I find myself staying in my half of the room. Slouched on my bed, listlessly flipping through my con law textbook, I’m keeping an eye on the clock. The cafeteria has reduced hours, and though I’ve never cared for their food, the new, shorter mealtimes are the only thing giving my aimless days some structure. Dinner is from five to seven. Miss that and I’m stuck snacking on stale crackers or spending too much money on greasy pizza or hamburgers from the no-name restaurants nearby.
I keep an eye on the clock.
At this moment in time, if asked what I think about life, I would say that it is sometimes hard, sometimes beautiful, that we are alone in the universe, and that although there is probably a God, He is far away and not paying much attention.
I am skimming halfheartedly through the chapter on search and seizure when a tsunamic shrieking noise splits apart my dorm wall. I fall off the bed, smacking the sharp point of my elbow on the side of my desk, knocking over a chair. A cold, burning, glowing light singes my clothes, scorches my skin. The light fills the room, pouring in from the broken wall. I can’t see. My bed, the desk, the chair, have disappeared in the flare. The icy light is glacier blue, exosphere thin. A voice coming from the light speaks in Ancient Hebrew. No, it is the light. I feel the words, the voice, reverberating down the vertebrae of my spine, coursing with the blood cells in my veins, and a terrible face neither female nor male imprints itself on the retinas behind my tightly closed eyes.
I curl into a protective comma, arms covering my head. The light tears me, burns me. I claw at my hair, my eyes, weeping. I wet myself. I pass out.
When I come to, I am sprawled on the floor in a parody of drunken abandon. I slowly sit up, drawing my limbs inward from their starfish-like stretch. Rubbing the growing bruise on my elbow and wincing from my aching head, I hold myself, crossing my arms over my chest, rocking back and forth. I notice with slight detachment that I am shaking like a struck tuning fork, vibrating.
Hesitantly, I look at the wall. It is whole, smooth, seamless. Its painted Sheetrock, scarred and dinged from years of freshman abuse, mocks the notion that anything has ever come through it. It has never split in two. Never has, never will.
There is no trace of the event. Nothing to show that I have just lost my mind except for the puddle at my feet, the deep scratches on my face.
II.
PERHAPS IT IS DIVINE INTERVENTION that made Raphael choose spring break to come visit. I spend the next three days stupefied. I can’t shake the memory of that voice; the terrifying feeling of my skin scorched with ice; the wall ripped open, then closed without a seam. I look up “delusions of grandeur” on the Internet; also “schizophrenia.” I read that the insane do not think they are mad. The voices in their head, they claim, come from God.
It takes three days before my subconscious gets around to translating the angel’s words. I studied Hebrew for my bat mitzvah, but it’s been a while.
“I am Raphael, the archangel. Evacuate Tabitha, daughter of John, before the Sabbath.”
A quick search of “Raphael” and I discover that he is considered the left hand of God. The founder of medicine. The root of his name, rapha, is the same as the root for “medicine” in Hebrew, rephuah. Raphael, while giving the doctors the desire to heal, also supports the coldness needed to inflict necessary acts of pain. I decide, then and there, that I will not study medicine.
To prove to myself that it is absurd, an LSD flashback without the LSD, I ask the few remaining stragglers around campus if they know anyone named Tabitha. A last name would help, but maybe hallucinations aren’t supposed to be easy.
By lunchtime, I have found the girl. It feels good to know I might not be crazy. It feels terrible to know I might not be crazy.
Tabitha is plump, with r
osy cheeks and round gray eyes that twinkle with good humor. She looks like a nanny. A friendly, pretty one.
“Tabitha?” I ask.
“Hi,” she says.
“I’m Miriam. Can I join you for lunch?”
She smiles and says “Sure” with such easiness, you’d think strangers joined her for lunch all the time. Maybe they do. It’s odd to me, this friendliness. I haven’t adjusted to college yet.
Instead, she says, “Is your last name Abbot-Levy?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?” Did Raphael speak with her too? Was she tasked with finding me and—
“Didn’t you write that article about Dean Snyder’s dog?” She takes a bite from her grilled cheese sandwich.
“Yeah.” I smile, delighted, relieved. I am still hoping I’ve been hallucinating. “You’re the first person who actually read my byline.”
“I thought that might be you; Miriam’s kind of an unusual name.”
“My brother’s name is Moses. So as much as I hate my name sometimes, I always remind myself it could have been worse.”
She laughs.
“Miriam is a nice name,” she says. “And I loved your article.” I feel a warm glow at the praise. I’ve been writing for the school paper for three months. Interviewing people, scrambling to write down their quotes, putting it all together and then seeing my article in the paper has been the highlight of my college experience so far. More than anything else here, writing for the school paper feels like a glimpse into something I just might enjoy doing in the “real world.”
Mo didn’t think I’d enjoy writing for the paper. He said I was too quiet, that I wasn’t nosy enough. But I’ve discovered you don’t have to be nosy to be a good reporter. You have to be a good listener. And that I am.
“It was so sweet how Gracie would come get her when the baby cried,” Tabitha says. “And then, when she had to put Gracie down and the vet kept giving dose after dose because even though she was dying, her heart was so strong … it was so sad.” Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and I am amazed that my words have touched her so deeply.
“Dean Snyder comes across so tough and mean in class,” I say as Tabitha sniffs a bit. “It was amazing to see this other side of her.” I take a long pull from the straw in my iced tea. The dean cried when she told me how she held Gracie long after her strong heart had finally stopped. But I didn’t put that in the article.
“You took her anthro class?” Tabitha asks.
“Yeah, did you?”
“She’s the toughest prof I’ve had. I’ve never worked so hard for a class.”
I nod in agreement. “It’s definitely one of those things you’re happy you did in retrospect. At the time, it was pretty miserable.”
Tabitha finishes her sandwich and I’m long done with my cup of soup, but she’s easy to talk to and I’m in no hurry to leave.
I find myself telling her about my parents, the divorce, the whole twin dilemma. She’s a good listener, so sincerely caring about my problems that I feel surely we were sisters in a past life. Though after a visit from an angel, maybe I shouldn’t be flippant about the afterlife. I force myself to ignore that distracting thought and focus back on Tabitha. She’s majoring in American archeology, which seems like it should be a summer course and not a major until she tells me about the dig she worked on in high school and how much there really is in America that is still undiscovered.
By the time lunch ends, I’ve confirmed that her dad’s name is John and found out she lives at Parker Hall, a freshman dorm down the street from mine. We exchange phone numbers, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to tell her to “evacuate,” whatever the heck that means. I can’t decide if I really believe. Angels do not come down from heaven and tell people what to do. As much as I like to see myself as a special, important person, there are limits to my hubris. If God was going to pick someone to contact at this school, it would be the class president or maybe that twelve-year-old genius getting his doctorate in physics, or if it was going to be a physically stressful assignment, then He’d at least pick a member of the varsity crew team.
I return to my quiet dorm to think things through. My “vision” has led me to one of the nicest people I’d ever met. Coincidence? If there is any chance my hallucination was real, shouldn’t I risk looking like a lunatic and tell her to sleep at my dorm tonight? It’s Friday afternoon. Assuming the messenger went by the Jewish calendar, which is what I’m going on, considering he spoke Hebrew, it will be the Sabbath in a few hours.
With my conscience pulling me, urging me on, I try calling her after lunch, but can’t get through. By four I am growing nervous. Raphael, along with neglecting to give me Tabitha’s last name, also neglected to give me a specific timeline. If “evacuate” meant to remove her from her dorm room, does that mean something bad is going to happen? The more time I spend alone in my room, the more I decide it does.
By six I am frantic. According to Jewish law, the Sabbath starts at sundown. Tonight, this means 6:57; I checked. I realize I have made a huge mistake. I’m an idiot. I should have said something at lunch, invited her to go to dinner, see a movie—anything to keep her away from her room. With a growing sense of urgency driving me, I call the student directory and ask for her room number.
I grab my coat and rush out into the darkening evening. The evening is oddly warm and oppressive. I unbutton my coat, but still feel sweat bead on my upper lip and slide down my back. The campus is eerily quiet, and not nearly as bright as it should be. I hurry along the abandoned sidewalks, my footsteps echoing. None of the streetlights are lit. Nor are there lights in any of the dorm windows. Most students have left for spring break, but I can’t imagine that even our penny-pinching board of visitors would turn off the streetlights to save money. I break into a run.
When I arrive at Tabitha’s red-brick dorm, the sense of impending doom is so strong that I am initially relieved to find the building still standing. I half expect a Twilight Zone–like vanishing. There is no sign of life other than the sudden gusts of wind that grab at my coat, flapping it like awkward wings. The oak tree near Tabitha’s dorm groans as the wind bends it, while brand-new spring leaves are ripped off their branches. All the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise, as if a giant beast were watching me. I smell ozone, and the air pressure drops so quickly my ears pop.
Too scared to turn around and see what’s behind me, I bang on the front door of the building. It is always locked for safety reasons. My swipe card can only open my dorm, no one else’s.
There is a loud crack from a nearby lightning strike. I bruise my fists pounding on the thick wooden door.
Suddenly it occurs to me that the locks are electronic and the power is out. I try the door and it opens so quickly that I stumble inside. I race up the stairs, panting in my heavy coat, hardly able to catch my breath in the thin air.
Tabitha lives on the third floor, and once I reach it, I sprint down the darkened hall, pausing every few seconds to squint at room numbers. I find hers and open the door without bothering to knock.
“Tabitha,” I gasp. “Run!”
She is kneeling on her bed, face pressed against the window.
“Miriam! Hi,” she says, friendly and sweet as ever. “You have got to see this incredible lightning storm. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Tabitha, we have to get out of here.”
“It’s dangerous to go out when there’s lightning like this,” she says, frowning. “We’re safer inside. Come sit with me.”
I am a woman possessed. I grab her arm, squeezing so hard it must bruise her. She instinctively pulls away. I tug her out of the door and down the hall, babbling as I go.
“Please, please come with me. I know it sounds crazy. But you have to come. I’ve had a—a premonition.”
She lets herself be dragged along but doesn’t seem to catch my panic.
“Miriam, it’s okay. You’re safe inside.”
“No, we’re not. You’re not,” I
say, my hair sticking to my sweaty face. “I should have told you at lunch. I’m an idiot.”
We make it to the stairway, and either because she believes me or to humor me, she walks with me, descending the dark staircase but not exactly hurrying.
“When did you get this”—she pauses—“premonition?” She sounds skeptical.
“A few days ago.”
Which was plenty of time to get to know her and keep her out of the dorm room instead of making this panicky rescue. I want to weep in shame. Why had I waited? The danger feels very real; my doubts have vanished.
We are on the ground floor, the door still open from when I raced inside. The wind is whipping the leaves outside into small, intense whirlwinds, and the rain has started coming down in great glooping plops.
“Miriam, we shouldn’t go outside with the storm coming,” Tabitha says, her voice calm and kind. “We can wait in the foyer until the worst passes, and then I’ll walk you to your dorm. Or you can stay with me,” she offers, seeing my mulish expression.
With a growing sense of doom, I suddenly know what’s going to happen.
“Is there anyone else staying at the dorm over spring break?” I ask sharply. My random question and my frightened voice take her aback.
“Um, I guess so,” she says. “Probably.”
Again I feel the hair on my arms rise, but this time it’s pure fear. I don’t waste any more words. I grab Tabitha around the waist, ignore her squeak of surprise and heft her up over my shoulder, rushing out of the building like a linebacker. I have a quick second to bless my biweekly weight-lifting sessions and the welcome, needed strength of an adrenaline rush before we are out of the building and in the shocking-cold pouring rain. I get us about fifty feet away, staggering against her struggling weight, when there is a horrendous, ground-shaking crash that throws me off my wobbling feet, sending both of us to the ground.
Kindred Page 1
