The Dark Divine

by Bree Despain

  “I know what you mean,” I said, and picked at the uneaten sandwich on my tray.

  “You doing okay?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah. Just tired of being sad.” What’s weird is that the only time I hadn’t felt sad or hurt all day was the few minutes I’d spent with Daniel. But maybe that’s just because he’s so darn aggravating.

  Pete tapped his soda can. “Well, I had fun the other night,” he said with a slight upturn in his voice like it was a question.

  “Me, too,” I said, even though “fun” wasn’t how I’d describe Friday evening.

  “I plan on calling in that rain check for bowling, you know.” Pete grinned. “It’ll give me a chance to prove I’ve got better skills than my ability to fix a car.”

  “Good.” I glanced down at my tray. “But give me some time.”

  Pete’s grin wavered. “Oh, okay.” He started to scoot away.

  “Things are really crazy right now,” I said quickly. “You know, with Maryanne and Thanksgiving and everything. I just won’t have time for a … uh … date for a while.” I half smiled. “I am looking forward to it, though.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

  “See you in chem.” I jumped out of my seat. “I’ll let you be my shoulder to cry on when we get our tests back,” I said, and went to collect my best friend from my brother.

  FIFTH PERIOD

  “Jude asked me out for coffee this afternoon!” April squealed as we crossed the street to the school.

  “That’s nice.” I kept walking, my feet keeping pace with the chirping of the crosswalk meter.

  “That’s it?” April padded up behind me. “You’re supposed to freak out and jump and down for joy with me.” She grabbed my sleeve. “Are you mad?”

  “No.” Yes. “I am excited for you.” Not. “It’s just that …” You’re supposed to be my best friend. “Jude’s acting really weird lately. Now doesn’t seem like the best time for you to try to be his girlfriend.”

  “Or maybe now is when he needs a girlfriend the most,” she said with a trill of excitement. “Come on, Grace. Be happy for me. You went out with Pete, and he’s one of Jude’s best friends.” She smiled all sheepish and innocent. “And it’s just coffee anyway.”

  I smiled. “Just coffee, huh?”

  “Okay, so the best freaking cup of coffee I’ll ever have!” April popped on her toes. “Come on, be excited for me.”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’m excited.”

  We got to class a few minutes before the bell. Daniel leaned back in his seat, tearing scratch paper into strips and rolling them into tiny wads. I had to pass him to get to my supply bucket. My back was to him when I felt something plink against my head. A paper ball landed at my feet.

  “Hey, Grace,” Daniel stage-whispered.

  I ignored him and rummaged in my bucket. Another paper ball hit my head and stuck in my hair. I nonchalantly dislodged it.

  “Graa-ciee,” he intoned like a hyena calling its prey.

  I collected my supplies and made my way back to my seat. He flicked another paper wad, and it bounced off my cheek. I kept my eyes averted. I wanted to be finished with him. I wanted to tell myself that I’d fulfilled my duty. I’d done what I said I was going to do. But really, I knew I hadn’t. Getting him back into this class was just the first phase of my plan. I still had to find out what had happened between Daniel and Jude so I could fix it. And since Jude wasn’t going to tell me, I knew I had to get that information from Daniel. But I couldn’t face him yet. I still hated the way he’d made me want to forget—even for a moment—who I was.

  How could I help Daniel find his way, without losing mine?

  AFTER SCHOOL

  “So what are you going to do?” April asked as we hiked through the parking lot separating the school from the parish.

  I unrolled my chem test and stared at the red D marked on the page, followed by a scribbled note from Mrs. Howell: Please have parent sign your test. Return after the holiday. “I don’t know,” I said. “Dad usually handles this sort of thing the best, but I don’t want to bug him right now. And Mom’s all hopped up in Martha Stewart mode, so if I show her this, she’ll probably make me drop art next semester.”

  “No way,” April said. “Maybe you should sign it yourself.”

  “Yeah, right. You know I can’t do that.” I rolled the test up again and stuck it into my back pocket. “He’s here!” April yelped.

  Jude pulled up to the curb in front of the parish in the Corolla. He was picking April up here for their “coffee date.” I waved to him, but he didn’t wave back.

  “Lipstick check.” April smiled so I could inspect her teeth.

  “You’re good,” I said, not really looking. I watched Jude idling in front of the parish. He had that stony look on his face.

  “Good luck with the test,” April said, positively shaking.

  “Hey.” I reached out and took her hand. “Have a good time. And … watch out for Jude for me, okay? Let me know if he needs anything.”

  “Will do.” April squeezed my hand and then bounded across the rest of the parking lot to the Corolla. I was surprised Jude didn’t get out to open the door for her—not very Jude-like at all. But at least his expression softened slightly when she hopped into the car.

  As much as I wasn’t too keen on the idea of my best friend dating my brother, I hoped Pete was right about April—that she could crack Jude’s stoic shell when nobody else could.

  AT THE PARISH

  After Jude and April drove away, I pulled my rolled-up test out of my pocket and went down the alley between the parish and the school. I stopped at my father’s outer office door and tentatively listened for signs of life. I figured Dad was still the best bet for signing off on my grade, plus I wanted to check on how he was doing, but I had no idea if he had even ventured out of his study at the house yet. My question was answered before I could even knock on the door.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I heard someone say. The strained voice sounded somewhat like my father’s. “I can’t do it again.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” someone else said. It was a masculine but childish voice. “I didn’t mean to scare nobody.”

  “But you did,” the first voice said, and this time I was certain it belonged to my father. “This is the third time this year. I can’t help you again.”

  “You promised. You promised you’d help me. You fix things. That’s what you do.”

  “I’m done!” my father shouted.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I pushed open the door and saw Don Mooney throw his hands over his head. He wailed like a gigantic baby.

  “Dad!” I yelled over Don’s cries. “What on earth is going on?”

  Dad looked at me, startled that I was suddenly there. Don noticed me, too. He fell quiet, trembling in his chair. Fluid streamed from his nose and his great, swollen melon eyes.

  Dad sighed. His shoulders slumped like the weight on them had increased tenfold. “Don decided to take his knife to work. Again.” Dad pointed at the hauntingly familiar dagger that lay on his desk. It was the same knife Don had once held to my father’s throat. “He scared off a bunch of customers, and Mr. Day fired him. Again.”

  “I didn’t know he’d been fired before.”

  Don cringed.

  “That’s because I always smooth things over. Don screws up, and I fix it.” Dad sounded so distant, not with the normal kindness and compassion so characteristic of his deep, melodic voice. His face sagged with lack of sleep, his eyes shadowed by dark circles. “I try and I try to fix everything for everyone, and look where it’s gotten me. I can’t help anymore. I only make things worse. Both of them are on their own.”

  “Both?” I asked.

  Don wailed, cutting me off.

  “Dad, this is Don we’re talking about,” I said, shocked at the sudden rush of feeling I had for the blubbering man—even with his knife so close by. “You weren’t trying to scare anyone, were you?”


  “No, Miss Grace.” Don’s huge lower lip quivered. “Them people were already afraid. They was talking about the monster—the one that tried to eat Maryanne. So I showed them my knife. It’s pure silver. My great-great-grandpa used it to kill monsters. My granddaddy told me so. All my ancestors took an oath to kill monsters. I was showing the people that I could stop the monster before it—”

  “That’s enough,” Dad said. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  Don cowered. “But my granddaddy—”

  “Don.” I gave him my best don’t push it look. I turned to my dad. “Don needs you. You said you’d help him. You can’t just quit because it’s hard. I mean, what ever happened to seventy times seven and all that ‘be your brother’s keeper’ stuff you’re always talking about?”

  Guilt washed through me. How could I say all that? I mean, I was the one who wanted to give up on Daniel just because helping him had turned out to be difficult in ways I hadn’t expected. And I really couldn’t believe I was the one expounding scripture—however crudely—to my father.

  Dad rubbed his hand down the side of his face. “I’m sorry, Grace. You’re right. These are my burdens to bear.” He put his hand on Don’s shoulder. “I guess I can talk to Mr. Day one more time.”

  Don lunged and wrapped his arms around my father’s middle. “Thank you, Pastor D-vine!”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Dad sounded breathless from Don’s death-grip hug. “I’ll have to take your knife away for a little while.”

  “No,” Don said. “It was my granddaddy’s. The only thing I’ve got of his. I need it … for the monsters….”

  “That’s the deal,” Dad said. He looked at me. “Grace, put that thing in a safe place.” He led Don from the room, the latter gazing longingly at his knife as they went. “We’ll discuss its return in a few weeks.”

  I put my test in my backpack—today was obviously not the right time to get it signed—and picked up the dagger. I held it out in my hands. It was heavier than I’d expected. The blade was stained with tarnish and other strange, dark-colored marks. It seemed ancient, valuable even. I knew where Dad wanted me to hide it. I tipped back the potted poinsettia on the bookcase and slid out the key it concealed. I unlocked the top drawer of my father’s desk, where he kept important things like the cash safe for the Sunday offerings and his first-aid kit. I placed the knife under a flashlight and locked the drawer.

  I replaced the key and felt a pang of remorse. I knew what Don was capable of doing with that blade of cold silver, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for his loss. I couldn’t fathom having only a single item to remember a loved one by.

  “Hey.” Charity slipped into the office. “That was really nice, what you did for Don.”

  “I did it more for Dad,” I said. “I don’t want him to wake up tomorrow regretting the things he did today.”

  “I don’t think Dad will be back to normal tomorrow.”

  I looked up at her. She seemed to be blinking back tears. “Why?” I asked, though I really didn’t want to know the answer. I’d been holding on to the fantasy that I would wake up tomorrow and everything would be the way it was supposed to be: oatmeal for breakfast, uneventful day at school, and a genial chicken-and-rice supper with the whole family.

  “Maryanne’s daughters want her funeral to be tomorrow, before Thanksgiving, because they don’t want to cancel some big trip they’ve been planning.”

  I sighed. “I guess I should have thought of that. Death is usually followed by a funeral.” Helping Mom prepare loads of rice pilaf and all varieties of casseroles for bereaving families was just another part of the pastor’s-kid gig, but I hadn’t been to a funeral for someone I was actually close to since my grandpa died when I was eight.

  “That isn’t the bad part,” Charity said. “Maryanne’s family asked the pastor from New Hope to come over for the funeral. They don’t want Dad to do it. They still blame him.”

  “What? That’s not fair. Dad knew Maryanne all his life, and he’s been her pastor for as long as you’ve been alive.”

  “I know. But they won’t listen.”

  I sank down in the desk chair. “No wonder he’s talking like he wants to give up.”

  “You know the worst part? Pastor Clark heard about our duet from Sunday, and he wants us to sing it at the funeral because it was Maryanne’s favorite song.”

  I opened my mouth to protest.

  “Mom says we have to.” Charity sighed. “She says it’s our obligation or something like that.”

  Obligation. I was beginning to hate that word.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Temptation

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE FUNERAL

  A somber shadow cast over the parish, touching the hearts of all those who shuffled into the sanctuary for Maryanne Duke’s funeral. School had even let out early for the afternoon service. Everyone was affected by the gloom of it all—everyone except my mother. I could tell she was still in perfection overdrive when she started banging around the kitchen at four a.m. to make a feast big enough for a thousand mourners. Her enthusiastic tone startled more than a few sullen people as she greeted them before the service with Pastor Clark, and she invited anyone who looked the slightest bit lonely to tomorrow’s Thanksgiving extravaganza at our house.

  “Invite whomever you’d like,” she said to Charity and me as we loaded trays of food into the Blue Bubble. “I want this to be the warmest Thanksgiving your father can remember. He could really use the company.”

  But I wasn’t sure she was right about that. Dad shrank away from his greeter duties before the funeral and ended up sitting in the only deserted corner of the chapel by himself, rather than taking his seat on the pulpit as the presiding pastor of the parish. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was stuck on the choir benches with Charity, watching the back of Pastor Clark’s robes sway as he talked in melancholy tones about Maryanne’s warm heart and giving nature, even though he barely knew her. I scanned the sanctuary and wished I could send a telepathic message to either my mother or brother to go put their arms around Dad, but Mom was busy setting up for the dinner in the social hall, and Jude was nuzzled close to April in the third row.

  My eyes shot back to the hem of Pastor Clark’s robes and stayed there until it was my turn to sing. The organ belted out the notes of the song, and I tried to choke out the words. My face began to quiver. I knew I was on the verge of crying, but I pushed that urge way down like always and pursed my lips together. I couldn’t sing another note or I’d lose it. And Charity’s voice was so high and shaky that I couldn’t even tell what part of the song she was singing. I looked out the windows at the dreary, smog-filled sky—even the clouds looked like they were about to burst with emotion—and that’s when I saw him.

  Daniel sat in the back of the crowded balcony with his arms folded and his head bowed. He must have felt the heat of my stare because he lifted his chin. Even from that distance, I could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked down into me for a moment, like he could see every painful feeling I was holding back, and then he lowered his head again.

  Curiosity replaced grief as I sat down in my seat. Charity wrapped her arm around my shoulders, no doubt mistaking my shocked expression for extreme emotional distress. The Duke daughters’ droning eulogy went on for ages. Angela Duke even worked in a few well-placed jabs at Dad. When the service finally ended, and the procession of those mourners headed for the grave site had filed out, I watched Daniel move toward the balcony staircase that led to an outside exit. I jumped out of my seat, waving off someone who tried to thank me for my singing—or lack thereof—and pulled on my charcoal-gray dress coat and leather gloves.

  “Mom wants our help,” Charity said.

  “In a minute.”

  I made my way through the aisle, sidling around the church ladies who murmured about the lack of heart in Pastor Clark’s portion of the service. Someone pulled at my sleeve as I passed and said my name. It may
or may not have been Pete Bradshaw, but I didn’t stop to find out. It was like an invisible thread was hooked into my belly and drew me out the doors of the parish and into the parking lot. My pace quickened without any direction from my brain when I saw Daniel hop onto a motorcycle in the far reaches of the lot.

  “Daniel!” I called as the engine roared to life.

  He shifted forward on the seat of the bike. “You coming?”

  “What? No. I can’t.”

  “Then why are you here?” Daniel looked at me then, his mud-pie eyes—still splotched with red—searching my face.

  I couldn’t stop it—that invisible thread pulled me right up next to him. “You got a helmet?”

  “This is Zed’s bike. You wouldn’t want to wear his helmet if he had one.” Daniel booted the kickstand. “I knew you’d come.”

  “Shut up,” I said, and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.

  ONE HEARTBEAT LATER

  The hem of my simple black dress hiked up my legs and my matching Sunday heels suddenly seemed sexy as I placed them on the footrests of the bike. The engine roared again, and the bike went flying forward. I threw my arms around Daniel’s waist.

  Cold air clawed at my face, ripping tears from my eyes. I buried my face deep into Daniel’s back and breathed in a mixture of familiar scents—almonds, oil paint, earth, and a hint of varnish. I didn’t even question why I was on that bike. I just knew I was supposed to be there.

  We rode in a straight, steady shot for downtown. Daniel’s shoulders tensed and trembled like he craved more speed but was taking it slower for my sake. The sun was drowning in a crimson sunset behind the city skyline when we finally pulled over in a deserted alley in an unfamiliar part of town.