"Yes, sir," she interrupts. "One of the Fallen has made contact with a boy who heals."
This news doesn't surprise the Commander as much as Pearla assumed it would.
"He's not the first."
"He's not," she agrees. "But according to the fallen one-Damien by name-the boy's hands share the same grace as ours. Healing is given with a touch. With speed. With fire."
Michael smiles. Not only with his lips, but with his eyes and his arms. With the joy spreading his chest, hefting his breastplate. "In the Americas, then," he says. "It's about time."
"Then you've seen this before?"
Michael's hand runs the length of his steed's back. "Many can heal, little one. The how and why is up to the King. What happened to the demon, this Damien?"
"The boy's Shield engaged him, and he was cast down."
Michael stretches his arms and legs, shaking them out, preparing to ride again.
"There's more, Commander."
"Go on."
"Damien claims the boy's companion-a girl named Brielle-saw through the veil."
Michael's mind laughs. Loud and strong. He leaps into the air, dropping onto Loyal's back. "This is interesting."
"One more thing."
"Your trip was fruitful, it seems. Tell me, Pearla, what else do you know?"
"The Prince has received word from an impish spy that the Sabres have been released-that they've been spotted in the skies above Stratus."
The Commander goes still-something he's not known for.
"If they are allowed to worship, if the veil is torn . . . ?" Pearla inquires, twisting her fingers into Loyal's mane.
"The Father has made provision for their worship, Pearla. And He's torn the veil before. A handful of times. The very day our Lord was crucified, the Sabres destroyed not only the temple curtain but the Terrestrial veil over Jerusalem."
Pearla's hands knot into tiny fists. She'd known about the curtain, but not the veil.
"Why?"
The Commander lifts high his spear, and the legion of light behind him engages, marching toward them. As they close in, Michael leans toward her, his white eyes sharp against the glowing red of Loyal's mane. "Only He who created the veil can demand it be torn asunder, Cherub. There is only One, and His mind is His own."
"What happened? In Jerusalem?"
"Tombs opened, dead men walked again, healings, miracles."
Pearla knew such things occurred just after the death of Christ, but she'd not connected them to the work of the Sabres.
Michael continues, "But it wasn't to last long. As men stitched away at the temple's curtain, repairing it, the Fallen unleashed their own forces, resealing the Terrestrial veil."
Pearla contains her surprise. "The Creator tore the veil and allowed the Prince's minions to repair the damage?"
"We all have a role to play, little one. Even darkness. The Father wasn't done with humanity that day, and He allowed darkness to think they'd won. But not before giving them a glimpse of His power-of His earthshaking, life-giving power."
Michael spreads his wings wide, opens his mouth, and releases a song of war. The sound rushes through Pearla's small body, and she clutches the steed's mane more tightly. Beyond the Commander, three thousand Warriors raise their voices.
"My forces cannot travel nearly as fast as you, and we're sure to encounter opposition as we approach the Americas. So, go. I'd like to know more about our fallen brother and his plans for the gifted ones. We'll rendezvous in the skies over Stratus."
Micheal's word is law to Pearla, and she waits for no further instruction. Turning back the way she came, she flies west, the Commander and his forces falling farther and farther behind.
10
Brielle
The nightmare grabs hold before I realize I've fallen asleep. Jake's hand is on my knee, he and Marco discussing cameras and video editing equipment. I'm thinking how great it is that they have things to talk about when a sea of color pulls me under.
The colors pop and fade until all that's left is a marble hallway stretched with a red Venetian rug. At the far end, pressed against the wall and shrouded in shadow, sits a girl. The shadow makes her appearance hard to discern, but I see wide, dark eyes above two trembling lips. It's clear she's not a child. Not exactly. Ten years old, eleven maybe.
I hear footsteps making their way up the hall. From above I search for their source, but I've turned my head too quickly, and with a sickening sensation I'm tumbling, falling toward the girl.
I blink. And blink again. Now I look out through her eyes, seeing what she sees. Feeling what she feels. And she's afraid. Looking out through her eyes, I can tell they're swollen, the tears chilling her face. A man walks toward her. A man I know. I'm sure I know him. I just . . . Who is he?
I can't place him here in another's mind.
"You're safe," he says.
He's handsome. Tall, lanky. Like a basketball player. His hair is light and it looks soft-even his mustache. But the girl is embarrassed. I feel the shame as if it were my own. Her shirt is burnt through; charred holes gape open, exposing her back and stomach. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at the man.
"My mom's dead, isn't she?" The words strike a melancholy chord in my heart. I know what it's like to be motherless, and if it's true, I don't envy this girl.
The man crouches before her and takes her face in his long, thin hand. He moves his fingers lightly over her forehead and cheeks, brushing away the ash and dirt that remain. He's gentle, and she needs gentle.
"I believe she is, yes." I feel the sob swelling in her stomach, expanding her ribs. "But you're not," he says, cupping her chin. "You were lucky."
She doesn't want to cry in front of this man, but she can't help it and the sob rips free. "She pulled me out. I can't believe she pulled me out."
"Yes," he says, his words silk. "And I'm so very glad. Your grandfather would never recover if he lost you both tonight."
Her eyes turn to the room at the end of the hall. The door is open a crack, tipping a sliver of light onto the Venetian rug. Whatever's in that room scares her. Every second that door holds her attention, her fear grows, her legs catching the tremors that have already claimed her arms. She leans closer to the man before her.
"Is he bad, my grandfather?"
The man looks affronted, his blond brows raised, his eyes wide. "Why would you ask such a question?"
"Mama told me never to be alone with him. She hates him," the girl says, another sob snagging her voice. "Hated him, I mean."
The man's face relaxes, and now he looks almost curious. It's this curiosity that worries me. "Do you think he's bad?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything about him. After Daddy died, Mama kept me away. I haven't seen him in years."
The man tilts his head, the chandelier above throwing triangles of dimmed light onto his face. For the briefest of seconds, she considers just how reptilian the shadows make this handsome man look. She's not wrong. With that long, thin neck and those dark eyes, he looks very snake-like. But he leans closer and the light shifts, and the thought flees the girl's mind.
"Your grandfather loves you," he says. "You needn't worry."
But I catch something in the words he's not spoken, something evasive that the girl notices too. His answer's not good enough for her, so she asks again.
"But does he . . . does he hurt kids?"
The man rolls back on his heels, and the reptilian triangles return. He says nothing, his face passive under the lights.
"He does, doesn't he?" She sobs again.
It's a sob I didn't feel coming, and it jars me. It must have taken the girl by surprise as well, because she bites her lip and the bawling stops.
"I don't have anyone else," she says. "There's nowhere else to go."
The man runs his thumb over his mustache, one side at a time.
"What if I told you that I could protect you from him?"
There's a hardness in his dark eyes, but it doesn't scare the girl. She sees strength in it. My eyes follow hers as she considers how muscled this tall, lean man is. He could be her protector, she thinks. She hasn't had one since her daddy died. He could be her knight in shining armor.
Warning bells sound in my mind, but my silent cautions do not reach the girl.
"Could you?" she asks. "Could you protect me?"
He takes her chin between his crooked forefinger and thumb, sending a thrill through her ten-year-old body. A thrill like she's never felt before. It's strange and confusing amidst the grief.
"Would you like that?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, her voice reduced to a murmur. "Please."
"You really are very pretty," he says. "Do you know that?"
Her heart flips at the flattery. "The boys at school think so."
I want to scream and shake her. I want to force her away from this man and his charming words.
"I'll bet they do."
He releases her face and pulls her up as he stands. "What would you say to a partnership?"
"You want me to be your partner?"
"I'd like that very much." His voice is lower now. Seductive. Enticing. "I can protect you from your grandfather easily enough. But I bet there are things you can help me with."