softly.
“Because I don’t want you to,” Reggie snapped. “Never, I mean never, touch me again.” Snatching up her coffee, Reggie turned and stormed out.
Kyle stood there as speechless and silent as Michael. The snippy attitude, irrational rambling, that wasn’t his daughter. Something was wrong, and she wasn’t saying what. The look on Michael’s face all but said how lost and confused he was. Kyle had to admit that he was too.
Mark Twain National Forest, Missouri
Devante and his deviant apostles were packing the vans again. The campsite that had been their safe haven from the changeling was dismantled, and workers moved about like drones.
There was something different about General George Adman. Known as Devante’s silent “left-hand” man, George was more silent than usual. He stood by the lead van, his head moving automatically, left, forward, right, as he watched the other vans.
Leonard walked with Devante, but kept looking back at George. “You were saying, about the base camps?”
“Yes,” Devante answered. “A place for our soldiers to know my whereabouts. A place that, if needed, will be our ground for the final battle.”
“How long do we have until that?” Leonard questioned.
“Could be days, weeks, even years. Our army grows, and many lives have been lost since the exchange.”
“You’ll let us know.”
“I won’t have to. You will...” Devante paused when he caught a glimpse of Lillian standing by a car. “Why is she alone?”
Leonard shrugged. “Let’s ask her.” He led the way. “Where’s Todd? Aren’t you two supposed to be ready to go?”
Smugly, Lillian folded her arms. “He doesn’t want to go to Seville.”
Devante nodded once. “Todd’s hands are my eyes to what I cannot see. He must be creating one more masterpiece for me.”
Lillian shook her head. “He’s not drawing. He’s staring at his work.”
“Old work or new?” Devante asked.
Lillian raised her eyes. “I never look at his work.”
Devante took a step toward her. “You are fortunate your presence is needed, or else the tone you take with me would no longer be tolerated.” He inched back. “Leonard, instruct her. I will find Todd.” Glaring at Lillian, Devante walked off.
Though his tent was gone, Todd was not. He sat on an art case, where his portable home once stood. His head lowered, and he stared at the ground.
Devante made his approach. “Todd, it is imperative that you leave for Seville. The transportation awaits.”
Todd said nothing.
“Lillian said you are engrossed with art.”
Todd whispered, “Something is wrong.”
“What?” Devante asked.
“I can’t draw. Look at my hand.” Todd lifted his right palm; it trembled out of control.
Devante stepped forward and grasped Todd’s hand. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. I drew a sketch, then…”
“Let me see the sketch.”
Todd reached down for the sheet of paper and, without turning around, handed it to Devante. “The first one.”
It was a picture of two swords. But they were set within a distorted and ripped heart. “Todd.” Devante smiled. “This message is clear. I am pleased. My plan is working. The Holy Team separates.”
“That’s what I thought. Until I drew another. Only, I felt more out of control. I couldn’t stop. And after I completed it, I heard this laugh, the picture dropped from my hand, and I haven’t stopped shaking.”
“Where is the picture?”
Todd closed his eyes and handed it to him.
Devante bellowed out, and dropped the sketch to the ground.
Todd sprang up. “Dude, what… what…”
“The man they call James,” Devante whispered. He added, in a gravelly voice, “He interferes. How dare he.”
“With what?” Todd asked.
“Our plan. Our movement. My eyes through you. His puny obstruction challenges my power. This shows he underestimates my ability.”
Todd blinked. “I didn’t think anyone could interfere with you. The angel
“Because I don’t want you to,” Reggie snapped. “Never, I mean never, touch me again.” Snatching up her coffee, Reggie turned and stormed out.
Kyle stood there as speechless and silent as Michael. The snippy attitude, irrational rambling, that wasn’t his daughter. Something was wrong, and she wasn’t saying what. The look on Michael’s face all but said how lost and confused he was. Kyle had to admit that he was too.
Mark Twain National Forest, Missouri
Devante and his deviant apostles were packing the vans again. The campsite that had been their safe haven from the changeling was dismantled, and workers moved about like drones.
There was something different about General George Adman. Known as Devante’s silent “left-hand” man, George was more silent than usual. He stood by the lead van, his head moving automatically, left, forward, right, as he watched the other vans.
Leonard walked with Devante, but kept looking back at George. “You were saying, about the base camps?”
“Yes,” Devante answered. “A place for our soldiers to know my whereabouts. A place that, if needed, will be our ground for the final battle.”
“How long do we have until that?” Leonard questioned.
“Could be days, weeks, even years. Our army grows, and many lives have been lost since the exchange.”
“You’ll let us know.”
“I won’t have to. You will...” Devante paused when he caught a glimpse of Lillian standing by a car. “Why is she alone?”
Leonard shrugged. “Let’s ask her.” He led the way. “Where’s Todd? Aren’t you two supposed to be ready to go?”
Smugly, Lillian folded her arms. “He doesn’t want to go to Seville.”
Devante nodded once. “Todd’s hands are my eyes to what I cannot see. He must be creating one more masterpiece for me.”
Lillian shook her head. “He’s not drawing. He’s staring at his work.”
“Old work or new?” Devante asked.
Lillian raised her eyes. “I never look at his work.”
Devante took a step toward her. “You are fortunate your presence is needed, or else the tone you take with me would no longer be tolerated.” He inched back. “Leonard, instruct her. I will find Todd.” Glaring at Lillian, Devante walked off.
Though his tent was gone, Todd was not. He sat on an art case, where his portable home once stood. His head lowered, and he stared at the ground.
Devante made his approach. “Todd, it is imperative that you leave for Seville. The transportation awaits.”
Todd said nothing.
“Lillian said you are engrossed with art.”
Todd whispered, “Something is wrong.”
“What?” Devante asked.
“I can’t draw. Look at my hand.” Todd lifted his right palm; it trembled out of control.
Devante stepped forward and grasped Todd’s hand. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. I drew a sketch, then…”
“Let me see the sketch.”
Todd reached down for the sheet of paper and, without turning around, handed it to Devante. “The first one.”
It was a picture of two swords. But they were set within a distorted and ripped heart. “Todd.” Devante smiled. “This message is clear. I am pleased. My plan is working. The Holy Team separates.”
“That’s what I thought. Until I drew another. Only, I felt more out of control. I couldn’t stop. And after I completed it, I heard this laugh, the picture dropped from my hand, and I haven’t stopped shaking.”
“Where is the picture?”
Todd closed his eyes and handed it to him.
Devante bellowed out, and dropped the sketch to the ground.
Todd sprang up. “Dude, what… what…”
“The man they call James,” Devante whispered. He added, in a gravelly voice, “He interferes. How dare he.”
“With what?” Todd asked.
“Our plan. Our movement. My eyes through you. His puny obstruction challenges my power. This shows he underestimates my ability.”
Todd blinked. “I didn’t think anyone could interfere with you. The angel
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