forget the importance. Her body shuddered, threatening to let out a scream or an outburst of tears.
She breathed.
Remember , she thought, trying to remind herself of everything she had learned—that others were counting on her.
Devin—harsh-eyed and determined—stood in the threshold, unmoving.
Rain pummeled the ground just past the door.
She felt Angelo’s body relax, hands still holding firm. He addressed Devin. “Do you believe that I can kill her with my hands?” he asked.
Devin remained stationary for a moment—then lowered the pistol. “I understand what you are capable of,” Devin said with little more than a blink.
Hannah caught Angelo’s nod from the corner of her eye. “Good,” Angelo said. “Put the gun on the table.”
Devin stepped forward.
“Slowly,” Angelo added.
Devin set the gun on the table and backed away, hands held high.
Despite herself, Hannah began to panic.
Angelo watched as Devin put down the firearm—and the world began to slow like it sometimes did. There was no past or present or future. The world seemed strangely silent. Strangely distant. Ethereal. As if it were all happening to someone else.
There was that look in his eyes—the man with black skin. What was his name again? The one who had had the gun. He had that look he had before—the look people gave him before they told him he was being irrational.
They were the irrational ones—the way they would watch him and talk with him like a reasonable human being, and then suddenly get confused and scared.
It was as if they had all slowed down—stopped thinking or speaking or living. The world was so far away, and no matter what he said or thought or tried, they would never respond.
Hair brushed aside.
Whose hair?
The girl in his arms. How had she gotten…?
Oh, yes. Her. She was important. So very important.
Devin—was that his name?—seemed to disappear as a physical form until he was just eyes. Dark, intense eyes that stared.
Angelo had to leave. Had to go.
He was at the doorway. How had he gotten there?
In the rain—cold and wet. Looking out at a car pulling up.
A man stepped from the vehicle. The man who had the power to prevent evil. Blondish hair—a raggedy and impetuous man.
The Overseer.
A man named John Temple.
Would this man listen to reason? Would this be the man who would stop the girl and the black man—to tell them to let go of their endeavors—to hold back the evil?
He looked John Temple in the eyes. Even at this distance he could see it. The resolve—to save the lives of a few at the cost of so much more.
Angelo didn’t know what happened next. The girl was no longer in his arms. He was running.
John lifted his hand, holding some kind of device. It discharged like a pistol, curling wires zipping through the air and hitting his skin. Then he heard a clacking sound, and suddenly jolts of electricity coursed through him, jerking his body.
A Taser of some kind. They had him.
The dream overtook him. The abstract world consumed him. And he slipped from consciousness.
Chapter 8
W HY DID YOU attack my people?” John Temple demanded, trying to channel as much of Devin Bathurst as he could find inside himself.
Angelo sat quietly in his chair in the darkened office, hands zip-tied. “They’re walking into a trap.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” John replied curtly.
“I’m not wrong. You must believe me when I say—”
“I don’t believe you,” John retorted quickly. “You attacked Devin Bathurst, terrorized Hannah Rice, and you’re going to account for your actions.”
Angelo looked away for a moment, then lifted his head. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m here to help the Firstborn. I am at your service,” he said somberly, dipping his head, “Overseer.”
John crossed his arms—startled by the devotion but trying to stay focused. “If you’re at my service, then why don’t you help us stop the assassination?”
“That,” Angelo said, shaking
She breathed.
Remember , she thought, trying to remind herself of everything she had learned—that others were counting on her.
Devin—harsh-eyed and determined—stood in the threshold, unmoving.
Rain pummeled the ground just past the door.
She felt Angelo’s body relax, hands still holding firm. He addressed Devin. “Do you believe that I can kill her with my hands?” he asked.
Devin remained stationary for a moment—then lowered the pistol. “I understand what you are capable of,” Devin said with little more than a blink.
Hannah caught Angelo’s nod from the corner of her eye. “Good,” Angelo said. “Put the gun on the table.”
Devin stepped forward.
“Slowly,” Angelo added.
Devin set the gun on the table and backed away, hands held high.
Despite herself, Hannah began to panic.
Angelo watched as Devin put down the firearm—and the world began to slow like it sometimes did. There was no past or present or future. The world seemed strangely silent. Strangely distant. Ethereal. As if it were all happening to someone else.
There was that look in his eyes—the man with black skin. What was his name again? The one who had had the gun. He had that look he had before—the look people gave him before they told him he was being irrational.
They were the irrational ones—the way they would watch him and talk with him like a reasonable human being, and then suddenly get confused and scared.
It was as if they had all slowed down—stopped thinking or speaking or living. The world was so far away, and no matter what he said or thought or tried, they would never respond.
Hair brushed aside.
Whose hair?
The girl in his arms. How had she gotten…?
Oh, yes. Her. She was important. So very important.
Devin—was that his name?—seemed to disappear as a physical form until he was just eyes. Dark, intense eyes that stared.
Angelo had to leave. Had to go.
He was at the doorway. How had he gotten there?
In the rain—cold and wet. Looking out at a car pulling up.
A man stepped from the vehicle. The man who had the power to prevent evil. Blondish hair—a raggedy and impetuous man.
The Overseer.
A man named John Temple.
Would this man listen to reason? Would this be the man who would stop the girl and the black man—to tell them to let go of their endeavors—to hold back the evil?
He looked John Temple in the eyes. Even at this distance he could see it. The resolve—to save the lives of a few at the cost of so much more.
Angelo didn’t know what happened next. The girl was no longer in his arms. He was running.
John lifted his hand, holding some kind of device. It discharged like a pistol, curling wires zipping through the air and hitting his skin. Then he heard a clacking sound, and suddenly jolts of electricity coursed through him, jerking his body.
A Taser of some kind. They had him.
The dream overtook him. The abstract world consumed him. And he slipped from consciousness.
Chapter 8
W HY DID YOU attack my people?” John Temple demanded, trying to channel as much of Devin Bathurst as he could find inside himself.
Angelo sat quietly in his chair in the darkened office, hands zip-tied. “They’re walking into a trap.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” John replied curtly.
“I’m not wrong. You must believe me when I say—”
“I don’t believe you,” John retorted quickly. “You attacked Devin Bathurst, terrorized Hannah Rice, and you’re going to account for your actions.”
Angelo looked away for a moment, then lifted his head. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m here to help the Firstborn. I am at your service,” he said somberly, dipping his head, “Overseer.”
John crossed his arms—startled by the devotion but trying to stay focused. “If you’re at my service, then why don’t you help us stop the assassination?”
“That,” Angelo said, shaking
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