Saturday, May 29, 2010

Thomas Nelson's Content Standards

Michael Hyatt, CEO of Thomas Nelson Publishers has again published their conent standards. How anyone can read or post this and say curse words and some of the other inappropriate conent allowed in their books falls under these standards, is way beyond me.

http://michaelhyatt.com/2009/10/thomas-nelson%e2%80%99s-content-standards.html

Friday, May 28, 2010

A Matter of Character by Robin Lee Hatcher


This week, the


Christian Fiction Blog Alliance


is introducing


A Matter Of Character


Zondervan (May 25, 2010)


by


Robin Lee Hatcher



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Robin Lee Hatcher discovered her vocation as a novelist after many years of reading everything she could put her hands on, including the backs of cereal boxes and ketchup bottles. The winner of the Christy Award for Excellence in Christian Fiction (Whispers from Yesterday), the RITA Award for Best Inspirational Romance (Patterns of Love and The Shepherd's Voice), two RT Career Achievement Awards (Americana Romance and Inspirational Fiction), and the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award, Robin is the author of over 50 novels, including Catching Katie, named one of the Best Books of 2004 by the Library Journal.

Robin enjoys being with her family, spending time in the beautiful Idaho outdoors, reading books that make her cry, and watching romantic movies. She is passionate about the theater, and several nights every summer, she can be found at the outdoor amphitheater of the Idaho Shakespeare Festival, enjoying Shakespeare under the stars. She makes her home outside of Boise, sharing it with Poppet the high-maintenance Papillon


ABOUT THE BOOK

It's 1918, and Daphne McKinley, heiress to a small fortune, has found contentment in the town of Bethlehem Springs, Idaho. But Daphne has a secret.

A series of dime novels loosely based on local lore and featuring a nefarious villain known as Rawhide Rick has enjoyed modest popularity among readers. Nobody in Bethlehem Springs knows the man behind the stories ... except Daphne.

When newspaperman Joshua Crawford comes to town searching for the man who sullied the good name of his grandfather, Daphne finds herself at a crossroads, reassessing the power of her words, re-thinking how best to honor her gifts, and reconsidering what she wants out of life.

Robin is conducting a contest for the new book. Join in the fun HERE.

If you would like to read the Prologue and first Chapter of A Matter Of Character, go HERE.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Which came first, the curse word, or the "replacement"

I've been thinking about cursing for a while. Well, not doing it, but about the cursing debate. I have talked about it on my blog - Christian fiction books containing curse/swear words. I've had different reactions to it. Some, like me, are disgusted by it and feel they have no place in a Christian book. Others defend it, say it is "real life" and other insane comments like that. While I am on that subject, let me make a bold statement. It is wrong to curse. To use the "d word", "s word", etc - so if an author puts it in their book, and it is wrong to use language like that - then the author is sinning - in more than one way. They are using words that are wrong to use, and they are subjecting their readers to reading those words in a book where they don't expect to. Have I mentioned that I have had people who don't profess an ounce of religion apologize to me for saying them in my presence? How ironic - a sinner aploogizing for the same thing a Christian author and publisher will defend, and not care about offending me - somegthing wrong there. It is sad that a sinner is worried more about offending a Christian, than another Christian. Very sad and pathetic. But I digress.......

One defense I hear, is we who don't curse, use "replacement words". Rats, fiddlesticks, shucks - I'm sure the list is endless. So anyway, I was thinking about this, and had a few thoughts. The first - which came first, the chicken, or the egg? Or in this case, the curse word or the replacement? Turn the calendar back many years, and even sinners didn't use that kind of language - wasn't on TV, wasn't on the radio - was rare to talk like that - yet I'm sure people had words to express frustration, or something they said when they hit their thumb with a hammer - so is it possible that instead of our replacement words being that, that the curse words are the replacement? Very possible and likely.

And not all "replacement words" are the same. Some are way too close to the real thing. I hear kids at my church saying "oh my cow" and "fudge" - way too close to the real thing. Heck - if you look that one up, one of the definitions that is given is this: euphemistic alter. of hell. Look up "gosh" - euphemistic alter. of God. So we do need to be careful with some of what we call slang, but to defend curse words by saying that we are just as wrong who say something else instead is baloney, and not a good defense, but people guilty of something will always try to find something in the person who points out that wrong. So yes, we should be careful what we say when frustrated, but no, I don't think it is wrong to say something like "rats."

Onto my second point for you people who still disagree with me on the above point. If you are going to stand by the point that it is wrong to say something such as "rats", and it is just a replacement word for a curse word, and you are just as bad, etc - then chew on this one: I don't know if you have noticed this, but people of the world who do curse a lot, don't just do it when angry or frustrated. Tell them something that surprises them. Instead of "wow", you will often get a "s....", or the f-word - so if you are going to stick with the idea that anything said in frustration that is not a curse word, is just as wrong, then saying "wow" when surprises is just as wrong since so many cursers say a curse word.

A step further...... the f word is used in place of things like "messed up" - so is it wrong to say something is messed up since the f-word user would say something else -up? Do you get the idea that I am weary of the weak defense that anything said in frustration is just as bad as cursing? Curse words are prevalent in a cursers language - they use them for all purposes - not just to express frustration, but to express shock, fill in when they don't know what to say - even to describe something good. My boss told me one night that I was just too "d" fast. Another co-worker said my mom's cookies kicked "donkey". So let us be consistent - if we are going to claim "replacement words" for cursing when frustrated, injured, etc is just as bad, then we had better throw the blanket over all the other uses of cursing also.

Sound ludicrous? Maybe so - though I do think I have a good point. So let's be real here - cursing is wrong - sinners curse, not Christians - not in speech or in books we write or publish - and though we need to not only watch our language, but our atttitudes, it isn't wrong to say some words when frustrated or hurt - we just need to be careful which ones we use.

An added note - yes, this post may be a bit over the top - I was intentionally trying to be. I agree with Andi's comment below about God knowing our heart - there are just some words that Christians should never use - and the slang terms I mentioned - that is the dictionary saying what they mean - not my words, but that is one reason I don't use those slang terms.

I have become increasingly frustrated with curse words appearing in Christian books, and with Christians who are not bothered by it, and those who defend it. This post was intended to look at the defense that anything said in place of a curse word is just as wrong, etc.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Sisters..... Live At Oak Tree

Daywind music is doing a cool series, Live At Oak Tree, with several of their artists. They do a live, in studio recording on CD and DVD, with interviews in between some of the songs. I bought the one by the Booth Brothers, my favorite group - and Jeff and Sheri Easter. The newest one is by "Sisters."

Sisters is what used to be the Ruppes. For several years, the Ruppes consisted of Brenda Ruppe and two of her daughters, Kim Lord and Valerie Ruppe. Kim left a few years ago to help her husband form a group, Lordsong, and a third sister, Heather Day, took her place. Now the group consists of the three sisters, so they changed the group name to "Sisters." The three of them have an excellent sound, blending in a way that only siblings can.

The CD and DVD have the following songs:
1. You Made My Day
2. Mercy Leads
3. Unexpected Blessings
4. Under His Wings
5. Brothers and Sisters (guest Booth Brothers)
6. The Lord's Prayer
7. He Looked Beyond My Fault
8. I'm Sure
9. We All Came To The Cross

The DVD also has two bonus features:
Why Can't All God's Children Get Along?

Featuring Karen Peck & New River and Jeff & Sheri Easter

And - Booth Brothers - What Salvation's Done For Me

My very favorite song is Brothers and Sisters, with guest vocalists the Booth Brothers. The two groups sound great together, and it is a cool song. Plus, it has extra meaning with the 2 group names - Sisters and Booth Brothers.

Other favorites are Mercy Leads, Under His Wings, and We All Came to the Cross - awesome songs. Under His Wings was recorded several years back by the Ruppes, but this is a new arrangment, completele with an extra verse. It is not the hymn by the same name, but does feature the chorus of the hymn.

They also do a great job on the classic "He Looked Beyond My Fault".

If you like Southern Gospel, this is a group to watch - and listen to, and this CD/DVD offers a glimpse into the group and a chance to see them in a more casual setting. I am thoroughly enjoying this CD/DVD combo, and can't wait to hear more from this group.

Sisters, Live At Oak Tree is available from Daywind Music.
I was not given this CD/DVD for review, I reviewed it on my own.

More about Sisters at their website, sistersmusic.org.

Check out the video about this CD/DVD below, and also one of Sisters singing their signature song, Under His Wings.



Under His Wings

Broken by Travis Thrasher



This week, the




Christian Fiction Blog Alliance




is introducing




Broken




FaithWords (May 25, 2010)




by




Travis Thrasher



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


It was during third grade after a teacher encouraged him in his writing and as he read through The Narnia Chronicles by C.S. Lewis that Travis decided he wanted to be a writer. The dream never left him, and allowed him to fulfill that dream of writing fulltime in 2007.

Travis Thrasher is the author of numerous works of fiction, including his most personal and perhaps his deepest work, Sky Blue, that was published in summer of 2007. This year he has two novels published, Out of the Devil’s Mouth, and a supernatural thriller, Isolation.

Travis is married to Sharon and they are the proud parents of Kylie, born in November, 2006, and Hailey, a Shih-Tzu that looks like an Ewok. They live in suburban Chicago.

Stop by and visit Travis at his Blog where you can sign up to follow him on Facebook and Twitter!

ABOUT THE BOOK
Laila had it all--love, family, wealth, and faith. But when her faith crumbles, her world falls apart and Laila finds herself living an empty, dangerous life as a call girl in Chicago.



When she is threatened, Laila shoots and kills a client in self-defense, sending herself into a spiral of guilt and emptiness. Six months later, she is trying to move on, but she's haunted by the past. She hasn't told anyone about the man she killed, and she's still estranged from her family.

When she is approached by a stranger who says he knows what she did, Laila has no choice but to run. But the stranger stays close behind, and Laila begins having visions of the man she killed. Little does she know she's being hounded by something not of this world, something that knows her deepest, darkest secret.

Scared and wandering, will Laila regain her trust in God to protect her from these demons? Or will her plea for salvation come too late?

If you would like to read the first chapter of Broken, go HERE.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Modesty

Ran across this blog post and was impressed by what the young lady had to say: http://enjoyingthewritingcraft.blogspot.com/2010/05/modesty-matter-of-heart.html

Monday, May 24, 2010

Frenzy by Robert Liparulo




This week, the





Christian Fiction Blog Alliance





is introducing





Frenzy





Thomas Nelson (May 18, 2010)





by





Robert Liparulo




ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Robert Liparulo is a former journalist, with over a thousand articles and multiple writing awards to his name. His first novel, Comes a Horseman, released to critical acclaim. Each of his subsequent thrillers—Germ, Deadfall, and Deadlock—secured his place as one of today’s most popular and daring thriller writers.

He is known for investing deep research and chillingly accurate predictions of near-future scenarios into his stories. In fact, his thorough, journalistic approach to research has resulted in his becoming an expert on the various topics he explores in his fiction, and he has appeared on such media outlets as CNN and ABC Radio.

Liparulo’s visual style of writing has caught the eye of Hollywood producers. Currently, three of his novels for adults are in various stages of development for the big screen: the film rights to Comes A Horseman. were purchased by the producer of Tom Clancy’s movies; and Liparulo is penning the screenplays for GERM and Deadfall for two top producers. He is also working with the director Andrew Davis (The Fugitive, Holes) on a political thriller. Novelist Michael Palmer calls Deadfall “a brilliantly crafted thriller.” March 31st marked the publication of Deadfall’s follow-up, Deadlock, which novelist Gayle Lynds calls, “best of high-octane suspense.”

Liparulo’s bestselling young adult series, Dreamhouse Kings, debuted in 2008 with House of Dark Shadows and Watcher in the Woods. Book three, Gatekeepers, released in January 2009, and number four, Timescape, in July 2009, and number five, Whirlwind in December 2009. The series has garnered praise from readers, both young and old, as well as attracting famous fans who themselves know the genre inside and out. Of the series, Goosebumps creator R.L. Stine says, “I loved wandering around in these books. With a house of so many great, haunting stories, why would you ever want to go outside?”

With the next two Dreamhouse books “in the can,” he is currently working on his next thriller, which for the first time injects supernatural elements into his brand of gun-blazing storytelling. The story is so compelling, two Hollywood studios are already in talks to acquire it—despite its publication date being more than a year away. After that comes a trilogy of novels, based on his acclaimed short story, which appeared in James Patterson’s Thriller anthology. New York Times bestselling author Steve Berry calls Liparulo’s writing “Inventive, suspenseful, and highly entertaining . . . Robert Liparulo is a storyteller, pure and simple.” He lives with his family in Colorado.

Visit Robert Liparulo's Facebook Fan page: http://www.facebook.com/LiparuloFans







ABOUT THE BOOK



Their destiny is to fix history. Their dream is to get home.



When you live in a house that's really a gateway between past and present, you have to be ready for anything. It's a painful fact the Kings have faced since moving to Pinedale eight days ago. Desperately trying to rescue their mother from an unknown time and place, brothers Xander and David have lunged headlong into the chaos of history's greatest--and most volatile--events. But their goal has continually escaped their grasp.



And worse: Finding Mom is only a small part of what they must do, thanks to the barbaric Taksidian. His ruthless quest to sieze their house and its power from them has put not only the family, but all of mankind, in grave danger.



Somehow, the key to it all hinges on Uncle Jesse's words to the boys: "Fixing time is what our family was made to do." But how can they fix a world that has been turned updisde down--much less ever find their way home?



At long last, the secrets of the house and the King family are revealed in the stunning conclusion to this epic series.



If you would like to read the Prologue and first Chapter of Frenzy, go HERE.

My review:

Ah finally.... the conclusion to the Dreamhouse Kings series. I loved the whole series, but this final and sixth book in the series was the best of all. For one thing, unlike the other five in the series, it didn't end with a cliff hanger and leaving you waiting several months for the next book.

Up to this point, the books have not had much Christian content in them, though clean/curse free, but this book did, and tied up the whole series. It is kind of hard to review just one book, when the whole series was like one big book, instead of a series, so my review pretty much applies to all six books.

Liparulo is a genius for coming up with this series. Very neat idea. He also come up with an interesting and likeable line of characters for the books. I enjoyed seeing how much Xander, the oldest boy, changed throughout the course of the series.

As I stated in my review of the last book, this series is geared for teenagers, but adults can - and do - enjoy them. I honestly highly recommend this book, and the five that precede it, but a note of caution - you must read them in order, or you will toally be lost.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Predator by Terri Blackstock..... My review

Earlier this week, I posted the information for Predator by Terri Blackstock for the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance. That can be found here. I had received the book late, and didn't have time to read it. I did get it read tonight, so I am posting my actual review of it in this post.

First, a description of the book:

In Predator, the newest page-turner by bestselling author Terri Blackstock, a killer is stalking the online social network GrapeVyne. Determined to bring her teenage sister's murderer to justice, Krista Carmichael puts her own life on the line to bait the killer. But when this online predator turns his sights on her, will she be able to control the outcome?


The murder of Krista Carmichael’s fourteen-year-old sister by an online predator has shaken her faith and made her question God’s justice and protection. Desperate to find the killer, she creates an online persona to bait the predator. But when the stalker turns his sights on her, will Krista be able to control the outcome?



Ryan Adkins started the social network GrapeVyne in his college dorm and has grown it into a billion-dollar corporation. But he never expected it to become a stalking ground for online Predators. One of them lives in his town and has killed two girls and attacked a third. When Ryan meets Krista, the murders become more than a news story to him, and everything is on the line.


Joining forces, he and Krista set out to stop the killer. But when hunters pursue a hunter, the tables can easily turn. Only God can protect them now.

My review:

This is one of those "read-in-one-sitting books." Totally awesome. I started reading it around 9 this evening, and finished it close to 11:30. This is one of the best books Terri has written. First off, the plot...... great idea. An online predator finding his victims on a ficticious website, GrapeVyne, similar to the real Facebook. Suspense - there is a lot of it. The book has its sad moments, but I couldn't put the book down and read as fast as I could without missing anything, so I could get to the conclusion.

The book does have it all: good plot, great suspense, even romance, and guess what..... Terri did it all without any curse words or inappproriate content, but the Christian theme would boldly throughout the book - who would have thought it possible?! (Sarcasm from a guy who wearies of curse words creeping into Christian novels.

Terri Blackstock is one of the first Christian authors to start writing suspense, and I personally look at her as one of the pioneers of the Christian suspense/mystery novel. She has never pulled punches with the Christian element/message, and I am glad to see all these years later, she has not changed, and this book shows why she has been one of my long time favorite authors.

This book is not only an awesome suspense novel, it shows the dangers of social networking, and hopefully will encourage people to be more careful, not only for themselves, but their kids.

About the author:

Terri Blackstock (www.terriblackstock.com) has sold six million books worldwide and is a New York Times bestseller. She is the award-winning author of Intervention and Double Minds, as well as such series as Cape Refuge, Newpointe 911, the SunCoast Chronicles, and the Restoration Series.


Author Website:
http://www.terriblackstock.com/

Thanks to Zondervan for the review copy.

Here is a contest in connection with the book: http://www.terriblackstock.com/contests/

Saturday, May 22, 2010

What I like

This past week on facebook, I boldly stated what I think of some hymnbooks at our church. We have 3 songbooks. One is choruses - praise and worship and others, a hymnal put out by Lillenas called Worship In Song, and The Wesleyan Methodist Hymnal - one I dislike. The hymns are older than old, and though they may have good words, have tunes that make conjuer up images of monks in a monastary.......

Anyhow, a lady from my church replied with "Mark, do you like anything?!" - which was kind of overkill, as I haven't said I dislike THAT many things ;-) - even God had a list of things He hated  - seven of them, I believe - don't think I'm up to listing seven yet. Regardless, thought I'd blog about what I like. Some of these would fall under love, of course, but for the sake of this post, like will cover it. So here they are, and not in any particlular order - the things I like:

1) My family. I have great parents, 2 great sisters, and two brothers-in-law who are mediocre. Just kidding.... they are both great guys, and my sisters got good husbands when they married them. And then there are the nieces and nephews. Awesome kids.... Stephanie (15), Allison (12), Caitlin (10), Josiah (8), Benjy (6), and Nathan (3). Like doesn't begin to cover it with these kids.

2) Friends. And I don't mean people who I see all the time and go to church with me, etc. No, I mean those people who really and honestly care about me, who, when they ask how I am doing -  really want to know and not hear "fine" if I'm not.

3) Reading. I've been a reader since I could read, and it has never changed.

4) Books.... maybe it should be in with reading, but not necessarily. I love books too. I like to see them on my shelf, handle them, etc - one reason I will never get an electronic book reader. A true lover of books wouldn't be into that.

5) My car. A 2001 white Pontiac Sunfire. A newer, nicer car would be nice, but I like the one I have.

6) Music. My favorite genre' is Southern Gospel. I like some CCM, Praise & Worship, and even a handful of country songs that are clean, curse-free, and don't talk about running around on your wife, etc.

7) Mexican food

8) Chinese food

9) American food

10) Italian food

11) Playing games

12) Evenings..... never been a morning person

13) Walks, especially on the bike trail near me

14) Covered bridges, especially the one near me

15) Outer Banks, NC

16) Lancaster County, IN

17) Days off

18) My co-workers

19) Shopping

20) Getting new clothes

21) Eating out, especially with friends and family

22) Anything Narnia related

23) My computer - and monitor

24) Getting emails from real people

25) Blogging

26) Reviewing books

27) The Bible

28) My pastor....... he knows how to preach a great message without going on and on as too many do

29) Sleep.... naps

30) My Ipod

31) Money

32) Gifts - giving and getting

33) Cards - giving and getting

34) Blue jeans

35) Spring

36) Summer

37) Autumn

38) Christmas

39) Easter

40) Passion plays

41) Thanksgiving

42) Sandals

43) Walking on the beach in my barefeet, feeling the ocean lapping at my toes

44) Compact discs - what a great invention!

45) Winning things

46) My cell phone

47) Week-ends (not working)

48) Padded pews

49) Air conditioning

50) Porch swings

51) Chocolate

52) Getting mail - not junk mail

53) George W Bush

54) The governor of Arizona

55) Sarah Palin

56) Sunday afternoons

57) Amazon.com

58) Ollie's Bargain Outlet

59) Hugs

60) Nice/friendly comments on my blog and facebook page

61) Lighthouses

62) Having my own place

63) Music DVDs

64) Youtube

65) Drudge report

66) Newsbusters

67) Fox news

68) Rush Limbaugh

69) Sean Hannity

70) Cooking

71) Mach 3 razor blades

72) Christmas lights

73) My Sunday School teacher

74) Facebook

75) Patriotism

76) Classic & antique cars

77) Parades

Ok, that is 77, maybe more later :-)

Friday, May 21, 2010

Featured blog

My blog is the featured blog over at Winning Readings today. Check it out here.

Predator by Terri Blackstock



This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance




is introducing




Predator
Zondervan (May 25, 2010)




by




Terri Blackstock



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Terri Blackstock’s books have sold six million copies worldwide. Her suspense novels often debut at number one on the Christian fiction best-seller lists, and True Light, published last year, was number one of all Christian books—fiction and non-fiction. Blackstock has had twenty-five years of success as a novelist.



In 1994 Blackstock was writing for publishers such as HarperCollins, Harlequin and Silhouette, when a spiritual awakening drew her into the Christian market. Since that time, she’s written over thirty Christian titles, in addition to the thirty-two she had in the secular market. Her most recent books are the four in her acclaimed Restoration Series, which includes Last Light, Night Light, True Light and Dawn’s Light. She is also known for her popular Newpointe 911 and Cape Refuge Series.



In addition to her suspense novels, she has written a number of novels in the women’s fiction genre, including Covenant Child, which was chosen as one of the first Women of Faith novels, and her Seasons Series written with Beverly LaHaye, wife of Tim LaHaye.



Blackstock has won the Retailer’s Choice Award and has appeared on national television programs such as The 700 Club, Home Life, and At Home Live with Chuck and Jenny. She has been a guest on numerous radio programs across the country and the subject of countless articles. The story of her personal journey appears in books such as Touched By the Savior by Mike Yorkey, True Stories of Answered Prayer by Mike Nappa, Faces of Faith by John Hanna, and I Saw Him In Your Eyes by Ace Collins.







ABOUT THE BOOK



The murder of Krista Carmichael's fourteen-year-old sister by an online predator has shaken her faith and made her question God's justice and protection. Desperate to find the killer, she creates an online persona to bait the predator. But when the stalker turns his sights on her, will Krista be able to control the outcome?



Ryan Adkins started the social network GrapeVyne in his college dorm and has grown it into a billion-dollar corporation. But he never expected it to become a stalking ground for online Predators. One of them lives in his town and has killed two girls and attacked a third. When Ryan meets Krista, the murders become more than a news story to him, and everything is on the line.



Joining forces, he and Krista set out to stop the killer. But when hunters pursue a hunter, the tables can easily turn. Only God can protect them now.



If you would like to read the first chapter of Predator, go HERE.



Watch the book trailer video!





My review:

The book was late coming, just got it 2 days ago, and due to having company, have not had time to read it. It looks awesome though, and Terri Blackstock is a great author, someone I view as being one of the main pioneers of Christian suspense. I will try to post a review once I have read the book.

Here is a contest connected with the book: http://www.terriblackstock.com/contests/

Refuge On Crescent Hill by Melanie Dobson

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:

Kregel Publications (March 11, 2010)
***Special thanks to Cat Hoort, Trade Marketing Manager, Kregal Publications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Melanie Dobson is an author as well as the owner of the publicity firm Dobson Media. A former corporate publicity manager at Focus on the Family, Melanie has worked in the fields of journalism and publicity for more than twelve years. Her first book is Together for Good. Melanie lives in Oregon with her husband, Jon, and their two adopted daughters, Karly and Kinzel.


Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (March 11, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825425905
ISBN-13: 978-0825425905

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


The glass door was locked, but that didn’t stop Camden Bristow from yanking on the handle. The imposing desk on the other side of the glass was vacant, and the receptionist who usually waved her inside had disappeared. Behind the desk, the Fount Magazine logo mocked her, whispering that the money she so desperately needed had disappeared as well.

She pounded on the glass one last time, but no one came to the door.

Turning, she moved to a row of windows on the far side of the elevator. Sixteen stories below, swarms of people bustled toward their next appointment. Someplace they needed to be. Not long ago, she’d been rushing too, up and down Park Avenue to attend meetings at ad agencies and various magazines . . . including the suite of offices behind her.

Human rights. Natural disasters. Labor disputes. Whenever the photo editor at Fount needed the most poignant pictures for news articles, he called her, and nothing had stopped her from capturing what he needed for the next edition. She’d dedicated the past five years to responding to Grant Haussen’s calls, but after she came back from Indonesia two months ago, he stopped calling her.

She’d e-mailed him the pictures of the earthquake’s aftermath along with her regular invoice of fees and expenses. He’d used the pictures in the next issue, but apparently discarded the invoice. She never received a check, and he didn’t return even one of her many calls.

A few years ago, she wouldn’t have worried as much about the money—those days her phone rang at all hours with freelance assignments to shoot pictures around the world—but her clients had slashed their budgets and were using stock photos or buying photographs from locals. The current results weren’t as compelling as sending a professional, but keeping the lights on—the rent paid—trumped paying for the best photography.

Her clients may be making rent, but she hadn’t been able to pay hers for two months. Her savings account was depleted. The income from her Indonesia shoot was supposed to appease her landlord and credit card company. Even though she hadn’t heard from Grant Haussen, she held out hope that she might at least recoup the expenses for her trip so she could pay off the whopping flight and hotel charges on her credit card.

All hope shattered when she read the morning’s headline.

Fount Magazine Declares Bankruptcy

Others may have skimmed past this article, but the news stunned her. Three hours ago, she left her studio apartment and started walking until she found herself in Midtown, in the lobby of the Reinhold Building. A few staff members might remain at the Fount office, packing things up. Or if there were some sort of bankruptcy proceedings . . . maybe she could collect a few thousand dollars. Just enough to pay a portion of her bills while she tried to find more work.

It appeared that no one had stuck around to say goodbye.

The elevator dinged behind her, and she turned away from the windows and watched a skinny man in overalls push a mop and bucket into the hallway. He was at least two inches shorter than her five foot six.

She forced herself to smile, but he didn’t smile back. She pointed at the offices. “I need to find someone at the magazine.”

He grunted as he dipped his mop into the gray water and wrung it out. Shoving her fists into the pockets of her long jacket, she stepped toward him. “They owe me money.”

“You and half this dadgum town.”

“Yes, but—”

“They ran outta here so fast last night that the rubber on their shoes was smokin’.” He flopped the mop onto the tile floor and water spread toward his boots. “I’d bet good money that they ain’t comin’ back.”

Camden slumped against the window. Even if she were able to track down Grant, it wasn’t like he would personally write her a check for money the magazine owed. He was probably out hunting for a job already, or maybe he was stretched out on his couch watching Oprah, enjoying the luxury of not having to report for duty. He could collect unemployment while he slowly perused for a new gig.

Unfortunately, there was no unemployment for freelancers.

The janitor swabbed the mop across the tile in straight brushstrokes like he was painting instead of cleaning it, taking pride in his work.

She understood. At one time she had been proud of her work too. There was nothing more exhilarating than flying off to a country rocked by tragedy and immersing herself into an event that most people only read about. She was onsite to see the trauma, feel the aftershocks, though she never allowed herself to get personally involved. It was her job to record the crisis so others could help with the recovery. All she needed to do her job was her camera equipment and laptop.

Because of all her travels, she hadn’t accumulated much stuff over the years. Her landlord had furnished her flat before she moved in, but for almost five years, the apartment and everything in it had felt like hers. It was the longest she’d lived in one place her entire life.

But tonight, her landlord was changing the locks. Her home had been rented by someone else.

The man pushed his mop by her, ignoring her. She couldn’t blame him for his indifference. This city was full of people who needed a job—he was probably trying as hard as he could to keep his.

She would mop floors if she had to. Or scrub toilets. It wouldn’t pay enough for her to make rent, but maybe it would keep her from having to call her mom and beg for cash. If she called, her mother would pass the phone to her latest boyfriend—a retired executive living outside Madrid. Camden would rather sleep in a shelter than grovel to him.

She hopped over the wet trail left by the mop and stepped into the elevator.

Her landlord said she had until five o’clock to pack her stuff and vacate the building. The little credit she had left on her card wouldn’t pay for a week in a Manhattan hotel. And the few friends she’d made when she wasn’t traveling were struggling as much as she was. One of them might let her sleep on a couch, but she’d be expected to help with rent.

The elevator doors shut, and she punched the button for the lobby.

Where was she supposed to go from here?



The basement of the town hall smelled like burnt coffee and tobacco. The navy carpet had faded to a dull gray, and the dais at the front of the room was scuffed with shoe marks. Five men and two women sat behind a table on the platform—the bimonthly summit of Etherton’s City Council.

As the town mayor, Louise Danner presided over the city council from the middle chair. Her hoop earrings jangled below the signature Bic pen she propped behind her left ear. Copper-colored bangs veiled her smudged eyebrows.

Three steps below Louise’s chair, Alex Yates drummed his fingers on a stack of proposals and tried to listen as Evan Harper begged the councilors to let him tear down the barn on his property and replace it with a guesthouse.

In the eight months since he’d moved to Etherton, he learned that Louise Danner was almost as permanent a fixture in Etherton as the town hall. Within days of him taking this job, she told him exactly how she became mayor over the eleven thousand people in their town.

She had been born in a small house off Main Street and reigned as valedictorian over Etherton High’s Class of ’67. Armed with a degree from Marietta, she returned home after graduation and worked in several businesses across town until she secured the job of hospital administrator. Louise served on almost every town committee for the next thirty years, from historical preservation to the garden club, but when she landed the mayorship almost eight years ago, she dropped anchor.

She’d spent a boatload of money to retain her position during the last election, and with the state of the town’s economy, she would be fighting to keep her job when voters went to the polls in five months.

Alex rechecked his watch. It was almost lunchtime, and Evan Harper was still pleading his case. Alex saw the dilapidated barn every morning on the short drive to his office. Guesthouse or no guesthouse, he agreed with Evan—someone needed to put the structure out of its misery. A hearty gust of wind would end its life if the council wouldn’t approve demolition.

Alex stifled a yawn as Evan named all the people who could stay in the guesthouse including his wife’s elderly parents and his daughter’s college friends. Apparently, no one had told the man he couldn’t filibuster city council. If the mayor didn’t curtail Evan’s speech, he’d probably pull out the local phone book and read until the councilors adjourned for lunch. And once they walked out of the room, they may not reconvene in time.

Alex couldn’t wait for approval. He needed an answer today.

For the past month, he’d been quietly courting the owner of the ten-acre property at the edge of town—part of the old Truman farm. If the council concurred, the owner was ready to sell the land and farmhouse for a pittance. The town could buy it and use the property to help with their plans to revitalize the local economy.

Alex caught the mayor’s eye and tapped his watch.

“Thank you.” Louise interrupted Evan before he finished listing off every construction supply he’d purchased for the guesthouse. “I think that is all the information we need to make a decision.”

Evan plucked another piece of paper from his stack. “But I haven’t read the neighborhood petition.”

“We appreciate all the time and thought you’ve put into this, Evan.” Louise propped her chin up with her knuckles. “We’ll let you know if we have any other questions.”

Evan sat down on the wooden folding chair at the end of the row, and Alex leaned back as the council began discussing the hot issue of preservation versus progress.

Most of the councilors were successful business leaders and attorneys, passionate in either their pro-growth or anti-development stance. Today he needed to convince them that voting “yes” on his proposal would commemorate the town’s history and lay the foundation for their legacy while generating new revenue and development for the town.

Alex glanced at his watch and sighed. If it took the councilors forty minutes to decide the fate of a rickety barn, how long would it take them to make a decision on his proposal?

When he parted ways with corporate mania last year, he thought he’d left behind the constricting strands of red tape that kept him from doing his job, but he’d learned that Etherton’s residents, along with the city council, rode the high of debate until they were forced to vote. Sometimes the debate lasted weeks, or even months.

Edward Paxton led the charge against development. He didn’t want his town to change nor did he want Alex involved with any of the town’s business. Rumor had it that he wanted his grandson, Jake, to take the economic development position that Louise had created last spring to solicit new business. The only problem was that no one else on the council wanted Jake Paxton to be involved. Edward seemed to hold a personal vendetta against Alex for stealing his grandson’s job.

At least the mayor was on his team. She’d gambled when she hired him, but he assured her and the council that he’d deliver. On their terms.

After almost an hour of discussion, Louise called for a vote, and Evan smacked his knees when they approved his guesthouse with a 4–3 vote. He saluted the row of councilors as he rushed out, probably on his way to rent an excavator. Alex guessed the barn would be in a heap when he drove home tonight.

He sighed. If only getting the council to approve a project was always this easy . . .

Etherton needed the tax revenue from new businesses to fix its brick streets, increase the police force, and build a high school. The city’s officials expected Alex to find a way to merge their small town charm with big city business.

Blending these two ideals was no small feat. Not long after he moved to Etherton, he worked a deal to build a Wal-Mart Supercenter on a piece of farm property at the edge of town. Some towns didn’t want a Wal-Mart, but since their local economy had tanked, he thought most of the locals would welcome the store. After all, most of them drove forty-five minutes each week to visit the Wal-Mart in Mansfield, and this would bring discount clothes, groceries, car care, and—most importantly—jobs to their back door.

He was wrong.

When the council voted last December, residents of Etherton packed City Hall, a chorus of dissension over why their town couldn’t bear the weight of a conglomerate. The icy room turned hot as tempers flared. Small business owners threatened to overthrow the seats of every council member who supported the proposal.

In the end, the council rejected his plan. The town desperately needed the revenue and the jobs, but apparently not enough to put out the welcome mat for a mega store. A local farmer bought the field to plant corn, and Etherton missed out on the much-needed sales tax that would flood into Fredericktown when Wal-Mart opened its doors there this fall.

The council told him they wanted new business, but they wanted something quaint that would fit the town’s celebration of all things old. It was a hard task—but he’d found the perfect solution. If the residents were willing to risk a little, he was ready to deliver both quaint and classy . . . wrapped up in a pretty package and tied together with a sound financial bow.

Louise slid the pen out from behind her ear and tapped it on the table. She dismissed the few people in the audience, explaining that the rest of the meeting was a closed session, and then she pointed at him. “You’re up, Alex.”

He straightened his tie and stood to face the councilors. It was about to get hot again.

My review:

An enjoyable read. This book had suspense, not intense, but still suspenseful. The plot was great, and even covered the Underground Railroad and had some information about the slave trade and those who helped  them escape - it played into the modern day mystery in the book.

I would have liked to see some more spiritual developement of the main character, but other than that, it was a great read. This is the first book I have read by this author, but I plan on reading more by her in the future.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

The Overseer by Conlan Brown

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:

Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



By the end of his sixteenth year Conlan Brown had completed his first novel, his first stage play, and his first year of college. Brown now holds a Master's degree in Communication and lives on Colorado's Front Range where he is working on his next book. He enjoys video editing, film scores, and developing high octane, thought provoking fiction that turns pages and excites the senses.


Visit the author's website.





Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 296 pages
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599799553
ISBN-13: 978-1599799551

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Screams rang out from the rain-soaked street. Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the craterlike pothole.


The impact of the car splashing into the pothole. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. A trunk opening. Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking. Eyes begging for help. Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths. Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street. A needle— Bodies going limp. Thrown into another car. Tires shrieking into the stormy night. One man remaining in the street. The tattoo—a dragon.


Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash. Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm churning around her.


The screams.


Already gone from the world—but the street remembered— and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past. She was their only hope now—the one person who realized that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past— a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched world.


Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store. That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.


Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and walked toward the lights of the liquor store—


—toward the dragon.



Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head and looked around.


She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks, stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.


For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.


“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.


She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.


No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.


Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to

party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup, inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover roommate.


Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple: get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—


—the dragon.


It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he stood inthe middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet. A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo

curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand, its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda, the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.


The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head— toward her . . .


Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.


Gone.


She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned her head, looking for him.


Nowhere.


Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again, coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere in the—


She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them. The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the tattoo turned, walking toward the door.


“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your change?”


Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed through the front door, back into the rain.


Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—


Dominik.


His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive. The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights, and then slipped into darkness.


Her one lead. The one trail. The only chance to find the girls. And he was getting away. For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed. The car began to drive away.


Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting, demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness, but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt out. Nothing to see but darkness.


The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.


“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she had been called to—


Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.


Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned the key, and the engine sputtered.


“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal, feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—



The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it all the time, but this was the worst possible—


Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the

Chapter 1


creams rang out from the rain-soaked street.

Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the

pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the

craterlike pothole.



The impact of the car splashing into the pothole.

Thunder. Lightning. Rain.

A trunk opening.

Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking.

Eyes begging for help.

Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths.

Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street.

A needle—

Bodies going limp.

Thrown into another car.

Tires shrieking into the stormy night.

One man remaining in the street.

The tattoo—a dragon.



Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash.

Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm

churning around her.


The screams.


Already gone from the world—but the street remembered—

and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past.

She was their only hope now—the one person who realized

that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person

who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past—

a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched

world.


Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store.

That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.


1







The Overseer


Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and

walked toward the lights of the liquor store—


—toward the dragon.



Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head

and looked around.


She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was

white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey

smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks,

stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass

and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older

man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the

door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.


For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big

and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone

to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the

premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The

only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her

jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with

little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.


“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in

his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.


She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved

to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.


No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one

cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting

from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys

adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.


Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason

she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken

binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to

party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the

dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping



on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup,

inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize

various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover

roommate.


Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever

degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a

medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple:

get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to

figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave

up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn

and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own

pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following

dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—


—the dragon.


It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was

a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And

the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and

fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he

stood in the middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing

labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet.

A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo

curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand,

its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda,

the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked

tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.


The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head—

toward her . . .


Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic

nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath

slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.


Gone.


She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and




passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned


her head, looking for him.


Nowhere.


Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again,

coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere

in the—


She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the

boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly

sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into

his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from

beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them.

The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the

tattoo turned, walking toward the door.


“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your

change?”


Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed

through the front door, back into the rain.


Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging

into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her

parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on

toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the

engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of

pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—


Dominik.


His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive.

The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of

rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights,

and then slipped into darkness.


Her one lead.


The one trail.


The only chance to find the girls.


And he was getting away.


For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her



feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel

to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed.

The car began to drive away.


Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting,

demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his

license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness,

but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt

out. Nothing to see but darkness.


The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on

Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling

droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.


“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic

rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to

focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or

do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she

had been called to—


Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where

she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To

think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.


Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching

for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand

holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station

wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned

the key, and the engine sputtered.


“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal,

feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—



The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it

all the time, but this was the worst possible—


Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the

moment. She had to find her strength—a strength that could

only come from God.


She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs



in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in

the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working

with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to

bring the car to life.


She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.


Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car,

and she took off into the night—


—chasing after him.


Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.


Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik

had gone.


Nothing.


Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and

then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.



The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the

glass.


Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting

tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at

the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was

ready to drink again.


He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat,

ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik

missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than

water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he

knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told

that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared?

Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in

prison twenty years ago.


He thought about the girls and how much money they would

bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine.

Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of

cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when the

iron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.


Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the

neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the

other.


He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most

Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the

stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing

sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He

looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.


A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much

too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it

in the armrest.


Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of

hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being

followed?


There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind

him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the

wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against

the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down

an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror.

The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its

brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The

car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a

moment, its silhouette fully revealed.


A beige station wagon?


The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The

headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized

in size, then began to grow.


Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and

yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window

as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting

down a dark street.


He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His

heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person

following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone

trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense.

But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people

with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.


Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.


He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar

street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.


His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t

see anything except . . .


A beige station wagon?


This had to be dealt with.


Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper

blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling

into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the

alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded

from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.


She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights

up ahead and—


Brake lights.


Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The

driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away

from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car,

leaving the distance unfilled.


What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.


It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver

would get out to confront another—only to have someone get

shot in the middle of the street.


Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering

wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—


There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.


She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her

car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.


Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled

her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin

Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the

future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and

their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant

to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed

the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach

the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing

force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering

the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But

none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now,

groping in the blind spots of her gift.


Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking

around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward

the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.


She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the

thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the

vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there,

and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly

ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—


Vodka.


A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.


Gripped by the neck like a club.


Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment

to . . .


Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding

place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.


She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door.

The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in

a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the

passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.


He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open

door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with

his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of

a pungent vodka bottle in his right.


The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered

her response.


She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel

smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He

made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side,

slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been

ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis

shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with

the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.


She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a

melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched

frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious

exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping.

Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he

reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.


Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle.

She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She

looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle

in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle

exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body,

trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand,

clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s

arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching

for his neck.


He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s

swinging attack, then stood.


Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.


And then he ran.


Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering

against his face and arms.


Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew

where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know

about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.


No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was

obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety.

Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.


Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone

who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time

with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?


Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown

backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix

this or it was going to cost him his head.


Hannah tore after Dominik.


Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She

couldn’t let him get away.


She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard,

chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely

a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and

drizzle.


He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short

chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She

approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked

metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and

continued her pursuit.


Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked

cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage

spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the

circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from

fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.


Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself

forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across

another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A

tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over

the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle,

hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing

her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something

she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance,

hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.


She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the

far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.


The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe

ten—watched her rush at the fence.


“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”


Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence,

pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the

fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She

pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and

gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to

the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder

into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the

front yard.


Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from

her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was

nowhere to be seen.


What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have

taken a different turn.


She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.


This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The

girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this

happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night.

Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying

to think. She needed to know where he had gone.


A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the

horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling

lazily past.


The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge,

and the world didn’t even know enough to care.


She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the

past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand

to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.


But it didn’t work like that.


Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I

can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign

power and...”


No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking

they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God

who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her

to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.


No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation

of God to do something else . . .


“Listen,” she whispered to herself.


She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts

filled with her calling and mission.


No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only

with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.


She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on

God.


The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding

against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound

blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.


Listen, she said to herself in her mind.


The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping

rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by

bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a

pedantic march.


Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing.

A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact.

Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t


hurried or forced into action.

Listen, she thought again. And then she heard.

Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . .

Leading away . . .

His ragged breath wheezing—

Removing him from the scene.

The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind—

Remembering the thud of blows.

The ringing slaps to tender faces—

The sobs pounding into his brain.

The house that he had been working from.

Creaking from the strain.

The place he was returning to.


Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to

the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.


There.



Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing

lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into

the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the

house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would

be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she

would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the

past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To

know for certain they were here before she did something that

might spook Dominik.


She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted

with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with

dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale

smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee

table—like a doctor’s waiting room.


Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.


A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had

been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for.

Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.


Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room—

the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here.

At least no one ate here.


Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials,

needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of

medicine, reading the label.


Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.


There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back

door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy

wind.


Dominik exiting out the back.


She thought about following him—but this was what she was

looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could

feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to

do it here.


There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt

right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.


The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their

names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out

of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it

was her purpose.


Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There

was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped

toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily,

revealing a virtually empty room.


An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets

thrown across it in twisting heaps.


And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had

been happening here.



Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the

darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a

reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side,

ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas

twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to

double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself

to the stack of tools.


A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor

somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag

of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a

deluge of tinkling barbs.


There.


Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a

forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the

container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole

can to swing in a wide arc.


It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence

as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way

back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d

spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big

house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.


It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might

even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck

they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and

the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it

wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease

wasn’t in any of their names.


Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object,

removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb

spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was

enough fuel.


A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping

of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in

the rain.



Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the

wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands

over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls

had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering.

And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.


The walls remembered what had happened here—and they

were closing in.


“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling

with the torment of it all.


And she felt something else: another calling—


She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading

to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging

latch that had been left undone.


She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as

she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward

with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and

moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.


She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in

brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah

lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed

through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny

window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently

upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.


Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in

the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she

tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and

she looked around.


She thought she might never start breathing again.


Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken

wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the

gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks

locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.


Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor.

Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.


Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open,

and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed

bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked

it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face

of the girl who had clung to this bear—


Maybe fourteen years old.


The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.


Whoever these people were—she would stop them.


Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find

them.


Then she heard something.



Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls

and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set

the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for

a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the

plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the

bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder

and ear, and reached for the gas can again.


“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.


“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same

language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.


“Who?”


“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where

I was going.”


“What are you talking about?”


Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet,

sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some

girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She

followed me. Chased me back to the house.”


“You ran away from a girl?”


“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere.

She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have

been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a

trail of gas.


“What are you going to do about it?”


Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing

a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the

corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”


“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”


“I’ve already started.”


“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click,

and the line went dead.


Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward

the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic

above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.

Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.


He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt

violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for

that seemed more useful than ever.


Hannah took another step back.


Someone was in the house.


They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain

if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away

from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound



of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.


She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before.

Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on

her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a

cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the

blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.


There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny

smell.


She took another step back.


Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below.

What were they doing down there?


Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a

way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on

the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.


Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?


Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions.

To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this

time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was

not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She

could act.


Then she heard it.


A click.


She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls

moving down the stairs. They were leaving.


Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood.

It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.


She was trapped.



Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d

figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d

specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking

it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold,

and the thick bolts would stay in place.


He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.


The lighter came open with a snap.


His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame

conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny

flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.


There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik

froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it

spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with

an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds,

fire consuming up the stairs.


Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets

and zipped it as he walked away.


Hannah knew something wasn’t right.


She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed.

The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below—

suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.


Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went

wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.


Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the

attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke

with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent of melting plastic

and burning synthetics.


Then the floor started to get warm.


Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There

was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.


She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered

it—the rain smacking down just beyond.


The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic

with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,

pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily

down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It

reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary

school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a

house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.


Arson could work so much faster.


She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards,

pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that

split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed

the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.


Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke.

Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was

little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit.

It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.


Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her

body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.


Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming

her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing

outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big

enough to let a little air in.


She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of

the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back

and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into

the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it.

Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be

some way to get out.


The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing

at her eyes.


She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to

adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed

to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped

her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming.

Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting

stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.


Her eyelids shut.


The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silence she could try so hard to cultivate in

times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to

worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .


Being.


She could feel the past again.


Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had

lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments

had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old

occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had

perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over

the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.


Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the

window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to

the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering

loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to

realize that she was standing on the edge.


Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming.

The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she

tossed it.


Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between

sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she

thought.


Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped,

feet first toward insulation.


The world seemed to freeze.


Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation,

smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself

hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor

below.


She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body

slammed into the wall.


The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke

stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window

at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against

her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later

she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy

black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas

can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall

where gas dribbled down.


A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice

her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky

breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the

handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.


The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered

across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.


She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching

on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on

glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably

down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.


Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned,

and weak.


Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several

minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard,

farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long

dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something

to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.


And then the world faded to black. only come from God. She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to bring the car to life.


She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.


Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car, and she took off into the night—


—chasing after him.


Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.


Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik had gone.


Nothing.


Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.



The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the glass. Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was

ready to drink again.


He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat, ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared? Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in prison twenty years ago.


He thought about the girls and how much money they would bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine. Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when theiron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.


Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the other.


He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing

sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.


A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it in the armrest.


Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being followed?


There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror. The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a moment, its silhouette fully revealed.


A beige station wagon?


The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized in size, then began to grow.


Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting down a dark street.


He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense. But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.


Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.


He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.


His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t see anything except . . .


A beige station wagon?


This had to be dealt with.


Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.


She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights up ahead and—


Brake lights.


Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car, leaving the distance unfilled.


What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.


It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver would get out to confront another—only to have someone get shot in the middle of the street.


Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—


There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.


She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.


Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now, groping in the blind spots of her gift.


Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.


She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there, and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—


Vodka.


A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.


Gripped by the neck like a club.


Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment to . . .


Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.


She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door. The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.


He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of a pungent vodka bottle in his right.


The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered her response.


She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side, slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.


She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping. Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.


Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle. She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body, trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand, clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching for his neck.


He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s swinging attack, then stood.


Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.


And then he ran.


Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering against his face and arms.


Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.


No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety. Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.


Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?


Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix this or it was going to cost him his head.


Hannah tore after Dominik.


Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She couldn’t let him get away.


She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard, chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and drizzle.


He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and continued her pursuit.


Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.


Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle, hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance, hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.


She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.


The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe ten—watched her rush at the fence.


“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”


Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence, pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the front yard.


Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was nowhere to be seen.


What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have taken a different turn.


She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.


This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night. Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying to think. She needed to know where he had gone.


A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling lazily past.


The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge, and the world didn’t even know enough to care.


She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.


But it didn’t work like that.


Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign power and...”


No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.


No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation of God to do something else . . .


“Listen,” she whispered to herself.


She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts filled with her calling and mission.


No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.


She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on God.


The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.


Listen, she said to herself in her mind.


The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a pedantic march.


Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing. A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact. Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t hurried or forced into action. Listen, she thought again. And then she heard. Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . . Leading away . . .His ragged breath wheezing— Removing him from the scene. The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind— Remembering the thud of blows. The ringing slaps to tender faces— The sobs pounding into his brain. The house that he had been working from. Creaking from the strain. The place he was returning to.


Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.


There.



Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To know for certain they were here before she did something that might spook Dominik.


She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee table—like a doctor’s waiting room.


Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.


A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for. Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.


Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room— the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here. At least no one ate here.


Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials, needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of medicine, reading the label.


Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.


There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy wind.


Dominik exiting out the back.


She thought about following him—but this was what she was looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to do it here.


There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.


The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it was her purpose.


Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily, revealing a virtually empty room.


An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets thrown across it in twisting heaps.


And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had been happening here.



Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side, ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself to the stack of tools.


A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a deluge of tinkling barbs.


There.


Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole can to swing in a wide arc.


It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.


It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease wasn’t in any of their names.


Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object, removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was enough fuel.


A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in the rain.



Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering. And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.


The walls remembered what had happened here—and they were closing in.


“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling with the torment of it all.


And she felt something else: another calling—


She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging latch that had been left undone.


She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.


She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.


Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and she looked around.


She thought she might never start breathing again.


Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.


Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor. Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.


Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open, and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face of the girl who had clung to this bear—


Maybe fourteen years old.


The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.


Whoever these people were—she would stop them.


Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find them.


Then she heard something.



Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder and ear, and reached for the gas can again.


“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.


“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.


“Who?”


“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where I was going.”


“What are you talking about?”


Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet, sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She followed me. Chased me back to the house.”


“You ran away from a girl?”


“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere. She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a trail of gas.


“What are you going to do about it?”


Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”


“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”


“I’ve already started.”


“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click, and the line went dead.


Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.

Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.


He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for that seemed more useful than ever.


Hannah took another step back.


Someone was in the house.


They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.


She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before. Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.


There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny smell.


She took another step back.


Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below. What were they doing down there?


Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.


Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?


Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions. To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She could act.


Then she heard it.


A click.


She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls moving down the stairs. They were leaving.


Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood. It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.


She was trapped.



Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold, and the thick bolts would stay in place.


He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.


The lighter came open with a snap.


His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.


There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds, fire consuming up the stairs.


Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets and zipped it as he walked away.


Hannah knew something wasn’t right.


She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.


Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.


Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent ofmelting plastic and burning synthetics.


Then the floor started to get warm.


Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.


She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered it—the rain smacking down just beyond.


The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,

pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.


Arson could work so much faster.


She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.


Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.


Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her

body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.


Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big enough to let a little air in.


She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be some way to get out.


The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing at her eyes.


She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.


Her eyelids shut.


The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silenceshe could try so hard to cultivate in times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .


Being.


She could feel the past again.


Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.


Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to realize that she was standing on the edge.


Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she tossed it.


Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she thought.


Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, feet first toward insulation.


The world seemed to freeze.


Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor below.


She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body slammed into the wall.


The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall

where gas dribbled down.


A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.


The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.


She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.


Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, and weak.


Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long

dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.


And then the world faded to black.


My review:

Just as good as the first in the series, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The premise of this series is that the people who came back to life when Jesus rose from the dead stayed alive, and their descendants have supernatural powers and are given the duty of protecting mankind. There are three groups and each group has a special power: one has the ability to see the past, the second has the ability to see what is going on in the present, and the third can see into the future, just a few minutes. There is a lot of action and suspense in this book, and it also shows what happens when people do and don't work together. A very enjoyable read, and I could not put it down.