Devil's Dance: A Nephilim Thriller, #2

By Jeff Altabef

Following an amazing new technology engineered to make people smarter, a series of gruesome murders occurs, and a mystery develops that's so dark, it threatens everyone.

• GOLD MEDAL WINNER: Readers' Favorite Book Award - Fiction - Christian - Fantasy/Sci-Fi

A war is brewing between angels and demons, and like it or not, we'll all have to choose sides. Steven Cabbott, a Nephilim born of a fallen angel father and a human mother, has chosen the side of angels, a curious decision for a killer like him.

Still, an angel promised him that redemption is possible—even for him—and the angel needed warriors on his side. Did he tell the truth? Steven hopes so, but doesn't know whom to trust. Nonetheless, he must solve the mystery behind a series of gruesome murders before it's too late, because he's certain of this one thing: everyone's soul is at stake.

If you like Jim Butcher, Michael Anderle, Shayne Silvers, or K.F. Breene, you'll love the critically acclaimed "A Nephilim Thriller" series.

EVOLVED PUBLISHING PRESENTS an intriguing, thrilling look inside the great battle between good and evil, possibly leading to the End of Days, with the second book in the multiple-award-winning "A Nephilim Thriller" series of supernatural thrillers.

US Review of Books says, "This second book in the author's 'A Nephilim Thriller' series continues to draw readers into its supernatural-tinged dystopian storyline with its fast action, creative plot, and well-developed characters. The author dives deeper into and expands on the religious, mythological lore of angels and demons and succeeds at making it palpable and relatable without being too hokey. The idea that technology can be used as a vehicle for evil is an old concept, but it's particularly appropriate and clever in this novel."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781622531394

Jeff Altabef

Jeff Altabef lives in New York with his wife, two daughters, and Charlie the dog. He spends time volunteering at the Writing Center in the local community college. After years of being accused of “telling stories,” he thought he would make it official. He writes in both the thriller and young adult genres. As an avid Knicks fan, he is prone to long periods of melancholy during hoops season. Jeff has a column on The Examiner focused on writing and a blog on The Patch designed to encourage writing for those that like telling stories.  [AUTHOR OF: A Point Thriller Series; A Nephilim Thriller Series; Chosen Series; Red Death Series]

Book preview

February 9, 2042, 11:42 PM

Buses are better than trains for wandering, and that’s what I’m doing, wandering. People who know where they’re headed use trains. Trains move in straight lines. Buses meander. They touch remote places and sometimes they even break down, which adds a bit of unpredictability to my travels. They’re also a good way to keep a low profile. I’m pretty sure the angels can find me if they want, but the demons will have a harder time tracking me down, so it’s good to keep moving, to wander.

For the last two months, I’ve chosen buses at random, but tonight I felt compelled to take this particular one. I even waited three hours for two others to depart, and I’m not much for waiting. I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing, or maybe the Fates are up to their old tricks again. Nothing is certain in these uncertain times.

What angels call the Great Struggle is coming—a war between angels and demons for humanity’s future. Whether consciously or not, everyone will choose a side. I’ve already chosen mine—angels over demons—a surprisingly difficult choice under the circumstances. I wonder if I’ve made the right one.

There’s a rub with me, a monkey wrench in the works, a burr in the saddle as people used to say. I am a killer. Even worse, I enjoy killing. It’s an odd situation for me to be in—on the side of angels. But Father Paul, who was no priest but an angel in disguise, said God required warriors for the upcoming war. He also promised I could be redeemed—that God would look beyond my past and see what’s in my heart. I’ve taken that as good news, but there’s one glaring catch. What if I can’t change? What if pure darkness fills my heart? What happens then?

I want to do good, but violence still plagues me like the stink from bodies in a shallow grave. And certain habits are hard to break. At least the voices that troubled my mind for so long have vanished. That’s a good thing. They usually wanted me to do something bad. Although, if I’m honest with myself, sometimes I miss them.

The mostly full bus rumbles down the Southeastern coastline. The rigid plastic from the cramped seat digs into my lower back. I’m not particularly tall or wide, so it’s not the worst conditions I’ve endured, and at least no one sits next to me. You never know who’ll sit beside you on a bus. Grooming isn’t a priority for bus goers, and I like my space. Space is important to me.

No one on board looks like a threat—not anymore. A large fellow with a crew cut and a tight brown goatee keeps glancing over his shoulder at me. He has lively eyes and wants to connect.

The bus slows amidst some traffic and the bulky guy stands. He’s wearing a brown hooded sweater that looks oddly homespun. Those in the ghetto would describe it as a drug rug, although I don’t sense any drugs in him. He takes up the entire aisle and then some. His size fits him though, as if he’s supposed to be that large.

He smiles at me. Do you mind if I sit with you for a while, Brother?

I only paid for one seat. Suit yourself. I even move over an inch to give him a bit of room. We both know it won’t be enough, and my heart’s not really in it.

He settles next to me. Part of his shoulders and stomach spill into my area, and he sticks his hand out toward me. My name’s Hank.

Steven Cabbott, I respond, using my mildly interested voice. When I make no effort to shake his hand, he lets his fall to his thigh.

I see you as a fellow traveler. Someone who understands the value of being present.

Present? What’s my choice? If there’s a better one, I’m game.

Look around you, Brother. He waves his right paw in a circle above his head. "Almost everyone else is wearing one of those new entertainment visors connected into some cloud or the heavens or whatever. I lose track of the latest terms, but it doesn’t matter. The bus could drive into the ocean and they’d only know if their visors told them they were off route. They have no awareness of the present. They’ve been lulled into a fantasy world to avoid the stark reality of the here and now. It’s sad."

And you think I’m different?

You’re not wearing a visor. You haven’t been on the phone or absorbed into a tablet. And excuse me for being observant, but you paid cash for the bus ticket. A rare thing these days.

True, I say. And you’re in one of those anti-technology groups that tries, and inevitably fails, to live simply. That explains your clothes.

He tugs on his oversized sweater. Not exactly New York City fashion worthy, but it’s real. And yes, we try to limit technology in our lives. It’s a worthy goal, and one, as you suggest, that we cannot fully realize. Not in this lifetime anyway. Still, we try. I’m with the Order of the Present. Not all anti-technology groups are the same. Although I guess one way or another, we can all date our origins back to the Luddites from the early 1800s. He chuckles. Could you imagine what they’d think now? Things have become worse than they could have imagined. Nightmares realized, I’d say.

I’m not sure if he wants me to answer his question. Quite frankly, I have no opinion on the Luddites and don’t offer one.

He removes a pewter flask from a pouch sewn into his sweater and lifts it toward me. Moonshine. The best this world has to offer. We distill it ourselves. Want some?

I don’t detect any harm in him and a little booze sounds good. I take a small pull from the flask. It’s smooth. Most moonshine I’ve had burns.

We make it the right way, with real ingredients and a recipe that’s been handed down for hundreds of years. I’ll tell you a secret. He lowers his voice. We add glycerin to the formula to give it that silky feeling.

I take another pull and swish it around in my mouth before swallowing. It is good, and you’ve made it from rye.

We’ve won the International Award for Moonshine three years running.

I sense bullshit. Really? I’m surprised it wasn’t four years.

Certainly, we would have won if there was an award for moonshine and we entered it. He grins and takes back the flask. Since you know so much about me already, I’m at a disadvantage, Brother. What do you do?

A simple question that raises complex answers. I’d rather tell him what I no longer do. I’m no longer in the Army, no longer act as a spy for a special operations group, no longer work in private security for the country’s elite.

I’m an investigator, I say because it fits well enough. After all, I investigated Megan’s kidnapping for Kate, so that’s as good a definition as any.

He nods knowingly. You’re a private detective. Like in the old-fashioned books. A gumshoe, I believe they called them. A seeker of truth.

He points out the window to a private road and an electrified gate armed by a dozen private security guys. That’s the entrance to Peterson Technology. You wouldn’t believe what they’re doing there.

I’ll play along. What?

We’ve got a guy on the inside in their research department, and it’ll make your hair stand on end. They make all those visors everyone seems to have now that they’re giving them away for free. How do they manage that?

No one loses money these days, I say. They make it back on advertising, or maybe they use leprechauns as slave labor. I hear they’re branching out from shoes.

Perhaps. Or maybe it’s worse than you suspect.

The bus passes another gate, manned by two guards, with brick buildings lit in the distance.

What’s that? I ask.

Peterson University. The company uses it to develop the next generation of researchers and workers. The leprechauns.

The bus turns off the main road and down a less traveled street. I shoot Hank a sideways glance to check him out without him noticing. While he’s studying the window, a frown darkens his face, which looks out of place. I get the feeling he smiles a lot. A blue light flashes in his brown eyes like a flashlight down a dark corridor. It only lasts a moment, yet it steals my breath away.

Hellfire burns in demon eyes. If I look at them closely, I can see the crimson blaze. A blue light lit Father Paul’s gaze. I only saw it twice, but I suspect that type of light flashes in the eyes of angels and those working with them.

The bus slows as it stops in front of a station.

Hank stands with a groan. They make buses for midgets. Come on, Brother. I believe this is your stop.

That’s good because the bathroom is busted.

I noticed that myself. By the way, you have something on the sleeve of your army jacket.

Good to know. I wipe the blood off with my hand.

A few hours ago, I spotted a demon on the bus with me. A skinny dude dressed like a workman with paint splattered on an old sweatshirt and pants. He was no painter though. He wore a fancy pair of leather boots without a drop of color on them. Too nice for a workman on a bus, and he stunk like sulfur with eyes that flickered red with hellfire. I don’t know if he made me or not, but he paused when he passed me on the way to the toilet, so I paid him a visit.

My knife is washed in holy water, so it works on demons. I took him by surprise and slit his throat. He thrashed about and scratched my side, but he’s in hell now. I couldn’t let him live. If he noticed me, demons would besiege me in no time. People absorbed in technology isn’t all bad. No one noticed the scuffle, or at least, no one glanced my way when I left the bathroom. That’s another advantage of riding a bus. Generally, they’re filled with a don’t ask, don’t tell clientele.

The angels call this fight the Great Struggle, but it’s a war, and wars require killing.

That’s where I fit in.

I’m a Nephilim—born from a human mother and an angel father—in my case, a fallen angel father. That makes me special and particularly effective at killing demons, or even angels if need be.

Hank retrieves a hemp sack from the luggage rack above us, squeezes through the aisle like toothpaste out of a tube and off the bus with a groan. I grab my duffel and follow him. Five others get off the bus before it shuts its doors and lumbers on its way. Only one person got on.

Hank arches his back and takes a deep breath. You can smell the salt water from here. Of course, it’s stronger on the pier by the ocean, but I’ll take what I can get. The best part of a bus ride is getting off. They always smell like food that’s been kept too long. After a while, it starts to turn my stomach.

I’ll try not to take that as an insult, I say. I showered this morning and everything.

Hank grins. Good. I didn’t mean it as one.

The bus station is a small, cinderblock, toad-like building, painted lily pad green, with an attached parking lot with two-dozen spaces. It totally lacks personality. Two wrecks, disguised as sedans, are parked at the end of the lot and look like specs of burnt crust on whole-wheat toast.

Not exactly Grand Central Station, I say.

This is about as busy as it gets.

The station is closed. A flat screen, the size of an SUV, stands by itself. White letters on a red background tell us to report any Un-American Activity to Homeland at once. It’s a crime not to report terrorist activity, which encompasses anything the government doesn’t like. The symbol of the Originalist Party, the Constitution in a scroll, rotates underneath the words.

The sign switches to an advertisement with a blue background. It reads: Are you lost? Need a place to stay, Steven Cabbott? Tap your ID here for the best suggestions.

Hank points to the ad. Homeland must have read your ID and they know you’re not from here. You have to give them credit though. They’ve stumbled upon a good question, Brother. Are you lost?

I step close to the big man, only a few inches away. He outweighs me by sixty pounds and is a good four inches taller than me, but I’ll take him down if necessary. I don’t know how he fits into things yet. The blue flash might have been my imagination. It’s possible he’s no friend after all.

I’d like some answers, I say. You didn’t sit next to me because of my magnetic personality or my movie star looks. What does Father Paul want?

What indeed? It’s quite the question, Brother. Unfortunately, Paul never really tells us, does he? His kind seems so hooked on the freewill thing. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. Freewill is overrated, is it not? Look what we’ve done with it. Life would be a whole lot better if he’d just tell us what to do. Yes, that would be better, but sadly he doesn’t see it that way. He says that violates our freewill. I don’t see what’s free about it. It costs us quite a lot.

I grind my jaw. He told you to contact me, didn’t he? There must be some message he wants you to pass along. Some instructions, perhaps?

Yes, I see how a seeker of truth would become frustrated with the state of play. Seekers like clarity. It’s what you do—make the unknown known. Yes, but clarity is hard when faith is involved. Faith operates like a fog that obscures what’s underneath. Paul just told me I’d find you on the bus. I must say he didn’t give me much of a description. Still, you stood out, and I’ve already passed along his message.

Maybe I missed it. What message?

That you should get off in Peterstown. That’s all he wanted.

Why?

It’s always hard to pry the why out of him, Brother. I’ve stopped trying. He lowers his voice a tad. Between you and me, I think Paul’s knowledge is quite limited. He likes to be cryptic, but in the end, he only knows so much. After all, he’s not an archangel.

Archangel? I didn’t know there are different kinds of angels.

Oh, certainly. You’ve got to read up. I’ve heard tell of three archangels, Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. I haven’t met any of them. Not sure I want to, but I think we have three on our team.

Our team. Let me guess, the Devil has some on his side.

Now you’re catching on. There are seven all together. So—

The Devil has four? I say. One more than us.

I’m happy to see your math skills are good. I don’t know all those names. I’ve heard of Uriel. You don’t want to run into him. He seems like a real peach. I’m sure one is a woman.

Nice tip. I’d avoid all of them if I could. Are you really in this Order of the Present, or is it some type of cover?

Cover? Hank tugs on his sweater. Do you really think I’d wear these clothes just to have a cover? It’s like wearing a giant Brillo pad. No, Brother. I’m a true believer. We’re letting technology run our lives, and it’s not for the good. Do you know what they can do with those visors?

I shake my head.

They can change the way the world appears. Much of the country is digitized now, so they can make real things look different. Suddenly, buildings appear as if they’ve been painted or in repair. Old cars that barely run are transformed into new models. People are dressed in new clothes. Heck, it’s like living in some virtual video game. They want to transform reality into a myth, an alternate version of events. That’s sick.

It’s not all bad. A little fantasy can go a long way.

I’m not talking about an escape in a good book or a movie. This has gone too far. And when people can’t trust their eyes, evil has a way of filling in the gaps. The country stinks with it. It won’t be long until we’re forced into the Great Struggle, Brother, and then we’ll have to fight for the souls of all humanity. It would be best to prepare yourself for the inevitable.

If I’m supposed to be here, the inevitable will happen soon.

An ancient, white pickup stops at the curb. At least it started off as white. Large swaths of rust bully aside the original paint. A man dressed in a similar hooded sweater as Hank sits behind the wheel.

Where’s the horse and carriage? I ask.

Hank laughs. We all have lines we cross, don’t we?

Usually, but I have no lines. It’s one of the things that has made me so effective over the years. I’ll do what others won’t. At least that was the old me. I guess I need a new me now that I’m on the side of angels, but old habits are hard to break.

Am I supposed to come with you? I ask.

He grins. I surely doubt it. I imagine Paul would have told me something like that. No, I think you’re supposed to head to town. He points down the main street. Go a couple of blocks that way and you’ll run into a few shops. Keep going and you’ll hit the pier. After that, you’ll get wet.

I’m not in the mood for a swim.

He places a paw on my shoulder. I’m sure our paths will cross again, Brother. Until then, keep fighting the good fight. If you need me, the Order has a campsite in the abandoned state park on the other end of town. It’s mostly swampland filled with mosquitos, but we’ve fixed up a few of the buildings that used to house the information center and such. It’s not much, but it’s our base. It’s where we make the moonshine.

He sticks out his other paw, and this time I shake it.

Be careful, he says. People have started to go missing in this town.

Missing? I’d tell you I’m surprised, but we just met, and I don’t want to lie to you. There’s a reason Father Paul sent me here, and I doubt it’s for the rustic charm.

Good luck with your investigations, Hank says before he climbs into the pickup. The truck ambles away with a belch of exhaust and a groan from the rusted undercarriage. I’m surprised it supports his weight.

When the taillights disappear, I swing my duffel securely over my shoulders and head to town. The bus station serves as a dividing spot between the residential area and the business district. Across the street is a gas station. From there to the water are mostly businesses: a number of stores, a few tourist junk shops, one liquor store and a place that sells locally sourced honey.

Moisture and salt make the air soupy. Two blocks from the bus station, the first signs of life appear. It’s late, but one restaurant, a fried seafood shack, is open, and a bar teems with life. Light spills from inside and blares against a dark background; music and the sounds of people radiate from the place. Three new, black SUVs built to military specifications line the curb in front.

The local establishment takes up the first floor of a well-maintained, old, gray Victorian house with a wraparound porch. A red neon sign in the window says it’s Ranger Rick’s Salon. Another sign says, Grunts are Welcome, and a third says, Squids have to pay with cash!

I notice a theme. An Army vet must own the place.

A flash of blue catches my attention and then a fourth sign, a small neon one near the door proclaims, Present Moonshine is Sold Here.

It could be a coincidence that Hank offered me that moonshine on the bus and that the shade of blue in the sign matches the light that burns in angel’s eyes, but I don’t believe in coincidences.

I step into the watering hole and instantly feel at home. I’ve spent many long nights in places like this: comfort food, rivers of beer, friendly bartenders. Not a fancy place, but welcoming. Everyone needs a place to relax, unwind for a bit, even if only for a few hours, and this one provides just that. Classic rock plays from a jukebox and my head bobs to a familiar beat.

When I scan the tavern, I know I’ve come to the right place. A familiar face anchors the corner of the bar—a ghost from my past.

Hank said people have gone missing in this town, and now I’ve found someone I thought I lost.

Strange how the Fates work.

Conrad Peters smiles as Maria pushes his wheelchair down the hallway. His long, thin frame fits comfortably inside the luxurious confines of the chair. He doesn’t need her to push him. The blasted thing is battery operated and can practically hover over the ground if he wants. But he likes having her do it. He likes having young, pretty women around, catering to his every wish. And why the hell not? He deserves it. They’ve named the entire town after his family—Peterstown. Heck, they own almost the entire thing. At least the parts worth owning, and the girls are better off for just being near him. Well, until they aren’t.

Let’s pause here for a second, my dear, he says. They stop in the center of the executive hallway, right underneath his three favorite portraits—one of his grandfather, his father, and him when each took over the company. The genetic connection between the three is obvious, all three with the same handsome looks, strong chins, and thick, black hair. Conrad’s hair has turned white, but it’s still thick, and if he squints, he still resembles the man who took over the company in his forties. With a bit of effort, he turns from the paintings and gazes out the window.

It is magnificent. A hint of a Spanish accent lilts in Maria’s voice.

Conrad won’t argue with her. He let his son, Alistar, design the new Peterson’s headquarters. The buildings on the sprawling campus are constructed of glass and steel. Even the inside walls are made from a new, clear plastic composite. At night the place sparkles like diamonds littered across a black velvet canvas.

Tourists travel from across the country just for a tour of the place. The dorms, where most of the workers live, glisten in the distant hilltop. Alistar made them luxurious. He wants his people well taken care of. He even spent money on gyms, entertainment spaces, restaurants, and outdoor gathering spots. A large, state-of-the-art amphitheater acts as the heart of the campus. Located in the center, they fly in music groups for concerts and have the board gala there each year. Everything costs money, but in the end, it all adds up to pennies on the dollar. Content workers lead to better results. An investment well spent.

Sure, Conrad added a few touches here and there: secret spaces in the basement for the most important research projects, surveillance equipment throughout, and he designed his own penthouse apartment. But the grandeur of the Peterson Headquarters is all Alistar’s, as is the vision for the company—a vision that’s taken it from a market leader to a world-dominating powerhouse. Conrad is happy with Alistar’s success. It’s a testament to his genes. One day, Alistar’s portrait will hang besides his, transforming three into four. One day soon, but not yet.

Alistar’s vision and brainpower makes it all work. There’s no denying that, and Conrad would feel confident that his company is in good hands if his only son wasn’t such a candy ass. Alistar wants to make life a better experience for the masses, the stinking worms that don’t deserve it. And now, he wants to elevate those worms to new levels. It’s enough to turn Conrad’s stomach, but he’s willing to play along so long as he gets what he wants. And he will get what he wants. He always does.

Bobby Ray, his nephew, totters toward him, looking distressed as always. He’s dressed in a pale blue linen suit and cream-colored shirt. A couple dozen extra pounds roll around his stomach, making him look like an oddly colored pear with skinny legs and arms. When he was a child, Conrad held out hope that his only nephew would amount to something. That hope faded a long time ago. The truth is that Bobby Ray is a dumbass. Plain and simple. He’s useful in his way, but he’s as dumb as a stump.

Bobby Ray, sweat plastering his forehead and cheeks, stops a few paces before Conrad. His eyes, usually dusty brown corridors, are lit by a frantic energy. He speaks in a southern drawl that instantly annoys Conrad. If I can have a minute of your time in private, sir.

Conrad turns to Maria. If you can give us a little privacy, Maria. This won’t take long, so don’t drift too far away.

Maria nods, and Conrad admires her figure as she leaves. She’s young. Her curves will eventually develop more fully from the modest lines that have only just started to form. Still, she’s got a good ass, firm, athletic. A promising start.

When she disappears behind a doorway, he reluctantly turns back to Bobby Ray. It’s late for you to be out. I’m surprised you aren’t screwing that whore you like so much.

Bobby Ray grinds his jaw. At least it’s a sign of life.

I’ve been married for thirty years now, Uncle.

I know that! Do you think I’ve lost my mind? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always enjoyed humping whores. I just think it’s stupid to marry one.

Let’s not have that argument again. Sheila’s not a whore.

I should have whipped some sense into your father when he told me you were going to marry Sheila. She’s a total loss for the Peters gene pool. Nothing good will come from her genes even if they mix with ours.

Dad passed twenty years ago, so I guess you can catch up to him in the next life.

Don’t think I won’t! Now, what’s got your panties in a bunch? You look like a girl who just found her prom date screwing a cheerleader.

So far, the modifications you want to the chip seem... unreliable. Once we access the program, it can go off randomly. It’s a big problem.

Conrad twists his hand on the chair’s arm. Do you want me to go down there and stick my boot up some geek’s ass?

That’s not going to help.

Well, get the nerds to fix it. You don’t have much time. Alistar is making the announcement soon. You know how impatient he gets, and we’ll start mass production shortly after that. If they don’t fix it, a whole mess of people are going to die for no reason. And that’ll be on you.

Yes sir, I’ll get them to fix it. Bobby Ray rubs his hand through oil-slicked hair and glances outside the window.

Out with it. I know there’s something else. You’re easier to read than a carnival barker.

It looks like someone has discovered what we’re doing. He’s an employee.

That’s mighty sloppy of you.

They gave him access to fix the air conditioners, and he may have stumbled onto something he should not have seen.

Handle it like you’ve done the others.

Bobby Ray nods. The numbers are starting to add up.

If you keep fucking up, you might be next. Anything else, Nephew?

No, that’s it.

Great. Thanks for the update. Try not to fuck anything else up. We’re almost there, and then you’ll get your reward.

If I knew more about the objectives you’re trying to achieve, I might be of more assistance.

You know enough. Don’t stand there like a statue gathering dust. Get going. You’ve got work to do.

Bobby Ray totters away in true pear-like fashion, and Conrad shakes his head. Bobby Ray is blood, and that means something to Conrad. After you’re gone, blood is all you leave behind, and Conrad has been thinking more about his next life of late. Still, some days he wonders if keeping Bobby Ray around is the smart move. He hopes he isn’t becoming a candy ass like his son.

Conrad presses a button on his chair, and Maria returns. She strolls over with an easy gait, which is good and fine with him. This way, he gets to stare at her tits. He’s an ass man, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate other assets as well.

She smiles at him, showing no indication she notices where his eyes are locked. Shall we see the little devils? They so love when you tell them stories at night.

It’s a tad late for them, I’m sorry to say, he says. I’ll see them tomorrow.

It is sweet how you take in those orphans and educate them. They’re certainly lucky to have you look after them.

It’s the least I can do. And it’s only twenty at a time. Most go on to the university on a Peterson scholarship and end up working for us. Some people think I’m too hard on them. The youngest are only ten, and they wonder if I should be easier on them. What do you think?

She shakes her head. No. You push them so they can be their best selves.

It’s hard with orphans. You never know their genes. I have to be tough on them to separate the wheat from the chaff. I won’t abide slackers. Only the worthy ones continue in the school.

"They’re lucky you’re looking