A Pale Horse: The ARC Series, #1

By Michelle A. Sullivan

Mythology is True.

Magic is Real.

And every nightmare you ever imagined walks the earth.

The Watchers were tasked with protecting humankind. Instead, they lusted after them; lusted after their beauty, their creativity, their innocence. Some even took human women as their mates, but the children produced from this unholy union were unnatural, corrupt, wicked beyond redemption.

They were The Nephilim.

And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon and his angels, and they were cast out into the earth. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea, for they have come down with great wrath, and make war with the remnant of the holy seed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordCrafts Press
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393812784

Book preview

Chapter 1

And I looked, and there was a pale green horse. The horseman on it was named Death, and Hades was following after him. Authority was given over a fourth of the earth, to kill by sword, by famine, by plague, and by the wild animals of the Earth.

Revelation 6:8

Very good. Peter, can you hear me? The doctor hovered, slightly hunched, inches from his face, speaking softly with a sure calmness.

Yes, Peter breathed, a relaxed exhale in the affirmative.

Good. I’m going to count back from three to one. When I say ‘one,’ you will be aware, calm, and have full recollection of what we discussed during our session. Do you understand?

I understand.

Dr. Phillips backed away slightly and rose to her full height. A statuesque yet slender woman, the sweet tone of her voice did not match her confident, at times stern, demeanor, but it did serve to calm her patient and make him more susceptible to the much-needed hypnosis therapy.

And 3... 2... 1. How do you feel, Peter?

The young man lying on the couch opened his eyes, looking bemused. He blinked twice and then oriented his gaze on the smiling doctor, sheepishly returning her pleased look.

Peter Deveraux was used to the gurgly feeling he got in his gut when someone like Dr. Jo looked him in the eye. He wasn’t good around attractive women and sneaking furtive looks at pretty girls, never looking them full in the face for fear of death by embarrassed mortification, was all he could manage most times. Like now. He found himself looking—no, staring—at the incredibly attractive psychologist. She understood and withstood his gaze knowing how hard it was for him to look at her at all. Peter couldn’t help himself, and he drank her in as one would a priceless work of art that has only become more precious throughout the ages. He thought about how perfect she looked. She was an enigma to him, like all other women. He was still trying to get used to the fact that he could speak openly and confidently to her. Dr. Jo was not like other women. She didn’t embarrass easily, or at all, really, and she was easy to talk to. He felt safe with her. He knew he was in good hands. She was trying to help him.

So, doc? What do you think? I think that was one of the best we’ve had. Man, I feel like I have had the best night’s sleep ever. He punctuated that last statement by stretching and swinging his legs around, so his feet touched the floor.

Dr. Jo just smiled. I will lob that one back over the net to you. What did we learn during this session? She drifted casually over to the white oak bookcase behind her marble top desk and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark. She took a cloth, swiped at the inside lip of a rocks glass, and deposited two ice cubes.

Peter watched and smiled at the clink-clink the glass made.

More than I knew I had forgotten, that’s for certain.

She motioned to him an offer of his own drink and he nodded. She crossed back to him and offered the bourbon, taking a slow sip of her own as she sat. Tell me.

He stood and tested his feet, still feeling a bit confused by what he was feeling and by what he had remembered.

He raked his hand through his sandy hair, sipped his drink, and started, Well, I was having a conversation... He stopped as he tried to process what he would say next.

And who was the conversation with? she prompted. It’s alright, Peter. It’s just us. You know you can talk to me. Just continue with what you remember.

He felt a little relief, as he always did when she spoke to him. He pressed forward, deciding that the best way to proceed was to simply tell her what he remembered. He laughed softly and looked her in the eyes.

It’s crazy, and I know it can’t be right, but it was Michael. The archangel.

He shook his head and felt ridiculous saying it, but he knew without any doubt that he had spoken to the angel, and more importantly, that the angel had spoken to him. Other than a slight widening of her eyes, Dr. Jo showed no other emotions at this pronouncement. It seemed as if she were expecting something along the lines of what Peter had proclaimed and was greatly relieved to hear it.

Did you hear what I said? Peter asked her, trying to get some sort of reaction.

I’m right next to you. Of course I heard what you said. She took another slow sip from her glass, stirred her ice slowly with her slender index finger and said, What did Michael say?

Peter blinked. He asked me about that day, he started. It was just the two of us standing out front of my uncle’s place in Hammond, but then, all of a sudden, I was there, reliving everything.

She caught a hint of panic in his voice, and she willed a new wave of calm to assist his recitation. Go on, she said soothingly.

Peter felt a slight warmth and peace wash over him, took a deep breath and continued. July 4th weekend, 2006. My uncle Mike threw a big party at his house in Hammond every year. His eyes took on the glazed look of a person who was deep in thought. Dr. Phillips noticed his blank stare and wondered briefly if he was truly free of his earlier hypnotic state. She let him continue, silently vowing to stop him if he became distressed. Uncle Mike told us that the cottonmouths were moving around pretty good because it was mating season, and we were to stay on the dock at all times. My cousin Emily had a friend from school staying with her for the weekend. Stephanie... he recalled the girl, then paused like he was considering his next words. There were five or six of us at the end of the dock, doing nothing. Just goofing off. I remember Stephanie not wanting to get close to the edge of the dock because she couldn’t swim. My cousins got a little rough near her. They were arguing over who was going to feed the fish the last of the food my uncle gave us. Peter took a deep breath and continued. Steven pushed his brother into Stephanie. I tried to grab her, but she toppled into the water, and went under. I took my shirt off, kicked off my shoes, and hit the water. She resurfaced a little further out flailing and screaming. I didn’t think about the danger. I had been swimming there since I was little. I just thought ther was a girl who might drown.

What happened after you jumped into the water, Peter?

He looked up at her and took reassurance in her calm demeanor. Recalling the terrified girl, he continued. I swam to Stephanie. She was gurgling and crying as she came up. Her arms and hands were everywhere. She was so out of control and scared. I was able to hook my arm around her chest and pull her to shore. She stopped thrashing around when I started to swim with her. I knew everything would be okay after that.

Dr. Jo smiled at him, but his countenance clouded over, and he furrowed his brow.

She had lost one of her shoes, and she kept saying that she would get in trouble with her parents. I figured since I knew where she fell in, I should be able to find it. Peter continued, strained. Turns out I was right about finding the shoe, but when I got to the shallows, back near the dock, I stepped into a mating ball. It was so sudden and violent... Peter trailed off, and a lone tear escaped down his face. I was bitten so many times, and all I remember is pain. It really hurt, and I was scared. He looked at Dr. Jo, searching for the words to describe his nightmarish experience, fully reverted to his 13-year-old self.

Dr. Phillips closed the distance between them and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. The effect was immediate, and he continued his account.

All of the adults were on the bank and witnessed the snakes writhing around my legs and biting me. I didn’t remember this, but I was told afterward, he shrugged. The pain was crazy. They tell me that I got out of the water and collapsed. I remember being so weak. And blood. There was blood everywhere, and it just didn’t stop, he recounted, horrified. Peter was working himself into a panic with the retelling of his story. Dr. Phillips willed him to continue, silently comforting him with every breath, hurting for him all the while. This was too important to not see through to the end, she reminded herself.

What else do you remember, Peter? Dr. Jo asked him.

Peter looked over at her with a puzzled expression. Up until today, nothing. Now, I remember reaching the emergency room. Lights, voices. Lots of movement; being moved to one table, then another, he said. I remember pressure, shouting, and then—the pain faded, like someone slid a dimmer switch. I remember seeing a single light hanging above me, but it wasn’t the operating room light you see on TV. It wasn’t super-bright. It had a warmth to it. It didn’t hurt my eyes or scare me or burn me. The light got bigger and more pleasant, warmer, as the pain went away. I could still hear the doctors, far away, doing... something. All I could think about was the light. I wanted to see the source of it, to know where it came from. The more the pain went away, the further away the voices got, and the brighter the light became. It was all I could see. Peter seemed mesmerized, reliving his fascination with the light. He blinked and shook his head. Just light... it’s all I remember. The patient stood, a bit shaken, and took another pull from the drink he held.

The doctor said, Peter, sit back down. I’m going to try to put you under again, okay? Stay where you are right now, don’t leave the light for anything. She muttered something quickly and placed a solitary finger on his forehead. She knew that this wasn’t the right way to do it, but she didn’t have time to do it the right way, so it was the Other Way, for now. Peter, when I count to three, just like last time. 1, 2, 3. Tell me about the light, Peter. Can you see it?

She stepped back and got a good look at his face. By the glassy eyed expression and calm demeanor, Dr. Phillips knew that he was there, again. He could see, feel, hear, and most importantly, remember and process everything from that moment. Peter? You’re there, aren’t you? In the light? What do you see? What is there with you? Things were getting intense, and the waves of calm pulsated so steadily and rapidly from the doctor that they were almost audible.

Yes, Peter continued, I see a man. A man? No, that’s not right. Something else. An angel? It? No—he. He has wings. Wings. Are you an angel? Peter asked, remembering.

Peter, is he saying anything? The angel? Dr. Jo asked.

He’s smiling; happy. Laughing at me. Michael, like from the Bible... in Sunday school. He says I’ll be fine. Peter’s voice broke with sarcasm, Fine? Weird to tell someone who’s dying that they’ll be fine. I want to be okay, believe me. he said, frustrated, still entranced.

Is he saying anything else other than you would be fine? the doctor asked him, expectantly.

He says I’m special and that I’m not supposed to die. I’m going back. And something else—about my selfless actions. Peter looked surprised, and swallowed hard. My actions were selfless and have earned me a special honor, he said with a small smile. I’ve been chosen, he stated in an excited voice. Chosen for what? Peter asked, confused.

That was enough. She had done it. She touched his forehead again, impatiently. Peter? Peter. Look at me.

The glazed look left his eyes, and Peter zoned in on the pretty doctor. "Doctor Jo? What? You heard all of that, right? I remembered it all this time. Weird dream. I never got to the angel speaking part, though. Until today. Usually, I just died on the table in my version. What does it mean? What did he mean?"

At that moment, the smartphone on the doctor’s desk buzzed. She looked down at her watch. I’m afraid we went a bit over, and that will be Ms. Anders letting me know my next appointment is here, she told him. Please, Peter, remember to write any new information in your journal so that we can discuss it in the next session. She gave him a smile and a brief nod.

Can you tell me what all this means? Peter asked her.

I’m afraid I don’t know that yet, but we are unravelling the mystery, aren’t we? She was elated at their breakthrough, and her face showed it. She was positively glowing, and she gave his shoulder a slight squeeze as he picked up his journal and started for the door. She assured him, Peter, we are further now than we have ever been, and yet not nearly as far as we will go. I am here to help and guide you in your progress. Do you trust me? she asked, searching his eyes.

I do, he told her. I will let you know if I remember anything else, doc. Thanks.

As the door opened, Peter turned and gave Dr. Jo one last smile and felt a sense of calm wash over him when she smiled in return. You have my number. Call anytime, she told him, then she turned to the older black man waiting in the waiting room. You can come back, Abe. It’s nice to see you. she said to him, and smiled warmly as if greeting a dear friend.

Abe brushed past Peter on his way into the office and gave him a friendly nod.

See you next week, Peter? the lovely receptionist asked Peter when he reached the door.

Peter stopped with his hand on the doorknob, his heart beat wildly and his throat closed up, I... I... he stuttered and looked at the floor. Yes, he said quietly. He turned the knob and walked away without looking back. He didn’t see her warm smile.

Peter opened the door to the afternoon heat, and he could hear the bedlam of the New Orleans French Quarter from a distance. The Quarter was too much for many, even on the tamest of days. Peter knew well that leading up to and preparing for Fat Tuesday could be just as loud, chaotic, and frantic as the actual event. The city, his city, had a special place in his heart, which is odd for an introvert, he thought. Most large cities try to put their best foot forward—stately gentlemen, dressed to the nines and ready to wine and dine you with class and dignity and get you home at a proper hour—when tourists come to call. New Orleans? A crazy uncle who shows up unannounced in your driveway on a Friday afternoon in a hot red Jag that will whisk you away to a memoir-worthy adventure fit to make any of the big-city visitors blush. When Mardi Gras was in full swing it was NOLA’s best foot—the best the Quarter would be all year—and every raucous second would be a write-home-about-it moment for those involved, an ear-splitting, pandemonious, carnival affair with plenty of debauchery and drinks—lots and lots of drinks.

Peter would be making some final preparations for shutting himself away for the next two weeks. He did not like Mardi Gras.

Chapter 2

The sun was high, the Quarter was sweltering, and Peter groaned inwardly. Even though he loved his ancestral home on Governor Nicholls Street, and living in the old part of the Crescent City normally suited him well, he did not partake in the festivities. Many New Orleanians didn’t, sort of like a native of Las Vegas shunning the Strip unless company from out of town has come to see the sights. Being a shut-in was much preferred to being engulfed by the massive sea of drunken revelers that would wash over the area’s already barely-tolerable party streets for the next two weeks. Loud music, even louder people, and no sleep.

Eh, it’s not like I really sleep all that much, anyway, thought Peter. It gives me more time to work... so there’s that.

Peter’s home, the building at 529 Governor Nicholls Street, had been in his family for seven decades, ever since the 1936 state constitutional amendment that afforded the VCC power to go about preserving and protecting the Quarter’s history and landmarks. His grandfather, Pierre-Jacques Devereaux, a diplomat and, from what Peter knew of him, a master negotiator that would make today’s heavy-hitters look like dilettantes, spearheaded the effort and cut himself a sweet deal on some of the properties left when the French Creole moved to the University district. The house at 529 was what was left to Peter, and he loved his grandfather’s legacy. The bottom floor had always been a business, rented to a friend or relative of Grandpa’s, up until a few years after Peter was born. Since he was six years old, the lower part had been occupied by La Cuisine Ouverte, owned and operated by a sweet family who made, in Peter’s opinion, the best food in New Orleans. Rose Manette was the current occupant, and when not serving her customers, she was serving the Quarter’s single residents as matchmaker. She seemed to have a particular mission to find a mate for Peter, much to his chagrin. Peter loved Rose like another mother, but wished she would leave well enough alone. She knew he had a painful shyness that dogged him where the fairer sex was concerned, yet she refused to relent. The dates she arranged for Peter usually only lasted long enough for a cup of coffee and an awkward, mumbled conversation, many times followed by Peter spilling something or getting the hiccups. That was if he even showed up. Normally, he couldn’t muster the courage.

Although Peter loved women, he lacked whatever the thing was that allowed a man to talk to them. It was nearly impossible for him to even approach a girl, let alone have a conversation. The lone exceptions in his life currently were Dr. Jo, his assistant at Guardian, Tammy Pryde, and Momma Rose. Other than them, he couldn’t think of a recent time when he was able to put more than two sentences together. Luckily, Peter thought, Rose was older and matronly, in a nice way. If he couldn’t talk to her, he would starve to death.

As he walked down Canal, he was lost in his thoughts and did not see the couple being ushered out of The Saint Hotel by the stick-like doorman. Motion to his left caused him to flash back to reality, and he noticed the woman first. She was exquisite; athletic, bronze, redheaded, and shimmery—and rapidly coming towards him. He made a move to sidestep the lady and was startled by the blast from the horn of a waiting taxi. He jumped, and as would be his luck, he ran right into her, knocking her backwards. The man, who had stopped to say something to the doorman at the Saint, only frowned and shook his head.

Peter gathered himself and awkwardly reached out to help the women steady herself, but she brushed him away as if he were a bothersome insect. He could tell from her manner that she was a very independent person and would not be requiring his assistance—his or any other man’s for that matter. She gave Peter a haughty look.

Excuse you. she said in a disdainful way.

Peter, a little stung by her reaction, attempted to speak, but then he fell into the most striking set of eyes he had ever seen. The woman was quite a bit shorter than his six-foot frame. He stood there looking down at her and tried to think of something to say.

Words, thought Peter. Say words.

The polite thing to do is apologize for almost knocking me over, she prompted.

Peter found his voice finally and muttered, I’m sorry. Well, two words, he thought. Yay.

Yes, I can see that. she said in a cold voice, then sighed noticing his discomfort. You should be more careful. A fall in these, she pointed down to a pair of deathly-spiky, peachy-colored high heels, could have ruined them—and me. They looked torturous, in his opinion, which was in keeping with what he was imagining to be her personality.

They look dangerous to me, and sort of impractical.

Well, they can be, she admitted. "But they make this outfit, don’t you think?"

Peter looked at the stunning woman, who did seem to be perfectly color coordinated, right down to her jewelry, and only then realized that he had spoken his thought aloud.

He gulped and pressed on, I think they are lovely, and if you are planning to go into the Quarter in them, a big mistake.

Jimmy Choo’s are never a big mistake, the woman said, feigning an offended tone, yet her eyes gave him the impression she was attempting to be playful, and he thought he recognized a teasing glint. She was making sport of him, nothing more. Just then the handsome man returned for her.

Poydem lyubov? he asked her in what sounded like Russian to Peter.

What? Oh, Max, you know I have a hard time with Russian. She pouted prettily. She answered Peter’s questioning expression, Maxim wants to know if I am ready to go. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her sunglasses, gestured broadly to the late afternoon street and said, Have a grand evening, Mr...? she prompted.

Devereaux. Peter Devereaux. And you are?

Magdalene Preston, but my friends call me Maggie, she said with a wink.

Maggie. A pleasure. Peter backed a step from the couple, taking the measure of the large Russian as he did, and addressed them both. Hope you two have a fun evening. He turned back to the pretty redhead, adding, Don’t let the shoes kill you. He thought and added, I think I would have chosen something... he paused as if thinking of an alternative. Pragmatic, he finished with a smile. At any rate, have a good one. He turned and continued down Canal Street, whistling as he went. He watched her reflection in the window as he walked and saw her looking at his retreating figure with a piqued expression.

Maxim noticed her gaze follow the local man toward wherever he was going, and took exception to the fact that her gaze was not on him.

He looked at the retreating Peter and asked, Would you like I hurt him? He knocked you down, almost.

She smiled up at Maxim, No. He was just an aggravation. Let’s not spoil our evening. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then she lay her delicate hands atop both of his broad shoulders and shook him, as if to wake him up. Let’s go have some fun. She gave him a flirtatious smile, and they got into the cab that would take them into the quarter.

Peter was stunned. He had talked to her. Whoever her actually was.

What kind of name was Magdalene, anyway? He wondered why he wasn’t discomfited at any point in their conversation. This is big. he thought. Giddy at this new ability, he stopped walking. I was able to talk to her without swallowing my own tongue. If I could talk to a stuck-up, rich tourist girl, maybe I can talk to a nice girl the same way.

It had been a red-letter day as far as Peter was concerned. He picked up the pace of his walk, and he let the late afternoon sun wend its way down his face as he considered his multiple triumphs. First the return of the memory of his dream with Michael, and now his encounter with this mystery woman—both breakthroughs happened in one day. Peter was elated with his progress and wished that he could tell Dr. Jo. She would understand how important it was, and she would commend him on his bravery.

For 13 years, Peter had been fighting a losing battle with his inner demons, Doubt and Fear. He remembered all too clearly his accident and the trauma and pain it brought him. He could not let himself be near any of the girls in high school because, as Dr. Jo put it, he associated the pain from his snake bite and near-death experience with a girl. Girls utterly paralyzed him with fear.

As it turned out, this ended up being a good thing for him. Less/no girls meant no distractions and no sidetracking from his ambition to become an engineering student. He was to be an engineer, just like his father had been. Along the way, though, he gave in to what turned out to be a very lucrative impulse. Peter had always been interested in movies and comic books with sci-fi and fantasy themes. From the time he attended his first Comic-Con, he had been fascinated by the world of cosplay and replica design. Peter didn’t have the courage to actually be a cosplayer, but his company had developed a reputation for being the finest outfitter and replica weapons and equipment designer in the world. They had done work on the highest grossing films and most successful TV shows of all time, all while developing new technology. Peter was well-known and quite wealthy, and he had done it while mostly not having to talk to women.

But today he had. Maybe this was the breakthrough that Peter had been waiting for. At that moment a group of young women on their way to the Quarter overtook Peter from behind. As they walked past, a very pretty blonde stopped the group amid some animated conversation. Peter stopped as well, watching this play out, just out of earshot. The blonde turned to walk back towards him, with the giggles of her group following her. She walked up to him with sparkling blue eyes and a thousand watt smile—and he couldn’t breathe.

Oh, no, he thought. This has to be a mistake. It’s happening again? Peter couldn’t believe that the old fear had engulfed him so quickly and completely, but here it was, big as day, and apparently here to stay.

She didn’t notice his petrification as she asked him, Are we going the right way to get into the Quarter? happily awaiting his response, unaware that he was fighting the urge to turn and run.

His throat tightened, and his chest felt heavy. He felt the blush creep its way up his face until he was sure he was as red as a beet. He couldn’t talk, only raise an arm and point in the direction the pedicab just took.

The blonde looked from him to the direction he pointed, and with a disappointed look motioned her friends to join her in the direction Peter pointed.

He heard one of her friends say to her, Oh my God. That guy was so rude. They don’t even speak to girls here? Brooke, you’re such a loser magnet.

Peter helplessly watched Brooke and her gaggle of squawking friends walk down the street. A little further on, the group elicited a catcall or two from some younger boys. That activated some giggles from the girls in response, and it seemed to be more the reaction they were looking for from the local men. Feeling at a loss again, Peter decided that walking home through the Quarter was not as pleasing a prospect as when he started. He hailed a pedicab to take him home.

Governor and Decatur, please, he said limply. Once seated, he leaned back as far as the seat would allow. He watched as he passed the same group of girls, giggling and dancing their way to the festivities. The partygoers were coming out of the woodwork, and soon the Quarter would be impossible for anything other than foot traffic. The parade would start soon, and the beads would fly from those on the floats and from those men who would like to see more of the pretty ladies on the street. Peter felt sickened by the spectacle that was his beloved NOLA at Mardi Gras, but he also knew how the neighborhood and the city would be benefiting from this debauchery. This was, after all, the most profitable time of the year.

Peter’s cab passed Jackson Square and was approaching the French Market. The smells on this side of town varied from fresh bread and beignets to the overripe smell of the Mississippi River. The pedicab came to a stop at a two-story white building with a wrought iron fence surrounding an upper balcony. It was bordered with hanging flower pots on the railing and a few selective flower arrangements outside a quaint restaurant. A lovely older woman was just coming through the front doors with a broom in hand to sweep the non-existent trash from the café area out in front of the building. She looked up as Peter emerged from the pedicab.

"Mon chou (Sweetie.). she said with a motherly smile, and rushed to greet him in a quick embrace, her broom knocking his elbow. How was your appointment today?" she asked him.

Peter smiled warmly at the older woman, who he thought of as a second mother, rubbed his sore elbow, and said, It was excellent. The pronouncement once again lightened Peter’s mood. I think I made a breakthrough today, Momma Rose, he told her excitedly. I remembered part of what happened after my accident, but that’s not all that happened, I had a conversation on my way home... he paused for dramatic effect, ..with a lady. He finished with a flourish. He grabbed her broom as if it were a guitar and gave it a triumphant strum. He bowed as he handed it back to her, but she let it clatter noisily to the ground. Rose was clearly stunned. Momma Rose’s eyebrows had nearly reached her hairline, and she had to sit on one of the vacant chairs.

She looked up at him and smiled, Thank the Maker for this blessing. she said, "I was beginning to think this day would never come. Your folks should have been the ones to receive this happy news, mon chou," she said, a little sadly.

Peter frowned and asked her, Which part?

She smiled at his serious expression and answered, "The part where you remembered your accident. Mon dieu. (Heavens.) It has been almost 13 years, and you could not remember anything except jumping into the water. Your poor mother..." She trailed off.

Peter’s mother never stopped hoping that he would come to terms with what had happened to him when he was a child, and she never stopped believing that the nightmares would stop. She was always his biggest fan, and right now, he missed her terribly.

I never had a doubt that you could talk to a woman. Rose’s statement snapped Peter back from his mother.

Is that so? he asked. How could you be so sure?

Because you have been talking to me for years. And you talk to Jeanne. There was no nonsense in her tone, or her statement for that matter.

I know, Momma Rose, he started, but you know it’s not the same thing. Peter raked his hair and looked uneasy.

She smirked. How so? Are we not women, Peter?

Uhm, yeah—yes. Yes, you are, but not in the—same way. Peter fumbled the statement as the blush rose to his face. I have to go, Momma. I think I hear the phone upstairs. He turned and fled into the open door of the kitchen and the stairs leading up.

"Petit menteur. (Little liar.) You haven’t had a phone upstairs in years," she laughingly scolded his back as he went. She shook her head, picked up the broom she had laid aside, and started to sweep the sidewalk and eating area. She said a silent prayer of thanks on Peter’s behalf and chuckled at his earlier embarrassment. She always thought Peter would make some lucky woman a fine husband, and she knew when he found the right one he would have no problem communicating with her.

Chapter 3

Dr. Jo watched Abe wave as he walked out of the door. She smiled and waved back to him, then looked at Bonnie, her receptionist, and said, Please call my afternoon appointment and reschedule. I will be indisposed the rest of the day. Today was big.

Bonnie smiled and said, Yeah, he almost talked to me today.

Dr. Jo smiled at Bonnie’s enthusiasm. I’ll be in my office. She turned and walked into the session room and went to the door in the far corner. As she reached the door it started to glow, turning the modestly lit office bright white. Jo opened the door and stepped through. Gone was the pencil skirt and smart, tailored blouse she wore to the office. In its place was a flowing gown of lightest pink. As she walked swiftly down the brightly lit hallway, the changes kept occurring. The glasses, the jewelry, and tight updo—gone. She gave her head a shake and let the wheaten tresses fall against her wings, laughing.

I really love being an angel. she thought joyously. As the Beauty of God, she most embodied the world’s idea, born of her prolific involvement in the Renaissance era, of the classic angel that appeared in art throughout the ages. Those wings, too, had materialized once she left the earthly realm, and as she moved, they gently brushed the floor. She was particularly fond of her wings—they were airy and gossamer and the lightest shade of pink on the ends. To her, it seemed only yesterday that she was hurrying down the same hallway awaiting news from the Master. As she moved, she retraced silently gliding to a massive set of doors at the end of the hall.

That’s where she found them; a group of warriors all huddled together, a captive audience anticipating the start of a play. They waited anxiously outside a set of massive doors that were 40 feet tall and solid gold, the finish a gilt mirror reflecting the light given off by the luminous floors and walls. Periodically, a colossal floor-to-ceiling window let in rays of light that cast everything they touched with warmth and brilliance. Only a moment passed and the doors parted swiftly and silently with otherworldly ease. A lone silhouette appeared, awash in the yellows and oranges pouring through the windows. He stopped when he noticed the amassed group, visibly steeling himself, he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward his companions. Upon his arrival the questions started.

Well? the largest of the six asked, expectantly. He was a brute; barrel-chested and expansive breadth, a behemoth of a form. He had a furrowed, sooty brow, chiseled yet dirty features, and a long beard which wove itself up the side of his dark face to a fastidious top knot of dark hair. He gripped the hilt of a scimitar which was currently sheathed and roughly half his formidable length. What did He say? he asked.

He was alright with most of it, Gabriel, but it’ll be a long road to redemption for Sam.

Gabriel huffed, not completely satisfied with the response, and offered, Surely—with a subject that is not always so willing to cooperate.

Can we help, Michael? The words came clear and loud from a figure almost as large as the first, with a long chestnut mane that moved with the force of his words. Michael turned and looked at Raphael, the newest speaker.

No, not directly, anyway. We are forbidden to help Sam. He must learn this on his own. Michael went on, We will be able to direct others into his path. They’ll be able to choose whether or not to help and in what capacity, he finished. We must allow them to choose. It’s the Master’s will that the spirit must move them to help—no outside interference.

Raphael looked at Gabriel, then back to Michael. What will humans be able to do for him? he asked Michael. Raphael had a less-than-optimistic view of man’s capacities and capabilities, and he was certain that the plan would be in jeopardy if left solely to them.

Michael thought for a moment and answered, They’ll be instruments in his redemption. Some will steer, some will work behind the scenes.

"So, we can’t be directly involved with Samael, but they can? We’re going to be useful—how?" asked Gabriel.

Michael faced Gabriel and put a comforting hand on his arm. Relax, friend. The Master’s granted us some leeway here. We can be involved in the lives of the humans chosen to help. We choose the humans for the mission.

How does that work, exactly? Gabriel asked, more ponder than query.

Michael smiled and answered, The Master will reveal them to me in their time. My job is to make a connection with them and assess their willingness. Once that is established, we can get them ready. Michael dropped his hand from Gabriel’s arm and turned back to the group. You will have your choice of humans from the Line of Kings; those without the taint. Pure. He emphasized the last, accompanying it with a knowing glance to his companions. Raphael and Gabriel looked puzzled by this cryptic announcement.

Gabriel scratched his beard and cocked his head to the side, quizzically, You are going to have to elaborate.

They are the true descendants of Shem, Michael told them. They are his personal descendants.

Marvelous. Gabriel said, clearly exasperated, and sarcastically chucked Michael on the shoulder. There are only, what? Seven million or so? How will we choose?

I’m glad you asked. Michael said with a grin. They will have already proven themselves worthy.

How? This query came from the back of the group. The others parted slightly so Michael could see the questioner—a stunning creature of humanly impossible beauty, perfect in form, with no flaw or blemish. Even among angels, no beauty rivaled Jophiel. She cocked an eyebrow at Michael and asked again, her voice a soothing singsong, How will these humans have been proven worthy to help our cause? While I’m thinking about it, will they know they are helping us? If so, will we be allowed to help them and teach them in return?

Michael’s smile broadened. Right to the point, he chuckled. "The Master will allow us to put together a team of Noah’s youngest son’s descendants who have