Surfacing

Anne.

He dragged the graphite across the page. Dark curls swept back from her face, kept in place by carefully placed ties. That was the easy part—he could see her hair so clearly, whether it was ruffled by the wind or damp from the rain, or fanned out across the pillow where she lay. So he would start with the shape of her face then sketch in her hair in long, broad strokes. Always capture the movement. That was what he remembered: the subtle movement in her curls as she titled her head, or turned back to gaze at him.

The cell phone on the nightstand rang. Michael set down the graphite and book on the bed beside him.

"Yes?" he said as he pressed the receiver to his ear.

There was a pause on the line. Heavy breathing suggested someone was there, but though Michael waited, no one spoke.

"I suggest you start talking—I don't like people who waste my time," he said.

A man cleared his throat. "Um…Mr. Parry?"

"Parris," Michael corrected.

"Parris," the man said quickly. "Right, of-of course…Parris… My mistake, I just—"

"I also don't have a lot of patience."

"Right, of course not, sir. I'm calling with regards to a…a 'request' I heard was attributed to you—a special request so to speak." He paused, as if giving Michael a chance to take over.

Instead, Michael remained silent. There was one sure way to get himself in trouble: assume the caller knew more than he actually did, and accidentally give away important information in the process. Best to keep quiet and see if the man was fishing for information, or if he had something useful to say.

"I heard about the request of a Mr. Parris through certain…let's say 'channels' that I have available to me. I think I might be able to help."

"I'm listening."

"Right, yes, Mr. Parris. Now I don't mean to be rude, sir—and I'm sure you can gather, this is rather awkward—but the information you were looking for is on the sensitive side, and there is the matter of payment to consider…"

Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up straight. No one merely trawling for information, or with any dangerous intent in mind, would be so concerned about the money. At least not anyone Michael was worried about finding him.

"You get half upon delivery of information, half when I find what I'm looking for."

"That wasn't what—"

"Those are the terms," Michael cut in.

"Very well," the man replied with a sigh. "What you're looking for is headed for a town—a fairly small one. Southern Ontario. Your quarry seeks something there."

"And how far are they from their destination?"

"Not far. Plane landed in Toronto about an hour ago. They're on their way, and…and by all accounts, sir, if you don't mind me saying, these are dangerous people. I'm still not sure I should have done this…"

"The name," Michael said, keeping the man focused. "What's the town called?"

"Newhaven."

Michael committed the name to memory. He hadn't heard of it before, but then he didn't know Ontario particularly well.

"Is that all you'll be needing, Mr. Parris?"

"Have you something else to tell me?"

A pause.

"There was someone else there—in addition to the four you were looking for."

"Someone else?"

"A man," he continued. "Or so my sources say."

That didn't make any sense…

"You're certain that—"

"Yes, absolutely. Quite certain. The four you are looking for were headed to Newhaven, and there was indeed a man accompanying them. And that's not all."

Though Michael waited, the caller didn't continue. "And that something else would be…?" he prompted.

"Someone was following them."

Michael sat up straight, his fingers tensing their grip on the phone. "Who?"

"That I don't know, Mr. Parris. But someone has been following all five for awhile, it seems." The man cleared his throat again. "Now, sir, about the—"

"Who did you hear about me from?"

"Why…I shouldn't—"

"Who?"

"Bacha…Laurie Bacha, Mr. Parris."

"Good. Contact her, and she'll wire you the first half of your payment." Michael hung up without another word.

There were others—one accompanying the four, and even someone following them… And if they were who he thought they were…?

This was it; Newhaven was it. At first, he thought the four of them were heading there for one of the girls, but if another man accompanied them—probably the one who sent them in the first place—that suggested they would be staying in the area for some time…that the Children were already gathered in one place.

And time was running out.

He dialled a familiar number—one of the only ones he knew off by heart. After three rings, a woman picked up.

"Yeah?" Laurie said brightly, which surprised him, as she tended to be asleep at three in the afternoon most days.

"For once your channels seem to be useful—I got a lead a few minutes ago."

"Oh, I'm so glad something of mine could be of use to you," she said, her tone mock-sharp. "So you know where you're going?"

"Toronto, to start with."

"Ah, well. Could be worse. At least you don't have to stay in Jersey."

"I suppose that's true."

"Security's tight now though, you know. If you give me a couple days I can have a new passport ready—"

"It doesn't look like I'll have that kind of time…" As the minutes passed, Michael felt himself grow more and more anxious, and he pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stood to start packing his luggage. "I'll use the old I.D.—I have to catch the next plane out of Newark."

"But you're sure that's safe? You don't know how far this reaches—"

"They aren't traveling alone, Bacha. They've got their employer with them."

"What—"

"That would only happen if they were settling there. And you can guess what that means."

"Three girls there together then. Shit."

It was a sentiment Michael could easily echo, but there were more important things to take care of than lament something he didn't have control over.

"What do you need from me, then?" she asked, always ready to work.

"Have my things ready for shipping when I give you an address."

"Uh…and about customs?"

"Bribe them," he replied.

"Right, easy for you to say—you're not the one doing the bribing."

Michael took the last of his clothes from the hotel room dresser drawers and tossed them in his suitcase, covering the .44 Magnum and box of ammo.

"Oh, I imagine I'll be doing some."

"Be careful, okay Parris? This isn't sounding good…"

"Stop worrying."

"Well, that's just what secretaries do. We worry."

"You're not a secretary—you're an assistant. Secretaries have offices and get cakes on Secretary Day, which as you'll recall, you don't."

"If I'm an assistant, I'm definitely due for a raise, then."

"Consider yourself demoted for the time being."

"And if I bribe your stuff through customs in a timely fashion…?"

"How about you try getting it packed in a timely fashion first?"

"You're on. Call me when you're settled."

"Will do."

Both parties hung up unceremoniously, as they were beyond wasting time with "proper" goodbyes at this point.

Laurie will come through, he thought, zipping up the larger of his two suitcases. Laurie always came through; often with plenty of complaining, and occasionally not as swift as he'd like, but she was there for him. And while he intended to give her some extra money after she sent his belongings to Newhaven, it would be less of a raise and more severance pay. She had been with him for nearly four years now, and that was already too long. Soon she'd notice certain…"things" were amiss. Best to move on before problems arose.

After tossing the toiletries from the bathroom into his overnight bag, Michael cast a glance around the hotel room one last time. That seemed to be it…

And his gaze fell on his open sketchbook. Anne. One of these days, he'd snap. He knew it. He'd just leave the damn book—and images of her—behind and be on his way.

But that day was not today, and he tucked the graphite and book in his bag. Once more he pulled out his cell phone, this time dialling a local cab company. Ten minutes later, he was on his way to the airport.

After his plane landed in Toronto, Michael went immediately to a car dealership to purchase a suitable vehicle. He received the usual sorts of looks from people wondering how someone could be paying with cash and yet show no interest in haggling for a lower price. No one actually asked, however—it was amazing how much faster things went with a little extra money as an incentive.

Three months of hotels had worn away at him, and Michael was eager to finally have a place to settle. How long he would be "settled," though, he couldn't know for sure; long enough that he was willing to spend a full day seeing different residences in Newhaven looking for an appropriate place. Toward the end of the day, one of the last stops on his tour of buildings for sale came in the form of an old brick warehouse, currently being cleaned and gutted for a planned series of apartments.

The surprise of the car dealer paled in comparison to the shock of the real estate agent when he announced he would be purchasing the entire building, rather than wait several months for one of the proposed apartments. Though at first she tried to dissuade him, one call to the building's owners and a signed cheque later, and she didn't say another word about it. The deed was his, and he wasted no time arranging for contractors to section off a few additional rooms, patch up the loft, and install a kitchen and bathroom.

Left with a few weeks while his new home was being completed, Michael spent his time attempting to locate his quarry before they found what they were looking for…and with any luck, determine who sent them.

Much like the sword of Damocles, there was something heavy over him, and he was painfully aware it could drop at any second. Somewhere in the quiet town of Newhaven, there were three girls who were not only in trouble, but were probably unaware of the threat against them. Three girls, and their time was running out…

And then there was Michael, who mostly wished the damn sword would fall already and finish him off so he didn't have to worry about it.

---

All he saw were her large, hazel eyes staring at him. Hating him. Accusing him.

There was blackness everywhere else. Blackness that threatened to consume him at any moment—to bite down and tear him from reality, then swallow him whole, dropping him into an abyss. Darkness and her eyes. Her eyes and darkness. Always there, always following him.

Somehow he was running, one foot after the other, hitting the black, empty void beneath him. He wasn't going anywhere, and yet he ran. Her eyes were everywhere. Haunting him. Why did she glare at him like that?

Maybe he was running from her…but no, she only followed. There was no use—she'd always be there. He should give up. Just let go and fall down and let her consume him. She would win—she always won. Even dead, she would not let him go.

Michael closed his eyes, replacing the blackness around him with memories. Forget that she was out there, waiting for him… Don't run from her, Michael. No, forget all about her…run to someone else. Run to Anne.

God, he missed Anne. But she was nowhere to be seen, not here, not in oblivion. Not in hell. Anne would never be here. And though he squeezed his eyes shut and willed her to appear, she wouldn't emerge. He was alone.

His feet pounded down on something solid. He didn't open his eyes—he knew outside of him there was still nothing. But he was wrapped up in memories again—memories he didn't want, but ones that would not let him go.

A stone floor beneath his feet. The greyness took shape and now there were walls around him too, narrow and seeming to close in on him. He stood outside of a short row of cells. The place was all too familiar, and he stopped running. Stood straight, terrified. Breath coming in short spurts. Heart pounding. Why end up here? Why always this place, with her? Why not Anne?

He moved forward again, step after step, until he was next to a door. The cell beyond was dark, and he saw little through the bars but a shadowy figure huddled in the corner. His conscious mind left him as a distant memory took over and swept him along.

"Is that you?" came her cool, rich voice, as brash and unafraid as ever.

"You know it is," was his quiet reply.

In the darkness, he saw her form straighten and step toward the door; shoulders back and chin raised proudly. Her long red hair was matted and tangled into a frame about her round face, winding around her bony shoulders and skinny arms. She'd been captive for a fortnight, and she looked it. A filthy, torn shift was the only protection offered her otherwise naked body, and by the look of the bruises and singed flesh visible, its ability to shield from harm was painfully minimal.

"And why is it you are here?" She cocked her head to the side as she interrogated him, showing even in such a degraded state, she was in control. "Have you come to express your victory?"

"Once more, you know the truth of it. I haven't."

"I know nothing about you, it seems."

"Why are you still here, Elizabeth?" He shook his head sadly. "Simply leave. You could be far from here by daybreak, and none would find you. I will not tell a soul. You have my word."

She leaned in close so her face was nearly pressed between the bars, her hazel eyes rapt with fire and narrowing in on him. "It was your word that put me here. I care little for your vows."

"Elizabeth—"

"I am too weak, anyhow," she continued, dropping her gaze to the bars of the cell door's window. Her pale fingers reached up to clasp the grimy iron, and she tightened her grip. "Too weak. I would not get far before they found me." She met his eyes again, fury simmering below the surface. "I should think you ought to return to your home now. I am certain you would not care to be caught here."

"I never wanted this…" How he wished she could believe him, but the proud glare to her eyes told him she never would. "Elizabeth, I—"

She reached through the bars to press her index finger tip to his lips. What should have seemed a simple, harmless act, unnerved him. The truth was that, even in this state, he feared her.

"No more words," she shook her head, "no more words, not from you. It shan't do you any good. I am here now, I will die in three day's time, and you will regret what you've done." A calm smile overcame her lips, and he found himself taking a few steps back, eager to get away from her. Soon he was retreating, his feet pounding faster and faster against the ground, body suffocating with fear.

"And somehow," she called in his retreat, "I will see it. I shall feast on your regret, Michael"

"Michael!"

Michael opened his eyes and found himself staring at a red brick wall. Sheets were tangled about his legs and sweat on his brow; it was as if his running in his dream extended to real life as well.

"Michael, pick up the phone already," came a voice from the direction of his answering machine. He reached toward the nightstand and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle.

"I'm still in a different time zone than you, Laurie," he growled into the receiver.

"Oh, whine, whine, whine," she said with a sigh. "You got your stuff?"

His belongings had safely arrived at his new home in a manner that was timely for Laurie…which meant three weeks after he told her to send them overnight express.

"Yeah, they're here."

"Good. I gotta go pack up the rest of your books from the apartment…got a flight tonight. Ridiculously late. And have I mentioned I hate Hong Kong? Because I do. A lot. Like, really. I'm not sure I'll forgive you for this."

Michael glanced at his bedside clock. Four a.m. his time, nine for Laurie. He sure as hell didn't fucking care if she hated Hong Kong—if he wasn't firing her already, he'd give her an even worse place to go for calling him.

"Anything else before I slam the receiver down on your ear over waking me up at such an hour?"

"I just wondered how things were going. Like if you found anyone yet or not."

Michael sighed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and sat up straight. He wouldn't be going to sleep after speaking to Laurie—not when she reminded him he had a hell of a lot of work to do.

"No one yet."

"What's the hold up?"

"Uh, small town where I don't have a single contact."

"Good point. And I don't suppose anyone is wearing a big ol' sign that says, 'Hey I've got special powers—come rescue me!'"

"Not that I've seen, but at four in the morning I'm willing to believe anything's possible."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Talk to you la—"

Michael hung up the phone.

He was wasting time. He knew it. But knowing and doing something about it were two very different things.

It wasn't that he didn't know the source of his reluctance. He did. He knew what finding them could mean…

Go home, he thought. Go back to your life. Forget all about this. Let it go. Who cares if the world goes to hell? He certainly didn't. His world was already gone…

But no. No, he had spent too much time preparing. He had to find those girls.

And what if I'm too late? He didn't know how The Brethren even knew where to find them. Michael had spent so long trying to locate the girls, and had to eventually resort to following his opponent. He had no idea where to look…

Or you can keep following The Brethren.

He just had to find them, and they would lead him to their targets. And how hard would it be to find four assassins in Newhaven?

---

The answer was "very hard."

Not too many people were willing to be forthcoming about whether or not they'd seen four men that Michael couldn't even describe. A fake I.D. identifying him as R.C.M.P. didn't get him anywhere either.

He checked the papers daily. Surely if he was too late, he'd find a new story about the murder of a young woman or two. But nothing turned up…

Nothing until one late evening when he drove home from meeting with another useless contact. As his car sailed along the road, down a back street, he saw a teenaged girl racing along the sidewalk. Auburn hair flew behind her, tall black boots pounded on the pavement. He wasn't about to pay her any heed, when he saw her turn and glance behind her, a look of fear in her expression. Following her gaze down the street, Michael saw four men following the girl.

Shit.

He swung the car around and the girl paused as he pulled up beside her.

"Get in," Michael said.

She reached for the door, and then their eyes met.

The girl backed up in terror at the sight of him, and bolted down a side street.

Well, that must be the Seer. Michael sped after her, cutting off her pursuers.

It came as little surprise that with a car now following her as well, the girl freaked out even more. The street stopped in a dead end, a dark brick building blocking her from continuing. She spun around, hair whirling then settling about her shoulders as she froze. The knapsack on her back slipped from her shoulder, and the strap came to rest in her hand. She tightened her grip on the improvised weapon, ready to attack. Michael stopped the car, popped open the door, and got out.

"Get in the goddamn car already."

The girl shook her head. Her wide-eyed gaze travelled behind him, and Michael knew without looking that her pursuers had caught up with them.

"God fucking dammit," he muttered with the roll of his eyes. He pointed to the girl. "You, stay put."

He slammed the car door shut and stalked toward the men. Non-descript black clothing, blank stares, no expressions, and each with an identical silver knife. Yep, these were definitely the latest offering from the Brethren. They weren't after Michael himself—he could walk away right now and be fine. But since he stood between them and the Seer, his life was essentially forfeit.

Though appearances could be deceiving, of the four men, Michael was only concerned with the younger two of the group. They couldn't have been over thirty, and even if they had less experience than the elders of the group, they were bound to be faster, more agile. At that moment, it was speed Michael was more concerned with.

Best not to waste time, he thought, and proceeded to rush at the group. Though he reached for his jacket pocket, he realized he hadn't brought a single weapon with him. In retrospect, it wasn't the smartest decision he made that day, but there was little to be done about it now.

Michael took a swing, which easily connected with the older man's face, his fist hitting bone. The man's head snapped back, but no sense of pain registered in his eyes. A chill rolled through Michael at that look; he'd seen a lot of things, but there was something positively disturbing about someone who didn't seem bothered when Michael hit him.

Soon he was amidst a blur of attacks, and instinct took over completely. Block. Counter. Block. Block. Kick. Block. Avoid the slash of a knife. Bear a punch to the kidney. Try to block the next hit.

One on one, he could take any of them. Two on one would be successful as well. But four on one wore down on him heavily; while he wouldn't admit he was losing, he knew even a stalemate at this point would be a blessing.

While he fought with the others, he caught sight of the girl in the corner of his eye. The flash of movement drew his attention momentarily, and he saw her skirt his car and attempt to pass them. Unfortunately, as Michael noticed her, so did her pursuers.

Stupid girl…

He elbowed and shouldered his way past the two men that attempted to pin him in place, and grabbed a third by the arm, swinging him back into the group behind him.

"Goddammit, I told you to stay put!" he managed to yell before his attention was diverted by another attack.

A sudden sharp pain in his left side slowed him down considerably. Michael sucked in a breath and punched the man in front of him hard enough that the guy fell down.

He felt around his side, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife.

Apparently deciding their quarry was no longer of interest to them, the group of attackers took off. Michael yanked the weapon out of his flesh. The blood pooled around his fingers—it was bad, though he'd be fine. In for a long night of aches and little sleep, sure, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Will you get in the car now?" he said to the girl, holding his side and wincing with pain.

She stared in silence for a few moments, then nodded and slipped in the passenger side.

"Where do you want me to drop you?" he asked once they were on the road.

"The bus station?"

"Not happening."

"I'll leave if I damn well please."

"You're needed here."

At this, she went silent. Her fingers drummed nervously on her knee, then fidgeted with the hem of her short pleated skirt, and at last she felt around the pockets of her black bomber jacket until she found a pack of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke?" she said, the end of one cigarette between her lips and a lighter poised in her hand.

"Doesn't bother me."

She lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply, then breathed out, filling the car with swirls of grey. A few more puffs, and her nerves seemed to settle considerably.

"So who the hell are you?" she asked, leaning back in the seat and watching him warily.

"Someone who's trying to help you. Do you know why you were being followed?"

She took another deep breath of smoke as mulled it over, then shook her head. The pause suggested to Michael she suspected, but didn't trust him enough to say.

"I'll explain what I can…" He considered launching into the details right then, but his side ached. Bringing his hand away from the wound, he saw nothing but blood.

"That looks bad," she said. "You okay?"

"I really don't like getting stabbed," he replied dryly. "But I'll live."

"Yeah," she said with a small smile. "S'pose you will."

"We'll meet tomorrow, around noon. There's a Coffee Time on Main Street."

"Okay."

"You'll be there?" he said, remembering her request to head to the bus station.

"Yeah. Might as well, right?" She pushed the remainder of her cigarette out in the ashtray, leaving a stub stained in her dark red lipstick amongst the ashes. "Let me out here."

He pulled up next to a twenty-four hour drug store. The girl stuffed her cigarettes into her beat up backpack.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, thinking, though what her mind debated, he couldn't say.

"Merri," she said at last.

His gaze fell on the shoulder strap of her backpack, where "Swanson" was graffitied in ink along with peace signs and various other simple drawings.

"McCreary," she said quickly. "Meredith McCreary."

"Michael Parris," he said, offered her his non-bloodied hand.

She hesitated for a few seconds, then took his hand and shook it. Clearly eager to get away, she let go of him and pushed open the car door.

"Merri," he said.

She froze, grip tightening on her backpack, body tensing to run, all as she looked back at him again. Her brown eyes, lined as they were in black and shadowed in a smoky colour, seemed particularly huge and fearful as she stared at him.

"I don't care who you are or what you're running from," he said honestly. "All that is irrelevant. I'm here to help you."

She didn't say anything for a full minute then at last nodded her head. "I'll see you tomorrow, Michael."

He watched as she exited the car and headed into the drug store.

You'd better show up tomorrow…or we're all damned.

---

"You must learn patience, Parris-san."

As Michael slept, the old man's voice echoed in his mind.

How could he not be considered patient? After all this time? Stupid man didn't know anything. Michael was the very definition of patience.

But patience did him no good in the water now. Void of sound, of sight and smell, even of feeling, he floated there under water, suspended in place, unable to find his way to the surface.

"Patience…"

Fuck you, old man.

"True Patience requires faith. Faith that you are patient for a reason—a purpose. And you lack that faith. You cannot wait for the right time because you don't believe it will arrive."

I know what will come because I decide my fate, and no amount of your crazy ramblings will change my mind about that.

"Too much is at work. Too much that you cannot control. If you are patient, you will understand that everything that was done to you was for one purpose only."

I'm glad I slit your fucking throat.

"But I do not die that easily, Parris-san. My voice is never silent in your dreams."

No, I should have cut out your goddamn tongue, too.

The old man chuckled.

Get out of my head.

"If you are patient, you will see. You will understand. You have a higher purpose—you are needed."

Just wake up, Michael…wake up, and it'll be gone until the next night, the next dream…

"But perhaps it not only a lack of faith that drives you to disbelief…perhaps it is fear."

I seem to recall you were the scared one when you saw the knife.

"Because the paradigm that has been your life and situation would shift drastically if my words were true and that frightens you."

Michael tried to struggle now. The water gave him nothing to grip, nothing to help him, but he wouldn't be deterred.

"If Anne was gone for a reason—for the greater good—you could not bear to face it."

If I ever see you in the afterlife, I'll kill you again.

The water gave way now, and up he went. No light pierced the dark depths, but he knew somewhere above him was the surface. Light. Air. Land. Warmth. Life.

Anne.

His face broke through the water to the surface. He sucked in a breath, and liquid popped in his ears as he swallowed.

And Anne waited for him by the water's edge.

She reached out for him, stretching her pale arm toward him, offering her open hand. But though he tried to swim toward her, he seemed to be treading water in place.

"Anne—"

"I'm always here," she said, smiling sadly.

An icy hand gripped his ankle and dragged him back down into nothingness.

---

Michael sipped from his cup of bitter black coffee and checked his watch. Twelve-thirty. It was possible the Seer wasn't coming. To make matters worse, he had avoided taking anything stronger than a couple of aspirin for his wound, and now his side ached horribly. At least it wasn't bleeding, though.

The chair across from him scraped against the floor and a figure sat down. She set a cup of coffee down on the table, and wasted no time grabbing the sugar.

Michael did a double take, and nearly asked the girl to sit somewhere else when he recognized Merri. She had dyed her hair a dark brown and pulled it severely back. All her dark, dramatic make-up was gone, as was her eclectic jewelry. Even her clothes were different styles all together—punk boots, short skirt, and bright halter-top were exchanged for simple jeans and a faded lavender T-shirt. She was dressed to disappear, but that she sat in front of him suggested she planned to stay.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, stirring the sugar into her drink. "Still finding my way around town."

"That won't hide you from them," he said, nodding to her clothes.

"They're not the ones that scare me," she said dryly and took a gulp of her coffee.

"They should."

"How about you explain who they are, and we'll see how I feel about them then?"

He explained what he could—about what she was, that there were others like her, and how there were people out to kill her. She took the news well, but then he expected no less from the Seer. Of the Children of the Apocalypse, she was the one most likely to have grown up with strange abilities, seeing things that others couldn't, reading people around her… She made describing the situation far easier on him than he expected the others would.

She nodded as he finished up. "Okay. Sounds about right. Now do you mind telling me what—"

"Yes, I mind," he interrupted, anticipating what she was about to ask.

"But you're—"

"When you're ready to reveal what you were doing prior to my finding you yesterday, I'll let you in on my situation."

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "That seems fair. None of my business, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly."

"So I guess we have to find the other two girls now."

"One would think."

"And you don't have any information about them?"

When he didn't speak immediately, he knew she suspected there was something he wasn't telling her, but that wasn't a conversation they would be having…yet.

"They'll be about your age," he said at last. "And given that the people after you have settled here in town, I'm willing to bet they live here as well."

"High school starts in about a week," she said. "I guess I should start looking there."

"Probably."

"And I won't be able to tell there's something different about them? No freaky auras? Nothing helpful?"

"Not that I've ever heard."

"Okay then, way to give me nothing to work with," she said with a grin. "If I see or hear about any girls exhibiting strange, magical behavior, I'll put them on the list."

Merri no doubt thought they were looking for a needle in a haystack. Michael only wished it were so, but already forces drew him forward, and someone beckoned to be found. They should have a clear idea of who it was soon enough.

"So do we have a base of operations?" she asked.

"I guess my house will do."

Merri drained her cup. "Got coffee?"

"You bet."

"Well, let's go there, then."

Michael finished his coffee, and the two of them stood and headed out of the shop.

If you are patient, you will see. You will understand. You have a higher purpose—you are needed. That is why you live. But perhaps it not only a lack of faith that drives you to disbelief…perhaps it is fear. Because the paradigm that has been your life and situation would shift drastically if my words were true and that frightens you. If Anne was gone for a reason—for the greater good—you could not bear to face it.

But that is the truth, Michael. Anne is dead. You live. And no matter the monster Elizabeth drove you to become, it was all for a reason. You have a purpose.

Though he was awake, the old man's voice still drummed loudly in his head.

But, much like in sleep, Michael ignored it.