

### Bran the Blessed

The Stones of Song, Book Three

A Curse-Breaker Book

By William Woodall

## Smashwords Edition

© Copyright 2014 William Woodall

http://www.williamwoodall.org

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial,

Because when he has stood the test,

He will receive the crown of life

That God has promised to those who love Him.

James 1:16

Chapter One

"I had a really strange dream last night," Lana said.

"Yeah? What about?" Brandon asked, coming to sit down on the bench beside her. She quickly handed him a bottle of cold water, and he drank nearly three quarters of it before spraying the rest on his sweaty face. The blistering heat of an east Texas summer could make football practice a brutal ordeal, especially if you didn't drink enough.

The situation did have its good points, though. Lana's job as the water girl gave him a perfect excuse to spend some time with her now and then, as long as they were careful not to do anything overly affectionate in public. It was strictly against the rules for any exchange student to have a boyfriend, and certainly not an _obvious_ one. The need for secrecy was irksome at times, but unfortunately it couldn't be helped.

Lana waited till he was done with the water, and then told him about her dream.

"I saw a wolf with red fur, and he was running through the woods all alone on a cloudy day in the winter. I think he must have been running for a long time, because his paws were bleeding on the snow. Then he came to an open place and howled at the sky as if his heart was breaking. It was the saddest sound I ever heard. But finally a ray of sunshine came down through the clouds and lit up the clearing," she said.

She spoke almost flawless English, thanks to the fact that it had been a required subject in Leningrad Province every year since kindergarten. In fact, a stranger who knew no better might easily have mistaken her for a British girl instead of a Russian.

"That's definitely strange," Brandon agreed, furrowing his brow.

"So what does it mean?" she asked, with complete seriousness. Bran could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of people who knew about his gift for interpreting dreams and visions, but Lana Krisanova was one of them.

"I'll have to ask and see," Brandon said, and then shut his eyes to pray.

"Anything?" Lana asked, when he opened his eyes again.

"It's. . . weird," Brandon said, fumbling for the right word.

"Like how?" Lana asked.

"The wolf is me, which I guess is pretty obvious from the red fur. It means I'll have to go through some really sad and lonely times one of these days, but it'll turn out to be a wonderful blessing in the end," he said. It was a cryptic answer at best, but Brandon had long since learned not to ask twice. God had revealed what He meant to make known, and that was that. For Bran the gift was an old and familiar thing after all these years, no more remarkable than his double-jointed thumbs or his cherry-red hair.

"I _guess_ that's a good thing," Lana said, seeming less than enthusiastic about his interpretation.

"I guess so. You better not be speaking curses over my head, girl," Brandon teased, not wanting to make too much of it. Just as he hoped, her slight frown soon dissolved into a smile.

"You know I'd never do that, Beebo," Lana said, and then held up the first two fingers of her left hand. It was supposed to mean _I_ _love you,_ a secret code they could use in public when the actual words would never do. Brandon returned the smile, and then raised his own two fingers back at her.

His water break had lasted as long as he could stretch it at that point, so he quickly poured another bottle all over his face and neck before heading back out to the field. He wasn't too concerned about the strange dream and what it might entail, or at least not yet. As long as he knew it would turn out to be a blessing anyway, who cared?

He was too happy in those days to worry about much of anything, actually. He hadn't been in trouble at school in over a year, he had the best girl and the best family in the world, and God had showered him with more blessings and wonders than most people ever dreamed of.

Besides his gift of foresight, the greatest marvel of them all had been Cadron Pool, of course; the holy spring at the foot of Mount Nebo which could cure any sickness or injury. That Pool belonged mostly to his sister Lisa and her husband Cody, true enough, and Brandon's only real job was to carry the weakest and sickest visitors down into the water if they lacked the strength to do it themselves. But even so, he treasured his own small part in such a glorious calling. It was an awesome thing to see people with vicious diseases made suddenly clean and whole, to watch them come up out of the water laughing and weeping and praising God at the top of their lungs. These miracles of healing were some of Brandon's happiest memories, from a life which seemed rich and sweet as crumb cake in those days.

But there were creeping shadows just beyond the bounds of this bright and beautiful world. The evil witch known as Layla Garza still thirsted for vengeance, and there were others more than happy to assist her in spinning fresh webs of sorcery and deceit. Nor did he yet imagine the price in sorrow that would someday be asked of him for the sake of Love. For just as his brother had been chosen before him, so also Brandon was called to a high and lonely destiny full of blood and tears.

It has been told elsewhere how Brian Stone found his way at last to the Fountain of Youth at the heart of the world, and then drank of that pure and icy water. Of how God blessed him to live far beyond his years, young and beautiful till the end, and granted him the power to break for a little while the curse of the Fall, to turn men's eyes back to Heaven in memory of what was lost. Indeed, the tale of his deeds has been lifted in song by many a glad heart throughout the darkest corners of the earth since that day. Yet of all his mighty and wonderful works, none were greater in his own eyes than the moment when God gave back life to a dead little boy named Brandon, beloved by his brother above all things in the world.

But that was long ago, and Brandon himself rarely remembered these things anymore. He was content with his full and placid life, and except for the mysterious warning of Lana's dream he was still blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.

He was soon to find out.

## Chapter One

It was a dark and rainy night in late September when Brandon's life changed forever.

Everybody on the bus was singing along with old Garth Brooks tunes as they rode back home from Tyler after the game. It had been a good one; they'd finally crushed the White Oak Roughnecks, their arch-rivals, and Brandon especially was in a good mood. He'd been the one who scored the last touchdown with less than five seconds left on the clock, and the sweet taste of victory was still fresh in his memory.

"Hey, Bran, we're fixing to have a party over at Bobby Jones's place after we get back. Why don't you come over for a while?" Jason Lewis asked him. They were only a few miles from Ore City by then, and Brandon knew that Cody and Lisa expected him home no later than midnight. It was already almost eleven thirty, and besides that Bran himself was ready for a shower. His thick red hair was sticky with half-dried sweat, and he felt grungy all over. It had been a muddy game.

"I don't know about that, Jase. I'm supposed to be home in thirty minutes," he said. They'd been teammates and casual friends ever since eighth grade, but they'd never been especially close.

"Aw, come on, don't be such a goody-goody. Can't you call and tell them you're spending the night with me? They'll never know any different. I think we _deserve_ a party after that game we played tonight. You more than anybody," Jason urged.

"Well. . . maybe. Who all's coming?" Brandon asked, weakening a little. He hated it when people made him feel like one of those narrow, prudish Christians who didn't know how to have a good time. Yes, he was a church boy and a Promise Keeper and he played in a praise band and all the rest of those things, but it was hard when his friends made him feel like an outsider because of that.

"There won't be anybody there except some people from school. C'mon, it'll be fun," Jason went on.

Still Brandon hesitated, torn between the desire to celebrate with his friends and the desire to go home and go to bed. He wouldn't have thought twice about it even just a year ago, of course. He'd been surly, defiant, and downright impossible back in those days, till Cody and Lisa gradually loved him out of his bad attitude. Then some of the fire had gone out of his bright blue eyes and he hadn't wanted to be the black sheep anymore. For the past year or so he'd been a good kid, and the last thing in the world he wanted was to ruin that.

But temptation was strong, and he finally decided he could fudge things a little, just this once. He'd go to the party for an hour or so, maybe socialize and drink a glass of sweet tea or a Dr. Pepper, maybe relive some of the high spots of the game, and then he really _would_ go over to Jason's house and sleep on the couch. Just a little fun to celebrate the win, with no real harm done to anybody.

"Sure, why not?" he agreed, pulling out his phone to call Cody.

"What's up, Beebo?" Cody asked when he answered the phone.

"Hey, is it all right if I spend the night at Jason's place? I think we might get up and go fishing sometime early in the morning," Brandon fibbed. He told himself it wasn't technically a lie since he'd only said they _might_ go, and besides which, they might end up deciding to do something like that anyway.

"Will his parents be there?" Cody asked.

"Yeah, they're always at home. So can I go? I'll be back sometime tomorrow morning," Brandon said.

"All right. Just make sure you're home before noon, though. We've got hay to cut," Cody said. And so indeed they did; Cody was the owner of a thousand-acre cattle ranch named Goliad, and the work of a farm boy was endless, it seemed. Bran loved the place and didn't really mind all the chores it involved, but he had to admit they sure did cut into his free time now and then.

"Sure thing," Brandon agreed, and that was that. Jason had overheard the entire conversation and gave him a quick high-five.

"So, you ridin' with me or what?" Jason asked, and Brandon shook his head.

"No, I think I'll drive myself. I don't want to leave my truck at school all night, and besides that I might go see if Lana wants to come," he said. She hadn't been with them at the game in White Oak because of a piano recital, but that was all right. The water girl was technically a teammate just like anybody else, so there was no reason why she shouldn't get to celebrate, too. Besides which, inviting her to the party gave Brandon an excellent excuse to go see her.

"Oh, all right. You know where Bobby lives, don't you?" Jason asked.

"Yeah, I've been out that way a time or two," Brandon said. He'd gone hunting with Cody a few times down in the bottomlands along Cypress Creek, and that was less than a mile from Bobby's place along the same gravel road. It was good whitetail country down there, full of acorns and wild muscadine grapes and all kinds of other scrumptious deer delicacies like that.

"Okay. We'll be out in the barn, far as I know," Jason said.

It wasn't long till the bus pulled in beside the gym, and then there was a short burst of activity while people unloaded equipment or made last-minute phone calls or various and sundry other things. The rain was over by then, but it was still wet and breezy outside, with a crisp hint of fall in the air. Brandon put away his own gear before changing out of his muddy uniform into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. It was a little bit nippy to be so lightly dressed, but those were the only clean things he could find in his locker. Then he trotted off on foot, leaving his truck at the practice field. Lana's host family kept her on a pretty tight leash, which meant he couldn't just drive up to her front door in the middle of the night. He'd have to be sneaky about it if he wanted to see her so late, much less take her out anywhere.

But that was all right, too. The idea of slipping away together for a few hours without starchy old Mr. and Mrs. Jackson ever knowing about it was kind of fun, actually. Brandon might love Cody and Lisa too much to do anything _very_ bad nowadays, but he still harbored a certain amount of his old rebel attitude.

The house was only a few blocks away on Catawba Street, and before long Bran was close enough to see that Lana's bedroom light was still on. Good deal. He crept across the manicured lawn to tap on her window, hoping it wouldn't startle her. A dark shadow moved against the light, and then Lana herself parted the curtains to peer outside. As soon as she recognized Brandon she opened the window.

"What are you doing here, Beebo? I was just going to bed," she whispered, leaning out to give him a quick hug and a kiss. There was no reason to hide anything in the dark, of course, so they didn't try. Her waist-length brown hair fell down around his face, still damp from a recent shower. Her lips were sweet with strawberry gloss, and she smelled like rose petal shampoo, fresh and clean.

"I came to see you, obviously," Brandon said, like it was the most natural and ordinary thing in the world for him to show up at her window at midnight.

"That's very sweet, but you know we could both get in trouble if anybody found you here, don't you?" she asked, glancing back at her bedroom door.

"So come with me, then. Turn off your light and they'll think you went to bed already," he said.

"Come where?" she asked.

"We're having a little get-together at Bobby Jones's place tonight, to celebrate winning the game," he said.

"Oh, did you win?" she asked.

"Sure we did. Was there ever any doubt?" he asked, puffing himself up just a bit.

"No, Beebo. None at all," she agreed, smiling. She had an odd sense of humor sometimes, so it was hard to tell whether she was being serious or not.

"So how did the concert go?" he asked.

"It was not bad. I played the _Rondeau_ from _Sinfonie des Fanfares_ and then part of the _Blue Danube_ _Waltz_. I don't remember what everybody else played. I was too nervous to pay attention," she said.

"Wish I could've been there. I'm sure you did a beautiful job, though," he said. That much he didn't doubt; Lana had been taking piano lessons since she was six years old, and she was an accomplished player.

"Thank you, my _krasny malchik,"_ she said, and he smiled a little. The words were a subtle joke between them, since they could mean either _beautiful boy_ or _red boy,_ depending on exactly how Lana chose to pronounce them. She often liked to say that both meanings fit him perfectly.

"No problem, _milaya._ So how about coming to the party with me?" he asked, returning to the subject at hand. _Sweetheart_ was about the extent of his foreign language skills, but Lana didn't seem to mind.

"Nobody will say anything, will they? I wouldn't want the Jacksons to find out," she said.

"Of course not. Nobody else wants to get in trouble, either," he said.

"Okay, then. Wait just a minute," she said. She let the curtains fall shut, leaving him to stamp his feet and put his hands under his armpits to stay warm while he waited. When she reappeared at the window she was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a sweater, nothing fancy at all. She'd tied her long hair back in a ponytail and it looked like she might have put on just a little blush and some fresh lip gloss. He gave her a hand to steady herself while she climbed outside, and then together they slipped away from the house.

It didn't take long to get back to Brandon's old blue Chevy at the practice field. It was nothing much as far as trucks went, with a few dents and patches of rust here and there from hauling hay and such, but it drove like a brand new machine. It had been a gift from Cody on Bran's sixteenth birthday less than a month ago, and the freedom that came with it was still a fresh and heady thing.

The Joneses lived on a ramshackle cattle farm about two miles north of town, and the barn itself was so far back in the pasture that it was nearly invisible from the main house. When Brandon and Lana finally arrived there were already at least a dozen cars parked on the grass. Loud country music wafted outdoors from a radio, and several people had lit a bonfire off to one side where it wouldn't get out of hand. The pungent smell of wood smoke almost completely covered up the lingering odor of mud and rain from earlier in the evening. Two or three human-shaped shadows were gathered round the flames, laughing occasionally.

Brandon parked the truck and then sat there frowning for a minute. He'd been expecting something a little smaller, from what Jason had said. He had half a mind to turn around and forget about the whole thing, actually; he could always make excuses later and say something had come up at the last minute. But while he was still sitting there thinking about all this, Jason himself came walking by and spotted them.

"Hey, Bran!" he called cheerfully, waving at them. He was holding hands with a tall and very beautiful dark-haired girl, causing Brandon to wonder briefly who she was and how Jason had ever managed to hook up with such a fine specimen. He'd never been especially popular with the ladies before _._

It would have seemed feeble and cowardly to leave at _that_ point, so Brandon smiled and waved back. Then he and Lana got out to head for the barn.

"There are more people here than I thought," she said, as they walked across the wet grass.

"Well. . . yeah, there are. We can go somewhere else if you want to," he offered, half hoping she might take him up on the offer.

"No, that's all right. Let's go inside and see what it's like. We can always leave whenever we like," she finally said.

"Okay, then. If it gets too rowdy just let me know," he said, and she nodded.

The barn was full of unfamiliar faces when the two of them finally got inside. Some of them were definitely older than high school age, and Bran noticed immediately that several people were drinking. Off to one side was a massive cooler full of brown beer bottles and slushy ice, right next to a table well-stocked with whiskey and two-liter Cokes.

Brandon eyed the beer with suspicion, wondering all over again whether coming to this party had been such a great idea or not. It wasn't remotely what Jason had led him to believe it would be, and Bran privately made up his mind to have a few choice words with the boy as soon as they both got back to school on Monday.

As an afterthought, somebody had put out chips and cold cuts and various other finger foods on the same table next to the whiskey and Coke. At one end was a huge bowl full of red fruit punch, sitting next to a tray of chocolate brownies sprinkled with powdered sugar. Bran took a cautious sip of the punch to make sure it wasn't alcoholic, and then nodded at Lana.

"It's okay. Just fruit punch and ginger ale," he said. He was still thirsty from the game, so he drank down a full glass and then refilled it while Lana fixed them a plate of food to share. Finally the two of them sat down on a bale of hay in the corner to eat.

Several couples were out there dancing in the middle of the room, including Jason and his nameless new honey. It seemed to be one of the few feasible ways to socialize very much; the music was almost too loud to hear yourself think, much less talk to anybody.

"Do you really like this?" Lana asked after a while, sipping on her own glass of punch.

"Sure, it's cool. Better than being at home, anyway," Brandon said, with what he hoped was a charming grin.

"I guess so," she agreed, sounding dubious. Bran was dubious himself, to be honest, but since going to the party had been his idea (sort of), he felt compelled to at least pretend to enjoy it for a while. Nevertheless, he'd already made up his mind to leave as soon as they could graciously get away with it.

So they sat and talked, and ate and drank, and people-watched for about thirty minutes or so. And after a while Brandon really did find that he was enjoying himself a lot more than he thought he would. He felt lightheaded and happy, and the music which had seemed so loud and annoying before now seemed enthralling, like an extension of his own body. He could have sat there and listened to it for hours, days, _weeks_ even, and never lost interest.

"Let's dance, Lana," he suggested, and she nodded. This was on the very fringe of being an unwise thing to be seen doing in public, but at the moment that didn't seem to matter so much.

They got up and moved onto the dance floor, and it was awesome. The song on the radio was _Everything I_ _Shouldn't Be Thinking About,_ which for some reason struck him as hilarious. He could feel the music even better out there, and when he put his arms around her she surprised him by leaning in close against his chest. Her body was warmer than the summer sun in July, and he kissed her on impulse, feeling tingles run all up and down his spine at the touch of her lips.

That was _definitely_ unwise public behavior, and somewhere in the back of his mind he still had enough sense to realize something was awfully strange about all this. But that small part of him was nowhere near strong enough to change anything.

He remembered the rest of the evening only in fits and snatches. At one point somebody thrust a guitar into his hands and for a while he ended up playing a strange mix of red dirt country and Ozark bluegrass which only a barn full of drunk people could possibly have enjoyed. Then later on he vaguely remembered drinking a few shots of Coke and whiskey himself along with Jason and his girlfriend, something he would _never_ have done ordinarily.

He was too fuzzy-headed by that time to think much of it when the dark-haired girl pulled a vial of clear liquid from her pocket and poured some of it into their drinks.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Just cherry flavoring. It'll make this cheap stuff taste a little better," the girl said, wrinkling her pretty nose distastefully. For some reason that seemed funny too, so Brandon laughed before downing the shot. The sweet taste of cherries filled his mouth, and before long he'd completely forgotten about the incident.

It must have been awfully late by the time he fell asleep, because when he finally opened his eyes it was almost noon. He woke up in the hay loft with Lana still asleep beside him under a horse blanket, with a pounding headache and his mouth so dry it felt like his tongue had turned into a piece of saddle leather.

He sat up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and then realized his shirt and shoes were missing. He couldn't remember taking them off, nor how he ended up in the hay loft, or much of anything else for that matter. Then he glanced uneasily at Lana, wondering what might have happened during the night.

He knew immediately what people would _think,_ of course, and that alone was enough to make his face turn red. If word got out then he'd never hear the end of it.

He got up to hunt for his clothes, only to find that they seemed to have vanished into thin air. The shirt didn't matter so much, but the shoes were a whole different story. The prospect of explaining to Lisa how his best pair of game cleats could have disappeared was enough to make him squirm just thinking about it.

Eventually he gave up searching and came back to shake Lana's shoulder. If he didn't get her home before the Jacksons found out, then he'd soon end up having to explain something much worse than a pair of lost shoes.

"Hey," he said awkwardly, as soon as she opened her eyes. Her sweater had disappeared also, leaving her with only a skimpy tank top which couldn't possibly have been very warm. She sat up, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders, and then looked at him silently.

"We have done wrongly," she said, after the silence had stretched on for a painful length of time. Somehow he didn't have to wonder what she meant.

"I'm sorry," he said, for lack of anything else to say.

"Do you love me, Bran?" she asked. It wasn't at all what he expected her to say, but at least he knew the answer.

"Always," he said, and that seemed to comfort her.

"There must have been something bad we ate or drank. I remember nothing," she said. He could tell she probably had a terrible headache herself, if only from the slipups in her speech. Normally she could have put a dictionary to shame.

"Me neither. But if there was, I swear I didn't know it. I even tasted everything first to make sure it was clean," he said.

"I know that, Beebo. I am not mad at you," she said.

"Okay, I just didn't want you to blame me, that's all," he said, and then came another lengthy pause. Finally Lana let out a long breath, as if she'd been thinking for a while.

"Perhaps we should simply pretend it never happened, yes? My sponsors would send me home if they knew, and I don't want that," she said.

"But what if somebody else at the party says something?" he asked.

"Maybe that will not happen. They were mostly strangers to me, anyway," she said, and he nodded.

"All right, then. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened," he agreed.

"Good," she said. Then a shadow of pain crossed her face, and she raised both hands to rub her temples.

"Does your head hurt?" he asked.

"Yes. Very bad. But I will find medicine at home," she said.

"Yeah, me too. But I guess if we don't want to get caught then we should probably go home now. I'm supposed to cut hay this afternoon, but call me tonight sometime and let me know how things went with the Jacksons, okay?" he asked.

"Okay," she agreed.

The two of them climbed down a wooden ladder into the main part of the barn, which lay silent and empty except for scattered beer bottles and leftover trash from the party. Jason and Bobby and all the others were long gone, it seemed.

"Feels strange to be so quiet down here," Brandon said, kicking one of the bottles with his bare foot as they crossed the dirt floor. It was his first feeble attempt at normal conversation, but the words felt stilted and artificial even as he said them.

"Yes, but at least no one will see us leaving," Lana said, and then both of them reverted to silence again.

As soon as they reached the truck Bran rummaged behind the seat till he found a dirty black-and-gold Ore City Rebels t-shirt. It smelled like grease and old sweat, but he pulled it over his head anyway before driving them back downtown. He pulled over less than two blocks from the Jacksons' house, and then reluctantly turned to face Lana.

"I'll see you tomorrow at church, I guess," he said, and she nodded. They'd both attended the Avinger Cowboy Church ever since arriving in Texas barely a week apart at the beginning of eighth grade, he from Arkansas and she from Saint Petersburg, two friendless strangers far from home. The place had felt like a second family to both of them ever since.

In fact, they'd first met at the church's annual Back to School Rodeo that year, when Brandon sat down next to her in the stands purely by chance. He hadn't been very charming at the time, admittedly, with chili-cheese all over his fingers and mouth from eating a Frito pie while he watched the calf roping competition. But then again, he'd only been thirteen in those days, young enough that girls still didn't interest him very much.

Life had been so much simpler back then.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow then. Love you, Beebo," Lana said. She didn't seem to notice his fleeting stroll down memory lane, or whatever one wanted to call it. She simply squeezed his hand briefly and then kissed him on the cheek in the way that some old-fashioned Russians were apt to do when they said goodbye. He'd learned quite a few interesting little tidbits like that from talking to her over the years, and up till then he'd always thought that particular custom was rather sweet. But at the moment, even a kiss on the cheek seemed painfully awkward.

"Love you too," he said, laying his fingers on the spot where her lips had touched. He watched her get out and walk away until she turned the corner onto Catawba Street, and then he drove away with a heavy heart.

He was reluctant to go home himself, irrationally sure that Cody or Lisa could somehow read what he'd done on his face, like the mark of Cain or the Scarlet Letter. Knowing that he'd committed such a major offense left him feeling guilty and remorseful, even if he couldn't actually remember anything.

For a while he indulged in beating himself up over how stupid he'd been. He never should have lied to Cody about what he was doing. He never should have asked Lana to sneak out in the middle of the night. They should have left the party immediately when they saw what it was really like. There were a thousand things he could have done differently which wouldn't have led him to the spot he was in now, and he'd chosen wrongly every time.

What he kept coming back to was the complete weirdness of it all. He simply wouldn't have acted like that under normal circumstances, and the whole evening wouldn't be a blank slate, either.

Lana's idea about how there might have been something else in the food or the punch besides alcohol came to mind again, and he gave it some serious thought this time. There were all kinds of drugs which didn't have any smell or taste; even _he_ knew that much.

He finally decided there was only one good way to find out for sure, so he turned around in the parking lot at Catfish Village and drove back downtown to the health department. It was open till one o'clock on Saturdays, a fact which he knew from going there with Lisa now and then when she took Micah to get his shots or his well-baby checkups or whatever else he needed. Mikey was nine months old, and even though he loved the kid dearly, Brandon often thought his nephew had to be one of the sickliest little ankle-biters he'd ever met.

There hadn't been much to do during those visits other than read pamphlets or stare at posters on the waiting room walls. But still, Brandon had learned a good many things about the Texas Department of Health while he sat there twiddling his thumbs for all those dull and tedious hours.

Including the fact that they gave drug tests.

The parking lot was nearly empty when he got there, a good sign since he didn't have much time. It wouldn't be long before Cody started to wonder why he wasn't home yet, and Bran had no intention of stirring up _that_ particular can of worms. The fewer questions anybody asked about where he'd been or what he'd been doing, the better off he'd be.

He hurried inside to the receptionist's window, still barefoot and hoping nobody would notice. Then he tried to explain what he wanted, so nervous that he fumbled with the pen and had trouble signing his name. The only time he'd ever been to the health department on his own account had been to get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail in the barn last year, but that was nothing compared to _this._

The receptionist herself didn't ask too many questions, but the nurse in the examination room certainly made up for lost time after she called him back there. He had to explain the whole squalid situation, and by the time she got through grilling him he almost wished he hadn't come at all. Finally she seemed to be satisfied, and after giving her blood and urine samples he was free to go.

"All right, hon. Call back Monday after one o'clock and we'll have the results for you," she said, patting his shoulder.

There was no other reason to linger in town, so Brandon went home to slip on his cowboy boots and some fresh clothes before heading out to the pasture. Then he had to suffer through an entire afternoon of cutting hay in the hot sun, praying the whole time that Cody wouldn't smell any leftover traces of whiskey on his breath. Things were bad enough already without _that._ Bran had never felt so awful in his entire life. He felt sweaty, achy, and pukey all rolled into one, and by the time they finished cutting the last field, all he could do was crawl up to his room and lie there groaning in the dark.

One minor bright spot occurred when Lana texted him a little after eleven to say that the Jacksons had still been in bed when she slipped back home that morning. They never noticed a thing. That was a major relief, but he still felt guilty and ashamed of himself. Therefore he took the time to pray earnestly just before he fell asleep.

_Please forgive me, Lord; I didn't mean for anything to happen,_ Brandon whispered under his breath. Then he went on to recite a long list of reasons why God should let him off the hook just this once, and ended with a solemn promise to never let it happen again.

He knew better than this, of course. He understood perfectly well that God isn't remotely the sort of person to whom one offers deals or excuses. Free gifts offered in love were the only things He cared for, either to give or to receive. The proper thing to do would simply have been to ask forgiveness and then forget about the matter, with no need for any further explanations. But even though Brandon knew all this, it didn't stop him from trying to justify himself in this one case.

A lingering sense of guilt dogged him all the way to church the next morning, even though he tried not to let it show. He played the music service just like always, making sure to smile not just for the crowd but also for his band-mates. He was good at things like that when necessary. The only hint of his inner conflict that he ever let slip was when he chose _The Prodigal Son's Prayer_ for his solo piece. It didn't fit in very well with the more traditional hymns they were _supposed_ to be playing that morning, but he never offered any explanation for what must have seemed like an odd choice. He noticed Cody looking at him a bit strangely afterward, even though nobody actually said anything.

He didn't get a chance to speak to Lana, but he did see her sitting on the third row with the Jacksons and their two natural children, Jamie and Sheila. He waved at her casually with his two left fingers, and Lana smiled and did the same.

He chewed his nails to the quick for the rest of the weekend, awaiting the verdict from the health department. When Monday afternoon finally rolled around he still had to wait till after school before he could call them back, and those last few hours were almost unbearable. He snatched up his phone the second the last bell rang at three twenty, only to be put on hold for several more minutes while they looked up his information.

"Mr. Stone?" the nurse asked when she came back on.

"Yes ma'am, I'm still here," he said.

"We got your results back a little while ago. I'm afraid you came back positive for methamphetamines, ecstasy, and marijuana," the lady said, and in spite of bracing himself for just such an answer, Brandon almost dropped the phone in shock.

_Methamphetamines,_ he thought to himself. _Ecstasy. Weed._

For almost a whole second he was so stunned he didn't know what to think, but it was soon replaced by a rage so intense he thought his clothes might spontaneously catch fire. He could feel the hot blood of anger rushing to his face until it literally clouded his vision and he saw red.

His first thought was how much he'd like to cut Jason Lewis to pieces with a rusty knife and then feed him to the alligators in Cypress Creek bit by bit. But since he couldn't do that, he satisfied himself with calling the boy every name he could think of and then some. He was too furious even to care that it hadn't technically been Jason's party. He didn't want to be fair, and he didn't want to be nice. He wanted to think about slow ways to roast his teammate over an open fire.

The other object of his wrath was whoever had spiked the punch in the first place, but that was unsatisfying since he didn't have the faintest idea who might have done it. Some idiot who thought it was a way to liven up the party and help everybody have a good time, no doubt. Probably one of Tommy Jones's brain-dead stoner buddies if Bran had to guess, or maybe even Tommy himself. He was Bobby's brother, after all, and out of all the folks at the party he was surely the prime suspect. Brandon was sorely tempted to knock a few of the dude's teeth loose next time they ran into each other.

Then he took a deep breath and told himself to calm down and get a grip. He didn't go around starting fights anymore, no matter how richly it might be deserved. He wouldn't hit Tommy, and he wouldn't even cuss Jason. The old Bran would have, but he was determined not to fall back into all _that_ again.

He reminded himself several times not to start thinking there was some nefarious scheme going on behind the scenes. It wasn't like this had been some huge conspiracy to ruin his life. Nobody had meant him any harm personally. He'd just been stupid, that's all, and so he shouldn't be surprised that the consequences had come back to bite him. That wasn't Jason's fault or anybody else's except his own. In hindsight he could see clearly how much of a fool he'd been, but the only thing he could do was to promise himself that he'd try to use a little more common sense in the future.

On the bright side, it seemed like they might get by with keeping the whole sordid mess under wraps. Nobody ever mentioned it at school, and Cody and Lisa never asked him any more questions about his imaginary sleepover with Jason.

But the lie that nothing had ever happened was simply that, a warm and comforting lie. The truth lived on beneath the surface, out of sight and out of mind for a little while, perhaps, but never quite forgotten. And no matter how desperately the two of them might wish for that lie to be true, they were soon to find that both God and the Devil had other plans.

Chapter Two

On a bright and chilly Saturday afternoon six weeks later, Lana texted him to ask if they could meet at the city park for a private discussion. She wouldn't say what it was about, leaving him to wonder uneasily if somebody at the party might finally have let something slip to the Jacksons after all. That was the only possibility he could think of at the moment, and he knew it had to be _something_ serious. Lana wouldn't be so secretive unless she had a good reason.

Cody and Lisa had gone to Dallas for the afternoon, leaving him with a list of chores ten miles long to be finished before they got back. Bran didn't really have the time to spare for mysterious secret meetings at the park. Nevertheless, he told her he'd be there in a few minutes.

As soon as he got to the park he spotted her sitting on one of the benches by the baseball field, so he jogged over and took a seat.

"Okay, here I am. Now what's so important that we couldn't talk about it on the phone and it can't even wait till church tomorrow?" he asked, just a touch irritated.

"I'm not sure how to tell you," Lana began.

"Just spit it out and get it over with. Did somebody tell the Jacksons about the party? You're not in trouble with your sponsors, are you?" he asked.

"Brandon, I'm pregnant," she told him, not even trying to sugarcoat it.

"Huh?" he asked, too shocked to think of any other response.

"Did you not hear me?" she asked.

"Yeah, I heard you. When did you find out?" he asked.

"Just a few hours ago. But there's no doubt about it. I've already been to the health department this morning and had it confirmed," she told him.

He was silent for a long time at that news, while all kinds of things passed through his mind about what he should say or do. Fear loomed large, and he wished for a second that he could run away to some tropical island, or maybe just shut his eyes and wake up to find that it was all some kind of bad dream.

Then he thought of something else, a Christmas gift from Lisa the year before. She'd given him a foil picture of a shepherd boy with red hair, wading barefoot across a stream with the legs of his overalls rolled up and a lamb in his arms, with these verses by William Blake inlaid in the metal:

Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a heaven in hell's despair.

So sung a little clod of clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a pebble of the brook,

Warbled out these meters meet:

Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a hell in heaven's despite.

Below these verses, in a much larger typeface, was printed one stark and simple word: _Choose._ Lisa had always loved poetry, and she swore the red-headed boy in the picture looked just like Brandon himself, even though you could only see him from the back. It was a beautiful work of art, and the lesson was plain: that selfless love was the path to joy.

That was the message Brandon remembered now; that above all things he mustn't think of himself. _That_ was the first little step on a long and dreary road that led nowhere but the bottomless pit of hell.

"So what do _you_ think we should do?" he finally asked, fumbling for the right words.

"I don't know. I thought I should discuss all that with you and see what you thought," she said, and the strain in her voice was obvious. She must have been stretched almost to the breaking point, to be showing that much emotion during a crisis. She usually retreated into a kind of cool Russian stoicism when faced with emergencies, very unlike the reaction of a typical American girl. In fact, that cultural inclination to detachment was probably the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces at the moment, if he had to guess.

"Well. . . we still have some time to think. Nothing will show for a while yet," he said, latching onto the first thing that came to mind. He sounded a lot more calm and steady than he really felt, but he hoped Lana might take some comfort in that.

"I can't tell the Jacksons, but I've got a doctor's appointment at four o'clock a week from Friday at the free clinic in Longview. Can you take me? It would mean a lot to me, if you could be there. You're all I have in this place," Lana told him.

"Yeah, I can do that. No problem at all," Brandon agreed. That was something specific and concrete for him to focus on. He could handle that much.

"Let's meet here at the park after school, then. I can tell the Jacksons I went to Sabrina Lister's house for a few hours. She won't mind covering my tracks, but if you and I were seen leaving together then it might get all of us in trouble," Lana said.

"Yeah, good idea. I can tell Cody I went fishing or something like that," Brandon said.

"All right, then. I need to get home before anybody notices I'm gone, but I'll see you at church tomorrow. If you come sit with me after the music service, we might have a chance to talk a little longer," Lana said.

"You mean Jamie's not home?" Brandon asked. Lana's foster brother was a notorious eavesdropper, and worse than usual about keeping what he heard to himself. Bran didn't like him much, partly for his loose tongue and partly for his petty meanness. Lana had put up with his spiteful jokes and minor cruelties for years, a fact which didn't improve Brandon's opinion of the boy.

"No, he's at the band clinic in Tyler this weekend. He's got his senior concert coming up soon, so he'll take all the practice he can get right now," Lana said.

"Then maybe we'll get a chance to talk for a little while. In the meantime I guess we both better head on home," Brandon said, standing up.

She nodded, standing up to hug him tightly while he kissed her on top of the head. Her hair still smelled like rose petals, and it seemed somehow unreal that so much could have changed in less time than it took to use up a single bottle of shampoo.

Brandon watched her leave, and then as he headed back to the truck the full enormity of what she'd just told him really began to sink in. He walked along in a kind of daze, wondering how it could even be possible that he'd brought down such a disaster on his head. His whole world had changed so suddenly and so completely that he could barely comprehend all the repercussions. It seemed unbelievable, like something that might have happened to somebody else in a book or a movie he'd once seen.

But there were no second chances for certain things in life, and unfortunately this was one of them. Cody had told him that once; just a few months back. Now it seemed like that conversation had been centuries ago, in some alternate reality where the future was still bright and fresh and full of promise. All that was gone forever now, lost like a raindrop in the cold gray sea. If anything was certain in this whole rotten situation, it was surely that.

Brandon felt a sudden pang of loss so deep and sharp that it brought tears to his eyes, and for a while he just sat in the truck and cried. Then through his tears he cursed Jason Lewis and Bobby Jones, and even Cody for not making him come home that night after the game. He cried till there were no more tears left to cry, and finally there came a kind of calmness instead.

They wouldn't be able to keep the secret for long, of course. The episode at the party, yeah, something like that might eventually fade into the background and be forgotten. But this? No way. It'd be obvious soon enough whether they liked it or not, and there was absolutely no way out of it, no way around it, and no way to avoid it.

The most immediate consequence would be public humiliation, of course. Not that Lana was the first girl at school who ever had a baby, of course; that wasn't what made it such a titillating scrap of tittle-tattle. It was the fact that both of them were popular students, good athletes, and very public Christians. Lana was an honor student, and Brandon could have been one himself if he'd ever been inclined to try. _That_ combination would make the story irresistible, and the rumor mill would run rampant. Somebody would remember the party, and the drinking, and who knew what else. There was no telling what kinds of lurid tales people might hear by the time it was all over.

Even worse, Lana would be sent home to Russia within days of when the story surfaced, and then Brandon knew he'd most likely never see his girlfriend or his baby ever again. That was the worst punishment of all.

He felt tears well up and threaten to overflow his eyes all over again, and for a while he felt sorry for himself and ran circles in his mind about why him and why now and how could this have happened, as if knowing those things would have helped the situation at all.

He made an effort to wipe his face clean before he got home, so Cody and Lisa wouldn't notice anything was wrong. Then he parked his truck under the pecan tree in the front yard and headed out to the barn to finish his chores before it got too late. The horses still had to be fed and watered and brushed, and after that he had to practice for the worship service in the morning. But that was all for the best; it gave him something to do other than brood on his problems.

The horses neighed when they heard him coming, and then for a little while Brandon was kept busy taking care of whatever they needed. All of them had their own little quirks to deal with, especially when it came to brushing. Nellie was mostly quiet unless he touched a ticklish spot, while Buck stamped and swished his tail a bit more. Brandon had worked with them long enough that it was almost second nature to adjust his methods for each animal's personality, so the job didn't take near as much attention as he might have liked.

Little Bit was the last one in line, only four years old and Bran's very own best friend. He was a half-breed quarter horse, and his name had come from the fact that it takes two bits to make a quarter. Little Bit was only half a quarter, which made him just one Bit, and he was smaller than average, too. A lame joke, maybe, but it had seemed funny at the time. Brandon rode him mostly when they had to work with the cows, and sometimes at the trail ride after church on Sundays.

Those were always fun times, especially when he and Lana got a chance to ride double now and then. They couldn't do it _every_ week, of course, since they didn't want people to start wondering if they were more than just friends. But they could get by with it occasionally, and the memory of her arms around his middle while she held him close from behind was a poignant reminder of everything he stood to lose.

Brandon let out a long sigh. Apparently he couldn't even brush the horses without getting reminded of her somehow.

Her name was Svetlana Mikhailevna Krisanova, a mouthful if ever there was one. Lana for short. The name meant bright and beautiful, and that she was, with her flawless face and her long hair and her eyes like dark green fire. All the boys at school had thought she was incredible when she first showed up, the exotic Russian girl with the funny accent and the dazzling smile. But somehow Brandon was the only one she'd ever connected with.

Not especially in a romantic sort of way, or at least not at first. Bran himself deeply distrusted those kinds of relationships after seeing the way his parents had betrayed each other so often, and of course Lana was forbidden even to consider such a thing.

Nevertheless, they shared a mutual love of music and a liking for adventure, and even a taste for healthy food and athletics. They both loved God and held family in high regard, and moreover they were both newcomers in a strange land, both of them slightly lonely and homesick for anything familiar to cling to. All these things had conspired to draw them close even before they quite realized what was happening. And so it was that love had gradually grown up and blossomed between them in spite of all the rules and bad memories in the world.

This had been such a sweet and unexpected thing in Brandon's eyes that he hadn't minded the secrecy at all. He felt like a poor man trudging along a muddy street in the rain who suddenly stumbles across a hundred carat diamond. Love was like that for him; a precious jewel to be treasured and guarded ferociously, if one were ever so lucky and blessed as to find it in the first place. No doubt this attitude had something to do with the way he'd grown up, but he couldn't find it in his heart to be sorry for the way he felt about things. Indeed, his worst and darkest fear in life was to find himself completely alone and unloved again someday.

It turned out Lana had a similar opinion, for reasons not altogether unlike his own. From the little she ever said, he gathered that her father was a difficult man to get along with, angry and demanding when he wasn't cold and distant. She often liked to say that Brandon was one of the sweetest gifts that God had ever given her.

The two of them had sometimes indulged this mindset by talking blithely about all the things they might do together later on in life, just as if she'd never have to go home someday. They both knew all along that these were nothing but impossible pipe dreams, of course. Sooner or later Lana's father would get tired of paying for her foreign study, and then that would be that. She'd be gone, back home to Saint Petersburg, and then Bran would never see her again. Simple as that.

The future had always been ultimately hopeless for the two of them, he supposed. Having a kid didn't really change anything except to make it hurt that much more when the end came, as it surely would have done all along. Brandon had seen it coming for years. But even so, the heart knows only what it yearns for, even if the mind understands all too well that it can never be.

In a perfect world, with nothing to fear, he would gladly have married her and lived happily ever after. In that same perfect world, even the thought of a baby might have had a certain amount of appeal, at least in some respects. Cody had told him times without number that children were always a blessing, even if they showed up at unexpected times. That idea had settled into his heart till he believed it, and he'd had enough experience with Mikey that he already knew what a baby entailed. To some extent anyway. He didn't mind changing diapers or feeding bottles, and even though crying was no joy he was fairly sure he could tolerate it for a while.

But unfortunately the world was _not_ perfect, and there was a _lot_ to fear, and there seemed to be precious few options for how to deal with the situation. A sixteen year old boy didn't have many choices in life, even if he wanted desperately to do the right thing. He had no idea what Cody and Lisa would think or even if they'd let him stay at Goliad anymore after they found out. And as for Lana's parents, he dreaded to imagine what _they_ might say or do.

For a while he harbored the wistful notion of running away together to live in the greenwoods, hunting for food with his deer rifle and picking up aluminum cans for extra money to buy bullets and things. He'd survived that way for several months before Cody and Lisa brought him to Goliad, after all, and so had countless pioneers over the centuries. He could keep them fed and clothed and sheltered from the rain, and surely that was all they really _needed,_ wasn't it?

But the more he contemplated what that kind of life would really be like, the less appealing it seemed. He didn't think Lana would enjoy such a rough existence, and sooner or later he'd probably get tired of it himself. Running away was no solution, at least not for the long term.

He was still brushing Little Bit and thinking uselessly about the bottomless hole he'd dug for himself when Cody popped his head in the door of the barn.

"What say you come play with us a little bit tonight, Beebo?" Cody asked.

"Play where?" Brandon asked.

"We got a last minute gig down at Sufficient Grounds and I can't get hold of Cyrus. I thought you might like to fill in for him," Cody said.

"Really?" Brandon asked, momentarily distracted by such a golden opportunity. Coffee house crowds were some of the best audiences they ever got to play for. They were pretty tame and tended to like almost anything, and they'd usually clap even if you did an awful job, just to be polite.

"Sure. I think you're ready. You're a fair player, and it'll be a nice crowd, and we won't have anything too hard to play. Go grab your guitar," Cody said.

So Brandon hurried inside to change clothes and wash his face, and before long they were all headed for Tyler. He was a little bit nervous, even though he'd been playing at church for almost a year. Cody had never asked him to take a major role anywhere else, though, and the prospect of fumbling his first _real_ performance was almost enough to make him forget about everything else for a little while.

Still, he didn't do too badly. Most of the time he only had to play background guitar while Cody or Marcus handled the singing, but towards the end of the concert they did let him take the lead for one song. Bran decided to stick with a safe choice for his first time out, so he settled on _Should've Been a Cowboy;_ a surefire crowd pleaser which also happened to be one of the songs he'd practiced most.

The patrons seemed to like it, such as there were of them. It was a pretty slow night, with only about ten or fifteen customers in the place at a time. The band only got paid with free cheesecake and coffee, but nobody minded that. As Cody often liked to say, as long as you're doing what you love then money doesn't matter so much.

After he finished his solo performance Brandon let the others finish up the set while he came down off the stage to sit with Lisa and have some strawberry cheesecake. She was gone when he reached the table, probably in the ladies' room changing Mikey's diaper or some such thing. That was all right, though; he didn't mind sitting alone for a little while. The main lights were turned down low so people could see the band better, and he wasn't paying much attention when a man in a dark coat came up beside him.

"You can play really nice, you know," the man said, like they'd known each other for years. Brandon glanced up to see who it was, but his eyes hadn't quite adjusted yet from having the stage lights in his face.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Brandon asked, ignoring the stranger's compliment.

"Well, I guess I deserve that," the man said wryly, and then it clicked.

" _Dad?"_ he asked. His heart was beating fast and for a second he thought he might fall off his chair. Or faint from shock, more like it. He hadn't seen his father since he was eight years old, and only rarely before that. Crush Stone had never been the close and loving type, not by a long shot. Nevertheless, this uninvited stranger was certainly Crush, all right. He had the same cherry-red hair as Brandon himself, and the cast of their features was too much alike to leave the slightest doubt.

"Can I sit down for a minute?" Crush asked, and Bran wordlessly waved at the chair next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Brandon finally asked, when he could get himself together. He made no effort to sound especially friendly, either. If the man expected to be met with hugs and kisses and a slice of cheesecake after all this time, he was crazy.

"It's a public place, you know. I came in to get some coffee after work. I recognized you and stopped to listen, that's all," Crush said.

There were a thousand things Brandon wanted to say right then, some of them not very nice. But he made a superhuman effort to bite his tongue and not let anything slip that he might be sorry for later.

"So, how have you been?" he asked instead. It was inane, but the situation was so awkward he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Pretty good, I guess. What about you? And how's your brother and your mama?" Crush asked.

"Mama passed away two years ago. I haven't seen Brian in a long time so I don't know about him," Brandon said, and at that his father furrowed his brow.

"I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?" he asked.

"Car wreck," Brandon said succinctly, and then left it at that. He preferred not to think about all the lurid details.

"So where are you living, then? You're not old enough to be on your own yet," Crush asked.

"I'm staying with Lisa now," Brandon said.

"Lisa who?" Crush asked.

"Your daughter Lisa, my half-sister. Remember her? The one you never told me about?" Brandon asked, a touch of scorn creeping into his voice in spite of his determination to be civil.

"Hmm. . . how'd you ever meet up with _her?"_ his father asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

"It's a long story," Brandon said, wondering why he was even telling the man all these things. It wasn't like he deserved to know.

"I see," Crush said, as if he didn't much like that idea.

It suddenly dawned on Brandon that he might be walking on awfully thin ice with this man. With Mama out of the picture, that probably meant Crush had the power to meddle with Bran's life in all kinds of ways if he wanted to. That was the _last_ thing anybody needed, and Brandon decided he'd better tread carefully.

"It's a good place for me. Lisa's married now; that's her husband Cody up there on the stage with the guitar. We live on a big ranch and I even get to work sometimes, and play football at school, and all that good stuff," Brandon said, doing his best to sound as happy as possible. Let Crush think everything was all fine and well; then maybe he'd disappear into the woodwork again and decide to leave well enough alone.

The strategy seemed to work, as the faint frown on his father's face gradually morphed into a vaguely preoccupied look.

"Well. . . take care of yourself, okay? It was good to see you, Bran. Say hello to everybody for me when you get a chance. Love you, son," Crush said, getting up from his chair.

Brandon gave a noncommittal grunt, unwilling to say the words himself even though he knew it was expected. Then Crush was gone, just like so many times before. It was nothing new. Nothing new at all. So why did it still feel like the first time he ever walked away?

Lisa must have known something was wrong as soon as she came back to the table.

"What's wrong, Bran?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said.

"Are you sure? You're frowning, and you've barely touched your cheesecake," she asked, sounding doubtful.

"Daddy came in and talked to me for a few minutes, that's all," he admitted.

"Really? That's weird," Lisa said.

"Well. . . no, not so much. Last I heard he lives somewhere in Tyler nowadays. So I don't guess it's all that strange that sooner or later we might run into each other down here. I'm surprised we haven't sooner," Brandon said.

"What did he say?" Lisa asked carefully.

"Just that I played nice and to say hi to everybody for him. We really didn't talk much," Brandon said.

"Sounds like you're not too happy about it," Lisa said.

"I don't know how I feel about it yet," Brandon admitted.

"Well, I don't see how it'll change anything," Lisa finally said.

"No, I guess not. I just thought you should know," Brandon said.

He rode home with her in the car after they were done, staring out the window at the darkness along the highway. Cody was following along in the truck with all the sound equipment, and Mikey was asleep in the back seat. That left the two of them more or less alone together.

"Lisa, if I did something really bad, would you still love me?" he asked her abruptly. This was partly a calculated aim at sympathy, of course, but deep down he really did want to know the answer.

"Of course I would. You could never do anything bad enough that I wouldn't love you anymore. Same thing goes for Cody, too," Lisa said.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely. Don't you ever doubt it for a split second," she said.

He hesitated for a few seconds, tempted to ask her a few more purely hypothetical questions about late-night parties and whiskey and babies. He badly needed some comfort and encouragement. But then on the other hand, he was still terrified of the consequences if he let the secret slip.

He decided not to push his luck.

"Okay, then," he finally said, and Lisa glanced at him with a look of mild concern.

"Is something wrong, Beebo?" she asked.

"No. . . just thinking, that's all," he said, turning back to stare out the window so she wouldn't see his face.

"Are you sure? You know you could tell me if there was, don't you? I meant it when I said I'd love you no matter what," Lisa said.

"No, it's nothing. I guess talking to Daddy again after all this time kind of put me in a weird mood, that's all," Brandon said. That was a half-truth at best, but it was the only excuse he could think of to keep from having to explain what was really on his mind.

"That's understandable. Try not to think about it too much if you can help it. He is what he is, and that's not your fault or mine," Lisa said.

"I know," Brandon agreed. Then there was a long silence, filled only by the soft background noise of Mikey's lullaby music on the radio and the even fainter sounds of the car's engine and the tires against the road.

"There's something I keep meaning to ask you about, bubba, while we're just sitting here," Lisa said after a while, and Brandon was glad for a chance to change the subject.

"Yeah? What's that?" he asked.

"There's a dream I keep having now and then; the exact same thing over and over again, ever since about two years ago. I didn't think much about it at first, but like I said it's been the same thing at least four or five times now. I just wondered if it means anything," she said.

"What's it about?" Brandon asked.

"I don't know that it's really _about_ anything. All I see is a picture, one little scene. There's a boy with dark hair, maybe sixteen or so, sitting all alone on a stool in a lab somewhere and working with stuff I don't recognize. It's a rainy night, in some warm place where palm trees grow; I can see them outside through the windows. I've never been able to tell what he's doing, except that it's really, really important. In fact, I get the impression that the fate of the whole human race depends on what that one boy is doing that night. He looks like he's ready to give up any second, and he's so tired he's got circles under his eyes," Lisa said.

"Is that all?" Brandon asked.

"Yeah, that's all I remember. Just that one image, with no context and no explanation. In the dream it seems like he's some child of mine, but I don't see how that could be," Lisa said.

"I can ask," Brandon said, shrugging.

"Please do," Lisa said.

So Brandon shut his eyes and prayed, and for one of the few times in his life since he was given the power of interpreting visions, the answer scared him.

Many years from now a terrible disaster will come over the earth, one which will destroy almost all of mankind, along with the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. The boy in the dream is your nephew Micah's son, and I have chosen him as my champion to overcome the catastrophe and renew the earth. It will be your task to guard and to teach him when he needs you, for he will have cruel enemies.

_Where can I find him?_ Brandon asked silently. He thought it wise to be sure, because heaven only knew what might happen in all the years before Mikey could grow up and have a child of his own. He was only a baby himself right now, for pity's sake. If they got separated for some reason, he needed to know where he was needed.

In Jamestown, on the island of Eleuthera, in the year 2158.

_But how can that be? I could never live that long,_ Brandon said. It seemed like utter insanity, but then on the other hand, God was fond of doing things which seemed impossible.

Have faith, and you will see.

And with that he had to be content, for his eyes snapped open and the vision was over.

"You saw something, didn't you?" Lisa asked.

"Only a little," Brandon said, uncharacteristically hesitant. Maybe because no dream he'd ever interpreted had involved _him_ quite so closely.

"So tell me," Lisa said.

"You're right about everything you said. The boy is your grandson. Micah's kid. And yeah, he's supposed to save the world someday, even though I'm not sure exactly how that's supposed to happen," Brandon said.

"Is that all? Surely there had to be more," Lisa said.

"I've told you all I can say," Brandon said, and she didn't press him anymore after that.

The dream added a whole new dimension to his list of worries, and that was the last thing in the world he needed at the moment. At some point he'd have to sit down and try to figure out what it all meant, but right then he simply didn't want to think about it.

He had too much on his mind already.

Chapter Three

For the next three months Brandon was careful not to draw any attention to himself. He did his chores and his schoolwork with no complaints, and spent most of his free time either working out at the gym or fishing. He played with the band sometimes if Cody asked him to, but other than that he kept a low profile.

So did Lana, in a different sort of way. She took to wearing loose and shapeless clothes to hide her expanding middle, a task made easier as winter settled in. Brandon sneaked her to doctor's appointments at the free clinic in Longview once a month, taking obscure back roads and parking behind the building for fear someone they knew might catch them there. They were afraid even to be seen together very much anymore, lest it make somebody suspicious. Both of them knew the secret couldn't last for much longer, but they lived in a kind of frozen paralysis which didn't seem to have any solution. Even when they found out in January that the baby was a boy, they barely discussed it. Anything related to the future had become a scary subject.

It was nothing unusual for them to spend several hours on the phone talking about _other_ things, though, so when Lana's number popped up one evening on Brandon's caller ID he didn't immediately think anything of it.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked, rolling over to hang his head and shoulders off the edge of his bed. For some reason his phone always seemed to get better reception that way.

"They know," Lana said, sounding out of breath and scared. That was enough to send an icy bolt of fear through Brandon's heart, and he almost dropped the phone before he could answer her.

"But _how?_ " he asked.

"Mrs. Jackson walked in and saw me getting out of the shower. She had a fit and said all kinds of things, but I ran from the house. Can you come get me?" Lana asked.

"Where are you?" Brandon asked.

"I'm at Sabrina's house, but they'll find me here soon. Mrs. Jackson knows all the places I could go," Lana said.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Brandon said, scrambling to put his shoes back on and grabbing his keys off the desk. He managed to slip outdoors without bumping into Cody or Lisa, and then as soon as he was safely out of sight down the road he drove as fast as he dared to Sabrina's house on Redbud Street. Lana must have been watching from the window, because she hurried outside to get in the truck as soon as he pulled up to the curb. Within minutes they were out of town on a dirt road where nobody would ever find them, but Bran knew as well as she did that the game was up. Hiding wouldn't save them for long.

"What _happened?"_ he demanded, pulling over on the shoulder to kill the motor.

"I told you, Mrs. Jackson walked in and saw me," Lana said.

"How come you didn't lock the door?" Brandon asked.

"I didn't think about it," Lana said, and Bran smacked his forehead in frustration.

"Lana, that was _stupid._ You should have known better than that," he said. He didn't really mean it, but fear had a way of making him hasty at times.

"Well, I'd like to see _you_ keep a secret like this for months on end, Mr. Perfect," Lana said, getting angry herself. That was very unlike _her,_ if Brandon had stopped to think about it, but he barely noticed at the time.

"Oh, I don't even care about that right now. What are we gonna _do?"_ he asked.

"Why are you asking me? You should be the one to come up with something. This is all your fault anyway," Lana said.

" _My_ fault?" Brandon asked.

"You're the one who wanted to sneak out and go to that stupid party. Nothing ever would have happened otherwise," Lana said.

"So? Nobody forced you to go anywhere. You wanted to go as much as I did," Brandon said, stung by her accusation.

"No I didn't. I only went because you asked me to. I thought it was a bad idea from the very beginning," Lana said.

He said something nasty to that, and she said something even nastier in return, and soon the conversation degenerated into an ugly fight over who was more to blame. It ended with Lana getting out and slamming his truck door so hard Brandon thought it might shatter the window, and then she started stalking back toward town on her own while he stood there watching her go, gritting his teeth and wanting to punch something. In fact that's what he finally did, hitting his truck bed hard enough to leave a dent above the gas cap. The pain only made him madder, so he hit the same spot again and again till it was slick with blood from where he'd busted his knuckles against the steel. He tried to call her several times and got no answer, and then finally he broke down and cried.

He went to look for her as soon as he was able to pull himself together again, but she was nowhere to be found. The only thing he could think of was that she must have gotten a ride with somebody else.

Her phone went directly to voicemail when he tried to call again, so he finally gave up and went home. Cody and Lisa were in the kitchen with Mikey when Brandon came through the front door, but they were too far away to notice the blood and tears on his face and hands. He slipped upstairs to his bedroom to nurse his wounded hand and stare bleakly at the wall till he finally couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

Just as he feared, the news was already all over school by the time he got there the next morning, or at least a few scraps and snippets of it were. He never heard his own name mentioned, so maybe nobody knew about his own part in the situation yet. There wasn't a snowball's chance that that would last long, of course, but it made things a little easier in the meantime.

Lana herself was nowhere to be found, so Brandon forced himself to approach Jamie Jackson instead, when he spotted the other boy standing in the hall between classes. Bran knew exactly what kind of reaction he was likely to get by asking _him_ for information, but unfortunately there was nobody else who might know anything.

"Hey, Jamie. Uh. . . I don't guess you know where Lana might be, do you?" Brandon asked, and sure enough, the smirk on Jamie's face when he heard _that_ could have put a possum to shame. That didn't bode well.

"So it was _you,_ huh? Little mister goody two shoes himself. Imagine that," Jamie said, shaking his head with fake astonishment. Brandon knew this was only a blind guess, of course; if Jamie had been sure of anything then he would've told everybody in town already. He just wanted to get a reaction of some kind.

"Just tell me where she is if you know. Please," Brandon said, refusing to confirm or deny anything.

"Well, buddy, I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but your little tramp got sent home this morning. See, Mama called the agency last night and told them what their precious Lana had been up to. They weren't very happy, sad to say. So they came and picked her up about an hour ago. She's probably halfway to Shreveport by now," Jamie said, obviously enjoying himself.

"Did she say anything before she left?" Brandon asked, ignoring the insult.

"Nah, not much. I asked her which street corner in town was her favorite, but she never answered me," Jamie said, with another smirk.

Brandon hit him for that, without even stopping to think about how sore his hand was or the fact that Jamie was two years older and fifty pounds heavier. Bran had a hard punch when he wanted to use it, and Jamie went sprawling to the floor with a bloody nose, caught completely off guard. He jumped right back up in a fury, of course, and then the two of them fought like bulldogs while a crowd of onlookers gathered round to clap and cheer.

It was only a few seconds before the principal and one of his henchmen pulled them apart, hauling Brandon to the front office and Jamie to the nurse to see about his nose. Before he knew it, Bran found himself sitting there waiting for Lisa to come pick him up, with a fresh five day suspension to sit out at home. There'd been a time when he used to get those pretty regularly, but it had been nearly a year since the last time he got sent home for fighting.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Bran. I thought you'd grown up a little," the secretary scolded him. He just sat there and glowered at her, not even bothering to answer. There was no way he could explain himself, and he wasn't about to try. Nor was he the least bit sorry. Jamie deserved every lick he got, and Bran didn't mind getting a few bruises himself if that's what it took to wipe that arrogant smirk off the other boy's face.

Lisa didn't say a word when she came to pick him up, and that was just as well. She knew better than to goad him when he was already furious, but that didn't mean she'd just drop the subject, either. Sooner or later he'd have a lot of explaining to do, and he couldn't even begin to imagine what he'd say.

He went to his room as soon as he got home and shut the door behind him, then swallowed his pride and called Mrs. Jackson at work before Jamie had a chance to muddy the waters. It was likely she hadn't heard about the fight yet, since Jamie was eighteen already and therefore legally an adult. The school wouldn't have called his parents unless he asked them to, and hopefully he hadn't done that. Brandon faced a hard enough conversation already.

Mrs. Jackson herself answered the phone, and she didn't sound too friendly.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Hi, Mrs. Jackson. I just wondered if you had Lana's address or phone number in Russia. I'd really like to talk to her if possible," Brandon said, trying to sound as humble as he could.

"No I don't, and I wouldn't give them to you even if I did. She's better off among her own people, without a selfish boy to take advantage of her and ruin her life any more than it already is. Leave her alone," Mrs. Jackson said coldly, and then hung up on him before he could get another word in.

Well, that was that. Brandon might as well have rented a billboard to let the whole town know he was the culprit. Jamie's mother was a worse gossip than her son.

Brandon lay down on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head, looking up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes while he tried to get used to the idea that Lana was really gone. He would have given a lot right then for the chance to take back some of the things he'd said the night before, or at least to apologize for having said them.

He wondered idly if the baby would grow up speaking Russian, and for some reason that one simple thought filled him with a sudden red-hot surge of grief and loss. He had to tell himself sternly that he wouldn't cry this time. He _wouldn't._

He took several deep breaths, struggling to get his rebellious emotions under control, and after a few minutes he managed to calm down again.

After a while there came a soft knock on his bedroom door which could only have been Lisa, and he mentally prepared himself for what _that_ encounter might bring.

"Come in," he said. She came to sit on the corner of his bed, and then seemed at a loss for what to say.

"Mrs. Jackson called," she finally told him. Brandon thought of several cutting remarks he would have liked to say to Sylvie Jackson right then, but he didn't let it show.

"Did she?" he asked in a dead voice, still staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah. . . just a few minutes ago. So tell me, is it true?" Lisa asked, and Bran was in no mood to play dumb. They both knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Yeah, it's true. Me and Lana are having a baby. Aren't you so proud?" he asked, with a bitterness in his voice that hadn't shown itself in years.

That silenced her again, and after a while he noticed tears welling up in her eyes. That was infinitely worse than if she'd simply yelled and screamed at him like his mother would have. He knew how to deal with _that._ He could have done some yelling of his own and maybe even broken a few things if necessary. But Lisa's silent weeping only made him feel like dirt, and he could no more have yelled at her than he could have made a flying leap over the moon. He could only lie there in mute misery and listen, till at last she made an effort to collect herself.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Lisa finally asked, and Brandon shrugged a little.

"Only that I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm sorry," he said, still not willing to meet her eyes.

"I'm glad to hear that, but being sorry won't change much, I'm afraid," Lisa said.

"So, are you gonna throw me out now?" Brandon asked, bracing himself for the reaction to _that_ one. Lisa gave him a long look whose significance he couldn't decipher, and for a second he was afraid she might really say yes.

"No, Bran. You're still my brother, and you're still a child yourself whether you feel like one or not. I'd never throw you out to sink or swim on your own. I love you, and this is your home for as long as you want it to be," she said.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"I should have protected you better. I should've paid more attention to where you went and who your friends were. I should've told Cody to wait a while instead of giving you that truck for your birthday. We should have talked a lot more often about stuff like this. Then maybe it never would've happened," Lisa said.

"It's not _your_ fault. You couldn't have stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do," Brandon said.

"Maybe not. It's just that I always wanted so much better than this for you. How many times have I told you not to trust in your own strength? The flesh is weak, Brandon, not just for you but for everybody. That's why you don't put yourself in tempting situations to begin with. I know I've told you all those things a million times. Did you never listen to anything at all?" Lisa asked.

Brandon was silent at that, and after a while Lisa let out a long breath.

"I don't know what else to say right now. Maybe it's best if I give you some time to think about what you've done and all the pain you've caused. I don't know what Cody will say when I tell him, but we'll see," she said.

A minute later she was gone, leaving Brandon to float in a corrosive pool of salty guilt. No one disturbed him again before suppertime, so maybe they were letting him "think about it", as Lisa put it. He dreaded going downstairs to hear a second round from Cody, but it turned out to be even worse than he feared. He didn't get a tongue-lashing, but the atmosphere was thick and heavy with tension. No one said a single word, and the loudest sound in the kitchen was the occasional _clink_ of a fork against somebody's plate. Even Mikey was silent. The pressure made Brandon so sick he could barely eat, and he excused himself from the table as soon as possible.

The next two weeks offered plenty of torture like that. It was bad enough while he was still on suspension, but when he got back to school he immediately had to face all the mockery and shame that was heaped on his head by classmates. He was forever branded as a hypocrite, just as he feared. Jamie was only the first in a long line of sharks who smelled blood, and he was soon wounded with a thousand jabs from friend and foe alike. Even some of the teachers and the folks at church joined in. The adults did it inadvertently, by lecturing him about his supposed carelessness and selfishness until he wanted to scream. Did they really think he didn't know all that already?

But he never said anything to silence his tormentors. In a way he felt like he deserved all their intentional and unintentional cruelty, and the only sure way he could have defended himself was to say something nasty about Lana, and he refused to do that.

Still, he wasn't used to people treating him like scum, and it stung more than he liked to admit. Not that Cody and Lisa were ever cruel to him, of course, but he couldn't help seeing the sorrow and disappointment in their eyes even if they never actually said anything. In a way, that was even worse than the open mockery he endured at school.

But as bad as things already were, they soon took a sharp turn for the worse.

On the first of February a letter arrived from a law firm in Tyler, to the effect that Crush Stone didn't believe his son was living in a good environment, and he expected Cody and Lisa to turn him over to go live with his father by the end of the week.

That was the last straw. Brandon felt like his whole life had been ripped away from him piece by piece till there was nothing left at all, and he found himself sinking into a black pit of hopeless depression. The only thing he could see in the future was a boundless ocean of misery, and he remembered something Lisa had told him once, about the last words of Vincent van Gogh: _There is no end to sorrow._ For the first time in his life Bran could totally sympathize with the crazy old painter. No end to sorrow, indeed.

He started to avoid company whenever possible, taking long rides through the woods with Little Bit to chew endlessly on his troubles. A few days after the letter from the law firm arrived, he slipped away after school and climbed up to the summit of Mount Nebo, where there was a flat rock that looked out to the west. He liked that place, partly for the view and partly because nobody ever came to bother him up there. On the west was a sheer hundred foot drop to a boulder-filled ravine, which kept the view from ever getting blocked by trees. It was a pretty place, and sometimes beauty was a small comfort to him.

While he sat there he unclipped the old Browning buck knife from his belt, absently turning it over in his hands a few times, hilt to blade and then back again. It had once belonged to his Papaw Stephen and then to his brother Brian, till it finally came down to Brandon himself. At the base of the blade were the initials _S.D.G.,_ for Stephen Dale Golden, no doubt, although Brian had always liked to say they could also stand for _Soli_ _Deo Gloria,_ Latin for _To God Alone Be the Glory._ The knife was another thing that gave Brandon a bit of solace now and then, reminding him of childhood days when he'd been happy for a while.

All that had ended abruptly when he was ten years old, when his brother disappeared with not a word of explanation and not even a single call or letter ever since. Just a kiss on the forehead and a bright steel blade to remember him by. That, and a few last words that Bran had never forgotten:

Love God with your whole heart, Beebo. Don't be afraid when He asks you to do something great, even if it's scary or if it hurts you. Remember that no good thing is ever bought without a dear price. Be faithful and true, and you'll never be sorry for that.

So Brandon had tried; God knows he had, even when he found himself standing very much alone against a dark and hellish world. Six months after Brian disappeared, Mama had gone back to drinking again, and things had gone steadily downhill from there. It had been a harsh and lonely time for the next three years, till she was finally killed while driving drunk on a dark and rainy night in the mountains.

Brandon had learned to trust no one by then, to use his fists when necessary and to make his own way in a hard world; his promise to love God almost forgotten. Not _entirely,_ perhaps, but it had definitely sunk down behind a wall of bitterness that left little room for faith.

Crush was nowhere to be found at the time; no surprise there. And since no one else had wanted to deal with a surly half-grown boy at that point, it meant Brandon had ended up in a shelter for troubled youth for a while. He'd finally run away from that place after getting into one too many fights, and he'd soon found himself camped out in the middle of a swamp, stealing things and scrounging for scrap metal just to survive. It had been a bad time.

But then Cody and Lisa had found him, and asked him to come live with them at Goliad Ranch. That changed _everything._ For the first time in a long while he'd felt loved and wanted again, even though he'd been slow to believe it initially. But he certainly believed it _now,_ and the thought of losing them _and_ Lana was almost unbearable.

It had been a rough day at school, and as Brandon sat there on the rock in his near-despair, he toyed with the thought of what might happen if he fell off the edge of the cliff. He wasn't especially _serious_ about the idea, although it did hold a certain amount of dark fascination at the moment. At least in an abstract, hypothetical sort of way.

They'd find him down there among the rocks and boulders, no doubt, maybe a little bloody and broken but probably not _too_ much. Then maybe everybody would come to his funeral and talk about how much they missed him and what a terrible accident it had been. They might be sorry for all the hateful things they'd said to him lately, and some of them might even cry a little.

It was a halfway appealing notion.

He clipped the knife back to his belt before creeping up to the edge of the drop-off, till he was standing close enough to look down on the jumbled rocks far below. Some of them looked pretty jagged, and he wondered morbidly how much it might hurt to hit bottom.

What might have happened if he'd been left alone to marinade in his misery for too long, God only knows. He was standing dangerously close to the edge, and a sudden gust of wind or a loose rock might easily have overbalanced him even if he hadn't really intended such a thing. Those who flirt with death very frequently find what they seek.

Then, without warning, he felt a pair of strong arms grab him around the middle and yank him backwards. He was too startled to do anything except fall flat on the rock behind him in a tangle of arms and legs. But Brandon was no weakling, and he soon had his attacker pinned down flat on his face with one arm twisted up behind his back.

"Let me up, Beebo," Cody said, breathing hard, and then Brandon finally came to his senses and realized who he was dealing with. What Cody was doing up there on the mountain right then he didn't have a clue, but he turned him loose and stood up. Cody brushed himself off and did the same.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Brandon asked, crossing his arms and scowling. The man must have been silent as death, because Brandon hadn't heard so much as the whisper of a footstep or a crackle of leaves as he came up behind him.

"I could ask you the same thing right about now, Beebo. So happens I saw you headed this way after you got home from school and I came up here to find you. Looks like it's a good thing I did," Cody said, in a tone of voice that seemed to show that he knew exactly what Brandon had been thinking.

"You don't know anything, Cody," Brandon muttered, turning red with embarrassment. It was one thing to privately contemplate the notion of what his funeral might be like. It was quite another thing for Cody to think he really meant it.

"I don't? Well it sure looked to me like you meant to jump off that rock just now. I know that much," Cody said.

"I wasn't gonna jump off the stupid rock," Brandon said.

"Really? You got some other reason for coming up here and standing that close to the edge?" Cody demanded.

"Yeah, matter of fact I do," Brandon said.

"So tell me," Cody said.

"It's none of your business," Brandon told him.

"I think it is, since I had to save your life just now," Cody said.

"You didn't have to do anything. Now leave me alone," Brandon said, and then turned to walk away without another word.

"Where are you going?" Cody called after him.

"To the bunk house. I need to work out for a while," Brandon said, knowing he couldn't get away with not answering the question. He also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cody would watch to make sure that was really where he went.

Brandon stomped his way back to the bottom of the hill and kicked the ground, letting out some of his anger on the inoffensive dirt. Why couldn't Cody have minded his own business? Now he'd constantly be wondering if Brandon wanted to kill himself, and he'd tell Lisa the same thing, too. They'd probably never let him out of their sight again for years.

He slouched along to the empty bunk house at the edge of the peach orchard, looking down at the ground and scowling the whole way. He kept a weight bench and some assorted other fitness equipment in there, since there was no room for it at the main house. Telling Cody that he needed to work out had only been a half-lie; exercise was another thing which could dull the pain of living for a little while.

So Bran lifted weights till he was exhausted and dripping with sweat, and his muscles felt swollen and crampy. He'd probably ache for hours, although the workout did improve his mood a little. His body was chiseled and perfect, without an ounce of excess fat, and he liked to keep it that way. He was far too pale and milky white to ever completely fit in with all those deeply tanned images on the muscle-man magazines, but still, he was in much better shape than most guys he knew. Thank God he didn't have any freckles, at least.

He took a long, hot shower before he left, and then spoiled it by running most of the way home across the pasture. It made him sweaty all over again, but he didn't much care.

Nobody was there when he got home, so he fixed a quick protein shake and slugged it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't have any homework and wasn't in the mood to do any even if he had. He seemed to have eluded Cody for the time being, but Brandon knew better than to think that would last for long. Sooner or later there'd have to be a Talk about what happened up at Nebo; an ordeal which he did _not_ look forward to.

The house felt oppressively quiet and empty, so Brandon grabbed his tackle box and then trudged across the back pasture to the riverbank; another of his favorite sanctuaries. It was tranquil and empty down there, full of the faint cinnamon-like scent of a hundred sycamore trees. He cut a medium-sized cane pole with his buck knife, and then morosely sat down beside the water to bait his hook. It was a mindless and soothing activity, exactly what he needed at the time. Precious balm for his jangled nerves.

After a while he grudgingly decided he ought to thank Cody for pulling him back from the edge. He'd been careless to stand that close to the drop-off, and sometimes accidents really _did_ happen. That wasn't what he wanted; not in his heart of hearts.

No, what he _really_ wanted was to get Lana back, and stay at Goliad, and maybe even rebuild his good name someday. He kept telling himself that none of those things were strictly _impossible,_ even if he had to hunker down and wait till he turned eighteen in a couple more years. Then Crush wouldn't have any more say-so about where he lived, and he'd also be free to go and find Lana as soon as he had a chance to work a little while and earn some money. Surely she wouldn't forget about him _that_ soon, would she?

He remembered Lana's dream about the red-furred wolf back in August, and wondered if all his recent troubles might simply be part of the sad and lonely time he was supposed to go through. In that case, it should all be over soon and even bring a blessing with it.

This was a much more favorable and upbeat line of reasoning for him to take, and Bran latched on to it immediately. If _that_ were true then maybe someday the two of them could even look back and smile at everything.

His thoughts were interrupted by the muffled vibration of his phone, and he noticed with fresh annoyance that it was Cody again. Didn't the man know how to take a hint and leave him alone for a while? Brandon was tempted not even to answer.

Then he thought better of it. If he didn't pick up then Cody might have forty bloodhounds on his trail before he could blink an eye. Much as Bran didn't feel like talking to anybody just then, it was definitely the lesser of two evils.

"Hey," he said tiredly, not pretending any enthusiasm. He wanted Cody to know he was safe; he didn't care about being chatty.

"Hey, Bran. How are you doing?" Cody asked.

"I'm fine. Just sitting down by the river," Brandon said.

"At the swimming hole?" Cody asked.

"Yeah, nobody was home after I got done lifting weights so I decided to go fishing," Brandon said, already wishing the conversation could be done with.

"All right. There's something I want to talk to you about when you get home, though," Cody said.

_That_ was no surprise, and Brandon silently gritted his teeth. He didn't doubt that Cody meant well, but there were times when he just didn't want to hear it.

"Okay," Brandon said neutrally.

"It's not what you think, I promise. It's got nothing to do with what happened at Nebo today," Cody said.

"What is it, then?" Brandon asked.

"The same reason I came to find you this afternoon. Lisa got the judge to sign an order saying you can stay here till school gets out for the summer. There'll have to be a hearing sometime between now and then to decide what happens after that, but they haven't set a date for it yet," Cody said.

"You mean I don't have to go to Tyler?" Brandon asked. It seemed almost too good to be true.

"Not right now, anyway. You'll have to go stay with your dad every other weekend and talk to him on the phone if he calls, but other than that you'll be here at least till the end of May," Cody said.

"That's the best news I've heard all week," Brandon said, almost dizzy with relief.

"Yeah, I thought you'd be glad to hear that. But there's something else, too. I want us to go see Dr. Anderson today and talk to him about some things," Cody said.

"What for?" Brandon asked bluntly. The episode at Nebo came instantly to mind, along with the fact that people sometimes got locked up for such things. Brandon had no intention of letting _that_ happen.

"I think it's better if I let him explain that. It's kind of complicated," Cody said, which did nothing to clarify the situation.

"You promise he won't try to lock me up?" Brandon asked.

"No, Beebo. I promise it's nothing like that," Cody said.

Cody would never lie about such a thing, but in a way that only puzzled Brandon all the more. Dr. Anderson wasn't his regular doctor, nor even a psychiatrist for that matter. He was just a friend of Cody's who lived a few miles down the road in Mooringsport, right over the Louisiana line. The two of them worked together at times, bringing the sick and the injured to bathe in Cadron Pool and thereby find healing for things beyond the power of medicine to cure. Other than that, the good doctor was also a jackleg preacher at a little church too poor to pay him anything for doing it, and a part-time athletics coach at one of the private schools in Shreveport. How the man found time to eat or even breathe was a true marvel.

None of which seemed to offer a good explanation for what the upcoming visit was about, of course, but finally Brandon decided he'd find out soon enough.

Chapter Four

Bran went home to change clothes, throwing on a clean t-shirt and a battered Ore City baseball cap. He didn't want to go out in public smelling like either dried sweat or dead fish, and he also took the time to run a comb through his hair a few times so he'd look just a tad bit more respectable. He didn't really know Dr. Anderson all that well except for seeing him at the Pool now and then, so he felt obliged to be on slightly better manners than usual.

"That was fast," Cody commented when he came downstairs, and Brandon just shrugged.

"All I had to do was change clothes and comb my hair. Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yeah, let's go," Cody agreed.

Dr. Anderson lived in a red brick house on the shores of Caddo Lake, several miles outside the city limits of Mooringsport itself. Brandon had only been there once or twice, but he still remembered the place well enough. It was nice, but not fancy; Dr. Anderson wasn't the type to be showy with money, even though he undoubtedly had some.

A boy roughly Brandon's age wearing nothing but a ratty old pair of sweatpants came to the front door when they knocked. He was dark-haired and sort of bony-looking, with a faded farmer's tan on his arms and the back of his neck.

"Hey, Jonah. Is your dad home yet?" Cody asked.

"No, but he will be soon. Just me for now, but y'all might as well come on in," Jonah said.

Cody and Brandon followed him all the way through the house to a set of sliding glass doors at the back, and then out onto a wooden deck overlooking the lake. The water was smooth and blue under a cloudless sky, surrounded by the massive trunks of winter-bare cypress trees growing far out into the shallows and draped with Spanish moss.

"I hope y'all don't mind if I leave you alone out here for a little while, do you? I've still got three pages of trigonometry homework to finish before suppertime or else Mom won't let me go to the movies tonight," Jonah said, sounding apologetic.

"We'll be fine, Jonah. Go finish your math," Cody said, with a tolerant smile.

"Okay. There's stuff to eat and drink in the kitchen, or give me a holler if you need anything else," Jonah said.

As soon as they were alone, Brandon decided it was a good time to clear the air with Cody. There'd been so much stress and tension between them for the past few weeks that sometimes Goliad didn't even feel like home anymore, but the knowledge that he wouldn't get snatched away at least till summertime took a massive weight off Brandon's shoulders. He was ready to patch things up if at all possible, and if the incident at Nebo could somehow break the ice then it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

"Listen, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn't have been that close to the edge up there. But thanks for watching my back," Brandon began.

"Hey, I love you, kid. That's what I'm here for. I don't guess you'd feel like telling me what that was all about, would you?" Cody asked. It was the perfect opening for what Brandon wanted to say, so he took a deep breath and plunged in.

"Well. . . things have been pretty bad here lately, with Lana and my dad and all the rest of it. You know that, right?" he said, and Cody nodded. Of course he knew, just like everybody else in town.

"Yeah, I know. You've been pretty good about keeping it covered up, but I can tell when you're hurting even if you don't say anything," Cody agreed.

"Can you blame me?" Brandon asked.

"No, I don't blame you for anything. Never have. But all the same, we'd hate to lose you, Beebo," Cody said, and Brandon shrugged a little, staring down at the floor.

"All I did was go over there to look down at the rocks. I promise I never meant to jump. I was only feeling sorry for myself and wondering if people might regret the way they treated me if they ended up having to come to my funeral. That's all," he said.

"That's bad enough," Cody said.

"I know. But I felt like the whole world was falling to pieces all around me," Brandon said.

"Yeah, I guess I can see how you might feel that way," Cody agreed.

"I never meant for any of this to happen. I wanted to do right," Brandon said, finding himself unexpectedly teary-eyed. He hadn't meant to cry, but Cody's sympathy made it hard not to. He'd been holding in so much grief and rejection for so long that even a little bit of love was enough to pop the bubble.

"I know that. Mrs. Jackson tried to tell Lisa you're a sociopath; you know, the kind of person who's got no conscience, who just uses people and then tosses them aside whenever there's nothing left. She said we ought to get rid of you while we still had the chance," Cody said.

"She _said_ that?" Brandon interrupted, shocked.

"Yeah, she really did, Beebo. Then Lisa told her exactly what she could do with her opinion and hung up the phone," Cody said.

"Did she?" Brandon asked.

"Yeah. . . Lisa might've said some worse things to _you_ that day if she hadn't still been so mad at Sylvie Jackson, so count yourself lucky. Needless to say, we never believed anything like that. People do things they're sorry for later, that's all. We don't love you any less because of that. We never expected you to be perfect," Cody said.

"Thanks," Brandon said in a low voice.

"Aw, it's okay. Mrs. Jackson was just mad because you mopped the floor with Jamie that morning," Cody said, punching Bran's arm just a little. Then Brandon smiled through his tears and decided he might as well go for broke.

"You don't know everything, though. You remember that night when I called you after the game at White Oak and asked to spend the night at Jason Lewis's house?" Brandon asked, wiping his eyes dry with both hands.

"Yeah, I remember," Cody said.

"I lied to you about that. I wanted to go to a party that night with Lana, so that's what we did. They had beer and stuff there. Both of us got drunk, and the next thing I remember we woke up in the hayloft together the next morning. I'm so sorry," Brandon said, and Cody took a deep breath.

"Yeah, we thought it was probably something like that. We've been talking about everything pretty often here lately, trying to make sense out of what happened," Cody admitted.

"Neither of you ever said anything," Brandon said.

"It wouldn't have helped if we did. You've got a stubborn streak ten miles wide, boy. If we'd tried to lecture you then that would only have made things worse, because then you would have bucked up and felt like you had a reason to justify yourself. We decided it was better for you to think about the consequences of your actions for a while," Cody said. Those words brought back a raft of painful memories, and Brandon decided it was high time to change the subject.

"We wanted to get married, you know," he said abruptly, even though it didn't have much to do with the conversation.

"Did you?" Cody asked.

"Yeah. . . even way back before any of this ever happened. We used to talk about all the things we wanted someday. A big place way out in the country, with horses and cows and a yard full of kids. Maybe to play music together somewhere like you and Lisa do, or travel around to see the world for a while. All that good stuff. We didn't think it could ever happen because we knew she'd have to go back home sooner or later, but that's what we always said we wanted," Brandon said.

"I'm not surprised. Those are pretty common things to wish for, at your age," Cody said.

"You think so?" Brandon asked skeptically.

"Yeah. God made you that way, to grow up and find your other half, then to go out and fill the world with children. It's a good thing to want, as far as it goes. I might have told you to be patient and wait for better timing, but I'd never tell you not to dream good dreams. One of the saddest things that can happen to a man is to live his whole life without ever reaching for the thing he wants the most. So if love and family is your heart's desire then I pray you can have it someday," Cody said.

Brandon almost told him that wasn't _all_ he wanted out of life, even though it definitely held a high place in his heart. But he couldn't have put into words all the other half-conscious hopes and wishes that filled his mind and touched his soul at times. He hardly knew what he wanted himself, except that he hadn't found it yet.

But he couldn't have explained all that without getting tied up in knots and making a complete fool of himself, so he was willing to go along with Cody's partial guess for the moment.

"Seems pretty unlikely, if you ask me. Lana's gone with no way to find her, and I've got a kid I'll never see, and it seems like everybody thinks it's all my fault and the way I feel doesn't matter. I've made a pretty good mess of things here lately," Brandon said.

"Oh, I wouldn't necessarily say that," Cody told him.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked, startled into glancing up for a second.

"Dr. Anderson had a dream he'd like to discuss with you. That's why we're here to see him, actually. He explained it to me a little bit over the phone, but I told him he really ought to speak to you directly since it's mostly about you and Lana. Don't get your hopes up _too_ much yet, but I think he's got a notion about trying to bring her back here," Cody said.

"Really?" Brandon asked.

"Yeah, and I wouldn't be surprised if he found a way to make it happen. The Andersons are good people. They know a lot of important folks, and there's no doubt they've got the money to get things done if need be. I think we've got a good chance of untangling all this mess, God willing," Cody said.

Just then they heard the sliding glass door open again, and Dr. Anderson himself came out onto the deck. Neither of them had heard him pull in.

"Brandon! I'm glad you could make it," the man said, and then shook hands with a bone-crushing grip. He looked much too young to be a real doctor; Bran would have guessed no more than thirty-something at most, with sandy hair and a mustache to match. He didn't look much like a coach or a pastor, either, in his plaid flannel shirt and faded blue jeans. In fact, he resembled a lumberjack more than anything else, or maybe a roughneck in an oilfield. Some job where you had to be big, burly, and strong as an ox, anyway.

"Cody said you wanted to see me, sir," Brandon said, partly to distract Dr. Anderson from crushing his hand.

"Yes, I did. Cody tells me you've been having some tough times here lately," Dr. Anderson said. Brandon glanced at Cody, and then reluctantly nodded. His eyes were still a bit red and puffy, but he hoped it wasn't _that_ noticeable.

"Yes sir, I guess you could say that," Brandon admitted.

"Don't worry, nobody's here to tear you down. We all know you can't go back and change the past. We just want to help you make a better future, if there's any way to do that. I've already heard the gist of things from Cody, but I'd like to hear your own side of the story before we say too much more," Dr. Anderson said, and it was the first time Bran could remember that anybody had ever asked him that question.

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Brandon said, and proceeded to tell him the whole convoluted tale. He didn't mention the incident at Nebo, just in case, and Dr. Anderson listened without a word till he was finished.

"So what would you like to do at this point, Bran? I don't mean what you think is possible; I mean what you really _want._ If things could turn out the best possible way, what would it look like?" Dr. Anderson finally asked.

"I guess. . . Lana could come back here, and maybe we could get married in a couple of years, and hopefully my dad would decide to leave me alone and things could go back to the way they used to be. That's all I want right now," Brandon said.

"And if you somehow got all that, would it be enough for you? Would it make you happy?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked.

"Just what I said. Is that enough to satisfy you for the rest of your life, or would it take more than that? I'm curious about what you'd like to do with your life someday. What is it that matters most to you?" Dr. Anderson asked, and Brandon barely kept himself from gritting his teeth. Here he was, his life in a shambles, and Dr. Anderson wanted to ask him what he wanted to be when he grew up? It was unbelievable.

"I have no idea," Brandon said flatly.

"That's not good. No idea at all?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Dr. Anderson, I'm not trying to be rude, but does that really matter right now?" Brandon asked. But Dr. Anderson didn't seem offended.

"Yes, Bran, it does. It matters more than you can possibly imagine," Dr. Anderson said.

"Why?" Brandon asked.

"I can't tell you why, but I promise you it does," Dr. Anderson said, and there was an uncomfortable pause while Bran tried to think what to say. Dr. Anderson noticed, and gracefully filled in the blank.

"Maybe it'll help if we move on for now and give you a little time to think about it. In the meantime, I need to tell you about my dream last night," he said, and Bran heaved an inward sigh of relief. The conversation had veered into strange territory, and he was eager to get back to the issue at hand.

"Sure, sounds good to me," he agreed.

"It's not one that needs much interpretation, I'm afraid; it's just something I need to let you know. Lana's in serious trouble," Dr. Anderson said.

"What do you mean? What's wrong?" Brandon asked, instantly alarmed.

"Slow down just a second, Bran. The dream never showed me what was wrong. All I know is this: if we don't find a way to get her back over here before midnight on the Feast of St. Tigernach, then she'll surely die. Furthermore, the only one who can bring her back is _you,_ and even then only if you go alone. I don't pretend to understand why any of that should be, but the dream was clear," Dr. Anderson said.

"But that doesn't make any sense at all, Charles. I can't send a kid halfway around the world on his own like that. He's never traveled in his life," Cody objected.

"I don't know, Cody, but I have to believe that God knows what He's talking about. There's a time for trust in these things," Dr. Anderson said.

"When is the Feast of St. Tigernach, anyway? I never heard of him before," Brandon asked. He didn't care beans about anything else till he found out how much time they had left.

"It's April the fourth. I had to look it up myself," Dr. Anderson said.

"But why that particular day? I can't think of anything special about it, at least not offhand," Brandon said, and then he noticed that Cody had gone ashen-faced.

"What's wrong, Cody?" Dr. Anderson asked, turning to look at him.

"Are you _sure_ it's April the fourth?" Cody asked.

"I'm positive. Is there something unusual about that date?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"That's the same day Layla Garza killed my father eighteen years ago," Cody said, and for a few seconds that silenced all of them. Layla was a murderous witch who'd killed scores of young men over the years, including Cody's father and very nearly Cody himself. No wonder he blanched at the memory.

"I see. Now that's an awfully suspicious coincidence, don't you think? In fact, it makes me wonder whether it might not be a coincidence at all," Dr. Anderson said.

"You think Layla Garza might be mixed up in all this?" Brandon asked. He'd been too young to be involved very much when they tangled with Layla the last time, but he did remember a little.

Cody and Lisa had finally blocked her magic with an ancient crystal known as a Guardian Stone, which nullified all magical or supernatural power. That Stone had been a gift of God to Saint Madryn of Gwent long ago as a tool of protection against evil, and Brandon still wasn't quite sure how Cody and Lisa had managed to get hold of it. In any case, the two of them had placed it at the bottom of the Brazos River, at the very spot where Layla had killed her first victim, and as long as it remained in place then she'd be powerless.

"Surely not. Nobody's heard a peep out of _her_ ever since she ran off to Georgia two years ago. She's pretty much a toothless tiger without her magic, anyway," Cody said.

"Perhaps. But I don't think you should write her off so easily. People can do a lot of nasty things without resorting to magic, especially if they're determined enough. It comes to mind that a bitter enemy like that might have decided to attack the people you love as a way to get revenge, Cody. It wouldn't be all that uncommon, you know," Dr. Anderson pointed out.

"Maybe," Cody said, and he didn't look too happy with the idea.

"She might have decided to kill Lana as a way of hurting Brandon, knowing that would hurt _you._ Doing it on the same day she killed your father might be a subtle way of letting you know who was responsible," Dr. Anderson went on.

"Please don't give me anything else to worry about than I've already got, Charles. This whole situation is hard enough already without having to think about a crazy ex-witch stalking my boy through the back alleys half a world away," Cody said.

Bran didn't fail to notice the way Cody unconsciously referred to him as _my_ boy, the sort of protective wording that a man might use when speaking about a child that he dearly loves. It was no secret that Cody felt that way, of course, but it was still nice to hear it sometimes. Especially today, and especially when he said it without thinking.

"I believe I could handle it, even if she did show up. I know how to fight if I have to," Brandon ventured to say. If God had asked him to do this great thing, then he was determined not to be afraid.

"Maybe so, but I still don't think you have any idea how much could go wrong with a scheme like that, even if Layla's _not_ involved. It's dangerous to be that far from home with nobody to help you if anything happens, and besides that we have to be careful what we do between now and court day," Cody said.

"Surely it's not _that_ dangerous, is it? Lana's been traveling back and forth to Saint Petersburg alone ever since she was twelve years old and nothing bad ever happened to _her_. As for the court thing, Dr. Anderson only said she had to be back here sometime before the fourth of April. I could wait till spring break when I'll be out of school for a week and then Daddy wouldn't even know I was gone at all. That's still plenty of time before the deadline," Brandon said. He chafed at having to wait that long, but he could put up with it if necessary.

"I just don't know, Bran," Cody muttered. He plainly didn't like the idea at all, in spite of everything Brandon and Dr. Anderson had said. But there was still one last thing that might sway his heart.

"Lana wouldn't be in danger at all right now if it wasn't for me, so I think it's only right for me to do whatever I can to help. I think I owe her that much," Brandon said, and Cody sighed.

"Well, yeah. . . I reckon you do," he agreed, sounding sad and defeated. Cody could no more have resisted an argument based on honor than he could have scratched his head with his big toe. He was stubbornly, unbendingly noble that way, and his example was a lot to live up to sometimes.

"Spring break is still a long way off. That gives us some time to think about it and make arrangements, but we don't have to decide anything right away," Dr. Anderson said diplomatically.

"I guess not," Cody said.

"But in the meantime, I think we _do_ need to talk about some legal issues and long range plans, just in case. Lana's sixteen, right?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"She will be, in about two weeks. She's a few months younger than me," Brandon said.

"All right; I think we can handle that. I'm willing to buy her a plane ticket, and I'm willing to give her a place to stay in this house while she's here, provided she goes to school and stays out of trouble. That's the easy part, though. We don't know what her parents will say, and even if they're agreeable it still might be difficult to get her another entry visa after the last one was revoked," Dr. Anderson said.

"Oh," Brandon said, down in the dumps all over again.

"Don't give up _that_ easily, kid. I said it might be _difficult,_ not _impossible,"_ Dr. Anderson said.

"What did you have in mind?" Brandon asked.

"Well, _if_ we can't get her another educational visa, then there are a few other possibilities," Dr. Anderson said.

"Like what?" Brandon asked.

"Well, there are visas for medical treatment, I suppose. I could probably arrange something like that if need be. They don't last very long but they're fairly easy to get. She doesn't have any type of medical problems, does she?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Not that I know of. Is there anything else?" Brandon asked.

"There are special employment permits, if I could convince them she had skills I couldn't easily locate here in this country. But I'm not sure if that would work till she's eighteen. Or there are cultural visas, if she knows how to dance or sing or something like that," Dr. Anderson said.

"She can play the piano pretty well," Brandon said.

"Then maybe we can use that one somehow, if nothing else works out. Those are all the major options, I'm afraid. We'll have to find a way to make at least one of them work. But I can look into that part on my own, I suppose. The part _you'll_ have to handle is dealing with her parents and finding out what _they_ might be agreeable to. We can't really make any definite plans without knowing what they think first," Dr. Anderson said.

"But how? Her mom and dad hate me; I'm sure they do. She always said her dad was super old-fashioned and traditional about certain things, not to mention hard to get along with. She told me he'd probably have fifteen heart attacks before he had time to hit the floor if he ever found out she had a foreign boyfriend. God only knows what he thinks _now._ I don't even know for certain where they live. Mrs. Jackson won't give me their address," Brandon said.

"Do you know the name of the town? Anything else that might be useful?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Yeah, the town is called Vyborg and it's right outside Saint Petersburg. It's a pretty big place itself, though," Brandon said.

"Do you know anything else that might help us track them down? Names? Occupations? Maybe other family members?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Well. . . her dad's a dentist and her mom's a secretary, and I know she's got a younger brother and sister. Their last name is Krisanov. That's really all I can think of," Brandon said.

"You don't know their first names?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Um. . . Michael is her dad's name. Well, technically it's Mikhail, I guess. I'm not sure about her mother," Brandon said.

"I think that's enough information that you could find the address. They have yellow pages just like we do, you know. If her dad's a dentist then I'm sure he advertises," Dr. Anderson said.

"I still don't think they'd let me see her," Brandon said.

"Maybe not, but they can't keep her locked away _all_ the time. I'm sure if you watched and waited, you could find a time when she was out of the house alone. Then maybe the two of you could talk and figure out how to proceed from there. She'd believe you if you told her what I said, wouldn't she?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"I'm sure she would. She knows I can read dreams. But that doesn't mean I could get her parents to believe me. What if they won't let her leave at all?" Brandon asked.

"I don't know, Bran. I can only fall back on what I said to begin with, that you're the one who's meant to find a way," Dr. Anderson said.

"I hope so," Brandon said, wishing the plan had a firmer foundation.

"There's also the small but important matter of money to pay for all these things. I'd like to go ahead and lay that whole issue to rest immediately by saying that I plan to pick up the tab for this trip. I simply won't hear of it any other way," Dr. Anderson said, an offer which left Brandon speechless.

"But. . . " he began, and Dr. Anderson laughed.

"Honestly, kid, it's only a little money. It's not like I'm offering to kill the Pope for you," he said, amused.

"But why would you do something like that?" Brandon blurted, forgetting every rule of politeness about not looking gift horses in the mouth or questioning people's kindness. But Dr. Anderson didn't seem to mind.

"Well. . . I don't think God chose to give me that dream for no purpose. It so happens that I'm the one who has the resources to make this thing happen, and I'm glad to help if I can. Besides that, when I see a young person trying to do the right thing then I believe in supporting him in every way possible, financially or otherwise," Dr. Anderson said.

"I don't know what to say," Brandon admitted, thinking about what Lana's parents might do if he showed up on their doorstep unannounced. Dr. Krisanov might shoot him before he could say a single word. Lana's description of the man hadn't been very encouraging.

"Say thank you and then do the best you can to make this thing happen," Dr. Anderson said.

"I'll try," Brandon said. He never even considered the idea of refusing Dr. Anderson's offer. He'd bring Lana back while there was still time, somehow. Then maybe, just _maybe,_ things would turn out the way he'd always hoped they would.

"Good. You'll have to go down to the post office tomorrow morning to order a passport, but there's no need to worry about anything else till that's done. The rest of it can wait a few weeks," Dr. Anderson said.

Brandon nodded, his head spinning with all these plans and ideas. He couldn't get over the fact that things had changed so dramatically, so fast. But Dr. Anderson wasn't done.

"In the meantime, talk it over with Cody and Lisa and let me know what y'all decide," he concluded, and that sent a sharp knife of fear into Brandon's newfound hope. He glanced over at Cody, who only shrugged.

"We've still got some things to talk about," Cody said.

"Well, as I said, you've got a little while to think about it. Meanwhile we can at least get the paperwork going," Dr. Anderson said.

"Thanks, Dr. Anderson," Brandon said, and he'd never meant anything so much in his life.
Chapter Five

"So, can I go?" Brandon asked on the way home. He hadn't wanted to push Cody too much right there in front of Dr. Anderson, but alone in the truck together was a different thing completely.

"Maybe. It's kind of hard for me to say no, under the circumstances," Cody said dryly.

"You don't sound too happy about it," Brandon said, and Cody sighed.

"I'm not. It scares me to death even to think about it. If you want to know the truth, my gut reaction right now is to lock you up in the attic and throw away the key till you turn eighteen," he admitted.

"Why don't you, then?" Brandon asked bluntly, and Cody laughed a little.

"You've got such a way with words sometimes, Beebo. The only reason I haven't locked you up yet is because I know there are bigger things at stake here than just safety. For one thing, I have to believe that God knew what He was talking about when He told Charles you're the only one who can save Lana. And if that's really true then it feeds right into the second thing. What I've always wanted most for you is a noble heart; that you'd grow up fearless to do what's righteous and true no matter how high the cost. I wouldn't be setting a very good example of that if I kept you at home because I'm afraid, now would I?" Cody said.

"You're an awful lot to live up to sometimes, Cody," Brandon muttered wryly. No one else he knew of would ever have reasoned thus, not in a million years.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I like to think I did my part to teach you a few things. But there had to be a good seed there to start with or you never would've listened in the first place. You can't pick fruit from thistles, nor flowers from weeds. I always knew you were a diamond in the rough, ever since you first came here," Cody said.

"I guess so," Brandon said, and Cody laughed again.

"All right, I won't embarrass you any more tonight, Beebo. But there's a story I'd like to tell you before anybody even _thinks_ about going off to Russia," Cody finally said.

"A story about what?" Brandon asked.

"You, ultimately. But it starts a long time ago with a lady named Marybeth Trewick," Cody said.

"I never heard of her before," Brandon said. It sounded suspiciously like Cody was about to launch into one of his beloved yarns concerning family history, a topic which Brandon had never shared his enthusiasm for. It hardly seemed like the time or the place for such a thing, but if that's what it took to be allowed to go to Russia then Bran was willing to listen till Cody talked himself hoarse.

"She was your great-grandfather's great-grandmother. Mine too, for that matter, even though I hadn't heard of her myself till recently. But then again, people tend to focus on their father's kinfolk because that's the way we mostly reckon things, from father to son. Practically no one knows anything about his distant foremothers, especially if the line has been broken several times," Cody said.

"So what about her?" Brandon asked.

"Well, they say she was a real beauty back in her younger days, with eyes of the deepest and most vivid blue you ever saw. That was back in 1846, and she ended up getting married that year to a wealthy young planter's son in Shreveport by the name of Daniel Trewick. Daniel wasn't quite what he seemed, though. It turned out he was involved with all kinds of evil things. There's no need to go into all that, but suffice it to say he was a cruel man who treated his wife badly. They had five boys and one girl over the years, and after a while the five boys followed in Daniel's footsteps to become just as evil as he was, if not more so. The daughter was the only righteous one, and she had to run away and get married so her father wouldn't kill her. That was Hannah, the one who came here and married my grandpa Reuben. But she never saw or heard from her mother ever again after that," Cody said.

"What happened then?" Brandon asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Well, it so happens that Marybeth herself was a righteous woman, in spite of her circumstances. She loved her husband and her children, and she kept praying that the lost ones might be saved someday. But Daniel and three of their sons were killed during the Civil War, and when the fighting was over they lost everything they owned. Hannah was long gone by then, so Marybeth was left alone and destitute with her two youngest boys, ten and twelve years old. Both of them already hated her, and within a few years they were both gone, too, unrepentant as ever. John ended up on a dirt farm right outside Longview, where he took up as much of his father's wickedness as he could learn. Drake ran off to Arkansas to work in the cinnabar mines, at least when he wasn't too drunk to hold a pick and shovel. After a little while, she never heard from either of them again. So poor Marybeth lost everything, you see; she had to watch three sons die, and another one drink himself senseless, and the last one turn into an even wickeder man than his father had been. And the whole time she never realized that her daughter was only fifty miles away. She died old and poor and all alone at the pauper's hospital in Shreveport, without even a tombstone to mark where they buried her," Cody said.

"That's sad," Brandon said, wondering why Cody wanted to tell him such a depressing story. Things like that happened, no doubt, but the last thing he needed at the moment was something else to bring him down.

"Well, yeah, it _would_ be, if that's how it all ended. But Marybeth never stopped believing that God is loving and kind. She never stopped praising Him for His goodness and glory. She prayed constantly that He would use her suffering to bless others, that somehow all that pain would be worth the cost. And God heard her prayer," Cody said.

"He did?" Brandon asked.

"He did. He gave her a vision of things to come, to comfort her heart. He promised that after seven generations of her family had passed, there'd be five boys born to replace and redeem the ones that she lost. These five would be breakers of curses and fighters against all things wicked and evil, and each of them would have the same vividly blue eyes, the same color as Marybeth's, to mark him as one of the five, so that she and everyone else would know that God is faithful to His promises," Cody said.

"How did you find out all that?" Brandon asked.

"Part of it from public records, other parts from letters that Marybeth wrote to her sister, part of it from things Hannah passed down to me. It hasn't been easy," Cody admitted.

"So you think I'm one of those five?" Brandon asked.

"I know you are, Beebo. You've got those deep blue eyes to mark you, and I know for a fact that you're a seventh generation descendant of Marybeth. Do you remember your brother's middle name?" Cody asked.

"Yeah, Madaug. He always hated it," Brandon said.

"Maybe so, but that unusual name was the key that helped me find the last link, so we should all be grateful. He was named after your great-grandfather Madaug Davies, who was Drake Trewick's grandson. So there you go; you're not only my half-brother-in-law, you're my ninth cousin, too. What do you think about that?" Cody asked.

"Does that mean you're related to Lisa, too?" Brandon asked.

"I knew you'd ask me that, but as a matter of fact, no I'm not. You and Lisa have different mothers, and it's through your mom that you're related to me, not through your dad. So, no worries about any of our kids coming out with three arms or anything weird like that," Cody said.

"But you and me and Brian are still only three out of five. What about the other two?" Brandon asked.

"Their names are Zach Trewick and Cameron Parker. They're both descended from John, and they're about four years older than you, I think. They came out here to the ranch about two years ago asking for some help with a problem they had back then. Do you remember Matthieu Doucet, the one who helped us during the fight with Layla Garza?" Cody asked, and Brandon nodded.

"Sort of. I remember you talking about him, anyway, but I don't think I ever met him in person except for that one time when we all got together to consecrate Cadron Pool. Wasn't he supposed to be a monster hunter or something like that?" Brandon asked.

"Something like that. He's Rosalie Anderson's nephew; that's how I ended up meeting _them_ for the first time, actually. Anyway, Matthieu is part of a little group called the Avengers, and their mission is to fight evil wherever they find it. They train hard and they keep a library of reference materials and all kinds of things like that. Matthieu is the leader now, and Cam and Zach are both members," Cody said.

"So what did they want with _you,_ then?" Brandon asked.

"Well, it's kind of a long story, but it turns out Layla Garza had three brothers, and two of them were even worse sorcerers than she was. Her brother Andrew was a physicist at New Mexico State University and did sorcery on the side. He used to roam around out there on the Llano, killing people in remote areas so he could turn them into zombies to use for his own personal security guards. Things like that. He also invented a machine called a tachometer so people could see the future and even go there in person. It's strictly a one-way trip, though; nobody can ever come back home again," Cody said.

"Sounds like the Garza clan is a pretty nasty bunch all around," Brandon said.

"You better believe it. Andrew and Gabe are both dead now, and Orem's in prison, but Layla's bad enough on her own. She's the cruelest person I ever met in my whole life, bar none, and she's beautiful enough to manipulate folks even without her magic. She'll cause you more heartache than you ever thought it was possible to feel, and she'll relish all that pain like a cold glass of water on a hot day. She's not somebody you want to mess with, Beebo, and that's a fact. So you better keep that in mind and stay far away from really pretty girls who approach you for no good reason," Cody said.

"What does she look like?" Brandon asked.

"You won't be able to tell. It's too easy for her to wear colored contacts or change her clothes and hair color. All I can say is that she'll be extremely beautiful, and no more than a few years older than you are. Other than that you'll just have to be careful," Cody said.

"Maybe she'll stay in Georgia and mind her own business, then," Brandon said, chilled by Cody's description of the woman.

"I dearly hope so. Anyway, to make a long story short, the Avengers nailed Gabe and Orem, but Andrew escaped into the future because of his tachometer. So then Cameron volunteered to go after him, but he needed my Guardian Stone to protect him from Andrew's sorcery after he got there," Cody said.

"That was a brave thing to do, knowing he could never come back home again," Brandon said.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. So when Matthieu brought him out to Goliad to ask about the Stone, it was hard for me to say no. He deserved as much help as I could give him," Cody explained.

"But I thought that Stone was supposed to keep Layla powerless," Brandon said.

"It is, but I'm sure she'll be long since dead by the time Cam ever shows up to pull it out of the river. He was headed for 2134, so it'll stay right where it is till then," Cody said.

"I see," Brandon said. That year was suspiciously close to 2158, the time that Bran himself had been told to wait for in Lisa's dream, and he couldn't help wondering if there was any connection between the two things.

"Anyway, I don't know Cam or Zach very well other than that. But I'm sure they're both out there doing whatever things God has put in their hearts to do. Just like I'm doing with Cadron Pool, and I'm sure just like your brother is doing, too. You're the youngest of us all, Beebo, and the only one who hasn't been given a job yet. But someday you will, more than just reading visions now and then or learning how to play music at church. Like I said, you're marked for it, and God never breaks His promises," Cody said.

Brandon thought once again of Lisa's dream and the vision God had given him of the future, to guide and protect his great-nephew. He did indeed have _one_ job, even if nobody knew it but him.

But Cody wasn't finished yet.

"Now there are two reasons why I told you that story, and I want you to remember them both. The first thing is, you're a child of promise. You have a purpose and a destiny in the world far beyond whatever happens over there in Russia. We can hope that things will turn out well, but we both know there are no guarantees. You might get your heart broken all over again, and if you do then I want you to remember it's not the end of the world. You have to promise me you won't forget about that, Bran, because I won't be there to pull you down off a cliff this time," Cody said.

"Is _that_ what you're worried about?" Brandon asked.

"Among other things, yeah. You would be too, if the shoe was on the other foot," Cody said.

"I told you I never really meant to hurt myself. But I promise I won't do anything like that ever again, no matter what," Brandon said, and Cody was quiet for a long time, rubbing the stubble on his chin with two fingers.

"I'll trust you, then. You've always kept your promises," Cody said.

"So what's the second reason?" Brandon asked.

"I'm afraid you won't like hearing it, but it needs to be said before you get much older. Especially if you're thinking about getting seriously involved with somebody," Cody said.

"What is it?" Brandon asked.

"You have a real problem with love, Beebo. You live your whole life like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, like you never really believe that God is good, or blessings will last, or love can be trusted. I can see it on your face; I can hear it in your voice sometimes even if you don't think it shows. There's a bitterness inside you that colors almost everything. To give you one example, I've never once heard you tell somebody you loved them, even when I know you really do. Touching you is like laying my hand against a cold block of granite sometimes," Cody said.

"How can you say that?" Brandon asked, stung to the heart. The part about never saying he loved anybody was true; with the sole exception of Lana, he hadn't said those particular words in years, and even with her it had always been in private. But surely as long as people knew how he felt then it meant the same thing, didn't it?

"I can say it because it's true. I've known you for two years now, and I pay more attention than you think. I love you dearly, kid; I wouldn't hold back even the stars in heaven if you asked for them. I know words are cheap sometimes, even ones like that which ought never to be. But when Lisa and I say those kinds of things, I want you to remember that we _mean_ them. When you hear that God is good, I want you to _trust_ Him. Right now you really don't. You may accept those things on a certain level, but you don't truly _believe_ them; not way down deep in your heart where it really matters," Cody said.

"If that's how it is then I've got my reasons," Brandon finally said, looking out the window with a tight-lipped scowl on his face.

"I know that. You've been hurt pretty badly by certain people who should have known better and done better. But that's something nobody can change at this point, Beebo. The past is over and done with; you can't let it keep eating you alive. Sometimes I worry that God will have to break your heart completely one of these days before He can ever make it whole again, the way a bone that heals crooked has to be rebroken so the doctors can set it straight," Cody said.

Brandon said nothing to this, and after a long silence Cody sighed.

"All I'm trying to say is that you'll never be able to do the work God has in mind for you or live the life He wants you to have unless you find a way to wash that bitterness out of your heart. Sooner or later it'll poison every relationship you ever try to have with anybody, Him included. It sours your temper, it ruins your trust, and eventually it opens the door to evil. I want better than that for you," Cody said.

These words forced Brandon to do some hard thinking. Self examination had never been his strong suit, but once Cody pointed it out he began to wonder uncertainly if perhaps he really _didn't_ love or trust God (or anybody else) even half as much as he would always have said he did. It made him feel cheap and phony to think he might actually be a hypocrite after all, and he had to blink back sudden tears for the second time in one day.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He wasn't sure if he meant the apology for Cody or for God, or maybe both.

"I didn't mean to make you cry, Beebo. I'm only trying to teach you something. Let it be," Cody said in a kinder voice.

"No, you're right, and I can't let it be. If I know it then I have to try to change it," Brandon said.

"Then you'll have to start doing the very same thing that Marybeth did. When bad things happen, don't start questioning God's love. Praise Him instead. Sing to Him out of the darkness, even if your eyes are full of tears at the same time, even if your heart is broken beyond hope. _Especially_ then, as a matter of fact. The times when you least feel like doing it are the very times when you need it the most. Praise is one of the greatest weapons against evil that God has ever put into your hands. Don't overlook it," Cody said.

"Doesn't seem like such a great weapon to me," Brandon said. He was trying to soften what had turned into an awfully intense conversation, but Cody only smiled.

"You'll find out for yourself someday, I promise. In the meantime just remember what I said, okay?" he asked.

"I will," Brandon agreed.

"Good. I guess between now and spring break the main thing I need you to do is to lay low, Beebo. That means no more fights, no more parties, nothing like that. And I want you to promise me you'll be careful after you get over there, too. Don't do anything stupid, and watch out for people who stand too close or anybody your gut tells you to keep away from. Stay out of dangerous places and don't go anywhere alone if you can help it, especially after dark," Cody said.

"So I can go?" Brandon asked hopefully.

"Yeah. . . I guess I talked myself into it. Like I said before, I have to believe that God knows what He's talking about. If this is what He wants from us, then so be it. When people say stuff like _I know what God wants me_ _to do, BUT. . ._ then that one little word _but_ only shows they're still unrepentant rebels and sinners at heart, people who don't have the slightest intention to obey. They may even laugh about it at the time, like it's funny that they're about to knowingly drive the nails a little deeper into Jesus' wrists. I won't do that, Beebo, and I'd never ask you to," Cody said, and that was that.

It was amazing how much difference it made over the next few days to have some kind of strategy and a purpose in place. In the blink of an eye, Brandon's whole dreary existence had been changed into something bright and full of promise. He didn't even care about the occasional snide comments at school anymore. He had better things to think of now.

The court hearing with his father still hung over his head like a sharp sword, but that couldn't be helped. It had been set for second week in May, and Brandon knew everything he said or did would be subject to scrutiny in the meantime. So he talked to Crush on the phone now and then, and dutifully spent every other weekend in Tyler just as he'd been ordered to do. It was no time to rock the boat.

When he wasn't with Crush, Brandon spent most of the time with his nose crammed into a Russian phrase-book, trying to learn as much as possible while he still had the chance.

His passport arrived in the mail right before spring break, and then he had to wait several more days to get his entry permit. Unlike most countries, Russia required a separate piece of paper with his picture on it instead of just a stamp in his passport. But at last all the paperwork and miscellaneous necessities were finished, and then there was nothing left to hold him back.

Brandon spread the word that he meant to go camping at the river while school was out, since that gave him a perfect excuse to disappear for ten whole days. With a little luck, nobody would ever think twice about where he might be.

In reality he was already booked for a flight to Saint Petersburg on Friday morning, and Jonah had volunteered to drive him to the airport in Shreveport. From there he'd have to switch planes in Memphis, Detroit, and then again in Amsterdam, before finally arriving in Russia sometime on Sunday afternoon. It seemed complicated and difficult, especially since Brandon had never set foot on a plane in his entire life, but he was determined to go ahead.

Jonah was already waiting on the front porch as soon as Brandon arrived in Mooringsport on Friday morning, wearing a dark blue Dallas Cowboys hoodie and looking impatient.

"Man, I thought you'd never get here. What took you so long? Mom made some _beignets_ for breakfast and I know you like those, but you'll have to hurry or we'll be late," Jonah said, tapping his watch.

The _beignets_ turned out to be the strawberry kind, with powdered sugar on top. Rosalie Anderson had grown up in southern Louisiana and she knew how to make all kinds of interesting foods. Brandon crammed four of them in his mouth as fast as he could get them down, and then he was ready to go.

He hadn't brought much; just a single backpack with a few sets of comfortable clothes, a shaving kit, a Russian-English dictionary, a map of the Saint Petersburg area, and a guidebook for tourists. Rosalie Anderson had told him never to carry more than he could fit into one bag, and he hoped she was right about that. He tossed it in the empty bed of Jonah's Ranger to save room up front, and seconds later they were on the road.

"Dad told me to give you this, and he said to always keep it in your front pocket," Jonah said, handing him a disposable black Visa card.

"Thanks," Bran said.

"No problem. There's ten thousand dollars on there, so make sure you don't lose it. The best thing to do is to visit an ATM to pull out some cash every few days, for subway tokens and food and suchlike. That way you can keep the card in a safe place and only use it for big things like plane tickets," Jonah said.

"There's no way I'll ever need that much money," Brandon said, a little bit taken aback by such a hefty sum.

"Well. . . you might, though. Things do happen sometimes, so don't be afraid to use it if you need it," Jonah said.

"Thanks," Brandon said again, slipping the card into his front pocket.

Jonah drove like a maniac after he got to the expressway, dodging and weaving through the rush hour traffic and sometimes darting through gaps so narrow that they would barely have accepted even the best credit card. Dozens of other people were doing the same thing all around them, reminding Brandon of exactly why he hated to drive in Shreveport. He could only shut his eyes and pray while he gripped the door handle with sweaty palms. By the time they reached the airport he felt like he'd aged ten years.

They made it with only a few minutes to spare, so Brandon slung his bag across his shoulder while he hurried across the parking lot as fast as he could without running.

"Call us if you need anything. Mom's been all over the world several times. She knows how to pull strings when she needs to," Jonah said when they reached the terminal.

"I'm pretty sure if I get in trouble then I'll have to handle it myself, buddy. Nobody over here could get anything done soon enough to make a difference," Brandon said.

"Well, yeah, but call anyway. You never know whether somebody can help you or not unless you ask. You've got everybody's numbers, don't you?" Jonah asked.

"Yeah, it's all up here," Brandon agreed, tapping the side of his head.

"You'll have to leave that knife with me, you know. They'll nail you for that when you go through security," Jonah said, nodding at the buck knife clipped to Brandon's belt.

"Yeah, I know; I forgot to take it off when we left the house. Keep it safe for me; it's something my brother gave me a long time ago," Bran said, pulling it loose from his belt and then handing it to Jonah.

"No problem, buddy. This is just about as far as I can go, so be careful over there," Jonah said.

Bran nodded and then made his way through security, letting them look inside his shoes and his shaving bag and anywhere else they felt like snooping around. But the lines were short that day, and before long he was done with all that. Then he had no choice but to sit in the terminal and wait.

When the time came, he was one of the first passengers on board. The flight to Memphis took less than an hour, and then he had to wait for _another_ three hours before it was time to leave for Detroit. He barely had time to run from one gate to another when he got to _that_ airport, nearly missing his connection. He was the last passenger to board before the crew shut the door, and he took his seat with a long sigh of relief.

The flight to Amsterdam lasted all night long, and Brandon soon discovered that the airline didn't serve meals. All they offered was half a can of Coke and a stingy little sandwich that was gone in three bites, leaving him with a growling stomach for almost the whole flight. He tried to sleep since there was nothing else to do, but he never managed more than a restless doze. By the time he arrived in Holland he was tired, crabby, and unbelievably hungry.

He was a little disappointed by his first glimpse of a foreign country. The airport in Amsterdam looked exactly like the ones he'd seen in America, even to the point of having all the signs written in English. Then he decided it didn't matter. If everybody in the world wanted their airports to look identical then so much the better. That only made it easier for him to find his way around.

He ate half a pizza from the food court, and then wearily lay down on a hard plastic bench with his backpack for a pillow, trying to catch up on sleep while he had the chance. He had sixteen hours to wait before the next leg of his flight, and there was no reason to waste it.

A heavy downpour was falling in sheets against the huge plate glass windows in front of him, mostly blocking his view of anything outside. But the sound of the rain against the glass was soothing, and in spite of the hard bed and strange surroundings, he soon fell asleep.
Chapter Six

He arrived in Saint Petersburg on a cold and sunny morning, and noticed immediately that this airport was nothing at all like the one in Amsterdam. It was old and shabby, with everything painted in various drab hues of green and gray. The place reminded him of a run down factory or maybe an especially cold and dreary hospital instead of an airport. It was a depressing sight for new arrivals, and Brandon had to remind himself that he wasn't there to admire the architecture. He had a job to do.

He found an ATM machine to withdraw some money, and then followed the crowd outdoors to the bus stop. There were piles of dirty slush here and there in shady spots, along with a gusty breeze that soon made him wish he'd brought a warmer jacket. He hadn't realized it would still be so frigid at the end of March, in spite of everything he'd ever heard about the notorious Russian winter. The light windbreaker he'd been wearing ever since Shreveport left him chilled to the bone. He'd have to buy a real coat at some point, as soon as he could figure out where to get one. In the meantime he put on two extra t-shirts under his jacket and tried not to shiver too much.

He boarded the bus when it arrived, and gave some money to an old lady who came through asking for fares. All he could do was offer her a handful of coins and let her pick out whatever the price might be, since he didn't know how to ask. She took what seemed like a reasonable amount, and he supposed it didn't really matter if she cheated him out of a few measly kopecks anyway.

The bus took him all the way downtown, and then Brandon found himself alone for the first time since leaving home. The city felt cold and strange and unfamiliar, and even a little bit scary if the truth were told. Bran felt ill at ease and unsure of himself, and for a second he wished he was safely back home in Texas again, with nothing worse to fear than some unkind words from his classmates. All that seemed so trivial and insignificant now, standing on a sidewalk half a world away.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and then studied his map to find the shortest route to his hotel. The Russian street signs were still hard for him to puzzle out sometimes, but he managed well enough.

He noticed many things as he went along; a man walking a brown bear on a chain, an old lady selling flowers on the corner, and street vendors offering everything from cheeseburgers to postcards. The buildings were old and Victorian looking, and he wrinkled his nose at the heavy stench of exhaust fumes from the cars. There also seemed to be an ice cream stand on almost every block, which struck him as odd considering the time of year. But the cold weather didn't seem to be keeping anybody else from enjoying a cone or a popsicle, so Brandon finally stopped and bought a frozen chocolate bar for the equivalent of ten cents. It turned out to be an exceptionally delicious one, too, a discovery which improved his opinion of the whole country by leaps and bounds. Any place that had such cheap and delectable ice cream couldn't be all bad, in spite of the ugly airport.

He was stopped twice on the sidewalk by policemen who wanted to check his papers, but since everything was in order they never bothered him for long. He also kept a watchful eye out for any potential dangers, including beautiful young ladies who might turn out to be Layla Garza in disguise. Bran wasn't really worried _too_ much about that possibility, but he'd promised Cody to be careful.

Before long he found his way to the youth hostel, where he paid three hundred dollars for a weeklong stay. Then he went upstairs to a dormitory with several rows of twin beds, and chose one as close to the corner as possible. Finally he shoved his pack up under the bed and lay down to rest for a while. Traveling took a lot more effort than he would ever have thought possible, and besides that his internal clock was still set nine hours earlier than this place. It might be early morning for the natives, but for Brandon it felt more like midnight after a hard day's work. He couldn't start looking for Lana till he gathered some fresh energy.

So he slept for several hours, and by the time he woke up it was getting on toward evening again. There wasn't enough time left to get anything done before nightfall, but he did walk a few blocks to the nearest train station, just so he'd know where to find it the next morning. The station turned out to be a beautiful building, with gilded paint and a huge ornate clock against the upper part of one wall, bigger than a stained glass window in a church. The clock reminded him to check the departure schedule while he was there, and he saw that the morning train to Vyborg left the station at nine o'clock sharp. He decided to go ahead and buy his ticket ahead of time, just to be sure he had a seat. Then he returned to the hostel.

After a breakfast of dry cereal and a quick shower the next morning, he hurried back to the station with almost thirty minutes to spare. The train pulled out right on schedule, and then there was nothing for Brandon to do except listen to the rattle of the rails beneath his feet and gaze out at the passing trees. None of the other passengers spoke to him, which was just as well since he didn't feel like talking anyway.

As soon as he arrived in Vyborg he went to a phone kiosk at the train station and used the yellow pages to find an address for Mikhail Krisanov, just as Dr. Anderson had suggested. That part turned out to be easy, but the thought of what might happen when he actually went up to knock on Lana's door was another thing completely.

He'd already decided that skulking and spying from the shadows would never do. It might make people suspicious, for one thing, not to mention the fact that it simply wasn't in his nature to be sneaky for very long. He much preferred to be open and direct whenever possible.

Still, he didn't want to confront Lana's parents until after he had a chance to talk to _her_ first, so it was just as well that he'd arrived in the middle of a Monday morning when both of them were most likely gone to work. There was a good chance that Lana herself might still be at home, since the schools in Vyborg were also on vacation that same week. There was no guarantee she'd be the one who answered the door, of course, so Brandon took the time to write down (painfully slowly) what he needed to know on a sheet of paper, just in case the person he had to deal with didn't speak English.

Dr. Krisanov lived on a quiet street lined with houses spread far apart and almost hidden behind thick hedges, as if the owners didn't want to be seen. Brandon kept himself as inconspicuous as possible until he found the right house, then took a deep breath before heading up the walkway to knock on the front door.

When an elderly lady answered, he smiled and handed her the sheet of paper. She was wearing a dusty apron and a threadbare cotton dress which looked like it had seen better days, the kind of thing an old lady might wear when she cleaned house. Lana had mentioned now and then that her parents had a cleaning lady named Anna, so Brandon guessed that was who he was talking to. Besides which, he'd seen a picture of Lana's mother once, and she was nowhere near as old as this woman.

Anna frowned, and for a second Brandon wondered if he'd mangled the note so badly that she couldn't figure out what he was trying to say. She told him something he didn't understand, and then she must have seen the confusion on his face. She took a pen from her pocket and wrote an address on the back of his note before handing it back to him. Then she said Lana's name and shooed him away with her hands, which he took to mean that he should go to this place she'd written down.

" _Spasiba,"_ he said, thanking her absently while he tried to decipher the address she'd given him. He knew enough Russian to mind his manners, at least.

The place Anna sent him to turned out to be a large and ornate building on the outskirts of downtown. It might have been pretty at one time, but just like the airport had been, he couldn't help noticing that it was also rather old and run down. He thought at first that it might be a school or even an office building of some kind, but then he noticed a metal plaque beside the door with the Russian words _Detski Dom,_ which meant _Children's Home._ That puzzled him at first, since he knew that was simply another term for an orphanage. But Lana definitely wasn't an orphan, and Brandon wondered what she could possibly be doing at such a place. He supposed she might have found a job there, perhaps, or maybe even had friends who lived there, but those were the only things he could think of at the moment. Then he shrugged and decided he'd find out soon enough.

He knocked on the door, and when another old woman came to answer it he offered her the same scribbled note he'd used at Dr. Krisanov's house. This time it got better results. Bran found himself quickly ushered into a large office on the second floor and offered a seat.

Before long a tall and very thin lady in a blue dress arrived, and then sat down in a leather chair behind the huge desk, where she looked at him curiously. There was a brass name plate in front of her with the words _Vera Melkova, Director,_ in bold Cyrillic letters.

"Well, young man, I hear you're looking for our Svetlana. Can you tell me why?" she asked. Her English was good, although she spoke it with the same pseudo-British accent that Lana had always used. But her question was a hard one to answer, and all the reasons Brandon had rehearsed in his mind for weeks to explain himself once he got to Russia seemed to fall apart under the lady's unblinking eyes. Finally he resorted to his usual habit and simply blurted out the truth.

"Because I love her," he said. The lady stared at him for a while longer, perhaps lost for words herself at such a bald statement, but then she smiled.

"You came all the way here, just to see her?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Brandon said.

"Well. . . I have to say, this is not at all what I expected to hear. When Lana first came here, with child no less, I wasn't inclined to think too highly of you. But perhaps I was too hasty, after all," she said, looking him up and down.

"Can I see her? Please?" Brandon asked, and Mrs. Melkova's smile faded.

"You could, if she were still here. But I'm sorry to say that the children here can only stay till they turn sixteen. Lana has been gone since her birthday last month. I'm so sorry," she said.

"What are you talking about?" Brandon asked, totally confused.

"No one has told you?" Mrs. Melkova asked.

"Told me what?" Brandon asked, and the lady cleared her throat.

"I'm afraid that Dr. Krisanov and his wife disowned Svetlana when they found out what happened. They said she had brought shame and disgrace upon her family and she was no longer welcome in their house. So they brought her here and would have nothing to do with her anymore," Mrs. Melkova said.

"I never knew that," Brandon said, and felt his eyes blurring in spite of himself.

"No, I don't suppose you would have. Dr. Krisanov certainly would not have mentioned it, and Lana herself never liked to worry anyone," Mrs. Melkova said.

"No, she didn't," Brandon agreed, wiping his eyes.

"There, now, hush. Surely you didn't come all this way for nothing. I spoke to Lana before she left, and she said something about going into Petersburg to find a job if she could. One never knows; perhaps you may still find her," Mrs. Melkova said soothingly.

"Did she say anything specific about where she might go? Saint Petersburg is an awfully big place," Brandon asked, wondering how he'd ever manage to locate her in the middle of such a huge city. But the lady seemed troubled.

"Young man, there are certain things no child should have to know, but under the circumstances I'm forced to tell you. When the children leave this place, they are still very young, yes? They have no family, no jobs, no place to go, and they soon find that the world is a cruel place. Most of them go to the city, in the hope that they might find work, or a place to live. What they usually find instead are gangs who will put them to work, indeed; as thieves and prostitutes and drug dealers, things of that sort. They live in the abandoned apartment buildings by the harbor, or in the sewers, and many of them are dead within a year or two. Some end up in prison, and a very few indeed find some kind of stable situation to tide them through. I wish I could give you better news, young man, but if you wish to find Lana, look first on the streets, and then in the jails," Mrs. Melkova said.

"But how can you let that happen? How can you stand it?" Brandon asked, appalled.

"One bears what one must. I care for them as long as I can, in the hope that a few of them might survive. But I have barely the room and the food even for the little ones. For the older ones after they leave here, all I can do is pray for them," Mrs. Melkova said.

Brandon thought of Lana having to live such a life as that, and he did cry then. This was a million times worse than having to face a nasty scene with Dr. Krisanov. That fear seemed trivial now, no more than a fleabite in comparison to _this._ He wished bitterly that he hadn't waited so long to come find her, even if it _did_ put his court case at risk. He'd never dreamed that things could be so bad, or that anyone's parents could be so cruel.

"I'm sorry," he said, wiping his eyes again.

"So am I. But come now. It's almost time for lunch, and you should at least eat with us before you go back out. You may even learn some things, if you speak to the children. Lana was friends with many of them," Mrs. Melkova said.

"I don't know much Russian," Brandon admitted, taking a deep breath to compose himself.

"Don't worry about that. Most of them know at least a little English. They study it every year in school. Some of them are better students than others, of course," Mrs. Melkova added.

She waited for Brandon to dry his tears, and then led him downstairs to a large cafeteria which housed probably two or three hundred kids, of all ages. Mrs. Melkova clapped her hands for silence before introducing him, and then he suddenly found himself a minor celebrity, surrounded by cheerful greetings in every imaginable tone of voice.

They served some kind of salty fish soup with ravioli, and strawberry yogurt on the side. For a while, Brandon was kept too busy talking to curious orphans to even taste his food, but in time the interest subsided and he was able to eat. They all spoke a little English, frequently sprinkled here and there with scraps of Russian. Some of them even switched back and forth between the two languages right in mid-sentence, apparently without even noticing the fact. But Brandon could usually get the gist of whatever they were trying to say, and if not then he simply smiled and nodded.

Presently, a boy and girl he hadn't seen before came up to him and sat down across the table.

"You are Lana's boyfriend, right?" the girl said. She was close to his own age and could speak better English than most, with light brown hair and thin, almost birdlike features. She reminded him a little bit of Lana.

"Yeah, that's me. Do you know her?" Brandon asked hopefully.

"She's my best friend. My name is Tatiana; Tatya for my friends, and this is my brother Vladic. He's not very good with his English," she said, offering her hand. He shook it.

"Pleased to meet you both," Brandon said.

"Likewise. Listen, I came over because I'd like to help you find Lana," Tatya said.

"You would?" Bran asked, surprised.

"Yes, but I want you to do something for me in return, if you can," Tatya said. Brandon was instantly on guard, but he tried not to let it show.

"What's that?" he asked carefully.

"It's nothing bad. But when you get home, I just want you to see if you can find some nice people who will adopt Vlad. I'll be sixteen next month so I'm too old, but he's only twelve," Tatya explained, nodding toward her brother.

"I don't know if—" Brandon began.

"I know you can't promise it will happen. I'm only asking you to try, that's all. If you came all this way for Lana's sake, then I think you must be trustworthy," Tatya said, interrupting him.

Brandon considered the idea. He didn't have the faintest idea who he could ask to do such a thing, other than the Andersons perhaps, and they were already offering to take Lana in. But he was only promising to look, of course, not necessarily to find someone. He glanced at Vladic, who was shockingly blond and looked more like ten than twelve. He had on a red and white football jersey with a pair of jeans, and if he didn't open his mouth he'd look perfectly natural in any American mall. He had a solemn look on his face, as if he knew he was being sized up.

"I'll try," Brandon said doubtfully, wondering how he ever managed to get himself into such things. Then he remembered what Mrs. Melkova had told him about the future that lay ahead for most of these kids when they turned sixteen, and he was ashamed of himself.

"That's all I ask," Tatya agreed.

"Did Lana say anything about where she was going?" Brandon asked, to cover his discomfiture.

"She said she was going into the city to find work. She said she hoped somebody might hire her, if only because of the baby," Tatya said.

"But nowhere in particular?" Brandon pressed.

"No, but she liked to cook and also to play music, so I think she would probably try some clubs and restaurants along Nevsky Prospect before she went anywhere else. We should go there first; that's what I would do. Maybe she got a job, or if not then at least somebody might remember her," Tatya said. Brandon had no better ideas, so he shrugged.

"Sure, sounds good to me," he agreed.

"Let's go, then," Tatya said, seeming satisfied. She got up from the table to throw her trash away before leaving the cafeteria, and Brandon followed her. To his surprise, so did Vlad.

"Is he coming too?" Brandon asked, jerking a thumb at the boy.

"Yes, he likes to go places. It will be all right," Tatya said.

"You don't have to tell anybody where you're going first?" Brandon asked.

"Only the little ones. Teenagers are free to come and go as we please, as long as we make it back before bedtime and don't miss school. Vlad would have to sign out if he went somewhere alone, but nobody cares if he goes with me," Tatya said.

She and Vlad stopped in the foyer to put on heavy coats and fur hats, and when Brandon didn't do likewise Tatya looked at him critically. He still had on his windbreaker and his layered t-shirts from the day before, inadequate as they were.

"You will need warmer clothes than that, if you plan to be out in the weather all day. It will be cold, and people will look at you strangely. That will not help us get answers," Tatya said.

"I didn't know where to buy anything," Brandon said, feeling foolish.

"We can soon fix that," Tatya said.

With no more ado, she took them directly to a clothing store just a few blocks from the orphanage. There he was able to get a heavy coat, boots, and a black fur hat similar to the one Vlad wore. It felt thick and strange on Brandon's head, but it was definitely warm. He especially appreciated the long flaps that came down to cover his ears.

"There. Now you look like a proper Russian," Tatya said, nodding her head in satisfaction.

"As long as I don't say anything," Brandon said wryly.

"Yes, but I think you can handle that part," Tatya said.

It wasn't far from the clothing store to the train station, and as soon as they got there Brandon bought three tickets into Saint Petersburg.

Tatya and Vlad seemed to know their way around the city fairly well. They took him directly to Nevsky Prospect and started asking about Lana at every club and restaurant they could find. It seemed Tatya was serious about keeping up her end of the bargain.

Unfortunately, they came up empty.

"There are many other restaurants in the city," Tatya said reluctantly, when the daylight had begun to fail and they'd almost reached the end of Nevsky. She'd even taken it upon herself to question some of the cops who checked their papers now and then, but all to no avail.

"I know, I know. I just don't have much time, that's all," Brandon said. He had exactly five days left till he had to head home, and that wasn't much.

"I'm sorry we didn't find her today, Bran. We have to go home now, but meet us at the train station in the morning. We will keep looking," Tatya promised.

And so they did. For four more days they combed the shops and eateries and back alleys of Saint Petersburg, but no one seemed to have heard of Svetlana Krisanova. She seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

Brandon began to get discouraged again, and wondered darkly if she was even still alive. Mrs. Melkova's warning about the gangs was never far from his mind. He noticed for the first time the girls walking the streets, some of them younger than he was, and scanned their faces anxiously, hoping and yet dreading to find her as one of them. Indeed, as Tatya led him off the beaten path to wander some of the lesser known areas he began to see _many_ things he hadn't noticed before; the beggars on the streets, the slums, the poorness of so many people. There was nothing Brandon could do about these things, of course, but they filled his heart with sorrow and discouraged him all the more.

If he'd ever suspected for even half a second that Lana would have to come back to something like this, he never would have allowed it to happen. If necessary he really _would_ have run away and taken her to live in the woods till they both got old enough to make better arrangements for themselves. It would have been a hard life, but surely it would have been better than _this._

But he hadn't known, and now it seemed that he might never find her at all. He was rapidly running out of time to think and places to search. Then on Saturday he met Tatya and Vlad at the train station with one last idea. It was snowing again that morning, but he'd soon learned that Russians paid no attention to such things.

"We haven't checked the prison yet," he said, hardly able to force himself to say the words. He couldn't believe Lana might actually be found in such a place, but he was near despair and ready to try anything. The others looked shocked.

"Prison?" Vlad asked, wide-eyed. Apparently he knew the word.

"I know, I can't believe it either, but it won't take long to check," Brandon sighed. Tatya looked unhappy, but she didn't argue with him. She knew as well as he did that things were becoming desperate.

They walked in silence to the bus stop together. Brandon had become fairly used to Saint Petersburg by then, and the surroundings no longer seemed quite as strange to him as they had at first. But when they neared the prison grounds, he found himself just as uneasy as he'd ever been.

"Have you got any money?" Tatya whispered.

"Yeah, a little. Why?" Brandon asked.

"Give it to me. We may need it," Tatya replied, and he fished out a crumpled wad of hundred-ruble notes. She took it, making sure nobody could see what she held in her hands, and then quickly counted it before shoving the whole mass into the front pocket of her coat.

"What do we need money for?" Brandon asked.

"We might have to bribe somebody, that's why. But it's only about a thousand rubles here. That works out to about eighty dollars," Tatya fretted.

"Will it be enough?" Brandon asked.

"I hope so. We may not even need it, but you never can tell," Tatya explained.

The prison turned out to be a grim block of concrete, cracked and pitted from the salt air. It sat right in the middle of a dilapidated area of industrial buildings and abandoned apartments near the harbor, and Brandon could tell he wasn't the only one who felt ill at ease. It was gang territory down there, and the signs of it were everywhere. The whole area was full of spray-painted graffiti and broken windows, stark and ugly against the fresh snow. People got robbed in neighborhoods like that, and sometimes worse. Brandon and the others kept huddled together in a nervous knot until they finally reached the guard post at the front gate of the prison.

Here they were stopped by an armed guard who didn't sound too friendly, but then perhaps it would have been strange if he had. Tatya spoke to him in a low voice, while the boys kept quiet. Brandon understood almost none of the conversation, and it didn't seem like a good time to ask for a translation.

Then they were waved through, and the clang of the big steel gate when it swung shut behind them made Brandon shiver.

"He said he doesn't know if she's here or not. We will have to ask the main office, so that's where we're headed now," Tatya said in a low voice as soon as they got out of earshot.

"Why are we whispering?" Brandon asked, speaking just as softly as she had.

"He doesn't know you're not Russian. They might not let us in if they thought you were a foreigner. I told the guard that Vlad and I are her brother and sister, and you are her cousin. So don't talk unless you have to or they may throw us out," Tatya said.

Brandon nodded, and soon they reached the rusty front doors. The front lobby was dimly lit, filled with the faint stench of mold and other unidentifiable filth. Here they found another guard on duty, but this one waved them through incuriously with the tip of his rifle.

A few yards down the hall a steel door opened into a remarkably clean and modern-looking office, rather startling after the beat-up condition of everything else. A secretary in a brown dress sat behind a desk, looking up when they came inside.

Again, Tatya did the talking and Brandon understood almost nothing. The secretary frowned, and then got up to fetch a manila folder from a file cabinet against the wall. She came back thumbing through the papers, and finally lay it open on her desk. Bran couldn't read the writing, but he recognized the picture, oh yes. There was Lana, her face thin and hollow, dressed in a ragged brown jumpsuit.

" _Eta ona?"_ the secretary asked, and for once Brandon understood perfectly, even with his small stock of Russian words. _Is that her?_

" _Da,"_ he answered, before Tatya could say a word. She glared at him with a look that told him to shut up before he got them all in trouble, and then proceeded to talk to the secretary for quite a while longer. Eventually they seemed to reach some kind of agreement. Brandon managed to keep a strict poker face when Tatya passed the wad of money he'd given her across the desk, even though such shameless corruption left him astounded. The secretary smiled and pocketed the bills, and after that seemed much more accommodating.

The end result of the whole thing was that the three of them were escorted to a dingy, olive green room completely empty except for an old aluminum table with mismatched chairs. Here they were locked in by a guard.

"It's not visiting day, so I had to bribe her. They'll bring Lana out in a few minutes," Tatya said, not bothering to whisper anymore.

"But what's she in here for? Lana would never do anything criminal," Brandon said, and Tatya looked uncomfortable.

"Uh. . . I know it can't be true, but she's in here for murder, Brandon," she said. Bran felt his jaw drop at that, and was so shocked he actually gasped.

"No way. It can't be. There's got to be some kind of mistake," he said, shaking his head.

"I don't believe it either, but that's what the file said. I didn't have time to read it all, though. You will have to ask her when she gets here," Tatya said.

Chapter Seven

In just a few more minutes, she did. One of the guards opened up the heavy steel door just long enough to shove Lana inside and then locked it again behind her, leaving the four of them alone together.

She looked even thinner than in the picture, gaunt and even bony in places, as if they hadn't been feeding her enough. The only exception was her stomach, of course, which at seven months was hard to overlook. Her beautiful long hair had been chopped off so short that it didn't even cover her ears anymore, and her clothes and face were grimy. There were cleaner patches on her cheeks where she must have cried and then wiped it away with the filthy sleeve of her jumpsuit, and her nails were cracked and bleeding in spots. Then she saw Brandon, and her eyes widened.

"Beebo? Is that really you?" she asked, like she couldn't believe it.

"Yeah, it's really me," he said. They stood looking at each other for a second, hesitating, and then he lifted his arms to take an uncertain step toward her. That was all it took. She ran the rest of the way, and threw her arms around him, and he felt her hot tears on his shoulder. He felt like crying a few of them himself. Then he kissed her, and they sat as close as humanly possible on the table while they talked.

"I can't believe you're here. I thought I'd never see you again," Lana said at last.

"I was afraid I'd never see you again, either," Brandon said.

"I thought you didn't want to, after that last time we talked," Lana said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean all that stuff I said. I was just scared and upset, that's all," Brandon told her.

"It's all right. You're here now, and that makes up for a lot. I think I could forgive you for many worse things than that today. But how did you find me? And how did you meet Tatya, or even get to Russia at all?" Lana asked.

"Cody's friend Dr. Anderson gave me the money to come over here, after we explained everything to him. It was easy to find your address in the yellow pages after I got to Vyborg, and then Anna sent me over to the orphanage. The director was really nice. She gave me some ideas about where to look, and then that's also where I met Tatya and Vlad. They've really helped a lot. I don't think I could have found you without them, much less got in here to see you. We've been searching all over Saint Petersburg for nearly a week, but this was the last place we ever thought to look," Brandon said, glancing around at the grubby room.

"Bran, you must believe me; I never hurt anyone," Lana said quickly.

"Of course I believe you. But how did you end up in a place like _this?"_ Brandon asked.

"That's a long story, but it started with my father, I suppose. You must understand that Papa is very old-fashioned in certain ways, and also very respectable. When I first got home he was incredibly angry with me, and he said all kinds of nasty and hurtful things. He was determined to get rid of the baby one way or another, and when I refused to do that then he told me to leave his house and never come back. I always knew he was like that, but I never really believed he'd turn me out. So then I stayed at the orphanage for a while, till I turned sixteen, but after that there was nowhere else for me to go. I have a cousin in Pushkin, right outside the city, and I thought she might let me help with her business. She sells souvenirs to tourists; fur hats, lacquer boxes, postcards, things like that. But when I got there she said she couldn't help me either and sent me away. I didn't know what to do. A man found me walking down Nevsky that night with nowhere to go, and he told me he'd give me a job and a place to stay if I'd come with him. I knew about the gangs, of course, and I knew what happened to the people who went with them, but I was desperate. I had no choice but to trust him," Lana said, looking down at the floor.

"What happened next?" Brandon whispered, not sure he wanted to hear the rest.

"He took me to an apartment with several other people. They gave me food and a place to sleep, but I soon found out they were gangsters, just as I feared. They did find me a job, stealing from guests at a hotel while the rooms were empty. I hated it, but that was the only way they'd let me stay with them. Then one day there was a fight with another gang, down at the harbor. Six people were killed before the police showed up. They caught only me and one other girl, so they decided to make examples of us, I think. I swear I never killed anyone, Beebo; I never even touched a gun. But they didn't care about that, so now here I am," she said, and started to cry again. Brandon held her close, unable to speak.

"I'm so sorry," he finally murmured, almost drowning in guilt.

"Hush and don't talk that way. It's no more your fault than it is mine, or Papa's, or the gangsters downtown. Whatever wrong you did, you more than made up for by coming here to find me. I just hate for you to see me like this," Lana said, waving vaguely at her chopped-off hair and dirty clothes.

"No, I had to come," Brandon said, and then trailed off awkwardly while he tried to think how to explain Dr. Anderson's dream. Finding her locked up in prison put the whole issue in a brand new light, and he was at a loss for what to do. How could he possibly find a way to bring her back home when she was in jail for _murder?_

"Listen. I want you to do something for me, okay?" Lana asked, interrupting his train of thought.

"What is it?" Brandon asked.

"Come back this summer, and take the baby after he's born. They'll let you have him, if we both tell them you're his father. I don't want him to go to an orphanage," Lana said.

"We'll find a way to get you out of here before then," Brandon said quickly.

"No you won't, Bran my love. They won't be letting me out of here for a long time, if they ever let me out at all. But I can bear it, if I know my baby is safe," Lana said.

"Don't give up yet. We _will_ get you out of here, I promise," Brandon said vehemently. Lana just looked at him with a sad smile, and he could tell she didn't believe it for a second. He wasn't even sure he believed it himself, for that matter, but the alternative was too awful to think about.

"How long will you be in Saint Petersburg?" Lana asked.

"I'm supposed to go home tomorrow. I have to be back in time for school on Monday," Brandon said, wincing at how childish that sounded while sitting in a Russian prison cell. But Lana seemed not to notice.

"I don't suppose I'll see you again after you leave today, then," she said wistfully.

"I'm not sure," Brandon said, which seemed to be the only safe answer.

"It's okay. I'm grateful even for these few little minutes, if that's all we can have. But why did you come after me, Beebo? You must have had a reason," Lana asked, and that put him in a difficult position. It seemed heartless to burden her with the true answer, at least not till he could offer some kind of hope to soften the blow. But it would take some hard thinking to come up with anything like that, and in the meantime he had to say _something._

"I wanted to bring you back home with me, hopefully. Dr. Anderson said you could come live with them and finish high school, at least till we're old enough to get married," Brandon said, too distracted to fully realize what he was saying.

"You mean you're asking?" Lana asked, with a touch of her old playful sense of humor. Brandon suddenly turned red, but there was no way to unsay the words at that point. All he could do was make the best of it.

"Yes, I'm asking. Will you marry me, Svetlana Krisanova, or must I live forever with a broken heart?" he said, trying to make it sound lighthearted.

"Of course I will. I never wanted anything else," Lana said, and they kissed again. Just then Tatya cleared her throat.

"I hate to interrupt, but we only have a little bit longer. Perhaps you should think about making some definite plans?" she said, half apologetically.

"Yes, we should, Tatya. Now Beebo, you'll have to be here in June. I don't know exactly when the baby will come, but you have to be here when he does. They won't let me keep him in the cell with me for more than a few days, and it wouldn't be safe, anyway. Can you make it?" Lana asked, all businesslike, and the question only served to remind him once again of what they were _really_ up against.

This was not at all the way Brandon had imagined things would go. Traveling halfway around the world, confronting Dr. Krisanov, maybe even searching high and low through a foreign city; these were things he'd been in some measure prepared for. But how was he supposed to handle _this?_ Concrete walls and prison bars couldn't be reasoned with, and they couldn't be bribed, either.

But then again, he knew what giving up would mean, too. The last shred of hope would be gone forever, and then in seven more days Lana would die. That was the cold and bitter truth, and there didn't seem to be anything whatsoever that Brandon could do about it.

For a little while he was at a loss for words. But he knew she expected some kind of answer about whether he'd come back for the baby in June, so he tried to focus on that issue for a minute.

"I guess I'll have to," he said numbly.

"Okay, then. I'll write you letters, and you must promise to write back to me as often as you can. But you'll have to leave some money with the main office, so I can buy paper and stamps and things," Lana said.

"No problem," Brandon said.

"Is there anything else you need, Lana?" Tatya asked.

"They don't let us have much, I'm afraid. But if you leave some extra money, they do feed us a little better, and let us have tea and coffee now and then, and sometimes chocolate. It does make things easier," Lana admitted. Brandon could tell she hated to ask, but he didn't care about a few miserable dollars.

"I'll leave whatever I can, whenever I can," he said, and then pulled a stubby pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket.

"Here's my address. I may end up having to go live with my dad for a while, but if I do then it's probably better if you keep sending letters to Cody and Lisa's house instead of to his. I'm not sure what he'd say, if he thought we were talking," Brandon explained, tearing the paper in half to give her the part with his address on it.

"All right. Here's mine," Lana said, writing down her own address at the prison on the other half. She printed in block letters so he could read it clearly, and then wrote _I love you_ at the bottom. Bran slipped it in his pocket without a word.

"Do they have phones here?" he asked wistfully.

"Not for the prisoners to use. Only in the main office," Lana said.

"Yeah, I thought so," Brandon sighed.

Just then a key rattled in the lock, and they heard the steel door start to open again. The visit was over.

Bran didn't dare speak English (or even Russian) while the guard could hear, so he lifted the two forefingers of his left hand instead. It reminded him poignantly of happier days, but Lana simply smiled and raised her own two fingers back at him. Then the guard was leading her away, while Brandon sat on the table and buried his face in his hands till the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the hall.

"It will be okay," Vladic said, clapping him on the shoulder. The boy tried so hard, with the little stock of words that he knew.

"I'm not sure it will, Vlad, but thanks anyway," Brandon said. He knew Vladic wouldn't understand even half of what he'd just said, but it didn't matter. He'd get the thanks part, and that was good enough.

" _Prikhaditye!"_ the guard said as soon as he got back, and they followed him to the front doors without a word.

Brandon paid no attention to anything above the tips of his shoes as they left the prison grounds, grief-stricken beyond words. He was sure Tatya and Vlad and everybody he passed on the street could see it, but he didn't have the heart to care anymore about what kind of impression he was making. His plans were utterly wrecked, shattered into a million tiny bits, and he didn't have the faintest idea how to pick up the pieces.

Maybe the Andersons could think of something, but he knew it was useless to call them till early morning because of the difference in time zones. Otherwise he'd either wake them up in the middle of the night or else interrupt them at work, neither of which would be a good time for serious conversation.

The light snow from earlier had switched over to a cold and drizzly rain while they were inside the prison, filling the streets with icy slush and making Brandon shiver in spite of his warm clothes. The gray and soggy weather matched his mood perfectly.

Vlad and Tatya whispered between themselves the whole time as they walked, and finally Tatya spoke up.

"Bran, we think you should not be alone tonight. Come back with us to Vyborg and stay. Mrs. Melkova thinks very highly of you. She would let you stay with Vlad tonight, I think, since the other bed in his room is empty right now," she said.

Brandon was tempted to say no. His first impulse was to wallow all night in his misery at the hostel, and besides that he didn't want to risk any delay in calling the Andersons. His phone had no service outside Saint Petersburg, so if he stayed with Vlad then he'd have to come all the way back into the city tomorrow morning before he could get in touch with anybody. It seemed like a hassle at best.

Then he thought better of it.

"Maybe you're right. As long as I get up early in the morning to make a phone call, it'll be all right," he agreed.

"Good!" Tatya said, and Vlad smiled.

Brandon stopped by the hostel long enough to pick up his backpack and check out, and in spite of his sorrow he noticed his stomach rumbling. It was well past lunchtime by then.

So he took Tatya and Vlad to Pizza Hut, since that was a rare and wonderful treat for them, but Bran himself barely tasted his food. He chewed and swallowed mechanically, but his mind was a thousand miles away. He didn't have the heart to think of anything at all except Lana, sitting there in her concrete cage beside the harbor.

As he pondered the harsh reality of what _she_ was up against, Brandon slowly came to realize that he'd been selfish. Not so much in his actions, perhaps, but in his way of thinking about things. He'd thought mostly about how Lana's absence affected _him,_ about how much he missed her and how hurtful it was that some of his former best friends had been treating him badly. It hadn't even crossed his mind until recently to wonder how Lana herself might be doing.

He also came to see that he'd been ungrateful. Whatever _his_ problems might be, he had things fairly soft and easy compared to the life Tatya and Vlad had to look forward to, and definitely easier than what Lana was experiencing. It wasn't that he was heartless or without compassion, he'd just never thought about such things before. Now he was having to take a long, hard look at the world and his place in it, and that's never easy.

Tatya and Vlad tried to cheer him up. Since there was no need to look for Lana anymore, they took him to see the sights for a few hours in spite of the drizzle. They visited the Winter Palace and several beautiful churches, along with various other attractions which he didn't pay much attention to. Now and then they came across something interesting enough to distract him from his troubles for a little while, but the sadness was always there in the background, just waiting to reappear.

The rain had stopped by the time they went back to Vyborg that evening, so they visited the old stone castle by the waterfront and anything else Tatya could think of to show him, including the storefront church where Lana had been a member. It was a small one, and poor by the looks of it.

"So this is where she went, huh?" Brandon asked, staring at the dark and empty building. It was ten or twelve blocks from the children's home, and maybe a mile from Dr. Krisanov's house.

"Yes, she played piano for them and taught the little ones. She walked here every Sunday from the orphanage, even in the rain," Tatya said. It didn't surprise him, either that Lana had done those kinds of things or that she hadn't mentioned them. It was all very much like her.

"Why didn't some of them help her when she needed a place to go, then?" Brandon asked.

"They are very poor in this neighborhood, and the church is small. They could not help her, except to pray," Tatya said.

"It doesn't seem like the kind of place a respectable man like Dr. Krisanov would want to go," Brandon said.

"He never did. Dr. Krisanov goes to the big cathedral downtown, but only on high holy days. Christmas, Easter, Michaelmas, things like that. Lana told me he never liked it that she came here, that he thought it was a place for fanatics and heretics. He never outright forbade her to attend, but he did make it very difficult sometimes. Indeed, she said that one of the reasons he allowed her to study in America for so long was to weaken her attachment to this church," Tatya said somberly.

"She never told me that," Brandon said.

"Lana does not believe in flaunting her fights. But I know religious differences were among the reasons her father pushed her out. When they fought over you and the baby he became very loud and hateful, as she mentioned at the prison. But she told him that God makes no mistakes and she would not forsake the sacred trust He had placed in her, that He would take care of her even if her father would not. She told Dr. Krisanov that he was sticking his finger in God's eye and he would not go unpunished for that. Then her father called her a fanatic and a prostitute and told her never to darken his door again until she came to her senses," Tatya said.

"But she never did," Brandon said, and it wasn't quite a question.

"No, she never did. I suppose he would have taken her back, if she had changed her mind and decided to give up the baby. But she would not do that, and Dr. Krisanov would never humble himself to let his daughter win a fight with him. So she told me. We spoke about many things like that while we shared a room at the orphanage," Tatya said.

"I wish she'd told _me_ all those things," Brandon said.

"Well, she has not had the opportunity to tell you anything at all for several months, except for those few minutes during the visit today. These are all recent things, you know. But surely you knew the mettle of her heart and mind already, did you not?" Tatya reminded him.

"Yeah, I did," Brandon said, and then really smiled a little for the first time since they left the prison. He could imagine what that scene must have been like. Dr. Krisanov screaming and threatening while Lana stood there in front of him, barely half his size and yet blindingly bright and unspeakably beautiful in her fearless determination to stand fast on the holy rock of God. If ever she earned her name, it was then.

It was almost too dark to see by that time, so the three of them trudged through the wet and chilly streets of Vyborg till they reached the orphanage again. Mrs. Melkova was glad to let Brandon stay just the one night, even though it wasn't strictly permitted. She was sad when she heard about what happened to Lana, but hardly surprised. It was an all too common tale, she said.

Tatya herself wasn't allowed in the boys' wing, but they sat in the public room till the latest possible time, talking about many different things.

"I hope we live close together someday," Vlad said wistfully, which was the longest sentence Brandon had ever heard him say. His English was gradually improving, since he'd been forced to use it more often.

"I hope so, too, buddy," Brandon said. Tatya and Vlad had been the staunchest friends he could have wished for, and he'd already made up his mind to bring _both_ of them back home with him if possible. Tatya might think she was too old to be adopted, but surely there was a way to make it happen somehow or other. Bran was determined to try, especially after everything he'd seen and heard lately.

When it was time for bed they each kissed him on the cheek in the same way that Lana had done sometimes, a thing which he submitted to but couldn't quite bring himself to return. He thought to himself that if Tatya and Vlad really did come to America, he'd have to remind them at some point not to do that in public anymore. It was a sweet and charming custom in its place, but people who weren't used to it might not understand.

The incident brought back a distant memory of the first time Lana herself had ever kissed him, less than two weeks after they both arrived in Texas. It had been a just-friends kind of thing like that, on his left cheek after the first football game he ever played at Ore City. They won, and she'd come down to the edge of the field to congratulate him. But the Jacksons had been in a hurry to leave, so Lana had kissed him goodbye right there in front of everybody because she hadn't learned enough about America yet to realize what people would think. Brandon's face had turned almost as red as his hair, and the other guys had rubbed his nose in it for _weeks_ after that. He could still remember the spot where her lips had touched that night, soft and warm against his skin. The memory was both sweet and painful at the same time.

He didn't think he'd be able to sleep when he went to lie down, not with so many thoughts swirling around in his mind. But he must have been more tired than he realized, because he fell asleep almost right away and didn't wake up till he heard Vlad coming in with a breakfast tray.

"I saved food for you. Better eat it before me," the boy said, as soon as he noticed that Brandon's eyes were open. It didn't sound like a very serious threat, so Bran laughed a little before he sat up to stretch and yawn. He was fairly sure nobody was supposed to take food outside the cafeteria, which meant Vlad was probably breaking the rules to bring him breakfast in bed, so to speak. It was a kind and thoughtful gesture, but he hoped the kid didn't get in too much trouble for it.

"Thanks, Vlad," Brandon said, swinging his bare feet around onto the cold linoleum floor so he could set the tray on his lap. It was nothing but yogurt and some dry cereal with no milk, but that was all right.

When he was done eating, Vlad took the dishes back down to the cafeteria while Brandon changed clothes and shaved the gingery fuzz on his chin. Then he put on his last clean shirt, a black and gold Ore City Rebels team jersey with his name and number on the back. It wasn't the official one he played in, just a knock-off copy to wear whenever he liked.

"Come on, buddy; let's go find your sister," Brandon said, as soon as Vlad got back from the cafeteria. There was no clock in the room, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he needed to get back to the city to call Dr. Anderson. There was no reason for Tatya and Vlad to go with him for that, especially since he was due at the airport in a few hours anyway, but he did want to say his goodbyes before he left.

Tatya was already downstairs in the public room, so it turned out there was no need to look for her. They walked to the train station without saying much, and then as soon as they got there Brandon went to the ATM machine to withdraw some money.

"Will you take this to the prison for me?" he asked Tatya, handing her two thousand rubles. It was only about a hundred and fifty dollars, but it would do for a few days. If it took longer than that to get Lana out then it wouldn't matter anyway.

"Of course I will," Tatya said, taking the cash.

"Thanks, Tatya. Not just for this but for everything. I couldn't have done it without you," Brandon said.

"I was glad to do it. She's my friend," Tatya said.

"I'll find a place for Vlad somehow or other, and for you too. If I can't do it before you have to leave the orphanage, then I'll send you some money so you can find an apartment for a little while. I won't leave you here alone to go live with the gangs, I promise," Brandon said. Then Tatya laughed a little, but her eyes were bright.

"I can see now why she loves you," Tatya murmured, and kissed his cheek without arguing any more about what was possible or not.

"I guess I'd better go now," Brandon said, and they both nodded. He boarded the train just minutes before it pulled out of the station, while Tatya and Vlad stood there on the platform waving their handkerchiefs until he disappeared around the first bend in the tracks. It was like a scene from some classic movie about olden days. Russia kept surprising him with odd little throwbacks like that, as if the past lingered longer there than it did in other places.

Brandon might have enjoyed contemplating such a philosophical idea, if he hadn't been so careworn and heartsick at the time. He liked to think and to dream, and to picture how the world might be different if certain things were true or not. He was, as Crush liked to say, a lot smarter than he looked.

But the only philosophy Brandon cared about at the time was whether or not he could trust God's word, and in spite of appearances that was harder than it seemed. God had said that Brandon was the only one who could find a way to thread this pitiless needle which threatened to destroy everything he cared about. No one else, only him. Maybe that was still true, but it was awfully hard to believe it right then. Bran felt small and useless and frightened, like a weaponless mouse sent out to do battle with a dark and terrible elephant.

He stared out at the passing taiga with eyes that barely saw, focused almost completely inward on his troubled soul.

Chapter Eight

As soon as he reached the city, Brandon found a place where his phone had service and then called Dr. Anderson. It wasn't quite midnight yet in Louisiana, if he counted the hours properly. Late, yes, but not _completely_ unreasonable. It took a minute for the call to connect, and then he wasn't surprised when Jonah answered.

"Hey, buddy. Is your dad still awake?" Brandon asked.

"No, they already went to bed maybe an hour ago. But hold on just a sec and I'll wake them up," Jonah said.

"You're sure they won't mind?" Brandon asked.

"Nah. They're used to getting calls in the middle of the night anyway, if there's an emergency at the hospital or somethin' like that," Jonah said.

"Okay, then," Brandon agreed. He had to wait several minutes while Jonah woke up his parents and got them to the phone, but eventually Dr. Anderson picked up the receiver.

"Hey, kid, what's up?" Dr. Anderson asked, sounding sleepy.

"I'm afraid things are worse than we thought, sir. Lana's in prison for murder," Brandon said bluntly, getting right down to business.

There was a long pause on the other end.

"I don't know what to say," Dr. Anderson finally said.

"She didn't do it, though; I _know_ she didn't," Brandon said vehemently.

"So what do you think happened?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"She got caught in a fight between two gangs, and since she was the only one the cops could catch, they blamed her for the killing," Brandon said.

"That's bad," Dr. Anderson said.

"I didn't know she was about to get kicked out on the street like that," Bran said, letting his voice show some of the misery he felt.

"Slow down, boy. You're leaving too much out. How come she ended up on the street?" Dr. Anderson said.

"Her dad kicked her out. He was really mad about everything, from what I heard. So he took her to an orphanage there in Vyborg and dropped her off, but kids can only stay in those places till they turn sixteen. That's when they have to move out, and then there's nowhere for them to go but the streets. So they join gangs and things to survive, and sometimes it gets them killed or gets them involved with drugs and criminal stuff and they end up in jail for a long time. She's not the first one it ever happened to," Brandon explained.

"I don't doubt it, Bran. It's a dark world we live in," Dr. Anderson agreed.

"But I never thought. . . " Brandon began, and then stopped, unsure of what he meant to say.

"No, you never had any reason to think about such things, thank God. I know you haven't had the easiest life in the world yourself, but sooner or later we all catch a glimpse of something _really_ ugly like that, something that shocks us to the core. It's never easy, and it never happens at a time when you think it will. I'm sorry you had to face it alone and far from home, but the only thing that matters now is what you choose to do about it," Dr. Anderson said.

"What do you mean?" Bran asked.

"Some people, when they first come face to face with the pain in the world, they turn away and pretend they don't see. They surround themselves with little pleasures and hobbies, and do their best not to think about anything beyond the edges of their ordinary little world. They don't do much harm, perhaps, but then again they don't do much good, either. They live a life which is almost completely selfish, even though most of them would be shocked if you ever told them so," Dr. Anderson said.

"And the other kind?" Brandon asked.

"The other kind choose to do something; to nurse the sick, to comfort the weeping, to heal such hurts as they can, even though it may cost them everything on earth they ever thought they wished for. And the ones who make _that_ choice soon discover a great secret," Dr. Anderson said.

"What's that?" Brandon asked.

"That a life of selfless love is also a life of joy," Dr. Anderson said.

The words reminded Brandon instantly of those verses on the foil picture that Lisa had given him, about the clay and the pebble. He didn't really disagree with the statement, but it was awfully hard to live up to in real life.

"I'm trying to do what I can," Brandon said, unsure what Dr. Anderson wanted him to say.

"Good boy. Do whatever you can, whenever you get the chance. But right now let's think about what we can do for Lana. I'm afraid this new situation makes things a lot more complicated than we first thought," Dr. Anderson said.

"Yes, sir, it does. I don't know what to do at this point, and she's only got till Friday night. That's only six days even if you count _today,_ and I'm supposed to leave for the airport in just three more hours," Brandon said.

"I'm not sure either, Bran. Even if we hired a lawyer and opened a court case on Monday morning at the crack of dawn, I don't believe it would do any good. Things like that can drag on for years sometimes, especially the serious cases. I'm certain there's no legal way of getting her out within the next few days," Dr. Anderson said.

"But we _have_ to," Brandon said, and Dr. Anderson was silent again for a long time.

"Yes. . . in this particular case, I think you're right. But you and I both know that if we can't get her out legally, then the only other choice is to break her out somehow," he finally said. Brandon might have been more shocked by the suggestion if he hadn't already been thinking about it on some level himself. Thinking about it wasn't the same thing as having a plan in place, though. He was as far from that as ever.

"But _how?_ And what if I get caught? They'd probably throw me in jail and flush the key down the drain. Besides that, it's not spring break anymore. I'd have to stay here at least a few more days even to _try_ something like that, and it'll get Lisa in trouble if I start missing school. Not to mention my dad will find out and then it'll give him even more ammunition to take me away," Brandon said.

"I'm sure that's all true, Bran. But it's just like I told you before; I don't think God would ask you to do something He knew was impossible. There's a way to get Lana out of there, somehow. I'm certain of that. Maybe not a _guaranteed_ way, but a possibility at least. Sometimes you have to be brave enough to try, even when things are scary and you know they might not end well. Is Lana worth the risk, or is she not?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Of course she is," Brandon said.

"Then don't worry. I can write you a doctor's excuse for school, so I think we've got _that_ part covered. We can always say you're getting treatment for a heart condition. Then it won't even be a lie," Dr. Anderson said, and in spite of everything Brandon had to laugh at that.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he agreed.

"It might not hurt if you could find somebody trustworthy over there who'd be willing to help you right now. I can only do so much from six thousand miles away," Dr. Anderson said.

"Well, there's a girl and her brother at the orphanage in Vyborg who already helped me an awful lot this week; Tatiana and Vladic Volkov. They took me all over town looking for Lana, and then got me in to see her at the prison. They might help me with this too, I guess," Brandon said, wondering whether he really ought to drag them into such a dangerous criminal enterprise even if they were willing.

"How old are they?" Dr. Anderson asked, perhaps wondering the very same thing.

"She's not quite sixteen and he's twelve. I meant to say something to you about them anyway, as soon as I got a chance. Tatya asked me if I could try to find some people who might adopt Vlad, so he won't be out on the streets in a couple years," Brandon said.

"But not her, too?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"She's too old, or at least she thinks she is," Brandon explained.

"Hmm. . . well, I'll think about that, maybe see what I can come up with. One of the doctors at the air force base in Shreveport is a good friend of ours; I know he and his wife have occasionally talked about doing something like that. I could pass the word along, maybe see how they feel about the idea. Or if that doesn't work out then I'm sure we could find somebody else," Dr. Anderson said.

"Thanks, Dr. Anderson. I really, really appreciate it," Brandon said.

"It's the least I could do. It worries me about asking kids like that to get involved in a possible jailbreak, though; especially the little one. Is there nobody else you can think of?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"No, not really," Brandon admitted, and Dr. Anderson was silent for a few seconds, perhaps thinking.

"Well. . . I don't like it, but I guess you might as well ask them. They're probably already in trouble at this point whether they help you or not, unfortunately. If they've been seen visiting Lana at the prison recently then that's enough to put them right at the top of anybody's suspect list after the breakout. That's a dangerous place to be, especially if the police can't find anybody else to blame. We've seen that already in Lana's case," Dr. Anderson said.

"I hadn't thought of that," Brandon said, horrified that he might have inadvertently put his friends at risk. But Dr. Anderson wasn't finished.

"In fact, I think it might be best if you went ahead and brought them with you when you leave Russia, instead of leaving them behind till we can find a family for them. They can stay here along with Lana for a while if necessary," Dr. Anderson said.

"Maybe," Brandon agreed, frowning. Including Tatya and Vlad complicated the whole plan considerably, but Dr. Anderson was surely right about the danger.

"I have to warn you, though. You can't just fly out of Saint Petersburg after all this, whether you succeed or not. Your entry permit will be expired by then, and the others won't have the proper exit paperwork, either. You'll get arrested the second you try to go through customs. I'd suggest leaving from Helsinki airport in Finland instead, if you can find a way to slip across the border without getting caught. It'll simplify things. In the meantime, I can see about getting medical visas approved for Lana and your two friends. I'll arrange it so you can pick up the paperwork at the embassy in Helsinki whenever you get there, as long as everybody has a passport. Don't worry about all those technical things right now, just focus on finding a way to get all four of you out of Russia as soon as possible. You don't have much time," Dr. Anderson said.

"That's kind of a scary thought," Brandon admitted, a bit frightened by the prospect of everything he had to do in such a short space of time. So many things could go so horribly wrong at any moment.

"Well. . . I don't guess I can blame you for feeling that way. I'd probably feel the same way myself, if the shoe was on the other foot. But my nephew always likes to say that if you can't be heart-brave, then sometimes face-brave will have to do. And if you wear that face long enough, then you'll find that your heart goes along with it after a while. So try to have some courage, boy, even if it's only the imitation kind. It'll serve you well when the hard times come," Dr. Anderson said.

"I'll give it my best shot. And thank you for everything, sir. You've done more than I can ever repay you for," Brandon said.

"I've already been paid back a thousand times over, Bran," Dr. Anderson said, and for a second Brandon nearly asked him what _that_ was supposed to mean. Then he brushed it off as irrelevant. There were more important things to worry about.

He stood there on the sidewalk for a few minutes, discouraged almost to the point of despair and wondering what to do next. Breaking Lana out of prison seemed like an impossible scheme, the kind of hare-brained idea that only a fool would ever contemplate. He might end up dead or in prison himself just for _trying_ such a thing.

But then again, what other choice did he have?

Bran chewed his bottom lip, thinking. His entry permit would expire at midnight, and after that he'd be in Russia illegally. Getting caught with expired papers was enough to land him in jail even before he got anywhere _near_ the prison, and he knew from experience that the cops were liable to check his documents at any time. Therefore the very first thing he had to do was to find a safe place to stay while he worked out a plan for everything else.

That made things difficult. Any hotel would check his papers, and he didn't dare sleep in the park like a vagrant, either. The only sure thing he could think of was to camp out in the woods for a few days, maybe with a sleeping bag and a fire to keep off the cold. He didn't much like that idea either, but he finally decided it would do until he could come up with something better.

With that issue settled, Brandon trotted along Nevsky Prospect till he found an upscale bistro with a strong wi-fi connection so he could use the internet. Then he sat there all day watching prison movies on his phone, hoping something he saw might offer a spark of inspiration for how to plan a real escape attempt. The restaurant didn't care how long he stayed, as long as he kept spending money now and then.

Most of the movies seemed lame and stupid even to him, but he finally decided the most workable plan might be to follow the city sewers underneath the building and then break in through one of the bathrooms. Those concrete walls had looked pretty old and crumbly, after all. There was no way to find out for sure whether such a thing would work or not without actually going down into the sewers to check, but it seemed worth a try.

The plan would be dangerous even if it _did_ work, of course. Those prison guards had real bullets, and they wouldn't hesitate to use them, either. Brandon had never done anything deeply unlawful before, and the prospect of doing it now made him sick with fear. The worst crime he'd ever committed was stealing loose change from parked cars, back in the bad old days when he'd been too hungry to care whether it was wrong or not. But people didn't usually get shot for things like _that._

He also fretted and dithered for hours over what to do about Tatya and Vlad. Dr. Anderson had a point about how they might as well help him since they were already in danger anyway, but Brandon hated to involve them any deeper than necessary. He finally decided it couldn't hurt to at least talk things over with the two of them, so he took the last train out to Vyborg before it got too late.

His appearance created quite a stir at the orphanage. He spotted Tatya sitting on one of the couches with a copy of _Devochka_ magazine almost as soon as he entered the public room, but she was too absorbed in whatever she was reading to notice him at first. Then she glanced up to see what the younger kids were making such a fuss about.

"Brandon?" she asked, her mouth falling open in shocked surprise. He couldn't really blame her, since he was supposed to be on a plane halfway across the ocean by then.

"Yup, it's me. Listen, I really need to talk to you for a little while. Can we go somewhere private? Like maybe outdoors?" he asked. The room was full of other kids who certainly didn't need to overhear anything.

"I guess so, as long as we don't stay out too long," Tatya agreed.

"Okay. Bring Vlad, too, though. I don't want to have to explain twice," Brandon added.

She hurried off to fetch her brother, and the three of them were soon outside in the street together. Tatya took them to the park at Vyborg Castle, and there she stopped.

"Is this all right? I don't think anyone can hear what we say, unless we yell," she said. Bran decided that was probably true; there were a few other people on the castle grounds, but they were much too far away to hear anything. The sun was already down and the stars were out, and most folks were probably at home thinking about supper and bed. It wasn't quite as cold as usual, but Brandon could still see his breath in the air.

"Yeah, this'll work," he agreed, sitting down on a bench nearby.

"So what is it, then?" Tatya asked, taking a seat beside him.

"I think we can get Lana out, if you'll help me," he said in a low voice.

"But how? Did you get a lawyer?" she asked.

"No. We're gonna break her out," Brandon said, and this time the look of shock on Tatya's face was almost comical.

" _What?"_ she asked.

"We're gonna break in there and take her out, whether they like it or not," Brandon clarified.

"That's impossible," Tatya said.

"No, it's not," Brandon promised.

"This is one plan I truly have to hear," Tatya said, shaking her head.

"Could we get back in to see her tomorrow? I know it's already too late today," Brandon asked.

"Maybe. Probably, if we have the cash. But why are we doing this? Surely a lawyer would be better," Tatya asked.

"I'm afraid it might be hard to believe," Brandon said, choosing his words carefully.

"Try me," Tatya said.

"When you and Lana used to share a room, did she ever talk about me?" Brandon asked.

"Yes, all the time," Tatya said dryly.

"Did she ever tell you that I can understand dreams and visions, like Daniel and the other prophets used to do?" Brandon asked.

"She mentioned it a few times, yes. I never knew if she was serious or not," Tatya said.

"Well, she was. My friend Dr. Anderson had a dream about her a few months ago. He said she was in serious trouble and that if I didn't bring her back to Texas before April the fourth then she'd die. He didn't understand why or how, but that's the reason I came here in the first place, to bring her back home before it's too late. He said nobody else could do it except me. But that was before we knew she was locked up for murder, and the fourth of April is only six more days from now. There's no possible way a lawyer would have time to get her out by then. So if I don't break her out myself then she'll die," Brandon said.

Tatya was quiet for a while, perhaps thinking about this, and finally cleared her throat.

"I think if anyone else had told me this, I would not believe him. But Lana does not lie; this I know. She told me you have this strange power, so if you say she is in deadly danger then I can only trust your word. But what did you have in mind?" she asked.

"First let me say that I want all four of us to leave the country at the same time. I'm afraid the police might already connect you and Vlad with anything I do at this point. You've been seen with me quite a lot lately. Dr. Anderson is trying to arrange visas, and he thinks he knows of a family who might take you both," Brandon said.

"Really?" Tatya asked.

"Hopefully," Brandon said, but Tatya still hesitated.

"Perhaps you should tell me your plan first. I can't promise anything unless I know what the risks may be," she finally said.

"All right, fair enough. I noticed the prison is made of old crumbly cement, right? So if we come up through the sewers then we should reach a place where one of the bathrooms is located. I think we can dig through the walls and make an opening big enough for Lana to crawl through. We can take a blowtorch with us to crumble any spots that are too tough to dig, since heat turns concrete back to dust. Then we could all get away, especially if it's late at night when there's nobody to see," Brandon said.

"I'm sure someone has thought of that before," Tatya said, with a skeptical frown on her face.

"Probably. I'm sure every possible idea has been thought of and tried at least once. But they seem pretty slovenly at this particular place, if you ask me. Most of the prisoners are too weak and beaten down to try anything. I bet ninety-nine percent of them wouldn't even know about the sewers, or how to use a blowtorch, let alone have anybody on the outside willing to help them. It can work. I know it can," Brandon said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. But Tatya still looked uneasy.

"I would like to believe you. And maybe your plan will work. But it would still be very dangerous. There are many walls in the prison, and the guards have guns. Getting out won't be so easy," she warned.

"I know that, but I think it's the best chance I'll ever have. Certainly the best chance that _she'll_ ever have," Brandon said.

"And what then? We may get her out, yes, but then she would never be allowed to leave the country. And we could never survive on the run forever. It will not be long before the guards discover a hole in the wall and come after us. Then what would happen?" Tatya asked, but he'd already thought of that objection.

"I told you, I don't plan to stay in Russia even a second longer than necessary. All we have to do is slip across the border somewhere, pick up the visas in Helsinki, and fly home from there. I know it's still risky, but surely it's got to be better than going to live with the gangs in a few months, doesn't it?" Brandon asked, and Tatya frowned again at that.

"Are you _sure_ all that would work?" she finally asked.

"We'll never know if we don't try," Brandon said, and then Tatya smiled faintly.

"I still think it's very dangerous. But you're also right; nothing is gained without risk. I think I will be glad to see a little more of the world than Vyborg for a change. Yes, we'll help you," she decided.

"Great!" Brandon exclaimed.

"But I will also say that we should go early in the morning. Vlad and I will skip school tomorrow, but there will come a time when Mrs. Melkova will start to wonder where we are. If possible, we should try to finish everything and leave the area in one day. Otherwise our disappearance will complicate everything. The authorities may even believe you have kidnapped us," Tatya said.

"I agree. We should get everything done as soon as possible," Brandon said.

"We must also decide immediately which way to leave the city. The secretary at the prison knows my name, and Vlad's too. She knows Lana is from Vyborg. This is the very first place they would look for us after the escape, most especially the roads and trains that come this way from Saint Petersburg. It is the shortest route to Helsinki, yes, but we dare not come back this way. We must choose a direction they will not expect," Tatya warned.

"What other ways are there?" Brandon asked.

"There is the highway to Narva on the Estonian border. That would be the second quickest way out of the country, but I fear they would think of that, also. But any of the other roads will take us deeper into Russia, and that would not be wise, either," Tatya said, thinking out loud.

"Could we find a boat, do you think? Dr. Anderson already warned me not to fly," Brandon asked.

"I don't think so. There are not many harbors close to Saint Petersburg, and the authorities will be watching all of them if there is a major prison break. We might perhaps head north to the coast, to Archangel or Murmansk, and leave from there by ship. That would mean taking the east road out of the city, which probably no one would think we would use," Tatya said thoughtfully.

"How far is it?" Brandon asked.

"Seven hundred miles to Murmansk. Maybe half that, to the White Sea," Tatya said.

"That's too far. We don't have that much time," Brandon said, and Tatya furrowed her brows.

"I suppose we could also take the south road to Pskov, and then somehow cross over Lake Peipus into the southern parts of Estonia. But what then? We would still have a long journey to reach Helsinki at that point, across a country we have no permission to enter," she said.

"True, but that's the least of our worries right now. We can figure that part out when we're safely over the border and don't have any cops breathing down our necks," Brandon said.

"Perhaps," Tatya said, still sounding dubious.

"You and Vlad don't even have passports, do you?" Brandon asked, remembering what Dr. Anderson had said about everybody needing one.

"No, there was never any need. I'm old enough to sign for my own but Vlad is not. I don't know if they will let me apply on his behalf or not. But besides that, we will have to have our birth certificates and Mrs. Melkova has those. Not to mention that it will take several weeks before the passports can be issued," Tatya said.

"I'm willing to bet there's a way to rush it, if they get paid enough," Brandon said dryly. If he'd discovered anything lately, it was the fact that money could solve a great many problems.

"No doubt that is true. But we still have to have our birth certificates from Mrs. Melkova's desk, and I suppose we should take Lana's passport as well. I know she left it there for safekeeping when she went into the city," Tatya said.

"Would Mrs. Melkova give us all those things?" Brandon asked.

"She would want to know why, and she is not stupid. If you ask for Lana's passport and we ask for our birth certificates, then she will know that something is going on," Tatya said.

"I'll just have to tell her the truth, then," Brandon said.

"She won't let us be involved in anything criminal, Brandon. If you tell her what we mean to do, then she won't let us have the papers at all. She would think it was for our own protection," Tatya said.

"She's probably right. But if she won't give us the papers any other way then we'll have to sneak into her office and take them," Brandon said.

"I think I can do that tonight, if nothing goes wrong. But where will _you_ spend the night?" Tatya asked.

"I thought about camping in the woods somewhere. If the cops catch me with an expired entry permit then I'll end up in jail," Brandon admitted.

"Perhaps I can arrange something better than that. I think one of the families from church would let you spend the night in return for a little money. They would not check your papers or turn you in," Tatya suggested.

"Sounds good to me," Brandon agreed. Even the most uncomfortable couch in the world was better than the cold hard ground.

Chapter Nine

Tatya took him to a cramped apartment somewhere in downtown Vyborg, where she introduced him to a young couple and their two children whose names he never managed to remember.

"We will be back early in the morning, if nothing goes wrong at the office tonight. Wish me luck," Tatya said in a low voice, just before she and Vlad headed back to the orphanage.

"Good luck," Brandon whispered, and never in his life had he meant it so fervently.

He slept that night on a genuine red corduroy sofa which was undoubtedly older than dinosaur toenails. The springs dug into his ribs from where stuffing had leaked out over the years, and the fabric smelled like stale dog pee from the family's elderly Chihuahua. _Not_ one of Brandon's favorite scents, especially when he knew it would probably seep into his clothes overnight and leave him smelling exactly the same way.

He didn't complain, though. The couch was still a better place to sleep than the woods, and he would have had a hard time sleeping anywhere that night, worried as he was about whether Tatya had been able to get hold of the papers or not.

"I got them," Tatya declared, as soon as she and Vlad arrived at the apartment early the next morning. She was breathless after climbing six flights of steps from the street, but still smiling with accomplishment.

"Did you have any trouble?" Brandon asked.

"No, but Mrs. Melkova will notice soon enough that we are missing, after the two of us don't return for bedtime tonight. Then it won't be long before she sees that our papers are gone, too. We have little time before the secret is out," Tatya said.

She and Vlad seemed to have nothing with them but the clothes on their backs and the shoes on their feet; not even so much as a backpack or a purse to carry personal items.

"Do you and Vlad need to go back to the orphanage for anything?" Brandon asked, uncertain whether they could get by with so little.

"No, there is nothing at that place which matters anymore. We have a new life to think of," Tatya replied firmly.

"Let's go, then," Brandon said.

They took the train back into Saint Petersburg, and then Brandon went immediately to one of the larger banks to withdraw thirty thousand rubles from Dr. Anderson's credit card. He got a few suspicious glances for that, but nobody actually questioned him.

"Why do we need so much cash? It would be very dangerous, if anyone knew you had such a large amount of money in your pocket," Tatya whispered as they left the building.

"I know, but cash is easier to spend, and it won't leave a paper trail, either. If we're on the run then we don't need to give the cops a fix on where we are by using a card," Brandon said.

"Can they do that?" Tatya asked.

"I'm not sure, but that's what happened in one of the movies I saw yesterday. I'd rather be safe than sorry about things like that. Here, we'll divide up the cash just in case anything happens," Brandon said, handing each of them a wad of bills.

Privately, money issues didn't worry him even half so much as his expired paperwork did. All three of them kept a sharp eye out for cops, and whenever they spotted one Brandon immediately went inside a shop or turned down a side street. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

The first order of business was to get Tatya and Vlad's passports, and sure enough, for a hefty fee they were able to get those issued the same day. Then Bran got in touch with Dr. Anderson again to check on the medical visas.

"Was the doctor able to arrange everything?" Tatya asked, as soon as Brandon got off the phone.

"Yeah, the visas are ready. They're only good for three weeks, but we can worry about getting extensions later on if we have to. They'll get us past the customs agents and that's all that matters. We can pick them up at the embassy in Helsinki anytime this week. If we make it that far," Brandon muttered under his breath.

Next stop was the engineering department at city hall, where after a major hassle and three more bribes, they were able to get a partial map of the city sewer system. It turned out there was no such thing as a _complete_ map, only bits and pieces. But what they had was enough to figure out where the main line passed underneath the prison building and where the closest manhole should be. That was all they really needed to know.

With everything else arranged, the only loose end still to be taken care of was to go speak to Lana herself, to let her know what was coming. They stopped at a bank to withdraw some additional bribe money, and then headed over to the prison.

The secretary seemed to remember them, and again there was a lengthy conversation about who-knew-what, while Bran did his best not to start sweating bullets. It was amazing how nerve-wracking it could be when you knew you were about to do something criminal.

Tatya gave the woman the money, and they soon found themselves escorted into what looked like the same Spartan visiting room as before. Shortly afterward, a guard brought Lana inside. Brandon ran over to hug her tight as soon as the door was shut, but this was no occasion for catching up on old times.

"We're getting you out of here tonight," he whispered.

"But—" she started, and he put a finger over her lips.

"No buts; just listen for a minute. You remember Dr. Anderson, right?" Brandon asked.

"Yes, I think so. What about him?" Lana asked.

"God gave him a true dream a few months ago. He said if we didn't get you back to Texas before April the fourth then you'd die. That means we've got to get you out of here right _now,"_ Brandon said, bracing himself for questions or doubt. To her credit, Lana didn't quibble about the details. Maybe she had an easier time accepting the situation since she already knew about his gift, because her first question was a purely practical one.

"How?" she asked simply, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

"I think we found a way to break into the bathrooms tonight, by coming up through the sewer system. Which bathroom is closest to your cell? And can you meet us there at midnight without anybody harassing you?" Brandon asked, and Lana furrowed her brows for a minute, thinking.

"I'm in cellblock A, which is in the northeast corner of the prison. And yes, I think I can meet you there at midnight. They don't usually lock us down unless there's been a fight or something like that," she finally agreed.

"Okay, we'll see you tonight," Brandon said.

After leaving the prison, they immediately headed downtown again to buy a blowtorch, four headlamps, some rope, and a few other items that might be useful.

It was shortly before sunset when they returned to the slums right outside the prison walls. None of them wanted to be out roaming the streets after dark, at least not in _that_ neighborhood, so they found an abandoned apartment on the second floor of the building closest to the manhole they meant to use. They stowed four sets of clean clothes along with several jugs of wash water inside an empty cabinet in the bathroom, and then tried to stay quiet and lay hid for a few hours. They didn't dare shine any lights or make noise, not even indoors, and Brandon felt so unsafe that he unconsciously kept his back up against a wall the whole time. There were too many unfriendly eyes in the area, not just prison guards but gang members, too.

It got cold after the sun went down, and about eight thirty Brandon decided it was time to get started. There was no telling how long it might take to dig through the cement, and besides that he was so edgy that sitting still any longer would have been unbearable.

"Come on, let's go. We need to make sure we've got enough time to do this before midnight," he said.

The others followed him downstairs, and then all of them hesitated at the front doors. The moon was almost full, flooding the streets with silver light and casting thick black shadows behind every object. A dozen robbers could have been hiding within a block of where Brandon stood and he never would have seen them. He had to remind himself several times not to think about stuff like that.

"Okay, I don't see anybody, and there's the manhole," he whispered, pointing at the middle of the street. He was every bit as hesitant now as he'd been antsy just a few minutes ago, and from the looks on Tatya and Vlad's faces, so were they.

"It will be unspeakably filthy," Tatya said.

"Yeah, but let's go," Brandon said, trying to sound tough so he wouldn't lose his nerve. It was pure imitation courage, as Dr. Anderson had called it, but it did seem to help.

He walked boldly into the street and lifted the manhole cover with a special tool he'd bought for that very purpose earlier in the day. It made a muffled clatter against the pavement, and then Brandon took a deep breath before heading down the ladder. Tatya brought up the rear, and as soon as she pulled the cover back over the hole they were instantly plunged into inky darkness. Brandon heard a soft whimper, probably from Vlad, and switched on his headlamp as soon as he could find the toggle.

They found themselves inside a clay pipe large enough even for Brandon to walk through if he hunched over a little. He was also knee deep in sewage, and the stench was almost strong enough to make him vomit.

"Come on, then," Brandon said, still whispering. They seemed to be alone for the moment, but he was afraid echoes might travel down the pipe and attract unwelcome attention.

He set off walking toward the prison, carefully counting paces to make sure they didn't go too far. Vlad had to stop and throw up at one point along the way, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"This should be the place," Brandon finally said, when they reached an area with several large drains coming down from the sides and above.

"Are you sure?" Tatya asked, looking pale and sick herself.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. These big drains come down from the showers and toilets and things. Might as well get started," Brandon said.

He used a hammer to smash open the top of the clay sewer pipe, sending chunks of rubble falling everywhere and splashing all three of them from head to toe with sewage. Brandon's stomach did a lazy heave, and he had to stand still with his hands on his knees for several minutes to keep from losing his supper. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and he had to swallow hard to get rid of the sour taste of acid in the back of his throat.

"Hold your breath next time so you won't smell it as much," Tatya suggested, and Brandon nodded.

The strategy seemed to help, even though there were still several times when it was all Bran could do not to stop and heave his guts up. But the effort paid off when he finally broke through into a narrow space full of drains and water pipes between two cement walls. A little more demolition opened up a good-sized hole.

Brandon grabbed hold of a rusty water pipe to pull himself up, and soon he was wedged in between the two walls. There was barely enough space to let him through, and he wondered uneasily if Tatya and Vlad would be able to pull him back out if he got stuck in there. He could feel bits of concrete and showers of flaky rust falling everywhere as he brushed against the walls and pipes, and it smelled dank and moldy. That was a definite improvement over the sewer, to be sure, but still nasty enough in its own right.

He finally worked his way far enough into the gap that he must have been above floor level, and then he started digging out chunks of gritty concrete with the claw end of his hammer. Whoever built the place had mixed in way too much sand with too little cement, probably to save money, and it must have been older than Methuselah's dentures anyway. Good enough to keep a lid on a bunch of half-starved female inmates with no tools, maybe, but no match for a hammer. He didn't even need the blowtorch at all.

The wall was about eight inches thick, but finally Brandon poked through into empty space at one spot. Then he switched off his headlamp so he could peer through the hole at whatever lay on the other side.

Sure enough, it was a bathroom. The place was painted the same dingy olive green as the visiting room and lit only by a single dull fluorescent tube. Judging from what he could see, Bran guessed he was somewhere inside the wall behind the showerheads. The room itself was deserted, and since it was still early there was no reason to break completely through the wall just yet. He quickly thinned a wide area to no more than an inch thick, and then clambered back down to stand next to the others.

"We still have about an hour before midnight. We'll have to wait till then before we break the rest of the wall open, just in case. We don't want anybody to come in and find a hole," Brandon whispered.

At 11:45 he climbed back up to wait for Lana. She came through the door right at midnight, looking thin and scared, and she seemed to be alone. Brandon noticed her glancing around as if looking for some kind of clue, so he flashed his headlamp through the hole to attract her attention.

"Beebo, is that you?" she whispered, coming up to the wall in front of him.

"Yeah, it's me. The wall's dug almost completely through, but it'll take just a few more minutes to finish. You better back up so it won't fall on you," Brandon whispered back.

"Hurry. I'm not sure when the guard will make his rounds," Lana said.

Brandon did hurry, tearing chunks out of the remaining wall as fast as he could. Then, when he judged the remnant was weak enough, he made a sudden heave with all the force he could muster. The last bit of wall gave way, and he went sprawling to the floor covered in gray dust and assorted pieces of concrete. Lana ran to throw her arms around him for a kiss, and for a second he returned it.

"Gah, you _stink,"_ she said, and Brandon laughed a little.

"It gets worse than that, I'm afraid. But come on, let's go before we get caught," he said urgently. Lana nodded, and then as soon as they splashed down next to Tatya and Vlad, everybody took off slogging as fast as they dared back in the direction of the manhole cover.

At first it seemed as if they might slip away without being noticed. Brandon was just climbing out to join the others on the street when they heard the sirens begin to blare at the prison.

"They must have found the hole," Lana said.

"This is the first place they'll look, then. Come on!" Brandon said, and then took off running.

"What about changing clothes?" Tatya called after him.

"There's no time for that now; we'll worry about it later!" Brandon hissed.

Within seconds they were out of sight of the prison, lost in the maze of streets among the decrepit buildings. But the police must have arrived on the scene even faster than Brandon had feared, because he soon heard heavy footsteps running through the street, and yelling in Russian. The four of them were dangerously exposed at that point, right in the middle of a long block between two massive apartment buildings. They had to get out of sight immediately, so Brandon grabbed Lana's hand and took off at top speed around the nearest corner.

It didn't help. There was _another_ group of guards coming in from the far end of the block they'd just entered, and this new set of enemies spotted the fugitives at once. One of the cops gave a sharp cry of discovery, and then Brandon knew the situation was about to get ugly. Some of the guards were already reaching for their pistols.

All these things flashed across his mind's eye in a split second, and he glanced around wildly for some avenue of escape. For a second Bran felt just like a rat in a trap, but then he thought of one possible way out.

"Come on!" he hissed, darting inside the nearest apartment building.

The four of them ran up the dilapidated stairs all the way to the roof, never slowing down to glance behind and with only the barest nod to keeping quiet. It was a twelve-story climb, and even Brandon was sweaty and gasping for air by the time they reached the top. They finally stumbled to a halt just outside the final access door, with nowhere left to run.

"They find us here!" Vlad said, his voice thick with fear. They all knew the police had seen them running into the building, and they also knew it wouldn't take longer than a few minutes to check every room in the structure. The roof was likely the last place the cops would search if they did the logical thing and worked their way up from the bottom floor, but they wouldn't be delayed for long.

"They won't find us, Vlad. I've got an idea," Brandon said.

He quickly grabbed the rope from his pack and lassoed a vent of some kind on the rooftop across the street from them, silently thanking God and Cody for teaching him calf-roping. Then he pulled it tight and tied it to an antenna on their own roof before fixing two more ropes at about shoulder height to form a kind of narrow suspension bridge.

"Come on and let's walk across. I think we can do it if we don't look down too much," Brandon said.

There was literally no other option, so Bran took the lead. It took all his courage to step off the edge, and then for a second he froze, staring down at the emptiness below his feet. The parapet of the building was even higher than the cliff at Mount Nebo where he'd toyed with jumping, but this time he didn't have even the slightest desire to flirt with death. Far below them was an empty street littered with wind-blown trash, and even from that height the pavement looked stony and pitiless as a bill collector.

Finally he tore his eyes away and moved forward, not daring to go too fast for fear the others might lose their shaky balance and go plunging to their deaths on the dirty concrete far below. But that didn't happen, and soon all four of them set foot safely on the roof of the next building. Then Brandon slashed the ropes. With no obvious bridge and maybe just a little luck, it was possible the cops wouldn't realize where they'd gone.

Just in time, too. They barely had time to scramble behind a rusty old chicken coop before the police and prison guards burst out onto the roof of the building they'd just left. Then for a while Brandon heard loud cursing as they searched the place to no purpose. They apparently never noticed the cut ropes, or at least never attached any importance to them.

Eventually they gave up and went back downstairs.

"They may search this building eventually, too," Lana murmured quietly, and Brandon nodded.

"Come on, then. Let's go while we still can," he said.

They hurried down the stairs of the new building as quickly as they dared without falling head over heels, and then slipped out into the shadowy streets once more. For the next hour or so they ducked and dodged through the deserted buildings, several times barely eluding the police. Eventually they reached an unguarded subway station, and after another few hours of trains, subways, and plain old walking, they ended up far outside the city limits to the east. Tatya bought another set of clean clothes for each of them from a street vendor, and they paused just long enough to wash up in a public restroom so they wouldn't stink anymore. Then at long last Bran called a halt in a small clearing surrounded by pine trees, and all around them was nothing but the silence of the north woods.

He finally let go of Lana's hand, and then sat down on a rotten log to think. The great escape had succeeded beautifully, but they were far from out of the woods just yet. Somehow or other they still had to reach Lake Peipus, and after running from the single-minded determination of the police for so many hours, Brandon was full of fear and foreboding. The cops plainly didn't mean to give up till they either killed or captured all four of them, and that was a scary thought.

"So what happens now?" Lana asked quietly, watching him as he thought about these things.

"I don't know. We have to try to get out of Russia as fast as we can. We've got visas and plane tickets waiting on us in Helsinki as soon as we can get there, but I think we'll try to slip across Lake Peipus into Estonia so maybe they won't guess what we're doing. Tatya already grabbed your passport," Brandon explained.

"Should we perhaps try to make it across the lake tonight?" Tatya asked.

"No. . . I'm afraid we'd get lost if we tried something like that in the dark. It's late, and we're all exhausted, and I think we're safe for now. Let's rest here for what's left of tonight. Then we'll take the early train to Pskov in the morning and figure things out from there. Mrs. Melkova already knows you and Vlad are missing by now; a few more hours won't make any difference," Brandon said.

Tatya hesitated as if she meant to say something else, but then she must have thought better of it.

"All right," she agreed.

They piled up armfuls of evergreen boughs beneath a sheltering tree to form a makeshift bed, soft and fragrant with pine resin. Brandon was almost asleep when he heard the soft sound of Lana singing.

"What are you doing?" he asked drowsily.

"Singing to the baby. He likes to keep me awake at night, kicking my ribs. But sometimes if I sing to him, he'll stop to listen for a while," Lana said.

"Really?" Brandon asked.

"Yes. It helps me sleep sometimes, if I can get him to be still. You can't imagine how strong he is. Put your hand there and he'll kick you, too; then you'll know how it feels," Lana said, moving his hand to a spot right below her ribs. It was the first opportunity for such a thing that he'd ever had. It had been too early to feel anything when Lana was taken away, and there'd never been a good time at the prison.

"I don't feel anything," Brandon said after a while.

"Just wait a little while and you will. But I've been thinking, Beebo. What do you think we should name him? We never talked about it very much before, but I would rather have something to call him even if we change our minds later," Lana said.

"Did you have any suggestions?" Brandon asked, temporizing. It wasn't a subject he'd given much thought.

"I'm not sure. In my family we've always had a tradition of naming the oldest son after his father," Lana said.

"I don't want to name him Brandon junior. That's too confusing," Brandon said.

"Well, what's your middle name then?" Lana asked.

"Trust me, we don't want to use that either. It's awful," Brandon said, suddenly shy. So far as he could remember, he'd never uttered his middle name to another living soul.

"Surely it couldn't be _that_ bad, could it?" Lana asked.

"Yeah, it really could," Brandon said.

"Well, now I'm curious. What is it?" Lana asked.

"You promise not to laugh?" Brandon asked.

"I promise," Lana agreed.

"It's Bartimaeus, but you better never tell anybody," Brandon whispered in her ear. Tatya and Vlad seemed to be asleep already, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

"That's not so bad," Lana said.

"So you say. I sure never heard of anybody else with that name before, except for that blind dude that Jesus gave back his sight," Brandon said.

"Well. . . that's not such a bad story to remember," Lana said.

"Maybe not. But I _definitely_ don't want to name the baby Bartimaeus, or even Bart for that matter," Brandon said firmly.

"You _do_ make things difficult sometimes, don't you?" Lana chided.

"Well. . . what about Michael? That's _your_ dad's name, after all," Brandon asked.

"No. I don't want to name my son after a man who turned his back on me. And besides that it sounds too much like your nephew's name," Lana said, every bit as firmly.

"Yeah, true, and I don't exactly want to name him Crush, either. But what about Stephen?" Brandon asked.

"Why Stephen?" Lana asked.

"It was my grandpa's name. I never knew him myself but my brother always said he was a good man. That's his knife I wear on my belt sometimes," Brandon said, somewhat diffidently. Lana considered the idea for a minute, and then nodded.

"All right, then. It will do for now. As I said, we can always change our minds later," she agreed.

Just then, Brandon felt a hard kick right under his palm, startling him. He yanked his hand away without thinking, and then tentatively put it back again.

"You see? I told you he's strong," Lana said, amused at his reaction.

"Yeah, he is," Bran admitted, and in that moment a subtle yet momentous change took place in the depths of his spirit. Suddenly two became three, as the baby was transformed in the twinkling of an eye from an abstract concept into a little boy named Stephen. A boy who could kick hard and enjoyed music; one who could be touched and spoken to and known. Love filled Brandon's heart for this child he'd never yet seen, as he felt that small foot against the palm of his hand.

"Will you sing to him for a while, so maybe he'll let me sleep?" Lana asked, perhaps not entirely oblivious to how Brandon felt at that moment.

"Sure," he agreed, trying to think of something appropriate.

"All right. Good night, my _krasny malchik,"_ Lana said, and he smiled a little.

"Good night, _milaya,"_ Brandon said.

Then he quietly sang the _Ozark Mountain Lullaby,_ a song about family and God and how love is the tie that binds; all the things he most wanted the boy to remember. On a more personal level, it was also a sweet reminder of Brandon's own childhood days in Arkansas, long before he ever came to Goliad. His choice to sing that particular song represented a sharing of his heart in many more ways than one. By the time it was over, Stephen was sleeping and so was Lana.

Bran quietly put his arms around both of them, and then shut his own eyes.

Chapter Ten

When morning came Brandon felt like he hadn't slept a wink, but he knew there was no more time to rest. They had to get out of Russia before the noose could be drawn any tighter around them than it already was.

The sky was full of gray clouds again when they headed back into town, but it didn't smell like snow anymore. Instead there was a cool softness in the air that reminded Brandon of a day in very early spring. It felt _rainish,_ as Cody might have said, even though it might still be hours before anything started to fall. So maybe the fearsome Russian winter really did have an end after all.

As soon as they reached the train station, Tatya handled all the details of getting them tickets to Pskov as soon as possible. The less time they lingered in public places, the better.

It turned out the next departure was in less than thirty minutes, and the train was almost empty since most people were heading _into_ the city at that hour on a Tuesday morning, not _out_ of it. They were even lucky enough to get a carriage all to themselves, and soon they were safely on their way.

Brandon and Lana held hands without talking, looking out at the passing countryside as the train rolled southward. The scenery was a mixture of evergreen woods and bits of farmland, with here and there a little wooden house or an onion-domed church glinting with gold even under the gray skies.

"Why do they build the churches like that?" Brandon asked after a while, for the sake of conversation.

"You mean the domes?" Lana asked.

"Yeah, those," Brandon said.

"Well, I'm not Orthodox, but you know that sometimes they light candles in church as a sign of devotion to God, yes?" Lana asked.

"Yeah, I heard about that before," Brandon agreed.

"Okay, so those towers are supposed to look like candles, and the domes are meant to look like candle flames. That's why the churches are often painted white, and the domes gold. So this whole land will be covered from sea to sea with bright little flames of devotion to Jesus. That's one reason the godless Communists destroyed so many of them. They were a constant reminder to the people to look up and remember that this world is not all there is. The leaders hated that," Lana said.

"I never knew that," Brandon said, looking at the churches with fresh interest.

"Not many foreigners do. But whenever you think of that terrible time, you should remember not only the cruelty of our atheist rulers in those days. You should think also of your brothers and sisters in Christ, and the countless thousands of them who were tortured and put to death in this land because they would not forsake the faith. It's a great glory to God that His church is still standing here, even after those who hated Him and murdered the saints have been swept away onto the ash heap of history. Whenever you see a Russian church, remember those things," Lana said.

Other than the churches there was nothing especially interesting to be seen along the way, so the trip was a dull one for nearly an hour. The train was only a few miles from Pskov at that point, crossing a tall embankment over scattered peat bogs and taiga.

That's when Tatya spotted the policemen.

"I was afraid of that," she said in a low voice, discreetly pointing through the window at the front door of the carriage. Three armed cops were checking passengers' identification documents in the car ahead of them, and even worse, they were carrying what looked like pictures.

"Come on, let's go," Brandon said abruptly, getting up from his seat and heading for the back door.

"Where are we going? We've only got two more cars left before we run out of train," Lana pointed out.

"I'm not sure, but at least it'll give us some time to think," Brandon said.

The last two cars were empty of other passengers, just as their own had been. Brandon locked each door as they went through, knowing it was futile, and when they reached the final carriage it was literally the end of the road. There was nowhere left to go.

"We've got to hide. They'll be back here any minute," Brandon said.

"There's nowhere to hide where they won't find us," Tatya said, and instead of answering Brandon went to the access hatch leading up to the roof.

"Maybe they won't think to look up there, if we're quiet," he said.

There was no time to argue about it, so the four of them scrambled up the ladder and then outside onto the cold metal roof, keeping as low as possible to avoid getting blown off by the wind. Then Bran closed the hatch behind them, wishing there was some way to lock it from the outside.

They didn't dare talk or move any more than absolutely necessary, and for a while nothing else happened. Then a policeman popped his head up through the access hatch. He saw them at once, of course, but then he wasted time by turning to shout the discovery to his friends instead of shooting first and asking questions later. That gave Brandon one final slender opportunity.

The embankment had changed over to an elevated trestle above marshy woods, and the train itself was slow enough and the ground wet enough that they might possibly survive jumping at that point. It was definitely worth the risk, since otherwise they were most likely about to get shot.

"Jump!" Brandon cried, and then took his own advice without waiting to see if the others followed.

He was instantly surrounded by a storm of bullets from the thwarted cops inside the carriage, and the sound of shattering glass when they shot through the windows was nearly as loud as the guns themselves. Brandon fully expected to be killed at any second, but the shots went wild because of motion and distance. Then the train was gone, and Bran found himself dropping like a stone into the treetops below. That was bad enough, with the slender branches of the evergreens whipping against him like hundreds of thin and flexible switches of all sizes on the way down.

No doubt that was what saved him in the end, since the branches slowed him down and helped to break his fall. But it was awfully hard to be thankful for that while the trees were beating him to a bloody pulp.

The ground below the canopy was sprinkled with standing pools of stagnant water, and Brandon finally hit one of these boggy patches with what felt like bone-crushing force, knocking the breath out of him and adding a whole new dimension to the red haze of pain that already filled his body after his whipping from the branches. For a minute all he could do was curl up in the cold mud and groan.

But there was still Vlad and the girls to think of, so he forced himself to get up. He spotted Lana immediately, and then staggered through the muddy water to see if she was all right.

She was pale with pain when he got close enough to see, with her face covered in fresh cuts and bruises from the fall. She looked terrible, but then again Brandon supposed he probably didn't look any better himself.

"Are you okay?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm okay, I think. I did something to my shoulder, though. It feels like I twisted it too far. And I think Stephen is not happy about the fall; he's been kicking me ever since. But we have to find Tatya and Vlad; I know I saw them jump right behind me," Lana said briskly, struggling to her feet. Her cool Russian stoicism was back in full force in response to the disaster. She might break down and cry later on, but never in the middle of a crisis; not unless she was stretched absolutely to the breaking point.

Brandon had always rather admired her for that unflinching toughness, and never more so than right then. But he didn't mention all that; he just grasped her hand in his own and let it be. She was all right, and babies didn't kick unless they were very much alive and well. At the moment, those were the only two things that mattered.

It didn't take long for them to find the others. Tatya was sitting beside her brother at the edge of another boggy area, both of them looking every bit as battered as Brandon and Lana did. Tatya had a startling black eye from her trip through the trees, and Vlad looked even worse.

"What happened?" Brandon asked.

"Vlad was shot by one of the policemen," Tatya said. She sounded even more detached and clinical than Lana had, by which Brandon recognized that she must be utterly terrified.

"Where'd he get hit?" Brandon asked, getting down on his knees beside the other boy.

"Here," Tatya said, gesturing to a hole in the kid's shirt not far above his belt buckle. He was soaking wet and covered in mud from the bog, but in spite of all that Brandon could still see the blood stains in the fabric, dark red and sticky. The place was oozing red even as he watched, and Vlad's face was several shades paler than usual.

"We've got to find him a doctor," Brandon said.

"We dare not take him into Pskov; the police will be everywhere. We will have to seek help elsewhere," Tatya said.

"We should leave right away, then. It won't be long before the police come back to look for us _here,"_ Lana said.

Brandon had no choice but to carry Vlad, and even though the kid didn't weigh very much the burden got to be awfully heavy after a while, especially as bruised and battered as Brandon himself already was. The girls weren't strong enough to help, and Lana couldn't have carried anything anyway because of her twisted shoulder.

The bogs and trees seemed to go on forever as they struggled westward, and Bran lived in constant fear of what might happen if the police caught up to them again. There'd be no escaping a third time, and God only knew what kind of punishment they'd have to face from the authorities if they didn't get shot dead on the spot. Six million years in prison seemed like the very best they could hope for, if they weren't hauled away to some secret gulag in Siberia to work at hard labor for the rest of their lives. Brandon wasn't sure if they still had such places or not, but he definitely didn't want to find out the hard way.

They walked for hours before stumbling across a paved road that snaked through the woods. It had started to drizzle by then, keeping them sodden and cold in spite of the exercise. The highway seemed utterly deserted, so they took a chance and stopped to rest beside the pavement for a few minutes.

"Where are we, do you think?" Brandon asked.

"I think this is the road between Pskov and Lake Peipus. If we can make it to the lakeshore, then perhaps we can hire a boat to carry us across into Estonia," Tatya said.

"It'll have to be soon. It'll be dark in a few more hours, and I'm not sure how much longer I can carry Vlad, either," Brandon said.

"We can only try," Lana said.

They kept walking for several more hours, never meeting a single car. At first they tried to parallel the highway without actually using it, but they soon gave up on that idea. They were too exhausted, and the road was so much easier and faster that it seemed worth the risk.

Brandon felt like his arms might break if he had to lug Vlad much farther. The boy woke up from time to time during the trip, murmuring unintelligible words which Bran didn't know how to answer. Tatya usually came up beside them at such times to smooth the wet hair away from his face and quietly sing to him in Russian till he slept again.

"He is getting hot," she said, not long after dusk.

"Fever?" Brandon asked, even though he'd started to notice the same thing. Not too surprising, maybe, since the kid's guts had probably been torn open by the bullet as it passed through. Vlad didn't seem to be bleeding anymore, but peritonitis was surely bad enough.

"I think so. I am worried, Brandon. He needs help soon," Tatya said.

Thirty minutes later they crested a small hill and spotted the tranquil expanse of Lake Peipus stretching all the way to the western horizon. The sun was already down by then, and not far away were the lights of a small village twinkling brightly through the rain.

" _Finally,"_ Brandon murmured.

The sight of the lake gave all of them fresh energy, and they hurried eagerly into the village to see about finding a doctor and a boat, in that order. Unfortunately it turned out the place was too small to have any kind of medical facilities, but even then Tatya didn't suggest going back to Pskov.

"We'll have to try to find help across the lake," Lana said at last, and Tatya nodded even though her lips were pressed together in a tight line of worry. Brandon could tell she was getting more and more anxious about her brother the longer they had to put off doing anything for him, but it was hard to blame her for that.

They did manage to find a local fisherman who was willing to smuggle them across the lake in return for ten thousand rubles. It was enough money to make the man temporarily rich, and it almost wiped out Brandon's hoard of cash, too. He didn't haggle over the price, though. He just paid the man and forgot about it.

The fisherman put them down in the bilge of his boat under a semi-waterproof tarp which smelled pungently of dead fish, and then took them out across the lake.

"Why do we have to hide?" Brandon whispered after they were underway.

"Because sometimes the border guards patrol the lake, too. They might board the ship to investigate if it looks like there are more people than there should be," Lana said.

"Maybe they won't feel like working too hard on a dark and rainy night like this," Brandon said.

He must have been right, because in due course the fisherman dropped them off without incident on the western shore, not far (he said) from the small town of Räpina. There were still a few miles to walk from the beach to the hospital, but there was at least a decent road to follow.

It was a major relief to be safely out of Russia, but as they walked along the road a new and troublesome thought came into Brandon's mind.

"It worries me, showing up at the hospital like this. Even in Estonia," he finally said.

"Why do you say that?" Lana asked.

"People don't normally get shot in the guts by accident. It's kind of suspicious, especially when all of us are foreigners here. They might call the police. In fact I'd be shocked if they didn't, if only to check things out," Brandon said.

"We can't afford to deal with the authorities, even here. We're still very close to the border, and they _do_ work together at times. Not to mention all of us are here illegally. Could we treat Vlad ourselves, perhaps, or at least enough to get him home? It won't matter after that. We can take him to the hospital in Shreveport, or maybe even to Cadron Pool," Lana said.

"Maybe we could, if we knew exactly what's wrong with him and how bad it is. I'm sure the bullet tore him up inside and he's probably got a bad infection because of that, if nothing else. That's why he's so hot," Brandon said.

"You have your phone, don't you?" Lana asked.

"Yeah, if I've got service here and if it didn't break it when we fell through the trees. Why?" Brandon asked.

"Maybe you could get online and find out some things that way. See what kind of injuries a gunshot might cause," Lana said.

"That's a good idea," Brandon admitted. He had to put Vlad down at that point, even though there was nowhere to lay him except on the wet grass. It had mostly stopped raining by then, but everything was still dripping and waterlogged. Bran took the opportunity to stretch his cramped arms for a few seconds, and then pulled out his phone to see if he could get online. It didn't seem to be broken, thank God, but he was still afraid at first that he might not have service. Entering a new country seemed to have solved that problem, though, and he soon discovered that he had better service than he did at home. Unfortunately he also had very little battery left, and no way to recharge it. He'd have to be quick.

"Okay, it says here that the main dangers from gut shots are bleeding and infection, which I guess makes sense. The bullet tears apart the intestines and blood vessels, which causes peritonitis. Kind of like a burst appendix," Brandon said, reading from a medical website.

"But how does one treat a burst appendix?" Tatya asked.

"Um. . . surgery, for one thing. And strong antibiotics in the meantime," Brandon said, reading a little further.

"Well, we can't do surgery on him, so which antibiotic does he need?" Lana asked, and Bran held up a finger for a few seconds while he looked.

"Looks like they normally use something called Meropenem. It should keep him safe for a few days at least, as long as we can keep the infection under control," Brandon finally said.

"I never heard of it before," Lana said.

"Me neither, but that's what he needs," Brandon said.

"We would need a prescription for something like that, I'm sure," Tatya said.

"Yeah, that's definitely the only way they'll sell us any," Brandon agreed.

"Nobody will give us a prescription just because we ask for one, and besides that it's the middle of the night. Everything is closed except the hospital. If we can't go there then our only other choice is to break into a pharmacy and take some," Lana said.

"You're serious?" Brandon asked, once he got over the shock of hearing her suggest such a thing.

"Yes. I don't like it, but what else can we do? Maybe living with the gangsters and learning how to steal will end up as a blessing in disguise, if it helps me to save Vlad's life tonight," Lana said.

"Do you really think you'd be able to get away with something like that?" Brandon asked.

"I don't see how it could be much different than breaking into a house or a hotel room," Lana said, and that was a good point.

"Let's get started, then, while there's still time," Brandon said.

The first thing they did when they got into town was to find an ATM machine to withdraw some local currency, since the deal with the fisherman had left them practically broke as far as cash went. They needed to find a hotel room so Vlad could rest while they hunted down a pharmacy, and Brandon still preferred to use cash whenever possible.

"Is it safe to use the credit card now?" Tatya asked, watching him.

"We don't have much choice at this point, but at least this way if they _do_ track us then it'll only lead them to this machine and not to the exact place where we're staying. Maybe it won't matter anymore since we're not in Russia now," Brandon said, not liking the reminder. In reality he was far from certain about that, but all he could do was cross his fingers and pray for the best. He withdrew four hundred euros, the machine's daily limit, and hoped that would be enough to last for a while.

"You will have to rent the room, Beebo. They don't like Russians very much in this part of the world," Lana whispered when they reached the hotel. It was the only one they'd been able to find in the town, and none of them were inclined to do much more searching.

"Okay. Y'all don't say anything unless you absolutely have to; just nod and smile a lot. That way they might think we're all Americans and maybe they won't look at us too hard," Brandon whispered back, and the others nodded.

"We will have to think of a reason for all these injuries. Otherwise it will seem suspicious," Tatya said.

"I'll think of something. Can you hold Vlad for a little while so I can deal with the clerk? Maybe she'll think he's just sleeping," Brandon asked, and Tatya nodded.

"Yes, for a few minutes," she agreed.

They took a few seconds to get things arranged, and then Brandon took a deep breath to calm his racing heart as they approached the front desk.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, do you speak English?" he asked when they got close enough.

"Yes, of course. May I help you?" the girl asked, barely glancing at the others.

"Yes, ma'am, we need a room for the night," Brandon said.

"One room, one night?" the girl asked.

"Yes, ma'am, that's all. We've got places to go and things to see. We just got done with a cruise in Sweden but we've still got a few days left before we have to go home. Everybody kept telling us we should definitely visit the lakeshore down here if we had time, but I think one day is as much as we can spare," Brandon said, in the glib and airy way of a young man on vacation without a care in the world.

"Yes, the lake is lovely this time of year. Did you have a nice cruise?" the girl asked politely, not really paying attention while she filled out paperwork.

"Yeah, it was fun. We got to ride some reindeer and do some rock climbing, and we even saw the northern lights. It was awesome," Brandon said, with more fake enthusiasm. He knew he was babbling, but the girl didn't seem to notice.

"Looks like you were hurt a bit," she finally commented, glancing at his scrapes and bruises.

"Yeah, I slipped on the rocks a little, even kicked my sister in the eye before the rope caught me. But hey, it's a memory, I guess," Brandon said, as if the whole thing were a silly accident that people laugh about later. Tatya smiled and nodded, just like he'd told her to. The story was paper thin and wouldn't have stood up to scrutiny even for half a second, but mercifully the girl didn't seem interested in questioning it. She merely pushed a piece of paper across the counter for him to sign, which he did, using the name Beebo McGrath. She never asked for ID.

"Have a good night, sir," she said, handing him an old-fashioned brass key with the number 19 written on it.

As soon as they got away from the front desk and out of sight, Brandon went weak-kneed from relief and had to sit down on a bench outside.

"We got to ride _reindeer,_ Beebo?" Lana asked, with a skeptical half-smile on her face.

"Hey, it was all I could think of," he said defensively, and then she did laugh.

"I think you should go to work for a cruise company, after that performance. It made me want to buy tickets right away," she said. The fact that she could still have a sense of humor in spite of everything made him love her all the more, but he was too frazzled to laugh.

"I am just glad she didn't ask for identification," Tatya muttered.

Each room in the building opened directly to the outdoors, and as soon as they located number nineteen Lana turned the key to let them in. There were two beds inside, and even though the place was a bit threadbare in spots it wasn't really all that bad. Brandon carried Vlad indoors and put him down on the nearest bed, trying not to move him any more than necessary. He looked even worse than earlier, and the hole in his stomach was seeping blood again.

"He's getting worse very quickly," Tatya said, sitting down on the bed beside her brother to grasp his hand.

"I know it, Tatya. But Lana's right, if we can get him some medicine and then hang on for another day or so, he'll be fine," Brandon said, hoping and praying that that was really true.

"Stay here with him, Tatya. Brandon and I will go find him medicine," Lana said.

"All right. Go see what you can do, then," Tatya said.

Chapter Eleven

So Brandon and Lana went out to look for a drugstore, since there didn't seem to be any way to find one on the internet or otherwise. His phone battery had finally given up the ghost by then, and there was no directory in the motel room. That left them with nothing but the old-fashioned method; roaming the streets to look for a sign.

They found only one pharmacy even after exploring most of the town, and it was well protected. There were steel bars on the door and windows, and a bored-looking security guard pacing back and forth in front of the building. Brandon and Lana watched him from the shadows of an alley nearby.

"It's good they have a guard," Lana murmured after a while.

"How could that possibly be good?" Brandon asked.

"Because it means they probably don't have an alarm system. They most likely wouldn't want to pay for both," Lana said.

"Are you sure about that?" Brandon asked, raising one eyebrow.

"No, but that's what the gangsters taught me. They ought to know," Lana said.

"Well. . . maybe. So what do we do now, Cat Woman?" Brandon asked. He thought she might smile at that, but the reference seemed to be completely lost on her.

"First I want you to go knock out that guard," Lana said.

"Do you, now?" Brandon asked sarcastically.

"Yes. I know you can hit hard enough," Lana said.

"I don't know so much about that," Brandon said.

"He won't be expecting anything, and you're a good fighter. Then as soon as he's out of the way, I'll try to get the door open. I think we can do it," Lana said.

"You've got a lot more faith than I do, then," Brandon said, and Lana sighed.

"We have to try, Beebo. If we don't then Vlad will die," she said.

Brandon muttered something under his breath about becoming a wanted criminal in forty countries before it was all said and done, but of course he didn't argue with her anymore after that.

"All right, here goes nothing," he said.

He sauntered out into the street with an open map in his hands, back in his slapdash touristy guise from the motel. Never mind the question of what a tourist would be doing roaming the streets of a backwater town at midnight; it was the best front he could think of on such short notice. It seemed to work, since the guard gave him a cursory glance and then paid him no more mind.

"Excuse me, sir. Can you help me find the hospital?" Brandon called out when he got close enough, holding up his map with a helpless expression on his face. Most Estonians could speak English, and the guard seemed to be no exception. Nor did he seem the least bit suspicious as he came over to look at the map. The darkness made it hard to see that it was a map of Vyborg rather than Räpina, but the secret wouldn't keep for more than a few seconds. Then that one little detail would blow Brandon's cover in a hurry.

Bran hated to punch a man who was doing him a kindness, but unfortunately, as Lana had pointed out, if they didn't find a way into that pharmacy then Vlad didn't have long to live. So Bran silently asked the man's forgiveness before making a fist and nailing him right under the chin with a hard left hook, being careful not to telegraph his move first. He used every bit of strength he possessed, and Lana's faith in him must not have been completely misplaced. The guard dropped to the street like a nine-pin.

Lana herself must have been watching from the alley, because she was at his side seconds later.

"Good job, Beebo. See, I knew you could do it," she said.

"Yeah, well, hopefully nobody saw that little episode. I'd hate to end up in jail tonight," Brandon said.

"Come on, then. Let's go," Lana said, heading for the front entrance. The gangsters must have taught her well, because it didn't take long for her to jimmy the lock with a bobby pin and get the door open while Brandon watched.

"You just have to find the tumblers inside the lock and turn them over. It's not hard if you practice a little," she said, holding up the bobby pin so she could blow on it as if it were a smoking gun. She'd picked up that particular little habit from Brandon, and in spite of the tense situation it made him laugh.

They dragged the guard inside and shut the door behind them.

"We'll have to tie this dude up. He won't stay out for long," Brandon said.

"Yes, but we don't have any rope," Lana pointed out.

"We'll have to find something else, then. We can't leave him free like this," Brandon insisted.

Like most other drugstores he'd ever seen, this one sold lots of other items besides medicines. There were four aisles of merchandise of various kinds in the front of the store, each of them about chest high. Behind them was a counter with a cash register, and behind that the pharmacy section where the drugs were kept. At first there didn't seem to be anything usable as a rope substitute, but then Brandon found a rack of panty hose near the back. It wasn't the ideal thing to use, but it would do.

"Come here, Lana. I think I found something that'll work," he called to her. She came over, and together they tore open several packages of hose to tie the man up as securely as possible, making sure to stuff an extra package in his mouth so he couldn't make noise.

Then it was time to go for the drugs.

"Come on, let's find the Meropenem," Brandon said, switching on the light in the pharmacy section. That was a definite risk, if anybody came by on the street and saw lights on, but of course they couldn't find anything in the dark.

"Here it is," Lana said after a few minutes, grabbing a box off the shelf. Brandon came up behind her and stuffed two more boxes in his pockets, cleaning out the entire supply. In the meantime, Lana was busy reading the label.

"How are we supposed to give it? Do we need anything else?" Brandon asked.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. This drug is a powder which will have to be dissolved in sterile water and then injected with a needle. So we'll need some of that water and also a box of syringes," Lana said.

Within seconds they'd added these other items to their loot, and as an afterthought Brandon also snatched some tape and bandages, along with a bottle of morphine. Vlad had to be in lot of pain, purely aside from the infection.

"We ought to leave some money to pay for this stuff, don't you think? I don't want to just steal it," Brandon said, after they had the last of the items gathered up.

"How much cash do you have?" Lana asked.

"A little over three hundred euros," Brandon said.

"I'm not sure how much these things are worth, but surely fifty euros would be enough," Lana said, and he nodded.

So Brandon left the cash sitting on the same shelf where they'd found the medicine, right in the empty spot where the boxes should have been. No one who found it there could have any doubt where it came from or what it was meant for. Then he stuck a twenty in the shirt pocket of the guard's uniform, as a sort of apology for having to knock him out. As soon as that was done it was time to hit the road. Brandon switched off the light, and together they headed for the front door.

"Stop!" Lana hissed, when he was just about to reach for the knob.

"What is it?" he asked, and even as the words left his mouth he saw what had grabbed her attention. A police car was cruising slowly along the street, and Brandon instinctively dropped to a crouch.

Maybe they'd seen something to make them curious; lights, or movement, or maybe somebody else had seen something and called them. Whatever it might have been, the car pulled to a stop in front of the store. Then, to Bran's horror, two policemen got out and headed for the door. There were only scant seconds to decide what to do, and the options were limited.

"There's no back door," Lana whispered, answering the question he hadn't asked.

"Hide behind the counter. I can't fight two of them at once," Brandon said.

They scrambled down one of the aisles and back behind the counter just in time before the lead policeman opened the door, and then did their best not to breathe.

Flashlight beams played around the store while the two men stood by the entrance, talking between themselves. Brandon didn't understand a word of what they said, and he doubted Lana did either. They were speaking Estonian, not Russian, and the two languages were not even remotely similar.

The cops gradually worked their way toward the back of the store along the left hand aisle, seemingly in no hurry, and as they got closer Brandon tapped Lana's shoulder and pointed toward the opposite end of the counter, mouthing the words _Let's go_. She nodded, and they crept stealthily past the cash register and then to the right hand end of the counter, duck-walking to stay low.

Then one of the cops must have found the tied-up guard, because all of a sudden there was shouting and lots of excitement back there. Brandon seized the opportunity to slip into the right hand aisle while nobody was watching, and then followed it all the way up to the front of the store as fast as he dared. From the sound of it, the cops were busy untying the guard and trying to revive him. Nevertheless, there was no chance Brandon and Lana could open the door and get outside without being noticed.

"Come on, we'll have to get out as fast as we can and then run," Brandon whispered in the lowest voice he possessed.

"Which way?" Lana asked.

"Down that alley we hid in earlier. We've got to get out of sight as quick as we can," he said, and she nodded. He crossed his fingers and grabbed the doorknob, yanking it open with a sudden jerk and then running for the alley for all he was worth, holding Lana's hand and praying they didn't get shot.

Seconds later they heard footsteps pounding after them across the pavement, along with shouts that could only have been an order to stop. But then they were in the sheltering darkness of the alley, and none too soon, either; Lana was panting for breath. Running at top speed while seven months pregnant was no easy task.

They had to stop at that point, and when they looked back it seemed that only one policeman had come after them while the other stayed behind, perhaps to call for backup. But the man couldn't see them in the inky darkness between the buildings, and as soon as he rounded the corner Brandon tackled him, just as he might have done against an opposing lineman back home at Rebel Field in Ore City. They both went sprawling through the trash and the rain-soaked scum, grappling for a good hold.

The man was stronger than he looked, and the two of them struggled and kicked across the wet and filthy pavement for several minutes, gripping each other chest to chest as they both tried to get the upper hand. Then Bran felt an agonizing pain in his right ear as the man's teeth sank in, and he almost let go without thinking. The man took advantage of the loosened hold to almost break free, but that turned out to be his undoing. Nearly blinded by pain and by the sting of blood running into his eyes, Brandon seized the opportunity to get a fresh hold around his adversary's neck to choke him down. The man still didn't give up, managing to smack Bran's bitten ear with his fist. He didn't have much leverage because of the position he was in, but it hurt enough to literally make Bran see stars. Still, he gritted his teeth and held on, squeezing even tighter until the man suddenly went limp in his arms. Then at last he let go and stood up, breathing hard and still bleeding. The whole side of his face and neck was slick with blood and street scum, and his ear throbbed with every heartbeat.

"Are you all right?" Lana asked, coming closer.

"The dude _bit_ me. Nearly chewed my ear off," Brandon said, pulling his mucky t-shirt off and using it to put pressure against the bite. It gave him a fresh jolt of pain when he touched it, but he had no choice.

"How much are you bleeding?" Lana asked.

"I think it'll be all right if I keep pressure on it for a while. I just can't believe an officer of the law would stoop to something so low. That was a cheap, dirty move," Brandon said, glaring at the man and wishing he could kick him.

"Well, Beebo. . . I'm not sure if it's actually against the law to bite off somebody's ear in Estonia," Lana said, and in spite of his excruciating headache Brandon couldn't help but laugh a little.

"Maybe not, but we better get out of here while we still can. This one won't be out for long, and there's no telling what his buddy's up to back there inside the store, either. We could get swarmed with cops any second," he said.

They took off down the alley with alacrity, hurrying along the empty streets as fast as Lana could manage.

"It was beautiful, the way you tackled that man in the alley. I'm glad I was there to see it," she said after a while, and he smiled at the odd compliment. He never would have described a dirty brawl in a back alley as something beautiful, personally, but the thought of it tickled his sense of humor.

"Well, I guess football had to be good for _something_ sooner or later. Sure does seem like we're depending an awful lot on my fists here lately, though," Brandon said.

"Yes, and thank God we can. All those fights at school finally came in handy, didn't they?" Lana asked, and he couldn't help but laugh out loud again at that, sending another wave of pain through his head.

"Aw, please don't make me laugh anymore, babe. It hurts too much," Brandon said.

"We can't stay at the hotel anymore after this. You know that, yes?" Lana asked, turning serious all of a sudden.

"I haven't had a chance to think about it too much, what between fights and break-ins and almost getting my ear gnawed off and everything. Been kind of busy," Brandon said dryly. Not to mention the fact that his head was still hurting too much to think clearly.

"Well, we can't. You spoke to that guard at the pharmacy; he'll know you're an American as soon as he wakes up. We only saw the one hotel in this town, and that's one of the first places they'll look for a foreigner. We have to be gone by the time they figure out those things and show up to arrest you, and it probably won't take them all that long," Lana said.

"But where else can we go? We're on foot, and it's the middle of the night, and we've got a really sick kid to worry about," Brandon pointed out.

"I don't know, but we'll have to think of something soon," Lana said.

Ten minutes later they were walking past the parking lot at the bus station when Brandon had an idea. The pain in his ear had subsided to a dull ache by then; still bad, but nothing he couldn't tolerate for a while.

"I bet nobody would miss one of these cars before morning," he said, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"You want to steal a car?" Lana asked, sounding skeptical.

"No, I only want to borrow one for an hour or two, just long enough to get us to Tallinn so we can hop the ferry and get out of this dinky little country before we end up getting busted for all this stuff we did tonight. Seems like we have a real talent for getting in serious trouble no matter where we go," Brandon said.

"Maybe that would work, if we can find one with the keys inside," Lana said.

"Nah, I can hotwire it, I think. Me and Cody have to work on the ignition system in the tractor all the time. Can't be much different than that," Brandon said, although in fact he dreaded the thought. Pain and darkness mixed with bloody hands and no real tools made for a disagreeable mechanicking job if ever there was one.

There were about two dozen cars in the parking lot, and it didn't take long to find one with the doors unlocked. Then they had a real stroke of luck for the first time in what felt like quite a while; the keys were still sitting in the ignition. No need to fiddle with wires, after all.

"Come on, let's go," Brandon said, sliding behind the wheel. Lana quickly got into the passenger seat while he started the engine, and minutes later they were parked in front of the hotel where Tatya and Vlad were still waiting for them.

"What happened to _you?"_ Tatya asked, staring at the semi-dried blood and gunk all over his shirtless chest and shoulder. His milk-white skin made everything show up even more clearly than it might have done on a darker person, giving him an especially hideous victim-of-an-axe-murderer appearance.

"Got in a couple fights, that's all. No big thing," Brandon said, pulling his filthy t-shirt back on to cover up as much of it as possible.

"Are you all right? Did you get the medicine?" Tatya asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, and we left the medicine outside in the car. But there's no time for all that; we've got to leave, _now._ The police could be here any minute," Brandon said.

It didn't take long to gather up their few possessions, and then Brandon carried Vlad out to the car to put him in the back seat along with three pillows and a blanket from the hotel. His list of crimes for the day already included robbing a pharmacy, assaulting a policeman, and stealing a car, and that wasn't even counting everything he'd done in Saint Petersburg only _yesterday._ After all that it seemed silly to balk at pinching some ratty old bedclothes. Still, he left some money on the nightstand to pay for the items, just as he had at the pharmacy. He preferred to be as honest as possible.

Soon they were out on the highway, and while Brandon drove Lana mixed a vial of antibiotic powder with twenty mils of sterile water, shaking it vigorously and then letting it fully dissolve before drawing it up into a syringe.

"Do you know how to give shots?" Brandon asked, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"No, but I've seen it done many times. I've been to Papa's office when he had patients, and then also when I was with the gangsters," Lana said.

The second half of her statement puzzled him at first and he almost asked her what she was talking about. Then he remembered what Mrs. Melkova had said about hardcore drug users and snapped his mouth shut. He really wasn't sure he wanted to know too much about where Lana might have seen needles being used. Wherever it was, she must have learned enough to do an adequate job. Vlad moaned a little, but that was all.

"There. He won't need another dose for eight hours. I gave him some morphine too, so maybe he can sleep for a while," Lana said when she was done.

They left him alone in the back seat then, with the rest of them crowding into the front together to give him more room.

"Do you think he will be all right now?" Tatya asked after a while.

"I think so. I'm more worried at this point that he won't be awake when we have to get on the plane tomorrow. They might not let him fly if they think he's that sick," Brandon said.

"He will have to be awake, then," Tatya said simply.

None of them said much during the rest of the drive, partly because they were all utterly exhausted and partly because they each had a lot to think about. They reached Tallinn sometime in the wee hours of the morning, since Estonia was not after all a very large country. As soon as they got there, Brandon drove directly to the harbor to catch the ferry across the bay into Helsinki, stopping first at a public restroom to wash the blood off his body and rinse out his t-shirt so he wouldn't alarm anybody.

The border between Estonia and Finland was a completely open one, so there were no guard posts or customs agents to have to worry with. It was no more difficult than crossing from Texas into Louisiana would have been. Brandon found them another hotel as soon as they were safely across the water, and then staggered into the room to lay Vlad on the bed before collapsing beside him. Picking up the visas and everything else would have to wait till morning.

They slept till almost noon, and Brandon woke up with a fierce headache. The whole side of his face was tender and painful from his mangled ear, and all the fresh cuts and bruises from the day before had had time to get really sore overnight. His whole body hurt, in places he hadn't even realized were injured. He sat up to stretch and yawn, feeling charley-horses in every muscle, and then went to the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

He felt much better after that, even though he had no choice but to put his dirty clothes back on again. When he came back out of the bathroom he saw that Vlad was fully awake for the first time since the accident.

"How do you feel, buddy?" Brandon asked, sitting down on the bed to lay one hand against the boy's face. Vlad's forehead was much cooler than it had been the night before, which hopefully meant the Meropenem was doing its job. The kid looked even younger and smaller than usual, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was seriously ill. But he smiled a little anyway.

"Hurts," he said simply, and Brandon nodded.

"Don't worry; we'll fix you up soon," he said.

Lana mixed up a second dose of Meropenem and injected it into Vlad's arm, but she didn't give him any morphine for pain this time. He absolutely had to be awake until they got on the plane later that day. They couldn't risk knocking him out.

"We must clean up and have fresh clothes if we wish to travel, especially Vlad. All these rips and blood stains will not do," Tatya said.

"Yeah, we can't get on the plane looking like this, that's for sure. But there's no reason to drag Vlad all over town, either. If we all write down our sizes then I think I can find what we need by myself," Brandon said.

"Perhaps you should take Lana with you, just in case. European sizes are not numbered the same way as American ones. It will save time," Tatya pointed out.

"Sounds good to me," Brandon agreed.

Helsinki turned out to be a clean and spacious city, with wide and breezy boulevards lined with shops and restaurants of all different kinds. Brandon was fairly sure he could have found some clothes on his own, but that was all right. It was a sweet and satisfying thing to hold hands with Lana while they strolled along, with no need to worry about who might see them together in public or even to be anxious about Dr. Anderson's dream anymore. They'd soon be home with plenty of time to spare, and then all the haters and naysayers could kiss Brandon's big hairy foot. He felt truly safe and happy for the first time since last September, and that was something to be treasured.

They bought several new outfits for all four of them, plus a wheelchair for Vlad so Brandon wouldn't have to carry him anymore. Then as soon as they got back to the hotel everybody cleaned up and changed into the new things. There wasn't much they could do about the cuts and scrapes or about Brandon's bitten ear or Tatya's black eye, but they bandaged everything as well as they could and hoped nobody would pay too much attention.

Dr. Anderson had bought them tickets to Shreveport, but Brandon changed them to Dallas instead so they could get a direct flight with no connections or layovers. For Vlad's sake, they didn't need to do any more jostling or waiting than absolutely necessary.

They had to wait in line at the embassy for nearly an hour before picking up the medical visas, and then it was time to leave. Lana gave Vlad the last dose of antibiotics before tossing the leftover syringes and morphine down a storm drain. Nobody wanted to get accused of drug smuggling.

Brandon got a window seat on the plane, and then let out a long sigh of relief that this unbelievable ordeal was finally coming to a merciful end. His taste for adventure was all tuckered out for a while.

Chapter Twelve

Because of gaining eight hours on the flight west, they landed in Dallas less than three hours after leaving Helsinki, about four o'clock on Wednesday evening. So much had happened in such a short space of time that it seemed unreal to think they'd still been in Saint Petersburg just yesterday morning.

The customs agent was downright rude to Brandon when he first got back, asking him where he'd been and for what reason and telling him if she found any drugs in his bag that she'd arrest him on the spot. It didn't take long to verify that his backpack contained nothing more sinister than a pair of dirty socks, so she finally let him go without even a perfunctory apology. Brandon couldn't help wondering what kind of treatment foreigners got, if the agents were that rude even to their own people.

Actually, Tatya and Vlad and Lana all seemed to get the gentle treatment, maybe because they were supposed to be sick and all three of them looked like it. Soon all four of them were sitting together in the concourse, home at last. Brandon was tempted to get down on his knees and kiss the ground.

Cody was already at the airport to meet them, and two hours later they were standing beside the clear water of Cadron Pool. Not a minute too soon, either. Vlad's face was red and hot to the touch again, and his blond hair was soaked with sweat. There was no way he could have walked into the Pool himself, so Brandon picked him up gently while Cody took off the kid's bloodstained clothes. His wound had started to bleed again at some point, and it was doubtful how much longer he could have lasted.

Then Cody stood beside the water with one hand on Vlad's head and the other on Brandon's, looking up to heaven as he prayed for wholeness and healing.

"All right, Beebo, take him down there," Cody said when it was done.

Then Brandon carried the boy down into the water, making sure to immerse them both completely. As soon as his head was under water, Bran felt all his cuts and bruises disappear as if they'd never been, including his bitten ear. And even though he'd seen it happen many times before, it was still every bit as awe-inspiring as ever.

Brandon came up wiping water from his eyes, grabbing a towel from the stone lip of the Pool before he climbed out. Soon he and Vlad were both wearing dry clothes, and then they went out to where the girls were waiting, a little bit down the path. Cody and Lisa normally didn't allow males and females to use the Pool at the same time, for modesty's sake. The necessity of going into the water naked could make things awkward sometimes.

"Is he okay?" Tatya asked as soon as they got close enough.

"He'll be fine. This is a holy place; no sickness can live here," Brandon said. And it seemed to be so. Aside from being a little paler and thinner than before, Vlad seemed just like his old self again.

"Bullet gone," Vlad agreed, pulling up his shirt to show her the place where the hole had been just minutes before. There was nothing there now except smooth skin, as if nothing had ever happened. Tatya hugged him tightly, and as he'd done every time since he'd first seen it happen, Brandon silently thanked God for his glory.

Then Lisa took Tatya and Lana to the Pool to heal their own injuries, leaving the boys to wait on the path.

Then Cody dropped the bomb.

"Dr. Anderson would like for us to come see him after church tonight, just so he can check a few things. For some reason he seems to think Lana might not be out of danger yet," Cody said, throwing a sudden bucketful of ice-cold water all over Brandon's previous contentment.

"Why would he think that?" Brandon asked, doing his best to stay calm.

"I'm not sure, but he told me to come see him as soon as y'all got here. Don't say anything about it yet, though. There's no reason to upset anybody," Cody said.

Soon the girls were back from the Pool and everybody was seated around the kitchen table, healed of every scratch and scrape. Even Lana's shorn hair had grown back out to its full length again, a minor miracle in its own right.

Cody talked for a while about the plan for Lana and the others to stay with Dr. Anderson until better arrangements could be made, but Brandon paid no attention to all that. All his joy and relief at getting safely home again had abruptly been snatched out of his hands, leaving him anxious and sorrowful once more.

He tried to cover up his feelings for Lana's sake, but she knew him too well for him to be able to hide his troubled heart. She waited till they could be alone for a little while on the front porch swing, and then she broached the subject.

"What's wrong, Beebo? You seem unhappy," she said, and then Brandon knew there was no more point in trying to pretend otherwise.

"I _am_ unhappy. It feels like everything is falling apart all over again," he admitted.

"Why do you say that? We're here together, you and me, safe and sound. Even Tatya and Vlad will have a place of their own soon. Why would you think any of that is bad?" Lana asked.

"I don't think any of _that_ is bad, but Cody told me Dr. Anderson is still worried about you for some reason. We got you back here just in time, and then that was supposed to be the end of it. Now Dr. Anderson seems to think you're _still_ in danger, and April the fourth is _Friday,_ Lana, as in the day after _tomorrow._ I don't know what else to do anymore," Brandon said, staring at the floor.

"I see," Lana said.

"Is that all you can think of to say?" Brandon asked.

"No, I could think of many things to say. But I already prepared myself to die several times while I was with the gangsters. If that's the way it has to be, then it's nothing I haven't already faced before," Lana said.

"You're not scared?" Brandon asked.

"God is my strength and song; of what shall I be afraid?" Lana said simply, and her words were both a comfort and a mild rebuke at the same time.

Brandon thought to himself that he should have been the one comforting _her_ at such a time, rather than the other way around. Fear was a far cry from faith, no matter what the circumstances might be. It shamed him to remember what Cody had said about his lack of trust, and it shamed him even more so to be afraid when _she_ apparently wasn't, but that didn't change the fact. He _was_ afraid, whether he ought to have been or not. But if she could trust God in the very face of death, then for her sake he had to try to do the same.

"I guess so," he said bleakly.

"I don't believe it will end that way, Beebo. God will save us, just as He always has. Wait and see," she said with conviction.

He couldn't answer that, so he simply held her for as long as he could and tried not to think about what the future might bring.

After supper Cody took them over to Mooringsport, partly to see what Dr. Anderson wanted and partly to pick up Brandon's truck, which was still parked in the driveway at the lake house. All three of the Andersons were waiting in the front yard when they arrived.

"Welcome back, globe trotter. Here's your knife. I kept it safe, just like you asked," Jonah said, handing over the blade. Brandon nodded as he clipped it to his belt again.

"Thanks, bud," he said.

"Come on, let's go down to the clinic so I'll have the lab available. There are some things I'd like to check," Dr. Anderson said. His grave attitude soon infected everybody else, and they all rode silently to the clinic.

The entire downtown area of Mooringsport was completely deserted when they arrived, which made it seem spooky and sinister. Public places like that were supposed to be full of people, not empty. Even the clinic itself was silent as death when Rosalie unlocked the front door to let them inside, an unfortunate comparison if ever there was one.

Brandon had always found hospitals and doctors' offices to be mildly creepy places even at the best of times, which this definitely wasn't. He hadn't been to the doctor himself in years, except for piddly things like football physicals or that dadgummed nail in his foot last year. Tagging along for Mikey's appointments or Lana's checkups didn't count. Everybody else took a seat in the waiting room, while Brandon and Lana followed Dr. Anderson and his wife back into the depths of the clinic.

"What are we looking for? I thought the Cadron Pool healed everything," Lana asked while Rosalie Anderson drew a vial of blood.

"It does. But only if the person can bathe in it," Rosalie said.

"But I _did_ bathe in it," Lana said, sounding puzzled.

"Yes, dear; _you_ did, but your baby didn't. He _can't,_ under the circumstances. The water can't touch him, so there's nothing it can do for him," Dr. Anderson said.

"There's something wrong with my baby?" Lana asked, putting a protective hand across her middle. Brandon felt a cold thrill of fear unlike anything else he'd ever experienced, but he couldn't think of a word to say.

"I don't want to say that at this point, dearest. I just want to make sure, that's all. There's no reason to worry right now," Dr. Anderson said.

"But something must have made _you_ worry," Brandon pointed out bluntly, and Dr. Anderson reluctantly met his eyes.

"I've got a bad feeling, Bran. It's nothing more than that, and I can't even give you a specific reason for it. It may not amount to anything at all. But I've found that sometimes God speaks to us that way, to nudge us in directions we wouldn't have thought of on our own. I just want to check things out, and if it _does_ turn out there's a problem then maybe we can fix it. Try not to worry in the meantime. We'll find out for sure, and then we'll know what to do," Dr. Anderson said.

The words held little comfort, but there was nothing to be done about the situation except to sit in the examination room for the next few hours while the Andersons apparently ran every type of diagnostic test known to man. Lana bore the brunt of all these needles and procedures, and there was nothing Bran could do about that either except sit there and hold her hand. But at last Dr. Anderson rubbed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

"I think I found it," he said.

"What's wrong?" Brandon asked immediately.

"Come on back to the lounge and we'll talk about it. I need a break for a few minutes anyway," Dr. Anderson said. They all got up and went with him to the end of the hall, where there was an old beat-up yellow couch and a matching armchair, with a table and a snack machine interspersed between shelves of reference books and medical supplies. It wasn't exactly a lounge, but it served the purpose. Dr. Anderson got a bag of peanuts from the snack machine and offered everyone a Coke, which only Rosalie accepted. Then the Andersons both sat down at the table, while Brandon and Lana took the couch.

"What did you find, sir?" Brandon asked, as soon as everyone was seated.

"It's not good, I'm afraid. Your baby has a condition called trisomy-18. It happens when someone ends up with an extra 18th chromosome. There was nothing either one of you could possibly have done either to cause it or to prevent it from happening, so I don't want you to blame yourselves or each other. It's just a mistake of cell division, that's all. But what I need for you to understand very clearly is that it's not compatible with life. It's a fatal defect which usually causes death long before a child is born. In fact, it's almost miraculous that this one is still alive at seven months," Dr. Anderson said.

"So there's no hope at all, then?" Lana asked, in that dry and clinical way that she had when something truly frightened her.

"I won't say there's _none,_ my dear. Miracles do happen sometimes. But I'd be lying if I told you there was any hope apart from that. He'll die on April the fourth, just like he was always meant to, I suppose. That must have been what my dream meant all along, now that I think about it. It never specified exactly what the problem would be, and it never actually said _you_ would die on April the fourth, only that we had to get you back here by then if we wanted to save you. But I don't doubt if you'd been left in that filthy prison with no medical care then you would have died yourself not too long after the baby, from the gangrene poison. _That_ at least won't happen anymore, now that you're here in a place where you can get proper treatment. So I want both of you to remember that you've very likely saved one life already," Dr. Anderson said.

"But there's nothing you can do for Stephen?" Brandon asked numbly. It was the first time he'd spoken the baby's name to anyone except Lana, but if Dr. Anderson noticed then he didn't see fit to comment.

"There's nothing any doctor can do for him. But as I said, I'd be the last person in the world to tell you that miracles can never happen. I know for a fact that they do, and not just at Cadron Pool, either. Maybe it'll help if I tell you a story about one very particular miracle that I saw with my own eyes, and then you might understand a few things better. It might even give you some hope for your own. Did you know that Jonah had leukemia when he was seven years old?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Uh, no, I don't guess I ever knew that," Brandon said.

"Well, he did. A particularly aggressive kind, too. I was fresh out of medical school at the time, and it's a hard thing to know so much, and still be helpless to save your child. Remember what I said about how everybody smacks into the really ugly side of life sooner or later? That was when it happened to me. We took him everywhere, but nothing seemed to help. Finally there was nothing else the doctors could do, and we knew it was only a matter of time till we lost him. I know what it's like to be sitting where you are right now, when it seems like there's no hope left at all. But then the strangest thing happened," Dr. Anderson said.

"What?" Brandon asked.

"I was doing my residency work in pediatrics at a hospital in Little Rock, and while I was there I heard a story about a little boy who died and came back to life, when his brother laid hands and breathed on him. It had only been two or three years since it happened, at that time. Would you like to guess who that little boy was?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Me," Brandon whispered, not even needing to wonder.

"That's right. You. I guess you might understand how curious I was, when I heard that story. Sometimes when there's nothing else left, you're willing to snatch at straws like that. So I made it my business to track down that boy and his family, and it wasn't really all that hard to find them. Then we took Jonah out there to visit, to see if your brother could do something for him, too. We had nothing left to lose, after all. But to make a long story short, I saw a miracle that day, of the kind that will make a believer out of even the hardest heart in the world. God had never been a big part of our lives up till then, even though we always went to church every Sunday. But after that, He was the heart of everything for both of us. Jonah barely remembers the whole episode anymore, but I promise you his mother and I will never forget," Dr. Anderson said.

"I don't know what to say," Brandon said. Some of the Andersons' comments and generosity were suddenly much more understandable, in light of this new tale.

"Don't say anything. Nothing we've done or could ever do would be enough to pay for Jonah's life. I don't want it to make things awkward or strange because I told you all this. I just wanted you to understand a few things, that's all. We got to be good friends with your brother after that, and even helped him with his work for a while. I'm a doctor and Rosalie is a nurse, so it was easy for us to make contact with the sick and the broken, to help him find the people who needed healing the most and to keep it a secret. It was a similar kind of arrangement to what I do with Cody and Lisa nowadays. That went on for about five years, I guess, till he and Rachel ended up having to leave. But even after all that time, the only thing he ever asked us for his own sake was to keep an eye on _you_ after he left. He always told me there'd come a day when you'd have a heavy burden laid on your heart, and then you'd need all the help you could get. He loved you very much, you know, and after everything he'd done for us, how could I possibly have said no?" Dr. Anderson said.

"But. . ." Brandon said, and then stopped in confusion. He'd always thought Brian had abandoned him, after he'd disappeared with no explanation and never stayed in touch.

"But then why didn't he write or call, and where did he run off to in the first place?" Dr Anderson asked, watching him.

"I did wonder a little," Brandon admitted.

"All he ever said to me was that he thought it would make things harder on you if he tried to stay in touch. He thought it was kinder in the long run to make a clean break while you were still young enough to forget," Dr. Anderson said.

"Well it _wasn't_ kinder, and I _didn't_ forget," Brandon said.

"Maybe not, but he was trying to do what he thought was best in the middle of a thorny dilemma. That's never easy, Bran, and sometimes people choose unwisely in situations like that. None of us makes the right decision every single time. If he did you wrong then I'm sure he'd be the first person on earth to ask your forgiveness," Dr. Anderson said.

"Maybe," Brandon said reluctantly.

"Anyway, I'm not sure where he is now, but I know when he left here he was headed for Borneo," Dr. Anderson said.

"But what's all that got to do with Stephen?" Brandon asked, returning to the subject at hand. All these other things were incidentally interesting, to be sure, but he couldn't find it in his heart to care much about anything else at the moment.

"It has everything to do with it. You were _dead,_ Brandon. Not just very sick but stiff and cold as stone. If your brother could lay his hands on you and undo even _that,_ then don't you think it might be possible to do the same for Stephen? Think. You were plenty old enough by the time your brother went away to remember that he could do those kinds of things. Did he never tell you where he got that power?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Yeah, he told me. He always said that far away there's a cavern green as emerald at the heart of the world, which only a person who's chosen by God and found worthy will ever find. No one can stumble across it by accident. But if you ever _do_ come to that place, you'll find a flowing well, clear and cold. Then, if you have the courage to drink that water, you'll be given the power to erase for a little while the curse of the Fall. To make everything beautiful and pure, just like they should have been if the world was never broken. To cure any illness, break any addiction or curse, sometimes even bring the dead back to life again. That's what he always told me," Brandon said.

"Indeed. That's exactly what he did for you, and for Jonah, and many hundreds of others too. But perhaps he _didn't_ tell you that those who drink that water go on to live an awfully long time, well over a hundred years, and they never age in the meantime. They never get sick, and they heal within a few hours even from the most terrible injuries, without even so much as a scar left behind. They can be killed, of course, but not easily. They're always young and beautiful till the very end. That's why in some stories it's called the Fountain of Youth, even though that's really one of the least important aspects of it. Someone who went looking for it for _that_ reason, for his own good pleasure, would never be allowed to find it. His heart wouldn't be in the right place. In any case, that's why Brian had to leave when he did; people were beginning to notice that he never aged. He was only fourteen years old when he drank, and it's not easy to be twenty-one years old and still look like you're fourteen. But that Fountain still exists, Brandon, and when it all comes down to the wire, that's why I'm telling you this story. I think you've finally come to that dark place in your life that Brian always told me about, and now I have a chance to give back to you the same gift he gave to me. So if you want to save your child's life, and if you have the courage and the deep desire to love this world as God does, then go find that place as your brother did," Dr. Anderson said.

"But I haven't been chosen, and I'm definitely not worthy, and anyway I don't even know where it is," Brandon objected.

"How do you know you haven't been chosen?" Dr. Anderson asked, and of course Brandon had no answer for that.

He supposed it was quite possible he _had_ been chosen, actually, considering everything Cody had told him about God's promise to Marybeth Trewick all those many years ago. Nor had he forgotten Lisa's dream about the future and his own puzzlement about how he could possibly live long enough to see it through. The Fountain might be an answer to that problem, too. And finally there were Brian's parting words, urging Brandon not to be afraid when God asked him to do something great one day, that no good thing could be purchased without a dear cost. It all hung together suspiciously well.

But Dr. Anderson wasn't finished.

"As for the being worthy part, well, only God can answer that. But if I'm allowed to have my own opinion, I happen to think you've stood the test better than most," Dr. Anderson said.

"What are you talking about? What test?" Brandon asked.

"The chosen are always tested, somehow or other. That's what it means to be found worthy. It's not necessarily the same experience for each person, though; we figured that much out because Brian and Rachel were tested in completely different ways, and yet they both went on to drink from the Fountain. Nevertheless, it _does_ boil down to one very simple question. What will you put first when you're forced to choose? Love, or something else? It hardly matters what that something else might be, although I'm told money and power are popular choices. So far as I can see, you've always chosen rightly," Dr. Anderson said.

"But what did I ever do that was so great? All I did was try to save my girlfriend and my baby and my friends, and anybody would have done _that_ if he could have," Brandon said.

"No, Bran. . . not everybody. _You_ did, but you can't know what anyone else would have done in your place. God called you when He sent me that dream, and you believed Him and went. Nobody forced you to do that. You were free to shut your eyes and ignore Him, if you liked. You could have made excuses and come up with all sorts of reasons why you couldn't go, or why it wasn't really God speaking, or something similar. That's exactly what a lot of people would have done, if the cost of obedience seemed too high. But God is love, and love is always in some sense a reflection of Him, and for love's sake you never thought twice," Dr. Anderson said.

Brandon considered this, and finally decided Dr. Anderson might have a point. Crush would never have gone to Russia to save Brandon's mother, for example, and if the shoe had been on the other foot then Peggy Stone probably wouldn't have lifted a finger to help Crush, either. They were like two peas from the same selfish pod, and sadly they were far from alone in the world. Bran could think of a dozen more examples without even trying.

It was similar to what Dr. Anderson had told him about selfless love on the phone in Saint Petersburg, or what Cody had always said about greatness of heart, or the words of that little clod of clay in Lisa's picture. _Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a heaven in hell's despair._

So maybe Brandon had done something really praiseworthy after all, even though he'd never thought of it that way before.

"Maybe so. But even if that's true, I still don't know where to find the place," Brandon pointed out, and Dr. Anderson sighed.

"Fair enough. But only God can lead you there, in His own good time. Maybe you're still being tested; I can't say for sure. All I can tell you is to go home and pray tonight, to seek His will and trust Him. You can't manipulate Him, and you can't be found worthy by your own efforts. It has to come from the heart or not at all," Dr. Anderson said.

"I remember Brian had a little silver necklace with a pointer inside to show him the way to the Fountain. Maybe I need to find that," Brandon said.

"I don't think so, Bran. That necklace is just a piece of silver. It's _nothing,_ when it comes right down to it; just a tool for God to express Himself, like Cadron Pool or Cody's Guardian Stone or even the Fountain itself. None of them amount to anything at all by themselves," Dr. Anderson said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brandon asked.

"It only means that God likes matter. Jesus healed the blind by rubbing mud on their eyes. Moses used a staff. We eat real bread and wine at church. People were healed at the Pool of Bethesda. Did God _have_ to do things that way? Was there some kind of actual power in the mud or the staff or the water itself? Of course not. It's just that God _enjoys_ working through the things He made, even though He doesn't _have_ to. People who think that's crude or unspiritual simply haven't read the Scriptures, but those who think the objects themselves are powerful are no better off. It was always God who worked His will through those places and things, never anything else. He'll make a way for you to reach the Fountain if He means for you to get there at all; I'm certain of _that._ His purposes can't be hindered by such trivial issues," Dr. Anderson said.

They left the clinic shortly afterward, heading back to the Andersons' place. Brandon and Lana rode together in the back seat of Lisa's car, sometimes talking quietly and sometimes simply holding hands in silence.

When they reached the lake house, Cody came up beside Brandon to speak to him privately for a minute while the others headed inside. Lisa and Mikey were already gone.

"I've been thinking, Beebo. Maybe you should stay down here yourself tonight. You can always drive the truck back home tomorrow if you want to," Cody offered.

"You don't mind?" Brandon asked.

"No. I think you and Lana need to talk and pray about some things," Cody said.

"Yeah, I guess we do," Brandon agreed.

"Okay, then. We'll see you sometime tomorrow, I guess. Love you, boy," Cody said, and then hugged Brandon tight for just a minute before letting him go.

Bran stood there in the driveway and watched him leave until the taillights of his old red 4x4 disappeared down the street. Cody was so many things: his cousin, his brother, his teacher and friend all rolled into one. Almost his father too, if the heart mattered at all. Yet Brandon had never, not even once, told the man that he loved him. That was a wrong he ought to have righted long ago, if he really cared.

He tried, and then found that he couldn't say the words.

Not even as a whisper; not even as he stood there alone in the darkness. They stuck in his throat like glue, leaving him speechless and frustrated with himself. Why was it such a hard thing, after all?

Brandon gave up, and then slowly raised the first two fingers of his left hand to wave at the empty street. He didn't think Lana would mind if he borrowed their secret gesture for something else just this once. No one would ever see or understand what it meant, except for God who knew his heart already.

Then he turned to go back inside.

Chapter Thirteen

Brandon slept on the couch that night, at least as much as he was able to sleep at all, and woke up the next morning to the sound of Lana quietly playing the piano down the hall in the sunroom. It was something classical-sounding which he vaguely recognized, though he couldn't remember the name of it. He got up and walked down there, barefoot and tousle-headed, his steps making almost no sound at all on the smooth hardwood floors.

The sunroom had one entire wall made of glass, with curtains which could be drawn to let in more or less light. There was a cream-colored futon against one wall next to a bookcase, and the place was full of Rosalie Anderson's tropical plants, including several potted lemon trees in full bloom. The bright, citrusy scent of them filled the air.

In the center of the room was a baby grand piano which faced away from the door, and there sat Lana in her pale yellow nightgown, playing softly from memory.

"What are you playing?" Brandon asked, coming up behind her to put his arms around her shoulders.

"Mozart. Piano Sonata in C. One of my favorites," Lana murmured, grasping his hands in her own and laying her head back against his chest.

"You don't have to stop," Brandon said.

"It's okay. I'm tired of playing for a while," Lana said.

"But I love to listen to you," Brandon said, and she laughed a little.

"All right. Then I'll play something just for you, my love," she said.

And so she did: _Amazing Grace,_ while she quietly sang the words in Russian. The verses didn't mean quite the same thing as they would have in the English version, but they were similar, all about being saved by grace from the depths of loss, of finding life at the heart of death and sight in the midst of darkness.

Oh, Blagodat, spasen Taboi, ya iz puchiny bed;  
Bil mertv y chudam stal zhivoi, bil slep y vizhu svet!  
Slovam Gospodnim veryu ya, maya vsya krepast v'nikh,  
On verny schit, On chast maya, va vsekh putyakh mayikh.

She had a high and beautiful voice, and that particular song was wrapped with a specially poignant layer of love and nostalgia for both of them.

They'd been walking across the back pasture at church one Sunday afternoon, while everybody else was gone on the weekly trail ride. Bran couldn't remember what the circumstances had been which led to the two of them having a few hours alone together that day. He just remembered walking through the bluebonnets hand in hand, barefoot and happy beneath a cloudless spring sky. They'd ended up singing hymns together, odd as that might have seemed to an outsider. _Amazing Grace_ had been the only one they both knew.

That day had been the first time they'd ever said _I love you._

Any other time, Brandon would have smiled at the memory. Not today. Indeed, considering what was about to happen the very next evening, the words of the song cut his heart to the quick. He almost told her to stop, but then bit his lip and let her finish. She was crying by the time it was over, and he wasn't far from it himself. He sat down beside her on the bench and held her for a long time without speaking. Whatever she might say about having faith and fearing nothing, he knew from his own experience that it was much easier to say things like that than to live them out.

"Shall I tell you something?" she asked, still crying a bit.

"What?" Brandon asked.

"This little one kept me safe while I was with the gangsters," Lana said.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked.

"They wanted to sell him after he was born, Beebo. The gangsters make a lot of money that way. If I had not already been pregnant when I came to stay with them, they would have forced me. I saw it happen to many other girls while I was there. But God knew what would happen, and he sent this little boy to be my guardian angel," Lana said.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Brandon asked, wondering how many other horrors she might have seen and kept to herself.

"Because I didn't want to hurt your heart. But this child protected me when no one else could have. We can't let him die, Beebo. We _can't,"_ Lana said.

"We won't, _milaya._ No matter what," Brandon said, although it felt like an empty promise even as he spoke the words.

After a while Lana excused herself to go to the bathroom, leaving him alone in the silent sunroom. Sunshine was pouring in through the curtains by then, and Brandon walked closer to stand by the glass. Then in the midst of his despair he knelt down in the light to pray, silently promising that he would devote all the rest of his life to giving glory to God, if only he might be shown how to keep his promise and save Stephen.

And his prayer was answered swiftly. Brandon's eyes grew dull and unseeing, and anyone who saw him at that moment would have thought he was blind. But in his mind's eye he saw a far green country that shone like the sun, through which a river ran cold and clear from a Fountain that glittered in the morning sun, and he knew in his heart that he must find that place and drink from that water.

Then the vision faded, and when he could see again, Brandon knew beyond all doubt that he should head due west.

That puzzled him a bit, since he knew Brian had gone north, not west, and for him the Fountain had been in a cave, not in a shining meadow. For surely that's what the vision meant, didn't it? That he should go and find the Fountain before it was too late?

Brandon wondered if perhaps not everyone found it in the same place, or if there was some other explanation he couldn't quite put his finger on. It didn't seem to make any sense.

Then he decided it didn't make the slightest bit of difference whether it made sense or not. He knew which way to go, and that was enough.

Thick white mist lingered in curling swathes above the mirror-like surface of the lake when he went out onto the deck, too dense to see very far. Wherever the vision wanted him to go, the lake was directly in his path.

His first thought was to drive his truck westward along the shoreline, since he had no idea how far he might have to go or how much time it might take. But somehow that didn't feel right. No, what felt right was to go down there to the dock where Dr. Anderson's little wooden skiff was tied up, and then row out across the lake itself.

That didn't seem to make any sense, either, since the Andersons' house was built on a narrow arm of water no more than a few miles wide, and even after he bumped into the far shore there'd be nothing but more houses or possibly some undeveloped woods he'd have to walk through. But the call was strong, and he shook his head in confusion.

He finally decided he ought not to question the matter too much. After all, if he'd been able to figure things out for himself then he wouldn't have needed to ask.

While he hesitated, staring at the misty water, Lana came outside to stand beside him.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Nothing really. But I saw something while you were gone, and I think we're supposed to cross the lake," Brandon said, and proceeded to tell her all about the vision he'd seen. When he was done, she only nodded.

"I knew God would make a way. Perhaps we should ask Dr. Anderson if he'd let us borrow his boat," Lana said.

"Are you sure it's a good idea for both of us to go? What if we don't find the Fountain in time and we're stuck out in the middle of nowhere? You might die, if we couldn't get back to civilization in a hurry. It'd be just like leaving you in that prison with no medical care," Brandon asked, his heart full of doubt.

"No, Beebo. You might not be able to make it back soon enough. I want to be right there beside you, so we can heal him at the first possible moment. I would rather risk me than him," Lana said. She seemed utterly firm, and since he could see there was no dissuading her, he stopped trying.

"Come on, then. I think Dr. Anderson is awake now," Brandon said. Then they slipped into the kitchen where the Andersons were gathered with Tatya and Vlad, cooking bacon and eggs.

"Dr. Anderson, is it all right if we take your boat out on the lake for a while?" Brandon asked.

"I suppose so. Any particular reason?" Dr. Anderson asked, and Bran quickly explained the vision he'd seen and the strong call to head west across the lake.

"I just hope we can find the place before tomorrow night. I'm not sure what we'll do if it takes longer than that," Brandon concluded.

"I'm not sure either, Bran. But there's one more little thing you might like to know before you leave. A bit of hope and comfort, if you choose to take it that way. You remember that Stephen is supposed to die on the Feast of St. Tigernach?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Yeah, I remember. What about it?" Brandon asked, not liking the reminder.

"Well, I always thought that was strange, why God would give us the date _that_ way instead of just telling us it was April fourth from the very beginning. But there's always a purpose for things like that, so I took the time to do a little research about Saint Tigernach last night after we got back from the clinic. Would you like to know what he's famous for?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"Sure, I guess," Brandon said, without much enthusiasm.

"Raising people from the dead," Dr. Anderson said, and that left Brandon speechless.

"We think God mentioned St. Tigernach's Day instead of just April fourth as a subtle way of telling you not to be afraid. That He's the one who holds the keys to death and hell in His strong right hand, and there's nothing in this or any other world that can stand against Him. He already saved _you_ from death, after all, and He could surely do the same thing again if need be," Rosalie said.

"You really think that's what it means?" Brandon asked.

"That's what I feel in my heart, and so does Charles. But it's nothing unusual, you know. God loves us in little ways like that all the time, even if we never notice," Rosalie said.

"Yes, He does," Lana agreed fervently.

Brandon considered that idea for a few seconds, remembering the way Lana's hair had grown back at Cadron Pool; not a strict necessity for her to be healed, just a small but loving kindness done without asking. There'd been all sorts of things like that recently, now that he thought about it. Finding the keys in that car in Räpina, which had saved him from having to hotwire anything while his head hurt so much. The rain on Lake Peipus which kept them safe from the border guards, and perhaps even that other rain against the windows of the airport in Amsterdam that lulled him to sleep when he needed soothing. They were only little things, to be sure, but they mattered at lot.

Thinking farther back, he could recall dozens, maybe even hundreds of such little coincidences over the years. He'd rarely chalked them up to anything but chance. Now he couldn't help wondering how many of them had actually been small gifts of God that he'd never noticed, much less been thankful for. It was a humbling thought.

But Dr. Anderson wasn't finished yet.

"That said, I don't believe you should take it as a promise that He'll work a miracle for you this time. He might, or He might not. I think it's more of a call to trust Him that everything will unfold the way that it should. I definitely wouldn't use it as an excuse to dawdle or waste time when it comes to the things you've already been told to do," Dr. Anderson said.

"We better go ahead and leave, then," Brandon said, glancing at the clock. It was barely nine o'clock, but he was anxious to get started. He could feel time slipping away like a trickle of sweat running down his back.

"Yes, but stay and eat breakfast while I pack a lunch and some snacks. You might need it along the way," Rosalie Anderson said.

Brandon couldn't deny that that was a sensible idea, so he wolfed down a heaping plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, along with several strawberry _beignets_ and two glasses of milk. Lana only picked at her food and he supposed she probably wasn't feeling well even though she didn't mention it.

As soon as they finished breakfast, Brandon and Lana went down to the shore and took their seats in the little boat, while the others stood on the dock to watch them. They had a backpack full of drinks and finger foods for lunch, and Brandon had a hundred dollars in his pocket just in case they needed it.

"Good luck!" Vlad called, and the others waved silently as Bran rowed the little boat away from shore.

Soon the Andersons disappeared into the misty distance, along with the shoreline and everything else. There was nothing to be seen all around them but water and fog, as if they were floating in the middle of a gigantic ocean instead of a lake. It was almost completely quiet except for the sound of the oars, and unseasonably cool for April.

"It's very lonesome out here," Lana said after a while.

"Yeah, it feels like we're in the middle of nowhere, doesn't it?" Brandon agreed. He was pulling the oars slowly so he wouldn't get tired and he'd still have breath to talk. They didn't make much speed that way, but nevertheless he expected to hit the far shore fairly soon anyway.

But as time dragged on and they never touched land, Brandon began to feel puzzled and then worried. The lake wasn't _that_ wide.

"I wish the mist would burn off," he said after a while. If anything, it was thicker than ever, a dense and impenetrable curtain hiding everything beyond the immediate vicinity.

"That would be nice," Lana agreed. She didn't seem to realize they should have reached the far shore by then, and Brandon decided not to mention it for the time being. There was no need to worry her for no reason. He supposed they _might_ have been going around in a big circle, somehow; that was easy to do when you couldn't see where you were going. If that's what it was then he'd feel awfully foolish when the fog finally cleared.

Deep in the back of his mind was the uneasy notion that it would be a lot better to feel foolish for a while than for something else to be going on. Something strange and inexplicable.

But the fog never lifted, and they never reached the shore, and eventually the light began to fade from the sky. Brandon's muscles ached from rowing all day, and the food from lunch was long gone, and it was even colder than it had been earlier. Lana was shivering, in spite of wearing her own jacket plus Brandon's, too.

"Are you cold?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"At little," she admitted.

"I think we might have to spend the night in the boat," Brandon said, reluctant to admit the obvious. But Lana just nodded.

"Yes, I've been thinking so for several hours. It's very strange, though; I know the lake isn't this wide," she said.

"I hoped you wouldn't notice," Brandon said, and she smiled a little.

"Why would you wish that?" Lana asked.

"I didn't want to worry you," Brandon said.

"I'm not worried, Beebo. Cold and hungry, yes, but not worried. God will take care of us," Lana said, and he nodded.

"Well, in the meantime I guess we'll have to sleep down in the bottom of the boat tonight. Come lay next to me and maybe it'll keep us both warm," Brandon said, clambering down into the bilge. It reminded him vividly of lurking at the bottom of that other boat on Lake Peipus while they escaped from Russia, if only it had been a rainy night and they'd been sheltered with a foul-smelling tarp stained with fish guts. Here there was no rain, but also nothing to cover up with. Brandon would have given a lot right then even for that stinking old piece of canvas from the fisherman's boat.

Lana joined him, moving considerably slower than he had. Then he put his arms around her and they lay as close together as possible to share body heat, with his empty backpack under their heads for a makeshift pillow. He could hear frogs singing all around them, faint and far away. Every now and then a fish or some other creature would make a splash a little closer, but that was all. There was nothing to be seen but the mist, nothing to be smelled but the cool and heavy scent of the water.

"I'm sorry," Brandon said after a while.

"Sorry for what?" Lana asked.

"All this. If it wasn't for me, you'd be home in Vyborg right now with your mom and dad. You never would have had to live with the gangs, or go to prison, or suffer so much," Brandon said.

"I'm not sorry. Things might have been easier that way, yes, but sometimes when you ask God for certain things, you have to be ready to pay the price for them. I've asked many times for a way that you and I could be together someday, you know, and I think this is the only way it could ever have happened," Lana said.

"I guess I never thought of it that way before," Brandon admitted.

"Neither did I, till I had some time to think about it for a while. But if God has done this much already, then I think surely He'll go on to answer my prayer completely and let us live happily ever after. And then again, it may be that all those things were _my_ test, after all. Perhaps we'll both drink from that Fountain, you and I, and then together we'll go out into the world to pour light into the darkness until every sorrow is forgotten and every hurt is swallowed up in joy. So no, I'm not the least bit sorry and I don't regret anything at all, Beebo. And I hope you don't either," Lana said. He laughed a little at that, not for amusement but for simple ease of heart.

"I really love you," Brandon said, and held her tight.

"I love you too, my _krasny malchik._ I always have, ever since I saw you with chili on your face at the rodeo," Lana said, and he laughed again.

"I wonder what it'll be like, to be young and beautiful together for a hundred years?" Brandon said. Her vision of what the future could be like had thoroughly bedazzled him, and the thought of all those happy golden years spread out before them filled his heart with deep contentment.

"It will be wonderful," Lana said simply.

"Amen," Brandon said.

They didn't talk anymore after that, but Brandon took the time to pray silently for all things to happen as they should. Lana had opened his eyes to a glorious possible future, although he knew there were still a hundred different things which could cause that beautiful vision to wither on the vine. But he chose not to think about that, at least for the moment, and before long he found himself drifting off to sleep in spite of the cold and the damp.

Chapter Fourteen

When Brandon woke up the next morning, his body was stiff and sore from the uncomfortable sleeping position and from too much rowing the day before. The white mist still surrounded them like a glove, and he was finally forced to admit that something very strange was going on. It was uncanny, the way the mist hung on and never dissipated. Those kinds of things might happen in other parts of the world, but not in Texas.

He was gnawingly hungry by then, and even though he knew it wasn't the smartest thing in the world to do, he cupped his hand to take a drink of the lake water so at least he wouldn't be thirsty. The lake was probably clean enough, but you never really knew about that kind of thing.

He stretched and yawned, trying to ignore the chill in the air while he worked some of the stiffness out of his arms and legs. Lana soon joined him, looking tired and sore from the way she moved, and he could hardly blame her.

"Are you all right?" Brandon asked, after she painfully took her seat across from him.

"Yes, I'm okay. My body hurts from sleeping in the boat, that's all. I'd really like to get back on solid ground today," Lana said.

"Yeah, me too. But surely we ought to reach the far shore sometime this morning," Brandon agreed.

He grabbed the oars and started rowing, doing his best to use the sun as a compass. Then for a long time there was nothing much to be said, but after several hours Brandon caught the sound of water lapping against the shore.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, and she nodded. He rowed closer, and before they knew it a sandy beach appeared out of the mist. Brandon jumped overboard to drag the boat up on shore, and then Lana joined him.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. There was nothing to be seen but pale sand and lake water, and mossy cypress trees dripping with condensed mist where the beach left off. It could have been the western shore of the lake, or it could have been almost anywhere. There didn't seem to be any track or path to follow through the woods, and Brandon didn't like the idea of striking out blindly through the wilderness with nothing to guide them.

While they stood on the beach thinking about what to do next, a huge dog came trotting across the sand. He resembled a large Labrador retriever, with fur almost white as snow and soaking wet from the mist. The second he spied the newcomers he wagged his tail and ran to snuffle their feet and lick their hands.

"Where did _you_ come from, boy?" Brandon asked, scratching him behind the ears. There was no tag or collar to tell who his owner might have been, although he surely must have had one. He was too healthy and clean to be a wild dog, and too friendly. After a few minutes of socializing, he bounded away a few steps and then looked back at them to bark expectantly.

"Maybe we should follow him. He might lead us to whoever owns him," Lana suggested, and Brandon nodded.

For a long time the dog led them down the sandy beach, and then he cut through the woods for a bit. Presently the trees came to an end and they found themselves at the edge of a pasture full of scattered sheep, with the grass nibbled short as a lawn.

"I don't remember ever seeing a sheep farm around here before," Brandon said, watching the animals curiously. East Texas and the surrounding areas were cattle country, almost without exception. Bran supposed it wasn't strictly impossible that there might be a sheep farmer here and there, of course, but it was definitely odd.

Before long they came to an old wooden barn, and the dog led them directly to a large cabinet just inside the archway.

"I wonder what's in there," Lana murmured, and Bran could only shrug as he reached for the door handle.

At first there didn't seem to be anything at all except for a few cans and boxes of sheep-related supplies, much to Brandon's disappointment. Then he noticed a brown paper bag near the bottom, with the unmistakable greasy stains of something edible inside.

"Jackpot!" Bran cried, ripping the bag apart to get at the food. It was nothing but a hunk of cheddar cheese and half a loaf of stale French bread, but Brandon wouldn't have cared by then if it had been deep-fried snails with possum snot dressing. He quickly halved the scraps with Lana and then wolfed them down without a second thought, while the white dog sat watching them and licking his black lips.

"You knew we needed food, didn't you, boy?" Brandon asked when he was done eating, getting down on his knees to pet the dog. The animal licked his face with its long pink tongue, and Lana laughed.

"It looks like you've made a friend," she said.

"Maybe I have. I still wonder who he belongs to, though," Brandon said, wiping dog slobber off his cheek.

"Who knows? Don't you think we ought to call him something, though? It's strange to keep saying _the dog_ all the time," Lana said.

"Sure, let's call him Snowball. He's white enough," Brandon said, and Snowball barked as if he agreed with his new name.

"You like that, do you?" Brandon asked, and the dog barked again.

"Which way do you think we should go from here?" Lana asked.

"Still west, I'm sure, but at least maybe we can walk from now on," Brandon said.

They left five dollars in the cabinet to pay for the cheese and bread before setting out across the fields on foot, only to find that they suddenly hit the lake again less than ten minutes after leaving the barn. Attempting to follow the shore soon resulted in the disappointing discovery that the farm was an island, and a rather small one at that.

"I guess this means going back to the boat," Brandon said, when it finally became clear what the situation was.

"Well, at least we got some food," Lana said.

"Yeah, at least we got that," Brandon agreed without much enthusiasm.

It didn't take long to retrace their steps to the boat, but as soon as they pushed off from shore they got a surprise. Snowball the white dog seemed determined to go with them, swimming out to the boat and trying to climb inside.

"Go home, boy," Brandon said, shoving him away with an oar. Snowball gave him a reproachful look and came right back to the side of the boat.

"Let him come if he wants to, Beebo. He might be some use to us," Lana said, and Brandon eyed the dog uncertainly. Then he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him inside the boat.

"There. Happy now?" he asked the dog. Snowball responded by shaking his wet fur and showering both of them with cold lake water.

"Yuck. A dog shower," Brandon muttered. But Snowball paid no attention, and quietly lay down in the bottom of the boat to sleep. Lana put her feet up against him for warmth, and after a while Brandon did the same. Whatever else their new pet was good for, he made a fine heating pad.

Brandon hadn't had a dog of his own ever since he lived in the swamp at Ravanna when he was thirteen years old. Back then he'd had three mongrel strays named Cut, Scrape, and Gator; half wild and not much good for anything, but at least they'd kept him company. Ever since then he'd led a dog-free life. He couldn't really have said why, except that Lisa was more of a cat person. There were two or three dozen of _those_ running around the house and barn. They were good at keeping rodents away, true enough, but they sure weren't very sociable little critters. Snowball had more personality than all the cats at Goliad put together.

"Today is the last day, you know," Lana said after a while, interrupting his wandering thoughts.

"Yeah, I know," Brandon said, not liking the reminder.

"If it happens that I don't survive, then—" Lana began, but he cut her off.

"No, don't even talk like that. You _will_ survive," he said fiercely.

"It's not nice to interrupt. We're far from help out here, and there's no telling how long it might take to reach the Fountain or even to get home. Death is a very real possibility, Beebo. We both knew that before we left. Now as I said, _if_ I don't survive, then there are a few things I hope you would do," Lana said.

"What are they?" Brandon asked, tight-lipped.

"First, that you'll still go on to find the Fountain, and not give up because of me or anything else," Lana said.

"Why would you say that?" Brandon asked.

"Because there are so many dark and evil places in the world that need light. You know this; how many of them have you seen already with your own eyes? You should remember that, and not do this just for the baby's sake, or even for mine. It's a serious thing to be given an opportunity like this. Do it for the glory of God above all, just as Dr. Anderson told us," Lana said.

No one had ever asked Brandon to make such a difficult promise before. He could accept the idea of making necessary sacrifices to save the people he loved, which might even include giving up his whole life in service to God. Or then again, he could have gladly accepted that beautiful future in which he and Lana both drank from the Fountain and then went on to heal a dark and fallen world together.

But the thought of doing it all alone, purely for its own sake; that was another matter completely.

"Was there anything else?" Brandon asked, temporarily sidestepping the issue. He didn't want to think about it, and he dearly hoped he never needed to.

"Yes, but that's the most important thing. The others I think you would do anyway," Lana said.

"What are they?" Brandon asked.

"Tell my mother what happened, and ask your sister if you might bury me in that cemetery on top of the mountain. I would like to think I'm part of your family now," Lana went on, and the picture of two fresh graves at Nebo with Lana and Stephen's names on them was a mental image Brandon would gladly have done without.

"We'll see what happens," he whispered.

"Don't be sad, Beebo. You have nothing to fear, and neither do I," Lana said.

"Yes I do. I have to fear being without you for the rest of my life," Brandon said.

"You'll never be without me, no matter what. I'll watch over you from heaven, till we meet again," she said.

"You know that's not how it works, Lana," Brandon said, in no mood to be comforted. She sighed.

"I know that, Beebo. . . but I also know that whatever else God may be, He surely isn't _less_ kind or loving than I can imagine. If it's not true that I can watch you from heaven, then that's only because the truth is something even better. Do you really doubt that?" Lana asked.

"No," Brandon finally said.

"Then don't worry about what will happen," Lana said, as if that settled everything. Maybe for her it did, but Brandon felt otherwise.

It started to rain not long after that, beginning with a misty drizzle which soon thickened into a heavy downpour. Both of them were kept busy dumping water out of the bilge, and to make matters worse the wind started to pick up. If it kept on like that for too long, there was a serious risk that the boat might sink.

"Do you know how to swim?" Brandon asked, and she nodded. Rivulets of water ran down across her face from the rain, and she looked pale and tired. She had dark circles under her eyes which hadn't been there yesterday, and Bran was gripped by a sudden fear that the baby had already died before the appointed time and was starting to make Lana sick, too. The mere suspicion of such a thing was enough to make his heart stand still, but he bit his tongue and kept silent, as if speaking his fears aloud might somehow make them come true.

The rain kept on for hours, and it gradually turned cold and icy toward the end of the day. This was almost unheard of in April, in Texas, and it left both of them exhausted and freezing. Even Snowball was shivering as he huddled under one of the seats; the driest place he could find.

Then Brandon heard the very thing he'd been hoping and praying for ever since leaving the sheep farm; the sound of waves slapping against a solid shore. He couldn't actually _see_ anything through the fog and the rain, but that didn't matter.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, his voice full of renewed hope.

"It sounds like waves," Lana agreed.

"I think it is," Brandon said, grabbing the oars and starting to pull as hard as he could in that direction. Lana struggled to keep the water out of the boat as best she could on her own, but with only one of them dumping it wasn't long before the bilge began to fill up. If it took them too long to reach land then they might still end up sinking anyway.

But the closer they got to the sound, the more uncertain Brandon became.

"That sounds like _rocks,"_ he finally said, astonished. As far as he knew, he'd never seen a rock _anywhere_ in the vicinity of Caddo Lake, much less a large enough mass of them to crash waves against.

He had no more time to think about it, though, because all of a sudden sharp pinnacles of stone appeared out of nowhere ahead of them. A split second later the prow of the boat was driven against them, and before he knew it all three of them were dumped into the cold lake.

Brandon woke up flat on his back on a rocky beach, dazed and hurting all over while heavy rain pelted his face. The last thing he remembered was falling into the water, and he soon decided he probably ought to move; the waves were still swirling around his legs. He tried to get up and almost fell, and that's when he first noticed his fierce headache. His hand came away bloody when he touched the side of his head, so he figured he must have hit something after the boat overturned. Lana was nowhere to be seen, but then of course he wouldn't have noticed her even ten feet away through the heavy downpour.

"Lana!" he cried, hoping she might hear him and answer.

There was no reply, but he did hear fierce barking from somewhere in the distance along the beach. He couldn't have said whether it sounded like Snowball or not, but since there was nothing else to go on Brandon seized the slender clue and headed in that direction. His shoes had disappeared, and the rocks were cruelly sharp on his bare feet. He half-crawled and half-walked through the driving rain for what seemed like a month until he finally made out the vague shape of a white dog dragging at something in the edge of the water. When he got close enough he saw that it was Lana, every bit as battered and bedraggled as he was. Snowball had the collar of her shirt in his teeth, dragging her with all his strength away from the waves. Brandon couldn't tell if she was dead or only unconscious.

Sudden fear gave him a surge of energy, and he ran to her side without even feeling the sharp rocks anymore. She was cold; oh so cold, but at least she was still breathing. He dragged her away from the lake and up under the overhang of a rock which gave them a little shelter from the rain, and there he sat with his back up against the stone. He was shivering violently himself, and for his own sake as well as hers he held her close against his chest.

Snowball came and curled up next to them to add his own warmth, and after a while Brandon thought to reach up and feel his own collar. Sure enough, there were holes in it which could only have come from a dog's teeth.

"You pulled us both out, didn't you, boy?" he murmured, looking down at the dog and petting his thick fur gratefully.

Presently he noticed Lana's eyes open, and he smiled at her.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Brandon said, and in spite of the rain and the circumstances, she smiled back just a little.

"Cold," she murmured.

"I know it. Me too, but there's not much we can do about that till the rain stops," Brandon said.

"Where are we?" Lana asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Somewhere on land, that's all I know," Brandon said.

"I thought both of us would drown when we hit those rocks," Lana said.

"Yeah, so did I," Brandon admitted.

"Thanks for pulling me out," Lana said, and he laughed a little.

"You should be thanking Snowball, not me. He pulled both of us out," Brandon said.

"See, I told you we might find a use for that dog," Lana said.

"I guess you were right, then," Brandon agreed.

After a while the rain began to slack off, until finally it was no more than a sodden drizzle. Brandon's head still ached, and his body hurt, and he was tired and cold and hungry too, and he didn't imagine Lana was in any better shape than he was. But they couldn't just sit on the beach till doomsday, so at last he cleared his throat.

"I guess we should get up now, don't you think?" he asked.

"Yes, no doubt we should," Lana agreed, and so they both struggled to their feet to gaze at the foggy landscape around them. There didn't seem to be any obvious way to go.

"Maybe we should follow the shore. There might be houses, and people who would help us. I would even settle for another empty barn," Lana said.

Brandon shrugged and nodded, and for a while they followed the beach hand in hand, with Snowball padding along beside them or sometimes bounding ahead for a little distance. For a long time there was nothing to see except rocks and fog and water, but eventually there loomed up a stone wall off to the side of them.

"What's that?" Lana asked, staring at it.

"I don't know," Brandon admitted, reaching out to touch the wall with his free hand. The rough stones were set close together with no mortar, dark gray and dripping wet with condensed moisture. The barrier was maybe ten or twelve feet tall, and disappeared into the distance as far as Brandon could see through the fog.

"Come on, let's see if we can find a gate," he said.

Before long they _did_ find one, a ten foot high wrought-iron monster of a thing which opened in the middle via a simple latch. There didn't seem to be any lock or bar to keep them out, but still they hesitated.

"Do you think we should go in?" Lana asked doubtfully. Brandon wondered about that himself, but finally nodded.

"I think we have to. We can't survive out here much longer. Surely whoever owns this place will understand that much, won't they?" he said.

"I hope so," Lana agreed.

Brandon thrust open the gates on noiseless hinges, and side by side they walked through the wall along a path of beaten dirt. Soon they found themselves in the shadowy aisles of a thick cypress forest, with the trees soaring up to unguessable heights above them and lining the path like huge silvery-grey columns draped with Spanish moss.

"I've never seen anything like this before," Brandon whispered as they went along. The place seemed to demand hushed voices and silent footsteps, to match the almost noiseless surroundings. The only thing to be heard was the soft dripping of water from the mossy cypress trees.

"Have you been all over the lake before?" Lana asked.

"Well. . . no, but I think I would have heard about a place like this. It reminds me of a park, or maybe even somebody's old mansion," Brandon said.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Lana said.

Soon they came to a place where the trees drew apart and left a perfectly circular lawn of clipped grass, with a well in the exact center. It was built of the same dressed stone as the wall, and there was a cupola over the top with a bucket and a chain for drawing water.

"I wonder if they'd care if we stopped and had a drink," Brandon muttered under his breath. He was far more hungry than thirsty, but he knew water would fill him up for a little while at least.

There were three stone benches around the well, so Lana sat down on one of them while he tried to get the bucket and chain assembly to work. Finally he was able to lower it down to draw some water, and since there was nothing else to drink from they both had to take turns with the bucket itself.

"I don't think we'll make it to the Fountain before the day is done," Lana murmured quietly after a while.

"No," Brandon agreed dully. It was useless to deny it at that point, even though it broke his heart. Stephen's time was up at midnight, and out there in the middle of nowhere with no help, it wouldn't be much longer before Lana followed him. They'd both known it all along, and the time had come at last when there was nothing to be done but to face the hard and bitter truth.

"I'm sorry things couldn't have turned out differently. I love you very much," Lana said, and that almost undid him.

"I love you too," Brandon said, wiping his eyes with the back of one dirty arm.

"Then please don't cry anymore. I can't bear it," Lana said. He could hear the anguish in her own voice, and that was enough to finish him off. He did cry then, and she soon joined him, and for a while they sat there in the twilight and wept in each other's arms.

Chapter Fifteen

"Is something wrong?" a voice said uncertainly, and Brandon looked up through blurry eyes to see a young man in a black hassock standing in front of them with a concerned look on his face. He must have approached noiselessly through the mist, because they hadn't noticed him at all till he spoke.

"No, sir. We're just lost, that's all," Brandon said, quickly wiping his eyes dry. There was no hiding the fact that he'd been crying, of course, but there was no need to keep on with it in front of the man.

"Indeed? Well then, you've come to the right place, I suppose," the man murmured.

"Where are we?" Lana asked, wiping her own tears away.

"You're just inside the walls of the monastery," the man said.

"The _monastery?"_ Brandon asked, wondering if he'd heard right.

"Yes. The main building is back that way, through the trees," the man said, seeming surprised at the question.

"I never heard of any monastery around here," Brandon said.

"Well. . . it's been here for an awfully long time. But I apologize; I'm being inconsiderate. My name is Brother Timothy. Let me take you both inside and get you some dry clothes and a warm fire before we do anything else, and some food and water if you need it. I ought not to leave guests sitting out here to talk in the rain," the man said.

"Sure," Brandon agreed. He certainly wouldn't turn down food and fire, preferably in that order.

"Come, then," Brother Timothy said, heading deeper into the woods than they'd yet gone. He didn't hurry, but soon they approached what looked like some odd mixture of a castle and a house. It was built all of dressed stone, with ornamental towers and turrets like a castle, but on the other hand it had windows and doors just like a house. A large and fancy one, perhaps, but a house nevertheless.

Brandon didn't know quite what to make of the place. It wasn't so much that the building itself was impossible to believe, it was just that it didn't fit in with what he thought he knew about the world. Such a place belonged somewhere in Europe during the Middle Ages, not in the middle of a shallow lake in modern-day east Texas. The setting made it feel startlingly alien, even though Bran was too glad for the shelter to care too much about appearances.

Snowball had to stay outside on the porch, and Brandon squatted down to pet him one last time before they left him behind.

"Don't worry, boy. We'll see you in the morning," he said, and the dog licked his face several times. Maybe it was just that he liked the salt from Bran's tears, or maybe it was his way of giving what little comfort he could. He was awfully smart that way.

It was almost dark by then, and Brother Timothy said nothing as he ushered them into the warm entrance hall. Then he led them to a nearby closet hung with black robes very similar to the one he wore himself.

"These are all we have to wear, I'm afraid. We don't get visitors very often," he said apologetically.

"Thank you so much," Lana said, and soon they were both changed into dry clothing, leaving their soaked ones in a pile by the front door. There were no shoes, but Bran didn't mind going barefoot for a while.

"We'll make sure your clothes are washed and dried by tomorrow morning," Brother Timothy said. He seemed to take it for granted that Brandon and Lana would be spending the night, and Bran himself wasn't inclined to turn down the invitation. They certainly didn't have anywhere else to go.

"We're just about to have supper if you'd care to join us," Brother Timothy offered, and they both nodded.

He took them to a large room with several tables and benches made of rough wood, all of them empty except for a small group of monks seated at the central one. Brandon counted only twenty-four of them, even though the room could easily have held ten times that many. Most were youngish, although there were a few greybeards also. Some of them were male and others female, though the difference was often hard to tell since they were all dressed in the same shapeless black hassocks. The only exception was the man seated at the head of the table, who wore scarlet instead. All of them rose to their feet when Brother Timothy brought Brandon and Lana inside.

"We have guests, my friends. I found them beside the well when I went to get water, lost in the woods," Brother Timothy said, and the one in the scarlet robe smiled.

"It's a nasty evening for something like that. Please stay with us tonight and then we'll see about getting you safely where you belong in the morning," the man said.

"Thank you, sir. We'd be grateful," Brandon said.

There was plenty of room at the table, and Brother Timothy ushered them to a place right next to the scarlet-robed leader, who promptly embarrassed both of them by getting down on his knees to wash their feet while the others waited. Brandon had heard about that particular custom, of course; it was something Jesus had done at the Last Supper, so he supposed these monks probably took it very seriously. Therefore he bit his tongue and let the man finish his task without objection.

Then they ate. It was nothing special, just potato soup and soda bread with hot tea to drink. But there was no shortage of it, and no one seemed to mind if they ate as much as they liked. After being on such short rations lately, it seemed like a feast.

As they ate they talked about various things with Brother Manchin, the abbot of the place who wore the scarlet robe.

"I didn't know they still had places like this," Brandon said, trying not to talk with his mouth full.

"It's true, there aren't many of us left nowadays. But there are still a few individuals who prefer to lead a quiet and reflective life away from the temptations of the world, praising God with prayer and thanksgiving. It's a very rewarding kind of existence, we think," Brother Manchin said.

"I guess I just never heard of _this_ place, that's all," Brandon said, and Brother Manchin gave him a very peculiar smile. Not an unpleasant one, but the type of smile people have when a child has innocently said something funny.

"No, I don't suppose you would have. No one finds this place without need," he said.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.

"I mean what I said. This place could never be found on a map. It exists only in the realm of hidden things. One could set sail across any lake or body of water in the world on a foggy day and reach this place if he were meant to find it, but it could never be found otherwise. It's a refuge for those who need it, and there are more such people in the world than you might think. They come here for a season or sometimes for life, to draw refreshment from worship in a land without fear. Then some of them go home when their spirits have been healed, and others whose need is greater than we can help go on to Elysium," Brother Manchin said.

"What's that?" Brandon asked.

"Far in the west, there's a land where the blessed of God can rest for a time in perfect peace, where the sun shines forever in a blue and cloudless sky. It's the most beautiful land there is; a shadow of Heaven where the living can taste for a little while what might have been, if the world had never fallen. Few ever reach it, but it's said that those who do are never the same afterward, and that the fragrance of that place clings to them forever after. That's why every man or woman who sets foot on that holy shore is given the title _the Blessed,"_ Brother Manchin said.

"You've been there yourself?" Brandon asked.

"Oh, good heavens, no; not me. I'm content to live right here and keep the way for such travelers as may come, to heal those I can and to show the way forward to those who need it. But if you should ever go there yourself, make sure to walk barefoot and bare headed, as a humble pilgrim should, and to take no weapon," Brother Manchin said.

"I came here to find the Fountain of Youth," Brandon said abruptly.

"Did you, now?" Brother Manchin said, seeming unsurprised.

"You've heard of it?" Brandon asked.

"Yes. . . I've read about it in my books. One of the things we do here is to study and meditate upon all the wonderful things that God has done in the world. We hear quite a lot from travelers, and sometimes we learn other things in dreams and visions. Whenever any of us hears about some new thing like that, we write it down for those who will come after us," Brother Manchin said.

"Is it close by?" Brandon asked eagerly.

"The Fountain, you mean? No, I'm afraid you won't find anything like that near the monastery. You should have been given a guide of some kind to lead the way, if I remember correctly. You'll have to follow that if you hope to find the Fountain. But I suspect that if it brought you this way, it must be leading you to Elysium. Perhaps you need healing yourself in some way," Brother Manchin said.

"But that doesn't make any sense. I thought the Fountain was in a cave. That's what my brother always told me after _he_ went there," Brandon said, ignoring the comment about how he might need healing himself.

"So I've read. But it's also written in the books that no two people ever find it in the same place twice, nor in exactly the same way, nor even for quite the same reason. Your brother's story is not yours, and the tale of the one who comes after you will be different yet again. That shouldn't surprise you," Brother Manchin said.

"No, I guess not," Brandon said. It reminded him of the vision he'd received long ago at Cadron Pool, about how God loves reflections and thus the world is full of endless variations on a handful of central themes. But never exactly the same thing twice. Not even two snowflakes or grains of sand were ever identical in all the world in all of time.

"You don't seem happy with that news," Brother Manchin said, watching him.

"I'm not," Brandon admitted.

"And why might that be?" Brother Manchin asked.

"Because if the Fountain is that far away, then there's no hope. I'm sure you can see that we're having a baby. But we know from a dream that he'll die this very night at midnight if we don't find the Fountain first. And if it goes on much longer after that, then Lana will die, too," Brandon said bluntly.

"Ah, is that it?" Brother Manchin asked, in a much more compassionate tone of voice.

"That's it," Brandon said. He was careful not to let his voice crack when he said it, even though the reminder broke his heart all over again.

"I'm sorry, child," Brother Manchin said.

"Yeah, so am I," Brandon agreed, and for a few seconds Brother Manchin was quiet while he stroked his beard and thought.

"May I ask you a very personal question, young man?" he finally asked.

"Sure, why not?" Brandon said, shrugging.

"How much do you love this young lady?" Brother Manchin asked.

"More than anything in the world," Brandon said.

"Do you really mean that?" Brother Manchin asked.

"Of course I do," Brandon said.

"Are you willing to prove it?" Brother Manchin asked.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked, a cold shadow of doubt creeping over him.

"I'm not without power of certain kinds. I can't break the rules that are already set, but I can alter the circumstances, perhaps. We might be able to save them both. But I warn you, it still won't make things easy," Brother Manchin said.

"I'll do anything it takes," Brandon said.

"Listen first, before you make any promises," Brother Manchin warned.

"All right," Brandon agreed.

"This is what I can do. I can put the young lady to sleep until you find the Fountain and your appointed task is done. Time won't pass at all for her in the meantime, while you go about the work that God has given you. I can't say how long that will take; somewhere between a hundred and a hundred fifty years is my best guess, but you'll feel it in your heart when the time is up. For all those years she and the baby will sleep without aging, just as you'll never age out there in the world. And then, when the fullness of time is complete, if you still love her after so many years, come back to this place on Easter morning," Brother Manchin said.

"And what then?" Brandon whispered.

"Kiss the young lady as she sleeps, and then she'll wake from her slumber, and your life will be given back to you as well, to grow up and age as other men do. Your child will be healed at the same time with the last of your power, and then all three of you can live out your full lives together," Brother Manchin said.

"That might as well be forever," Brandon said, aghast. A century and a half of waiting? He didn't know if he could bear such a thing.

"No, child. _Forever_ is too long a word for anyone to use. The time will go by faster than you think," Brother Manchin said.

"But what if. . ." Brandon began, and then couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

"What if you don't come back, or if you fall in love with another, or something like that?" Brother Manchin asked, and Brandon just nodded.

"Then she'll sleep till the end of days," Brother Manchin said.

"And me?" Brandon asked.

"On the day that you even so much as kiss another girl in yearning, the bond between you will be broken forever and you'll never be able to wake her. That's the proof of your love, that it can last till the appointed time, and also your atonement for the sin that brought you here to begin with," Brother Manchin said.

"I'll never forsake her, no matter what. I swear it," Brandon said, recovering his composure after the first shock of what he'd been told. There was no stronger vow he could think of to make, and Brother Manchin smiled.

"Then don't fear. But I warn you, the heart is fickle and feelings will fade. You'll be young and strong for all that time, and there won't be any shortage of sweet and beautiful girls who come into your life. You'll be very lonely sometimes, and memories will come to seem like ancient history after a while. You could easily end up breaking your own heart in a moment of weakness if you aren't careful," Brother Manchin warned.

"I won't break," Brandon said staunchly.

"I hope you always remember that," Brother Manchin said, with a touch of sadness in his voice.

"I will," Brandon promised.

"Then there's nothing left to say, on your part. What do _you_ say, young lady?" Brother Manchin asked, turning to Lana.

"I believe him. I always knew that God would make a way. I'll sleep, and then for me it will be like waking up tomorrow morning with my whole life to live and my love at my side," she said firmly.

"Then come, both of you," Brother Manchin said.

He led them up a set of narrow stone steps into one of the towers of the house, stopping at a wooden door while he fished out a set of keys. Inside was a circular room with a four-poster bed against the far wall, but sparsely furnished otherwise except for a pitcher of water on a nightstand with a mirror above it. A single window looked out on the murky night, and the bed itself was made with a white lace coverlet.

Brother Manchin poured water into a cup from the pitcher, and blessed it before offering it to Lana.

"Drink this, my dear. That's all it will take, and then in a little while you'll fall asleep. God be with you, till the bright morning," Brother Manchin said, and then excused himself to leave them alone together for a little while.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Brandon asked as soon as the man was gone.

"Do we have any choice?" Lana pointed out.

"No, I guess we don't," Brandon admitted, looking down at the floor.

"Don't be sad, Beebo, and don't worry. The time will pass, and you'll come back for me, and then we'll all live happily ever after," Lana said.

"I wish it could be that easy," Brandon said.

"It _is_ that easy," Lana insisted.

"But what do I do in the meantime? A hundred years without you is forever," Brandon said.

"Find the Fountain. Then you'll know what to do. Make the world to be as beautiful as it was in the Garden of Eden, to remind men of what was lost in rebellion. Teach them to hunger and thirst and pant after heaven as the deer pants for water on a summer's day. That will be your purpose, all the days of your life, and then all this sorrow will be well spent," Lana said.

"Is that really what you want me to do?" Brandon asked.

"Yes, Beebo. That's really what I want, and I think deep down it's what you've always wanted yourself. You have such a bright soul inside, the way you try to reach out and make things better if you can. It's what I've always loved most about you," Lana said.

"I guess so," Brandon said.

"It's true, even if you don't believe me yet. Otherwise I don't think you'd ever have been chosen to find the Fountain at all. So that's why I'm asking you to do this, my love. Not just for my own sake, but for yours, too," Lana said, and because his heart was killing him and he would have done almost anything for her at that moment, Brandon gave in at last.

"Then that's what I'll do. I promise," he finally said, his throat tight.

"Good," Lana agreed.

They talked like this for several hours, till midnight drew near. Then at last Lana glanced at the clock and sighed.

"There's no more time left, Beebo. I have to drink that cup now, or soon it will be too late," she said.

"I know," he said, getting up from his seat on the bed to fetch it for her. Then she drank it down, putting the cup on the windowsill and arranging herself as comfortably in the bed as possible. Finally she grasped his hand, and for a few precious minutes they were both silent. Brandon wanted to talk, to say almost anything, but he couldn't think of a single word that wouldn't have felt stupid and trivial at such a moment.

"There's one more thing I want to say while I still can. If you should ever decide you don't love me anymore, or some other girl comes along who steals your heart, then go and be happy, Beebo. I won't hold you. I'll simply smile in my sleep and be glad for you, and then we'll all meet again in heaven someday," Lana finally said, bare seconds before time was up.

"No one will ever hold my heart except you," Brandon promised, and she smiled. Then the clock struck midnight, and she closed her eyes, and he was left there holding her hand, almost as much alone as if she'd really died. But he could see the slow rise and fall of her breath, and he knew she still lived. And someday, after more years than he cared to think of, she'd open those eyes again.

"I love you forever, _milaya,"_ Brandon whispered, and then kissed her one last time before getting up to leave the room.

Brother Manchin was waiting for him downstairs.

"She's sleeping now," Brandon said, and Brother Manchin nodded.

"Don't worry, young man. They'll be safe here, as long as the world stands," Brother Manchin said, and since that was the very last thing in the world Brandon wanted to talk about right then, he changed the subject.

"Can I find the way to Elysium from here? Is it very far?" he asked.

"Since you've made it this far then yes, I think you can find it. There's only one path to follow from this point onward. I don't know for certain how far it is, though. Not many ever come back this way," Brother Manchin said.

"Where do they go, then?" Brandon asked.

"Home, eventually. But not by coming back this way," Brother Manchin said.

"That doesn't make any sense," Brandon said.

"Not much, I'm afraid. But I'll tell you as much as I know, if it will help you. From here you'll have to leave through the west gate, which will lead you out onto a dirt path through the woods. How far it goes and what you may find along the way I can't guess, but I _can_ say this much: you'll have to face three challenges before you reach Elysium," Brother Manchin said.

"What kind of challenges?" Brandon asked.

"One of them will test your faith, another your courage, and the last one your love. Other than that I don't know; they could be almost anything, I suppose. But if you fail any of them then you'll never find the way forward," Brother Manchin said.

"I guess I'll just have to wait and see," Brandon finally said. He was still too numb from watching Lana close her eyes to feel anything more than a detached interest in whatever the future might hold.

"Indeed you will. But come, you should go to bed now. It's late, and you have a long journey to begin tomorrow morning," Brother Manchin said.

Truer words were never spoken, so Brandon followed the crimson-clad monk to another guest room somewhere in the monastery.

He lay wakeful and sad for a long time that night, thinking about the future that lay ahead. It was nothing at all like the beautiful vision that Lana had described to him as they lay in the boat together the night before. No, this was more like a nightmare from which there was no waking. The thing he most greatly feared had come upon him at last, to find himself alone and unloved till the end of days.

He should have seen it coming, he supposed, ever since way back in August when Lana told him her dream about the red wolf. Brandon had known ever since then that a time of loneliness was coming, but he'd never dreamed how soul-crushingly deep it would be; how appallingly long it would last. No wonder that poor wolf had howled like his heart was broken. For the first time, Brandon could understand the feeling perfectly.

_But a blessing will come, too,_ he reminded himself. And since that was the only comfort he could cling to, he kept repeating that simple promise till he finally cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

Brandon rested with the monks till noon the next day, since there was no need to hurry anymore and he wanted to get his strength back before tackling the rest of the journey.

He used part of that time to tell Brother Manchin and half a dozen others all about Cadron Pool, so the monks could write it down in their book of miracles. They all listened eagerly to this new tale, for it was indeed a mighty work for which they could praise God exceedingly.

Brandon tried to show as much enthusiasm as the monks did, but it was hard for him to hide the fact that deep down he was still bereft and broken-hearted by the thought of what lay ahead. His tears were never far from the surface, and perhaps Brother Manchin was wise enough to see this. A little while before lunch, the old monk found Brandon sitting alone in the library, looking out at the misty lawn and the cypress trees and trying hard not to cry anymore. Bran quickly wiped his face when the monk showed up, even though it was obvious what he'd been doing. But Brother Manchin pretended not to notice, even when he sat down on the bench right beside him.

"There's something I'd like to say before you leave this place, young man. A bit of comfort, I hope, to strengthen you for the days ahead," Brother Manchin said.

"What is it?" Brandon asked.

"Only that your tears are not without purpose. When people see that you hold fast to God and praise Him in the midst of your troubles, then He is shown to be righteous and true in the eyes of the nations, in a way which could never otherwise happen. We suffer as the Lord did, and for much the same reason; that the blind should see the light. You're never more like Christ than when you suffer, and it's often at times like that when you draw men closer to Him by your example, without even realizing what you're doing," Brother Manchin said.

"Maybe," Brandon said bleakly. He was hurting too much right then to care about explanations.

"You'll find that it's true someday, I promise. And if ever it seems that your life is too hard to bear and your burdens too heavy to carry, remember that He didn't send you out to face the wolves without knowing the cost Himself. He understands how you feel. No boy was ever crucified, that the weeping Father didn't find the nail-prints in His own hands," Brother Manchin said.

_That_ was enough to make Brandon cry again, right in front of Brother Manchin. He wept until his eyes were red and blurry, and the worst pain in his heart was washed clean. When it was over he was still broken-hearted, but not so much that he couldn't function.

He left the monastery not long afterward. The monks stood in a group to see him off, and he thanked them for their hospitality before heading out into the woods. He was wearing his own clothes again instead of the hassock, everything clean and dry and neatly mended. They'd also given him food and water to last for several days, plus a pair of leather boots to replace the shoes he'd lost in the lake; kindnesses for which he was deeply grateful. He was alone except for Snowball, so the provisions ought to last a long time with care.

"Although goodness knows _you_ eat plenty," Brandon said, scratching behind the dog's ears. Snowball made a chuffing sound, as if he didn't deign to comment on such a statement.

The path meandered through the same dark and dripping cypress forest that surrounded the monastery on all sides, full of the same thick white mist as everywhere else. It was almost completely silent except for the sound of Brandon's own footsteps, and after a while the loneliness of the place began to press down on his heart like a physical weight. He followed the path with his eyes focused just above the tips of his boots, barely noticing the world around him. His mind was far away, in the stone chamber where Lana lay sleeping.

After a while he didn't cry very much anymore, even though he sometimes still wanted to. Instead he did what Cody would no doubt approve of; every time he was tempted to feel discouraged, he sang praise songs quietly to himself. He knew dozens of them by heart from playing at church every Sunday, and the woods were silent enough that even his softest voice seemed loud. But as the echoes of _God is Great_ and _All the Heavens_ reverberated through the misty forest, Brandon slowly came to appreciate the truth of what Cody had told him about the power of praise. The more he sang, the less he thought about his sorrows and the more he looked ahead to the future. Perhaps his many-times-great-grandmother Marybeth Trewick had had to learn the same lesson, all those countless years ago.

Days went by with no sign of anything except more trees. Brandon followed the seemingly endless path from early morning till long after sundown each day, and then every night he ate some bread and hard cheese before lying down next to one of the thick cypress trunks with Snowball for warmth.

Then suddenly one morning he came to a region of charred and blasted ground, as if there might have been a forest fire in that area. It must have been an awfully recent one, though, because wisps of smoke were still rising from a few of the stumps here and there. Pale white mist swirled around the dead trunks with every faint eddy of breeze, and the path was almost hidden beneath wind-blown ashes and blackened bits of wood. Bran could still feel heat radiating from the ground.

"Come on, boy. It's only an old fire," he murmured, scratching Snowball behind the ears absentmindedly.

Brandon set off along the ashy path, and soon found himself sweating from the heat. The air was full of a foul, acrid odor that stung his eyes and nose and parched his throat, and he found himself having to drink more water than usual, just to keep from coughing. Even worse, he began to notice that the light was fading fast, even though it was nowhere near time for sundown yet.

"Something's not right, buddy. It's not time for dark yet," Brandon said, and Snowball whined a bit as if worried.

"Do you feel something, boy?" Brandon asked, uneasy himself. But there was nothing to do except go ahead or turn back, so after a brief hesitation he went on.

The gloom swiftly thickened till it was dark as a full-blown night, but somewhere far up ahead there seemed to be the reddish glow of flames. That explained the darkness, at least, if there was that much smoke in the air.

Bran hesitated again, not liking the thought of heading into what might be an actively burning fire. He'd read stories about people and animals who got roasted alive that way; a gruesome fate to imagine. Indeed, he soon heard a faint but piercing scream in the far distance, of such agony that it froze his very blood.

"What was _that?"_ Brandon whispered, staring at the far-off flames. Snowball gave a low growl, and Bran could feel the hackles on the back of his own neck standing up. He stood and listened for a long time, but the scream was never repeated. Finally he shook his head and went on.

As he got closer to the fire he heard more screams from time to time, some louder than others but all of them every bit as heart-stopping as the first one. He never actually _saw_ anything, but in some ways that only made it worse. His imagination was free to have a field day with a million hideous ideas to explain where the screams could be coming from, with each new possibility even more horrifying than the last.

Eventually he reached a swampy area where pools of stinking water were scattered among the blackened trees, and in that region some of the trunks were still burning. The heat was almost unbearable, so Brandon hurried along as fast as he could without having to breathe too hard and bring on a coughing fit. All the while the screams continued all around him, like souls in torment. It was horrible enough that he wondered if he'd stumbled into one of the outer rings of hell.

He didn't have the breath to sing, but he prayed constantly as he went along, and somehow he found the courage to keep going.

Then, in a place where the flames were especially thick, a _thing_ with a body of swirling black smoke and bulging yellow eyes big as dinner plates suddenly came rushing out of the fire with a bloodcurdling scream, holding a red-hot knife in one upturned hand.

Brandon turned and ran for his life, back in the same direction he'd just come from. But the monster was in hot pursuit, so close that Bran could feel its fiery breath scalding the back of his neck. He expected to feel its sharp claws seize him from behind at any second, and sheer terror threatened to burst his heart even if the monster somehow failed to eat him alive first. He used every ounce of strength he possessed to outrun the thing, and at last it screamed again and threw its red-hot knife at him. Out of the corner of his eye Brandon saw it land sizzling in one of the fetid pools of water.

He was far beyond the burning trunks and almost out of breath by then, so he dared to glance back over his shoulder to see if the monster was still chasing him. To his intense relief, the path behind him was empty. The creature must have given up when it threw the knife.

Brandon stood there breathing hard and coughing his lungs out from the harsh fumes, trying to get his breath back and slow down the pounding of his heart. He drank some water to clear the smoke from his throat and then wiped his face clean with his t-shirt. Finally he was able to calm down a bit, even though he could still smell the stink of fear in his own sweat.

"What can I do, boy? I've got to get past that thing," he muttered, and Snowball whined again.

"You know, Brother Manchin _did_ say I'd have to face three tests. I bet you that refugee from a bad horror movie is probably one of them. And I bet you anything he's there to test my courage. So that means I've got to face him down, don't you think?" Brandon asked, trying to reason it out. Snowball chuffed noncommittally.

"Lot of help _you_ are," Brandon said.

He was ninety percent sure he was right, but still. . . it was one thing to talk about facing down a horrible monster empty handed; it was quite another thing to go through with it. The thought of what might happen if he failed was enough to drive another cold shaft of fear into his heart, and ten percent doubt was plenty enough for his imagination to work on.

Then he thought of Lana lying there asleep in her bed, and he knew she and Stephen had no hope at all if he didn't do this.

So Brandon took an iron grip on his fear before creeping back to the place where the creature's blade had fallen, determined to retrieve it and thus have a weapon of his own if need be. His buck knife was too puny a tool for that kind of fight.

The monster's blade was still there, with its black hilt sticking up out of the mud just a bit too far from the water's edge to be easily reached. Brandon held on to a charred stump so he could lean out over the puddle without falling in, and finally he managed to snag the very tip of the handle. The blade itself was over two feet long when he pulled it out, wide and black and wickedly sharp. It resembled a machete blade, but as soon as Brandon hefted it to get a feel for the weight, the whole thing turned to smoke in his hands and then disappeared, leaving him standing there in complete frustration.

"So much for that idea," he muttered in disgust.

His own knife was better than nothing at all, so Brandon unclipped it from his belt before heading back to the place where he'd encountered the monster.

Sure enough, as soon as he reached the burning trunks the creature came rushing out of the flames to attack him again. But even though his knees shook and every fiber of his being shrieked for him to run, this time Brandon stood his ground.

The monster came right up to him and screamed, its hot breath blasting his face. It was so close that Bran could see its rotted teeth and smell the stench of its greasy sweat. The thing stood right there in front of him for several minutes, breathing hard and staring at him with malevolent eyes.

But it never actually hurt him, and presently Brandon worked up the courage to take a deliberate step past it, just as if the thing wasn't there. He kept his knife at the ready, praying all the while that he wasn't about to get chopped into mincemeat. The thing screamed at him again and slashed long cuts in the ground with its blade, but Brandon ignored that too and kept on going along the path. Then more of the creatures arrived, until he found himself surrounded by a shrieking crowd of things that might have populated the worst nightmare he'd ever imagined.

Bran covered his eyes before they ripped him to shreds, but when that didn't happen he began to wonder if maybe the monsters _couldn't_ really hurt him. Maybe all they could do was threaten and roar, and their power came only through the fear they caused.

It seemed like a good guess, especially if they were there to test his courage. So Brandon ignored the creatures with a quaking heart, pretending they didn't exist and keeping his eyes focused straight ahead as he walked right between them. For a little while the monsters redoubled their efforts to terrorize him, but finally they seemed to realize it was no more use at that point. Then one by one they gave up the ghost and disappeared.

At last he was left alone again on the path, still shaking from the encounter but no worse for the wear.

Daylight returned as he got farther away from that horrible place, and soon the landscape switched over to an endless plain of scrubby grass. There was still a thick cover of the whitish-gray mist that seemed to be typical for that whole country, but he could deal with _that._

After his ordeal with the monsters it seemed like a dull and even boring area, especially since it apparently went on forever. He did pass little streams now and then where he could refill his water supply, and these also gave him an opportunity to wash off the smoke and sweat from the fire country. The less reason he had to be reminded of that experience, the better it suited him.

He spent a lot of time talking to Snowball as they went along, just as if the dog could really understand what he was saying. Snowball slept next to him at night for warmth, and shared his meager meals, and comforted him in his solitude, and in general was the best friend a sad and lonesome boy could have asked for.

"You know, Snowball, I think I'll take you home with me after all this is over with. We don't have any dogs on the ranch right now, just some cats that live in the barn to keep away rats," Brandon said.

Snowball chuffed in that noncommittal way he had, and Brandon rolled his eyes.

"Aw, come on; there's nothin' wrong with cats. Besides, you wouldn't have to deal with them if you didn't want to. There's a thousand acres you can run around on, and cows to chase, and all kinds of stuff like that. It's a dog's paradise, I promise," he said.

He went on to extol all the virtues of Goliad Ranch from a dog's point of view, and Snowball listened politely until he ran out of things to say.

"No comment, huh? Didn't really think so, but you just wait and see," Brandon promised.

After several days they came to the edge of a vast and desolate city built of reddish mud bricks, and at first Brandon was glad for the change in scenery. Narrow cobblestone streets meandered between tall buildings huddled close together, reminding him of some ancient sun-kissed metropolis from Roman days. The only thing that tended to spoil this romantic image was the heavy white mist that drifted through the winding streets, making it seem that not a single ray of sunshine had ever kissed that particular city since the day the world was made. In some ways it reminded him of the decrepit slums of Saint Petersburg, except that he didn't have to worry about gangs or prison guards.

There didn't seem to be anything dangerous or sinister about the place, but nonetheless Brandon soon found himself hopelessly lost in what felt like an endless maze. For nearly a week he wandered aimlessly, sleeping in abandoned buildings and trudging the deserted thoroughfares without a clue as to whether he was making any progress or not. All he could do was try to keep moving in a straight line and hope that sooner or later he found his way through to the other side.

But he never did, and the city seemed to be exactly the same no matter how far he wandered. There were always the same endless cobblestone streets, the same partially ruined mud brick buildings everywhere. The foggy atmosphere kept him from seeing very far, creating the powerful illusion that he was surrounded by skyscrapers in every direction. He felt trapped and suffocated, enclosed in a small gray capsule of mist and mud.

Then he encountered the woman.

"Good evening, young man," she said, startling him.

Brandon looked up from his feet to see where the voice had come from, and then wondered how he'd ever managed to miss the woman in the first place. She was sitting on the front steps of a building nearly identical to all the others he'd seen, shelling peas into a wickerwork basket. Her face was so wrinkled and her hair so white that she looked a thousand years old. But it had been so long since Brandon had seen another human being of any kind at all, he was more than happy to speak to her.

"Good evening, ma'am. Could you tell me where I am, please?" he asked, since that was the question he most wanted to know.

"It's been so long since anyone lived in this place, I'm not sure it would be right to say that it still has a name. But once upon a time it was called Lakkaia, back when the world was fresh and new. As for myself, you may call me Mara," the woman said, nodding at him graciously. The name sounded vaguely familiar for some reason, but Brandon couldn't think where he might have heard it before.

"Brandon Stone. Pleased to meet you," he said, nodding back at her since he wasn't quite sure how else to respond.

"Likewise," Mara replied.

"Uh. . . I think I might be lost, ma'am. If you could tell me the way to Elysium, I'd be grateful," Brandon asked.

"Of course. Just follow the sun into the west," Mara said.

"But that's what I've been doing for days, and I never seem to get anywhere," Brandon objected.

"Then there must be something holding you back, because I know that's the way," Mara said.

"The test," Brandon murmured, barely above a whisper. But Mara must have had very sharp ears, because she heard him.

"Perhaps; I wouldn't know about that. But the day is almost done, and you won't make it much farther tonight. Could I offer you a place to sleep and some warm food tonight, for you and your dog?" she asked, and Brandon hesitated for only a second before nodding.

"Yes, ma'am, I'd appreciate that," he agreed.

"It's my pleasure. No one comes this way anymore. It's been forty years since the last time I spoke to another human being," Mara said.

"Forty _years?"_ Brandon asked, shocked.

"Yes, indeed, my little man. Forty long and weary years, ever since my husband died," she agreed.

"But why didn't you go somewhere else after that, if you were all alone?" Brandon asked.

"This is my home. I don't mean to leave it," Mara said, and Brandon couldn't think of any way to argue with that.

"But how do you live, though?" he asked.

"There's water from the well down yonder, and I have my little garden to grow whatever I need. It's enough. And if there's anything I lack, then people have left behind enough other things here and there in the city to last me for a thousand lifetimes. I don't need anything," Mara said.

"I guess not. Just seems awfully lonesome," Brandon said, and Mara sighed.

"Well, now, I have to admit it is _that_ sometimes. But we all have our burdens to bear," she said.

"Yes, ma'am, I guess we do," Brandon agreed, thinking to himself that truer words had never been spoken.

They talked for quite a while longer, and eventually Brandon found himself seated on the worn brick steps helping Mara shell peas. It reminded him weirdly of doing the same thing on the front porch at Goliad sometimes.

"You have a beautiful dog," Mara said after a while, petting the animal's soft white coat.

"Thanks. His name is Snowball," Brandon said.

"Have you had him long?" Mara asked.

"Well. . . only about two weeks, honestly, but it feels like a lot longer than that. He already saved my life more than once. He's my best friend," Brandon said, smiling a little as he realized how much he'd grown to love that dog in such a short space of time.

"It sounds like it. You've very lucky to have him," Mara said in her papery voice.

"So I am," Brandon agreed.

Mara used some of the peas to make a pot of soup for supper, along with some kind of herbal tea that reminded Brandon of chamomile. Then she showed him a rough and narrow mattress stuffed with hay in the corner of her one room apartment inside the building. There was a stack of handmade blankets of various colors and designs folded up at the foot of the bed, and another one half-finished on a loom sitting against one wall. She seemed to like to make things.

Bran chose a black and gold one since the colors reminded him of home, and then lay down quietly to ponder his situation. He didn't doubt that somehow this intricate city with its single lonely inhabitant must be a test of some kind, if he could only figure out what exactly it all meant. But if the fire monsters had been his test of courage, then this must be a test of either love or faith, and it was hard to know which.

Well, what were those two things, faith and love? At bottom they were both choices of one kind or another; faith was the choice to keep believing in something in spite of appearances or emotions, and love was the choice to be kind and to seek the good of a certain person or thing, as much as that was possible in a given situation. So which choice was it that he faced at the moment?

It seemed much more likely that he faced a test of love in this situation, the more he thought about it. There was nothing Brandon could think of which had to be trusted at the moment, other than the fact that he'd find his way through the city, and he'd already believed _that_ ever since the beginning. But then there was Mara, who'd lived all alone for forty years in a deserted city in the middle of nowhere. Surely there was something he could do to ease her loneliness and make her life a little easier; that would be showing love in a tangible way.

As he reasoned his way through all these things and tried to puzzle out what was expected of him, it crossed his mind that there was really only one thing he could do for Mara which would do any lasting good, and that was to give her Snowball.

No sooner did the thought arise than he dug in his heels and resisted; giving up his dog was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. But the more he thought about it the more certain he was. Snowball would be a comfort to her; there was no doubt about that, just as he'd been a comfort to Bran himself while he was lonely. Giving him up would also be a painful sacrifice on Brandon's part, and thus a very real and costly test of love.

_Is that really what I'm supposed to do?_ Brandon murmured under his breath, but there was no answer. He supposed that might have been too easy, though, and part of the test was the simple fact that he had to figure it out on his own.

He reached out one hand to pet Snowball's furry head, a silent way of saying goodbye. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.

In the morning he woke to the smell of frycakes sizzling on a griddle, and before long Mara served him a plate full, piled high and drizzled with honey. Brandon ate with gusto, but after he slowed down a bit he finally brought up the subject of the dog.

"Mara, you've been really nice to me, and I know living here must be awfully lonely for you. I'd like for you to keep Snowball after I leave, if you would," he said. It was hard for him to say the words, but he meant them.

"I couldn't take your dog, little man. That would be selfish of me," Mara said.

"No it wouldn't. I'll be going back home soon. I can always get another dog if I want to, and besides that I have family and friends to make up the difference. You're here all by yourself. Please keep him," Brandon said. Mara hesitated for a little while longer, then finally nodded.

"All right, then. I'll keep him. Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome. Uh, I guess I probably ought to be going now, while it's still early," Brandon said, and she nodded. He got up from the table and stretched, grabbing one last bite of frycake and honey before he left the apartment.

Snowball got up to follow him when he went outside, but Brandon turned and shook his head.

"No, boy. Stay here," he said. The dog cocked his head at him and whined a little as if to ask why.

"Stay with Mara. She'll take care of you," Brandon said. He scratched the dog's ears one last time, and then quickly walked away. He couldn't have said anything else past the hard lump in his throat anyway.

He set off once again through the misty streets, hoping he'd done the right thing. He still wasn't altogether happy about giving up his dog, but he supposed it was all for the best. Mara really did need Snowball more than Brandon himself did, and that alone was a good enough reason to let her keep him.

Less than two hours after leaving Mara's apartment, Brandon emerged at last from the endless city. A pale dirt path stretched ahead of him across the same old grassy plain, till it faded into the misty distance.

"I guess that was the test, then," Brandon murmured to himself.

Chapter Seventeen

For the next three days Brandon trudged across the misty plain, and at night he slept alone on the cold ground. It was amazing how much difference Snowball had made, and without the dog to share warmth Brandon felt like he might freeze. Even worse, he had only a few little scraps of food left. They wouldn't last more than two or three days at the most, and he wondered how much farther he could go before hunger alone forced him to give up the journey.

He spent most of his time lost in thought, since there wasn't much to hold his attention in such a featureless landscape. He wrestled endlessly with the question of why God would ask so much of him; why he should have to suffer so much when it all seemed so pointless and cruel.

He'd been stubborn, no doubt, and maybe even messed-up inside about love and trust and things like that. So maybe part of it was simply that God had had to break his heart in order to make him truly whole someday, just like Cody had talked about when he mentioned how doctors sometimes had to rebreak a bone that heals crooked. That was understandable, at least, even though it seemed like a needlessly harsh lesson that could have been taught some easier way.

Or then again, Brother Manchin had suggested that suffering might draw other people to God, but there was no one Brandon could think of who knew anything at all about his situation who wasn't already a believer. Telling his story after the fact didn't seem likely to carry the same punch.

But what other reason for all this pain could there be? He refused to accept the idea that it meant nothing at all, because logically that would have forced him to believe that _nothing_ meant anything at all. Not love nor life nor truth nor beauty, and that was a price too high to be paid. Either nothing had a purpose, or else everything did; he was perceptive enough to grasp _that_ much.

Brandon sighed and shook his head, wishing life didn't have to be so messy and complicated. He hardly knew what to think or believe anymore, about his own situation or anything else. He could only sing to the silent mist, and try to have trust.

He often pondered what his life might be like after he drank from the Fountain. To live a hundred years and never age, his body young and beautiful till the end, immune to all sickness and injury, and by the touch of his hands to have the power to heal those things in others. To make ugliness beautiful, to make foulness clean, and in the process to make believers out of the hardest hearts in the world. Or as Lana had said, to teach men to hunger and thirst after heaven as a deer pants for water on a summer's day. It was a high and noble work which gave glory to God, no doubt about it.

And yet. . . oh, so very lonely.

And so it was that in spite of his love for God and his desire to glorify Him, there was still a residue of sadness and apprehension in Brandon's heart, a tinge of uncertainty that he really wanted all this. Maybe it was true that selfless love led to joy; God Himself had promised it, after all. And yet, if Brandon had been offered the choice between living a normal and quiet life with Lana or accepting this high destiny to change the world, he honestly wasn't sure which one he might have picked. Perhaps he hadn't yet washed the bitterness completely from his heart or quite learned to believe that Love could be trusted.

That was beginning to change as he found himself forced to rely on God whether he liked it or not, even for his day-to-day and hour-to-hour survival. He took some comfort in Brother Manchin's parting words about a father's love, but it would have been a lie to say that he'd given up his doubts altogether.

While he pondered these things there came to him unbidden a distant, almost-forgotten memory of his early childhood, of the day when he'd died for two hours. He'd seen God enthroned in glorious light, surrounded by the angels and the saved of earth who sang His praises forever. And he, Brandon, had wanted nothing more than to go and join those who sang. But then a young man in white clothes had picked him up.

"Are you willing to go back to the earth for a while?" the man had asked.

"Why?" Brandon had asked.

"To give hope to those left behind, and glory to God," the man said.

"What would I have to do?" Brandon had asked.

"To give the meaning of dreams and visions to those who ask, and someday to drink from the Fountain of Youth to bring healing to many," the man had said.

"I'm willing," Brandon had said.

"It will be very painful sometimes. All the more so if you ever forget why you were sent," the man had warned.

"I promise I won't forget," Brandon had said, and shortly thereafter he'd woken up cold and shaking in the basement of the hospital.

But he _had_ forgotten, as the cares of the world had battered him relentlessly. And just as the man had warned him, life had become very painful as a result. He recalled now just a little of the certainty he'd felt back then, and that was a greater comfort to him than anything else could possibly have been.

"Thank You for that," he whispered to God, grateful for the gentle reminder.

The next day Brandon woke to find the white mist completely vanished for the first time since he'd left the Andersons' house. It was a bright and cloudless morning without a breath of wind, and at last he could see where he was once more.

All around him stretched the grassy plain, and up ahead the path ran down a gentle slope to the shore of some vast lake or ocean that seemed to go on forever. The water was smooth and glassy as crystal, with not a ripple to break the mirror-like surface, and when he lifted his eyes he beheld an island far away in the west across the silent sea.

The path ran downhill and straight into the water, just as if it continued directly to the island across the bottom of the ocean. And since he didn't know how deep or how cold it might be, Brandon approached the water and squatted down on one of the rocks at the edge of the shore to test it with the fingers of his left hand. He yanked them back out again after only a split second. The water was icy; so cold that it felt like a thousand red hot needles on his skin. There was no way he could ever swim _that,_ or even wade it. He'd be frozen to death before he made it even halfway across. If this was to be the test of his faith, then he wasn't sure what was being asked of him.

But his heart was changed and strengthened by the memory of his vision, and he was determined now to fulfill everything he'd promised, somehow or other.

The reflection of the sun on the surface made it difficult to see, but after a second Brandon noticed writing carved into a rock at the bottom of the water. After scrutinizing it carefully, this is what he read:

Only the humble shall pass.

That seemed plain as mud, and he furrowed his brow trying to think what it might mean. Then he remembered what Brother Manchin had said, about having to approach the holy place as a humble pilgrim, with bare head and bare feet, and leaving all weapons behind. That was Bran's best guess as to the inscription's meaning, but still he hesitated, remembering the cold.

Then he decided he was too far along to give up now, so he took off his boots and his baseball cap to leave them on the sand, his red hair glistening in the sunshine when his head was uncovered. The bright steel of Papaw Stephen's knife shone silver-white as it lay there on the ground, and his initials at the base of the blade showed up clearly.

"To God alone be the glory," Brandon whispered under his breath.

Then he went back down to the water's edge. It looked deep and frigid, dropping off steeply from the shore, and that meant he'd have to do a lot of swimming. If the cold made his muscles stop working then he'd drown within seconds. In the ordinary world, such a thing would have been suicidally stupid.

But then he reminded himself that this _wasn't_ the ordinary world, not by a long shot. In fact, this might even be his test of faith, whether he could believe the invitation and do something which seemed impossible. After all, the writing on the stone implied that the humble _would_ get past, even though it was hard to see how.

So Brandon took a deep breath, bracing himself for the freezing water, and then stepped off the bank.

To his utter astonishment he found the water to be solid as stone, with his right foot standing flat on the surface. He gingerly brought his other foot forward, and then took another few steps until he was standing maybe five or six feet from the shore. The surface felt cold and slick beneath the soles of his bare feet, like walking on ice or maybe wet linoleum. He could look down to see fish and rocks far below, but there was no time for him to marvel at this. He still had a long walk ahead.

He took extreme care not to slip and fall as he walked across the glassy water. Bran wasn't quite sure what might happen if he lost his footing, and he certainly didn't want to get dunked in icy water. But he never fell, and after two or three miles of walking he finally approached the sandy shores of the island.

Here Brandon stopped for a little while simply to gaze in open-mouthed wonder, for the earth of that land seemed to shine with a light of its own. The stones on the ground were of diamond and pearl, even down to the smallest grains of sand on the beach, and they glistened and sparkled like fresh white snow in the sunshine. Beyond the beach lay a land of meadows and trees, full of golden yellow flowers and fruits of many different kinds. A faint breeze brought the scent of those meadows across the water, and tears filled his eyes and his breath nearly stopped, for nothing more beautiful could there be.

Then Brandon set foot at last on that hallowed shore, and for a while he wandered in delight through the meadows and woods, almost forgetting why he'd come. But even though his feet must have carried him for many miles, he never reached the end of that land. The sun never moved in the blue and cloudless sky, as if the whole place were lit with the changeless light of an early spring day, crisp and fresh as a bright red apple a-drip with shining dew. He never saw another person, but he heard them many times in the far distance; voices raised in beautiful melodies the like of which he'd never imagined.

Then at last he came to a mountain in the midst of the land, with a beaten path which led up to the mouth of a cavern. From thence there flowed a clear stream beside the path, bubbling and dancing over stones as it glittered in the sunlight.

With bowed head Brandon made his way up to the cave, and inside he found a chamber draped with green vines. In the very center there stood a Fountain of jet black stone, from which water clear as glass gushed forth to fill the bed of the stream below. Upon the lip of the stone there sat a golden cup encrusted with seven blue sapphires, and below it were carved these words:

The strong of heart shall drink of Me,

The life-giving Life, and the Beauty that makes beautiful.

Without even needing to wonder, Brandon knew immediately that he'd found the place he'd been looking for.

But as he stood there hesitating, a young man dressed in white clothing came out of the depths of the cave to speak to him; the same one he'd seen all those years ago in heaven.

"What is this place?" Brandon whispered, when the man came close enough to hear him.

"This is the land of Elysium, and here dwell in peace for a little while many of those blessed ones who seek the Lord with a broken heart. Tread softly, for the land where your feet rest is holy ground," the man said.

"You told me to come here," Brandon said.

"So indeed I did. All who come to this place are called," the man agreed.

"Is this the Fountain I'm supposed to drink from?" Brandon asked.

"Have you accepted the task which is laid before you, to live your life as a light in the darkness, and to guard and protect the one who will come after you?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir," Brandon said.

"And do you choose this with a glad heart, and not because you must?" the man asked, and that was a much more difficult question. Bran was tempted to say something humble and thoughtful to explain his mixed feelings, but nuanced answers had never been his nature. Therefore he spoke the only truth he could be certain of.

"God knows my heart better than I do," he finally said, and the man smiled.

"He does, indeed. Drink, then, and be welcome," the man said, gesturing toward the cup. Brandon took a step forward, and then another, till he stood right in front of the Fountain of Youth itself. Then he lifted the golden cup and filled it to the brim. The water was icy cold, making him shiver as it touched his hand. And then at the last he lifted the cup to heaven.

"To God Most High, may this cup that I drink give You glory forever," he said, using almost the very words that his brother had spoken as he stood in that same place twelve years earlier.

Then Brandon lifted the cup to his lips. He felt as if it might freeze his very heart as he drank, and when he was done he solemnly replaced the cup on the lip of the Fountain. He felt no different than before, but he didn't doubt the change that had taken place in his body.

Then the young man in white clothing took a small crystal flask from his pocket and filled it from the Fountain, sealing it up and handing it to Brandon.

"What's this for?" Brandon asked.

"Keep this for the one who comes after you. His trials will be different than yours, but if he passes the test and if he so chooses, give him this to drink. He'll need it to fulfill his own task, when the time comes," the man said.

"Do you mean my nephew's son?" Brandon asked.

"Yes. His name will be Tycho, and I believe you know already where to find him," the man agreed.

"Yes, sir. He'll be somewhere in Jamestown, on the island of Eleuthera, in the year 2158. But how will I know when the time has come to give him this, or whether he passed the test or not?" Brandon asked.

"God has given you foresight to understand those things when need be. You'll know when the time is right," the man said.

"All right," Brandon agreed, putting the crystal flask in his pocket. It lay cold against his skin through the thin fabric, making him shiver again.

"Be glad now, Blessed One, and lift up your eyes, for you stand at the beginning of great and glorious things. You may feel that you've given up your whole life today, and indeed you have. But remember that unless a seed falls to the ground to die, it can never blossom or grow. Unless a man is willing to pass through the depths, he can never be lifted up. Such is the law. From death comes life, and from sorrow comes joy. Be faithful to your promise, even when the days seem darkest, and you'll find that someday all the desires of your heart have come true; even the ones you never dreamed of yet. Therefore go in peace, and return once again to your home," the man said.

Then Brandon took his leave, and retraced his steps through that shining land to the edge of the crystal sea. He walked once more across the water till he reached the other side, and then stopped for a little while to gaze back at the shores of Elysium, until the light and the beauty of that place were imprinted forever upon his heart.

But at last he turned away, and after putting his boots, his knife, and his cap back on he slowly took his path across the grassy plains once more.

He slept that night on the open ground just as he'd always done before, and when morning came Brandon found himself surrounded once again by the white mist. But it was nowhere near as thick as it had been before, and he could still judge directions more or less by the dull orb of the sun. He plodded steadily eastward, on the theory that he should head in the opposite direction from Elysium to find his way home.

Before long trees began to appear all around him and rapidly thickened, and as the morning went on the fog began to dissipate. By noon he found himself standing in broad sunshine in a clearing surrounded with pine and cypress trees, and the path seemed to have disappeared completely.

"I wonder where I am _now?"_ Brandon murmured under his breath, and then picked his way northward along the edge of the woods to try to find a way to keep going.

Then he glimpsed a perfectly ordinary highway, far off through the trees. He was somewhere in the normal world again, however _that_ had come about. Bran let out a whoop of joy, and then ran through the tangled bracken and undergrowth till he came out beside a rural two-lane road, marveling that such a commonplace thing could seem so beautiful.

He had no idea where on the good green earth he might be, but after walking a little way down the shoulder he finally came to an old bait shop with the windows boarded up. There were still a few tattered business cards tacked to an old cork board beside the front door, and from these Brandon was able to ascertain that he had to be somewhere near Uncertain, Texas. He was on the western edge of Caddo Lake, more than twenty miles from Dr. Anderson's house at Mooringsport.

Two hours later Bran reached a gas station with a phone that he could use, and by mid-afternoon he found himself sitting in Dr. Anderson's living room again. _Much_ to everyone's surprise, since they all seemed to think Brandon and Lana had left that very same morning. The timeline made no more sense than anything else lately, but it seemed useless to question it.

"Where is Lana?" Tatya asked as soon as he got to the house, and Brandon had to think seriously before he could come up with any good way to answer that question.

"She's sleeping," he finally said, and then went on to tell the whole story of what had happened to him.

"That's almost unbelievable," Jonah said when he was done.

"Yeah, almost. I wouldn't believe it either, if I hadn't been there," Brandon agreed.

"I believe it. You look different, and you don't smell the same," Tatya said, staring at him critically.

"How do you mean?" Brandon asked.

"She's right. It's hard to notice at first because you were always handsome anyway, but now it's _more,_ somehow. You're absolutely perfect, physically speaking. Like a statue or a painting come to life," Rosalie Anderson said.

"That's what the Fountain is supposed to do, girls. None of us should be surprised at that," Dr. Anderson said.

"But what about the smell?" Tatya asked, and Rosalie came closer to sniff Brandon's hair and shirt.

"She's right about that, too. There's definitely a scent about you that wasn't there before. It's like. . . I'm not quite sure how to describe what it's like, actually. It reminds me of sweet and beautiful things, but nothing specific that I could lay a finger on. It's like apples in the fall, or the milk on a baby's breath, or maybe even clothes that were left out to dry in the sun. But then again it's not really like any of those things; it just makes me think of them. It reminds me of what joy would smell like, if it had a scent," Rosalie said, groping for words.

"Brother Manchin said I'd always smell like Elysium, as long as I live," Brandon said.

"He must have been right, then. It's very faint, but I think if you could bottle it up you'd put every perfume company in the world out of business in a week. It's enough to make any girl on earth fall in love with you, if you go around looking like that and smelling that way," Rosalie said, smiling a little.

"I really hope not," Brandon said, dismayed by such a horrifying thought. It was bad enough to have to spend a hundred years alone; it would be ten thousand times worse if girls were swooning over him all the time. Even with the best intentions in the world, he didn't know if he had the strength to endure that kind of torture. It reminded him of the story of Tantalus, dying of hunger and thirst while surrounded by grape vines heavy with fruit he couldn't eat and standing neck deep in water he couldn't drink. Even though Brother Manchin had warned him about temptation, Brandon had never understood till that very moment how vicious a battle he really faced.

_God help me,_ he whispered under his breath, almost frozen with dread at the prospect of such a brutal future. No doubt some people would have traded anything for such a gift, but for Brandon it was only one more layer of anguish to be borne.

"It will be all right, Bran. You are strong," Vlad said, watching him. The boy's simple faith made Brandon want to laugh and cry at the same time. He didn't understand, of course; he only knew that Brandon had carried him for miles and fought three men to get medicine for him. That was strength, in his little-boy eyes. He didn't yet comprehend that sometimes muscle and courage weren't enough to carry the day.

Would that they were.

But the comment had been meant kindly, and Bran didn't want to seem ungrateful for that by saying something bitter.

"I'm sure it will, Vlad. I'm more concerned about you and Tatya right now," he said gently, changing the subject.

"I think we might have found a place for these two, if everything works out. Do you remember Dr. Bartow, our friend who lives in Shreveport and works on the air force base?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"I think so," Brandon said.

"Well, Rosalie and I talked to them about the situation again this morning, and they've more or less agreed to adopt these two. I believe I mentioned before that they can't have any children of their own, so this is something they've been thinking about for a long time," Dr. Anderson said.

"They are very nice," Vlad said solemnly.

"We talked to them for a long time on the phone. They are coming to visit this afternoon and talk more, but I think everything is mostly decided," Tatya agreed.

"That's good. At least we won't be very far apart, if you're only in Shreveport. We can still visit sometimes that way. Will you have to change your names?" Brandon asked.

"Only last name. I will still be Tatiana. That's English enough to suit me. But Vlad says he will be Wolf from now on, since that's what our old last name means in Russian," Tatya said, and Brandon laughed.

"Name funny?" her brother asked, looking worried.

"No, not at all. It'll just be hard to think of you as Wolf Bartow, that's all," Brandon said.

"We will get used to it, I'm sure," Tatya said.

"Well, I'm happy for both of you," Brandon said.

"So are we, and thank you," Tatya said.

"Yes, thank you," Vlad, no, _Wolf_ agreed. Brandon wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to calling the other boy by that name, whatever Tatya might say. But the two of them had a chance for a happy life to look forward to now, and that was all that really mattered. No doubt the other kids in Shreveport who never knew him as anything else wouldn't think twice about it. There was nothing to worry about anymore, as far as _they_ were concerned.

Besides which, Brandon still had his own issues to deal with.

Chapter Eighteen

"I don't think the judge is gonna change his mind, Bran," Lisa said a few weeks later, as they were sitting on the porch after the final court hearing. The question of whether Crush Stone would really take him away from Goliad or not had finally been answered, and the results were not at all to Brandon's liking. He'd have to go live with his father, as soon as school was over at the end of May.

"Never mind about that. It doesn't matter anymore," Brandon said, letting out his breath in a long sigh.

"It doesn't?" Lisa asked, obviously surprised.

"No, not really. The worst he can do is force me to live with him for one more year. As soon as I turn eighteen I'll come back here anyway," Brandon said.

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Lisa agreed.

"It's the only way I can look at it and keep from going crazy. I don't know why he won't just leave me alone. It's not like he ever cared all that much before anyway. It might be different if he had," Brandon said.

"I don't know either, but as it stands, he's got the right. We can't stop him," Lisa said.

"Yeah, I know he does. Who knows, maybe he'll get tired of having to mess with me after a month or two and he'll let me come back sooner. I can be a real pest when I want to be," Brandon said.

"I'm sure you could, but things like that start turning into habits after a while. I'd rather suffer through a year and have you come back the same brother I remembered, than to watch you turn mean and surly again. I've already had enough of _that,"_ Lisa said.

"Yeah. . . me too," Brandon admitted.

"I've been thinking about how we could make things easier on you in the meantime, though. Maybe he'd let you stay in the same school at least, if you tell him you'll drive yourself every day. It's not all that far," Lisa said.

"But how would I do that? I could never afford to put enough gas in the truck to drive back and forth from Tyler every day, even if he said yes," Brandon pointed out.

"Don't worry about that part. We'll make sure you have what you need," Lisa said.

"Thanks," Brandon said, humbled.

"Don't mention it. I don't know if he'll let you visit us or not after all this; he's not real happy with me right now. But maybe we'll get to see you at football games and things like that, if nothing else," Lisa said.

"I don't even know if I'll play again next year," Brandon said, kicking the floor with his shoes.

"Why not? I thought you loved football," Lisa asked.

"Well, yeah, I _did._ But Daddy's house is right over the line in White Oak, and I don't really want to play for _them,_ you know. I'd feel like a traitor. And even if he lets me drive to Ore City, certain people have been pretty hateful around here lately," Brandon said.

"Yeah, but you can't keep thinking about that so much, Beebo. There's an ugly streak in human nature sometimes, that's all. If you're handsome, or a strong athlete, or if you're kind and loving, or any other good thing, then yeah, people will admire you for it. But some of them will also have an itch to cut you down to size, to prove that you've got feet of clay and you're not really as good as people think you are, that you were nothing but a humbug and a hypocrite all along. Lots of people _enjoy_ that," Lisa said.

"Yeah, they do. Some of them turn out to be people you always thought were your best friends," Brandon said, letting a touch of remembered bitterness creep into his voice. Several of the cruelest remarks he'd heard all spring had come from his former buddies.

"Yeah, some of them do. But you know what? You can't worry about people like that. Be the best you can at all the things you love and all the things you believe in, and don't worry about the gossips and the hatemongers. You live for God and not for them, and His opinion is the only one that matters at all," Lisa said.

"Yeah. . . I know," Brandon agreed.

"So don't let a bunch of idiots with loose mouths keep you from doing something you love. Don't play if you don't want to, but don't give it up for _that_ reason," Lisa said.

"We'll see. I still have a while to think about it," Brandon said.

"Well, in the meantime I think Daddy is coming to get you next Friday at five o'clock," Lisa said.

"That soon?" Brandon asked.

"It's not really that soon, bubba; it's two whole days after school is out for the summer. I couldn't put him off any longer than that. God knows I tried," Lisa said.

"It's not your fault. Like I said, it's only for a year at the most. I can stand on my head for _that_ long. And I promise I won't turn surly again," Brandon said.

"That's all I ask, then. Wherever you go and whatever you do, always come home whole again," Lisa said, and patted his hand with her own.

"I will. No matter what," Brandon said.

It was unbearably awkward when Crush came to pick him up the next Friday. Lisa cried, and Cody barely said a word. But as bad as the goodbyes had been, the ride to Brandon's new home was even worse. He'd been down there to visit several times already, of course, but the level of hard feelings had never been so high before. His father tried to make conversation at first, but after a while he gave up and they both sat there in silence thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I know you didn't want to come down here, Bran, but I'd really like to make this work if we can. I wish you'd talk to me," Crush finally said.

"About what?" Brandon asked.

"I don't know; anything you want to," Crush said.

"Sorry. Can't think of a thing," Brandon said, barely bothering to hide the sullen anger in his heart. In spite of his promise to Lisa, he was in no mood to be nice.

"How come you hate me so much?" Crush asked bluntly. Brandon almost said something cruel to that, but he bit his tongue at the last second.

"I never said I hated you," he said instead.

"No, but you sure do act like it," Crush said, and that got on Brandon's last nerve.

"Well, gee, I wonder why. You run off and leave me for eight years and don't even call or write a postcard, then you show up one day out of the blue and drag me away from a place where I'm finally happy. And all for what? I still don't even know the answer to _that,"_ Brandon said bitterly.

"I had a reason," Crush said.

"Then keep it to yourself. There's no reason good enough. Not for any of it," Brandon said.

"I'm sorry," Crush said.

"I don't even care anymore. You should have thought about all that eight years ago," Brandon said.

"Then I hope you never need any forgiveness yourself, son. It might not be easy to come by, with such a hard heart," Crush said. That cut Brandon's conscience a little, and he made an effort to soften his attitude.

"All right, I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that," he said grudgingly.

"No, you shouldn't have. But let's forget about it, okay?" Crush said.

"Fine with me," Brandon agreed, and then returned to his silence.

"You don't even want to hear what my reason for bringing you down here was?" Crush finally asked.

"Sure, go for it," Brandon said, shrugging.

"It's because I think you're in danger, son," Crush said, and Brandon rolled his eyes.

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard," he said, not even pretending to be respectful anymore.

"No it's not. That night after I saw you at the coffee house last fall, I went home and couldn't sleep. And then when I finally did, I had a dream like nothing I've ever had before," Crush said.

That news piqued Brandon's curiosity almost in spite of himself. Crush had known all about his son's gift for interpreting dreams ever since the first time it happened when Bran was four years old, so it was completely believable that the man would have taken a strange dream seriously. But still, Brandon wasn't ready to give up his hostile stance quite yet.

"Really?" he asked, in the most neutral tone of voice he could muster.

"Yes, really, and I think you ought to care since it was about _you,"_ Crush said.

That was an even more interesting tidbit of information, and Bran decided to let down his guard just a little.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" he finally asked.

"It's not very nice, I'm afraid. At first all I saw was darkness, full of screams and the sound of bombs going off. I think it was early morning, because it kept getting lighter, and then I saw _you,_ standing on a street corner in Longview and fighting with somebody. Everything was in ruins, with bomb craters and rubble everywhere. You had on a soldier's combat suit, but not like anything I've ever seen before. It was blue-gray, with gold pins on the shoulder. Then I saw you get shot in the chest at point-blank range, and the other guy ran away while you fell down in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. Then it was all over," Crush said.

"How did you know it was Longview, if everything was bombed out?" Brandon asked.

The dream _did_ sound scary, even to him, although not as much as it would have a year ago. Brandon knew he'd heal within a few hours or so even from a point-blank gunshot wound, as long as it didn't kill him before his body had a chance to recover. The Fountain had made him pretty durable nowadays. But of course Crush didn't know that, and Bran wasn't inclined to enlighten him.

"I knew it was Longview because I recognized the courthouse. But that's not important right now. What matters at this point is to keep you as far away from that place as possible," Crush said, but the words went almost unnoticed. While his father was talking, Brandon had shut his eyes to pray silently for understanding of the dream.

"That war won't even start for almost a hundred years yet, so there's no reason to let it worry you anytime soon," Brandon said, relieved that the danger was so far off.

His father looked skeptical.

"Seems to me like you'd be a really old man by then, if not dead and gone already. You didn't look a day over twenty to me," Crush said, which put Brandon in the decidedly awkward position of having to explain _that._ For a long time he couldn't think what to say, and his father took the silence for an answer.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Forget it, boy; I'm not _that_ dumb. I don't mean for you to be anywhere near that place, and that's final," Crush said, and Bran had to suppress a surge of fresh anger at that. Crush was more or less calling him a liar, even if not in so many words.

The situation was infuriating on at least a dozen different levels, but nonetheless Brandon took a deep breath and kept his cool. He didn't trust his father enough to tell him about the Fountain, so Bran gave up on the question of timing and tried a different tack.

"Well. . . Tyler isn't exactly all that far from Longview, in case you didn't notice," he pointed out.

"That's why we're not going to Tyler," Crush said.

"We're not? Where are we going, then?" Brandon asked, startled. It was the first he'd ever heard of such a thing.

"Alabama. I've already got a house and a job and everything else lined up in a little place called Piedmont," Crush said.

"You can't be serious," Brandon said.

"I'm dead serious, boy. You would be too, if the shoe was on the other foot," Crush said.

"I can't _believe_ this," Brandon muttered under his breath.

But it was true, and nothing Brandon could say or do was able to change his father's mind. He might as well have been arguing with a rock for all the good it did, so after a while he gave up and tried to make the best of things in spite of his resentment.

The situation wasn't _all_ bad, of course. Piedmont was a nice enough town, and the mountains reminded him of his childhood home in Arkansas. And then there was the fact that nobody at school knew anything about his checkered past. It was a relief not to have to face the snickers and the gossip anymore, if nothing else.

So Brandon signed up for football again in the fall, and found a church where he could still play guitar sometimes, and for the most part he endured his exile quietly. He stayed out of trouble at school, earning a solid reputation as an athlete and even as an honor student after a few months. That was a new and surprising feather in his cap, since he'd never been fond of books before. But now he had more time than he knew what to do with, and even homework was a welcome distraction from his often-lonesome existence.

For Bran soon discovered that Rosalie Anderson had been absolutely right about what would happen if he let people get too close to him. Every girl fell in love with him and every boy wanted to become his best friend and blood brother. Children adored him and every grown-up wanted to adopt him. He had to keep them all at arm's length not just for his own sake but for theirs too, and that was a tough way to live.

The only positive aspect to all this newfound lovability was the fact that people seemed much more apt to listen to whatever he had to say. He had to admit _that_ certainly had its uses now and then.

But still, it was hard to feel so alone in the world.

He still had Cody and Lisa, of course, and the Andersons and the Bartows. _They_ understood what he was going through, at least to some extent. But Crush did everything in his power to make it difficult for Brandon to keep in touch with anybody back home, and that was a real sore spot between the two of them. Bran was forced to make calls only when his father wasn't around to see what he was doing. It was annoying to have to duck and dodge, but that was the maddening reality of the situation.

"Cody, there's something I need to tell you," Brandon said, during one of the first of these calls back home.

"What is it, Beebo?" Cody asked.

"The reason my dad brought me here is because of a dream he had, where he saw me fighting in a war in Longview. So now he thinks I'll get killed if I stay anywhere close to there," Brandon said.

"Is that what it really means?" Cody asked.

"Not exactly, but nobody can tell _him_ that. He won't listen to anything I say; he just thinks I'm lying to him so he'll let me go back to Texas," Brandon said.

"I'm sorry, Beebo. I know that's got to be frustrating," Cody said.

"That's the truth. You have no _idea_ how stubborn that man can be, once he gets a notion in his head about something," Brandon fumed.

"Oh, I think maybe I do. His son and his daughter are both pretty good at that kind of thing too, as I recall," Cody said. He was joking, of course, and Brandon smiled a little.

"Well. . . yeah, maybe so," he admitted.

"Maybe it'll get better. Sometimes people like that won't listen at first, and then after they have time to think it over they end up agreeing with you. Give him a little time," Cody said.

"I'll try," Brandon said, with a long sigh.

"Aw, come on, Beebo; cheer up. Don't you know every time you sigh, it uses up a drop of blood from your heart?" Cody said, and Brandon laughed.

"Who told you _that?"_ he asked.

"Your beautiful and poetically inclined sister, of course. She read it somewhere," Cody said.

"Well, anyway. . . my dad might not want to listen to what that dream means, but I still think _you_ ought to know," Brandon said, sober again.

"What's it mean, then?" Cody asked.

"There _is_ a war coming, just like my dad sort of thought. He was right about that much. Most of the towns and cities in that area will be completely destroyed and the people killed if they don't escape in time," Brandon said.

"That's pretty grim," Cody said.

"Yeah, but it won't happen for a long time yet. Not for almost a hundred years. That's the part I can't get Daddy to believe," Brandon said.

"But who'd be fighting a war _here?_ That doesn't even make any sense," Cody said.

"I don't know, Cody. All I know is that it's coming, and when it gets here then it'll be really bad. I don't know what it's about, or who starts it, or even how much ground it'll cover. All I know for sure is that anybody who wants to stay safe had better be east of the Mississippi River when it starts," Brandon said.

"Well. . . I don't know that it matters a lot, if it's _that_ far ahead. There's not much we could do about it right now, anyway. I doubt we even live that long," Cody said.

"It won't matter to you and Lisa very much, no. But it'll matter an awful lot to Mikey and any kids he ever ends up having someday. They probably don't need to hang around anywhere near Goliad, at least not after they get grown up," Brandon said.

Cody was silent for a while, and Brandon knew he didn't like that news at all. Cody was a man who cherished continuity and dearly loved the thought of passing along his ancestral home to future generations. His dreams of the future were deeply rooted in the past, and being suddenly told he couldn't have those things was a harsh blow.

"That's a hard thing to ask, Beebo," Cody said at last.

"I know it, but that's the way it is, I'm afraid," Brandon said, and Cody was quiet again for a while. But whatever he might have thought in his deepest heart, he kept it to himself.

"You probably ought to tell Jonah too, don't you think?" he finally asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah, and maybe Wolf and Tatya, too. I'd like to take out a full page ad in the Longview paper and tell everybody in the whole area to get out while they still can," Brandon said.

"They wouldn't believe you," Cody said.

"I know. They'd just think I was crazy. But Jonah and Tatya and Wolf know better," Brandon said.

"I'll have to tell Marcus and Cyrus, maybe a few other people. Some of them would believe me, and they might even be able to make some long-range plans that far ahead of time," Cody said.

"Yeah, maybe you should," Brandon agreed.

That was all they said about it, and the next afternoon Brandon made a point of calling Dr. Anderson. Just as he thought, the man wasn't unbelieving at all.

"So we can't stay here, huh?" the man said wryly.

"No, sir. It won't be safe. Not in the long term, anyway," Brandon said.

"I don't doubt you. We hadn't really planned on moving again, but I guess it _could_ be done," Dr. Anderson said.

"Well, sir, you don't exactly have to drop everything and run for your lives. It'll still be a long time yet," Brandon said.

"That's not so much what worries me. But if we stay here much longer and Jonah ends up settling down and getting rooted in this place, then it'll be a lot harder to pick up and leave later on. People tend to forget about danger when it's not urgent. I think we'd be much wiser to leave as soon as possible, or at least within the next year or two," Dr. Anderson said.

"Yeah, I guess that's probably true," Brandon said.

"Does it matter where we go?" Dr. Anderson asked.

"No sir, I don't think so. As long as it's somewhere east of the Mississippi," Brandon said.

"Well, my sister lives up in the mountains in North Carolina and she's always wished we could be closer. I might finally take her up on that," Dr. Anderson said.

"Do you think you could mention something to the Bartows? I'd like to warn them, too, if they'll listen," Brandon said.

"I don't know if it'll matter much about them. Dr. Bartow will get transferred to another base within a few years anyway, if he stays in the air force. There's no telling where _they_ might end up. You might not have to warn them at all," Dr. Anderson said.

"Alabama would be nice," Brandon said wryly, and Dr. Anderson chuckled.

"Well, you never know. They told Rosalie they've been thinking about Florida, if Dr. Bartow decides not to re-enlist next time," he said.

"I don't guess it matters then, since that's in the safe zone too. But I'd still like to mention it to Wolf and Tatya, just so they know," Brandon said.

"I'll leave that part up to you, then. Maybe you can tell them in person if you get to come visit anytime soon," Dr. Anderson suggested.

"I hope so," Brandon agreed, and truer words were never spoken.

Chapter Nineteen

Because of the way his birthday fell, Brandon ended up having to finish both of his remaining high school years in Piedmont. Crush wouldn't let him leave even a single day before he turned eighteen, and by then he would have lost an entire semester of work if he moved. He didn't feel like having to repeat an extra year of school just to graduate.

But in spite of his irritation at the delay, Brandon wasn't wholly unhappy with all this extra time in Alabama. His life was full, and as long as he didn't think about Lana too much he could manage. That was hard sometimes since Crush had a way of pestering him frequently about why he never went out on dates, to which Bran only smiled thinly and said he didn't have time for things like that. Crush was never completely satisfied with that excuse, but since Brandon _did_ seem absorbed in school and sports and other things, there wasn't much the man could say about it.

There were other things to occupy Brandon's time by then, too. For just as his brother had discovered before him, there was no shortage of good works to be done in the world. He took to visiting the hospitals and clinics around Piedmont, and even in nearby parts of eastern Alabama and western Georgia whenever he could scrape up the gas money. More than a few desperate souls he snatched back from the very teeth of death, and others he made whole again from incurable sicknesses.

He didn't dare visit any given place too often, of course, lest people start to notice what he was doing. _That_ would have created more headaches than he wanted to deal with and complicated his life even more than it already was, so he developed the skill of touching people subtly, to keep them from noticing what he'd done.

But there were darker places by far in the world than even the most forbidding hospital could ever be, as Bran well knew. And although he never told his father about his excursions to these places, there were times when he came home pale and shaken from the evil he'd seen and the battles he sometimes had to fight. But if Crush ever noticed the occasional blood on his son's fists or the haunted look in his eyes, he never saw fit to mention it.

There were drug houses, runaways, homeless mentally ill people wandering the streets, gangsters of all stripes and kinds, sometimes simply bullies who enjoyed causing pain. There were sorcerers and murderers, Satanists and racketeers, and many, _many_ others who colluded with such people and profited from what was done, even though they never stooped so low as to get their own hands dirty. Some of these people were respectable members of society with positions of great authority. Teachers, public servants, policemen and judges, even _preachers_ at times. If he hadn't known it already, Bran would have quickly figured out how black the depths of evil really are in the world.

But as time passed he grew toughened even to the most awful things he was apt to see in the back alleys of Atlanta and Birmingham, and a good number of these festering sores he was able to wipe clean with his power and his courage. By healing those enslaved to drugs or insanity or curses, he was able to set many captives free. He also found that sometimes when his fists were not enough, he could accomplish both justice and mercy by erasing the memories of evildoers. Then they utterly forgot all the purposes of their hearts, and became like little children with incurable amnesia. Thus he destroyed their ability to do harm, at least for a little while.

He had no one to talk to about these things, except occasionally Cody or Lisa by phone. So Brandon learned to cling ever more tightly to music and praise, as Cody had told him to do, and in that way he was able to hold fast to light and joy in the midst of darkness. Otherwise the work he was called to do might have broken his heart, in spite of all the power in the world. For even though he could do many wonderful things, the one problem he could never eliminate was the free choice of evil in the hearts of men. And God knows that alone was horrifying enough sometimes.

But the forces of darkness in the world had not overlooked these activities by any means, especially those near Piedmont whose power and wealth had suffered most at Brandon's hands. Therefore they hated him and thirsted for his blood, ever the longer the more. And by and by they saw their chance for revenge.

It was a cold and rainy night in the middle of his senior year, and Brandon was on his way home from Atlanta just before Christmas when he had a flat tire. That wouldn't normally have been a major issue, except that he'd already used the spare three days ago and hadn't had a chance to replace it yet. Even worse, he was sitting on the side of a lonely road in the middle of nowhere with very few houses, not much traffic, and (not surprisingly) no cell service.

"What else could _possibly_ go wrong tonight?" Brandon muttered to himself, trying to think what to do. Given a choice between driving on a flat, sleeping in the truck, or trying to walk somewhere through the freezing rain, he honestly couldn't decide which alternative he hated least. It was his own fault for not replacing the spare sooner, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with in the meantime.

But while he sat there and debated with himself, a sleek red Camaro pulled in just ahead of him and stopped. It was almost miraculous that anybody would stop to help him at such a place and time, and Bran was even more astounded when the door opened and a girl got out. She was dressed in stylishly faded jeans and a bright tangerine t-shirt with the word _Cupcake_ emblazoned across the front, and he watched in bemusement as she opened a black umbrella to keep off the drizzle before walking to the side of his truck. She didn't seem to mind the cold.

"Hey, I saw you had a flat. Do you need a ride somewhere?" the girl asked with a smile. She seemed to be not much older than Brandon himself was, and incredibly beautiful, too. Not that he cared about such a thing, of course, but it was hard to keep from noticing the fact. She also looked vaguely familiar for some reason, even though he couldn't remember where he might have seen her before.

"Yeah, I'd really appreciate it," he agreed.

"Come on, then. It's a nasty night to have to change a tire," she said.

"Yeah, it is. My spare was flat, too, so I'm not sure what I would have done if you hadn't stopped," Brandon said, getting out and making sure to lock the truck doors behind him. She shared her umbrella till they reached the car, and then he ran to the passenger side to get in, buckling his seat belt and then putting his hands in front of the heater to warm up his freezing fingers. The interior was rich black leather with suede accents, and Brandon was suitably impressed.

"Cool car," he said admiringly, and the girl favored him with a smile which could have made butterflies dance in the stomach-pit of every boy in Alabama.

"Yup, she's one of a kind. Everything's customized," the girl replied. The radio was tuned to a mixed rock station, and just as they pulled out it began to play Madonna's _Material Girl._

"Oh, yeah, I love this song," the girl said, turning up the volume a little. She spun out on gravel at the edge of the highway and then shot down the curvy mountain road quite a bit faster than Brandon would have liked under the circumstances. But he only smiled uncomfortably, sort of wishing somebody else had stopped to help him instead, or maybe even nobody at all. The girl seemed just a tad bit strange.

"By the way, my name's Lilly Adams. Which way are you headed?" the girl asked.

"Brandon Stone. Pleased to meet you. I just need to get a way to the nearest town so I can call my dad. There's no cell service out here," he said.

"Are you from around here?" she asked.

"Yeah, sort of. I live in Piedmont," Brandon said, and Lilly smiled.

"Sweet. So what brings you over this way?" she asked.

"Just headed back home from a friend's house," Brandon said. That wasn't strictly true, of course, but he'd learned to be careful who he shared his _real_ business with.

A few minutes later they approached a truly magnificent old home set high up on the side of a hill, decked out in thousands of little white Christmas lights which twinkled prettily through the wind and the rain.

"That's my place, up there on the hill. If you want to, you can come in and use the phone there. It'll save some time," she offered. There was no reason to refuse, so Brandon nodded.

"Sure; thanks a lot. You really live up _there?"_ he asked, gesturing toward the house. It was a southern colonial, probably at least a hundred years old, with four white columns across the front and all sorts of fancy little trappings. It made him see the girl in a brand new light, knowing she lived in such a palace as that. No wonder she had such an expensive car.

"Yeah, I've only been here for a few months, though. Do you like it?" she asked.

"It's awesome, especially with all the lights," Brandon agreed, letting his admiration show. It never hurt to be gracious.

Lilly wheeled the Camaro onto a wide concrete slab in front of the three car garage and parked it as close to the front door as possible. Then she killed the engine.

"I'll be right back," she promised, holding up one finger. So Brandon sat in the car to wait, listening to the faint sound of the rain against the roof and wondering idly why she hadn't wanted him to come in right away.

_Maybe she wanted to stuff the potato chip bags under the couch cushions,_ he thought to himself, and smiled a little. He'd been known to do the same thing sometimes, when unexpected company showed up at the door. But he thought nothing of it beyond that, at least not till the girl came back outside with two men holding rifles. Then Brandon began to care very much what might be going on; all the more so when he found that his seat belt wouldn't unlatch. He was trapped, and there was no way out of it.

All he could do was sit there frozen while the two men came and yanked his door open. They didn't shoot him, but they were none too gentle, either. One of them put him in cuffs and leg irons while the other one aimed his gun right at Brandon's chest, and then finally they dragged him out of the car after cutting the seat belt loose. He was kicked and shoved into the house without apology or explanation, and he didn't dare fight back. The only weapon he had was his buck knife, and it would have been crazy to attack two gunmen with nothing but _that._ All he could do was bide his time and wait for a better opportunity.

His captors took even the knife away from him as soon as they got inside, and then patted him down to make sure he didn't have any other concealed weapons. Finally they forced him to sit down at one end of a grand dining room table built of heavy mahogany, while the rest of them took seats close together at the other end. Then for a little while they all studied him, as if curious. Bran looked back at them with no expression on his face, waiting to see what happened next.

"He's not quite what I expected," one of the men commented after a while, speaking to Lilly.

"Appearances can be deceptive, Craig. That boy has single-handedly undone half your work this year, and even more of Albert's. He's more dangerous than he looks," she said. Brandon allowed himself a brief moment of private satisfaction at that news, but he was careful not to let it show.

"You're _sure_ he's the right one?" Craig asked.

"Oh, I'm sure, all right. He's definitely the one," the girl said, as if that settled the matter beyond all doubt.

"All right then, sweetheart. We'll have to take your word for it," Craig said.

"Yes, you will," Lilly agreed.

"So what do we do with him, now that we've got him?" the one called Albert asked, speaking up for the first time. He was a somewhat older man with salt-and-pepper hair, who wouldn't have looked out of place in a business suit.

"We'll figure out all the specifics tomorrow, Albert. Do whatever you want with him tonight, and then lock him up till Prissy can get here. She's stuck in Atlanta tonight for a board meeting," the girl said.

"What a shame," Craig said dryly. The dislike in his voice was obvious, but Lilly ignored it.

"Anyway, I'm going to bed. It's been a long night," she said, getting up from her chair.

"So how bad can we hurt him?" Craig asked, and the words gave Brandon a cold chill.

"Just don't leave any permanent marks. He's too pretty for that," she said, and Brandon couldn't decide whether to be thankful, insulted, or terrified by such a statement. Or maybe all three at once.

Lilly walked right by him on her way out, trailed by a faint scent of jasmine perfume. She paused to run her fingers through his thick red hair and caress his left cheek, chuckling when he shrank back from the touch. And even though Craig and Albert were too far away to see it, he also noticed that she inhaled deeply as she stood there next to him, almost as if she liked the way he smelled. Maybe she did, for all he knew; the scent of Elysium still clung to him, although she hardly seemed the type to enjoy that faint reminder of all things bright and beautiful. She seemed more like a child of the Devil who ate charcoal for breakfast and then belched flames.

Then another possibility suddenly crystallized in his mind, one far more terrifying than anything he'd yet imagined. He was in _Georgia,_ after all, the home-in-exile of Layla Garza, the murderous witch who'd killed all those young men over the years. Bran hadn't thought of her in years, but now he remembered Cody's warning that she was exceptionally young and beautiful. Lilly was definitely _that,_ and she'd approached Brandon under strange circumstances, too. All that plus the situation at hand were enough to make him practically certain of his guess.

It was a horrifying revelation, and in spite of his determination to show no fear, he slipped and let a faint gasp escape his lips. Layla saw it and chuckled again, then leaned over close as if she meant to share some deep secret.

"It's not me you have to be afraid of, sugar," she whispered, and then brushed her lips ever so briefly against his ear, making him shiver. Whatever Layla might have meant by such a statement, it had the actual effect of filling him with even more dread than before. He might not have much to fear from _her,_ true enough. As far as he knew, her magic was still blocked by Cody's Guardian Stone at the bottom of the Brazos River. But her words only drew attention to the fact that he probably had plenty to fear from the others.

She smiled at him again, seeming to guess exactly what he was thinking, and then she was gone. The sound of her heels on the hardwood floor ended abruptly when she stepped off onto the luxuriant Persian rug in the front room.

"Remember, guys; no marks. Be gentle with him!" Layla called back, and the two men waved her off irritably.

That left him alone with Craig and Albert, who were both looking at him with predatory smiles which might have fit better on a wolf or a crocodile than a human being. Brandon had no idea what they meant to do with him and he was afraid to guess.

What they did was to chain him up to a pole in the basement and then strip him down to his boxers before lashing him with a bullwhip for at least a solid hour. It was by far the worst physical pain Brandon had ever suffered in his life, but he tried not to give his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing him scream or beg for mercy, knowing that it would only encourage them to keep going even longer. Nonetheless, he couldn't help letting out a groan or a soft cry sometimes, and he couldn't stop the tears from running down his face.

He bled quite a lot when the lashes broke skin, but his torturers were careful not to cause any deep or ragged injuries that might leave permanent marks, just as Layla had instructed them. Nevertheless, Brandon's back and even his arms and legs were a solid mass of gory stripes and bruises by the time they were done.

He couldn't walk or even stand by the time Craig and Albert finally got tired of lashing him, so they dragged him up two flights of stairs to another room before hurling him to the floor in a bloody, tear-stained heap. He heard the door slam shut behind him, and then Brandon found himself alone for the first time since the ordeal began.

As soon as he had the strength, he lifted his head to see what kind of place he was in. It seemed to be a spare bedroom, stripped almost completely bare except for a thin mattress on the slick hardwood floor, along with a pillow and a ratty blanket. There was a single window covered with iron bars, and a door that led into a small bathroom. In one corner lay two sleek Dobermans, staring at him with gimlet eyes. Brandon wondered if they were supposed to be guard dogs, and then decided he didn't much care. They made no move to get up or even growl, so he felt safe to ignore them for the time being.

He crawled slowly to the bathroom, and then struggled to his feet by grabbing the edge of the sink to pull himself up. Then he stood there breathing hard for a few minutes, lightheaded and clenching his eyes and teeth from pain. Blood was still running down his back in a few places, though he knew that wouldn't last very much longer. He could already feel the lashes beginning to itch as they healed, but that didn't keep them from hurting like the devil in the meantime.

Brandon wondered what these ghouls wanted with him. He had a strong suspicion that sooner or later they meant to kill him, after they had some fun for a little while. Nor was that impossible; anything that killed him faster than his body could heal would do the job quite nicely. Things like drowning, or a bullet to the heart, or maybe getting his head cut off. He was far from immortal.

He wasn't too keen on finding out what other afflictions they might have in mind for him in the meantime, either. Getting horse-whipped had been bad enough, and that was probably just the beginning. Sooner or later they'd notice how fast his injuries healed, and then there'd be almost no limit to the ocean of pain they could inflict on him. Brandon shivered, and the very thought of such a horrible fate was enough to make him start thinking about how to escape immediately.

He knew it wouldn't be easy. They had his phone, his keys, and even his boots and clothes. It was much too cold to go running down the highway or through the woods barefoot and half naked; he'd freeze before he made it anywhere. And even if he _did_ escape, that still didn't solve the problem of what might happen when they found him again, as they surely would eventually. He'd foolishly told Layla his name and even where he lived. How long would it take them to show up at his house with a machine gun next time?

No, he couldn't just escape and leave it at that. Somehow he had to take care of things once and for all, and that was a knotty problem indeed.

Brandon thought about the situation while he waited for his wounds to heal, and it didn't take long for him to decide that getting rid of the dogs had to be his top priority. He was sure they'd attack him if he tried to break out, and any kind of commotion like that would attract the jailers, too. That was the _last_ thing Brandon needed.

As soon as he felt strong enough, the very first thing he did was to ransack the room for anything at all that might be used as a weapon. Sadly, the pickings turned out to be slim at best; almost everything he could lay hands on was either made of flimsy plastic or else bolted down. There was nothing sharp, nor explosive, nor corrosive. In fact there wasn't even so much as a loose paperclip to be found in his entire cell. His captors had been awfully thorough about things like that, it seemed.

They _had_ been generous enough to provide him with basic toiletry items, at least. He had a toothbrush and toothpaste, a small bar of soap like the ones you might find in a motel, and even a disposable safety razor, but it was hard to see how any of those items could be reworked into a miracle weapon. He had to try, though, so he started thinking about all those prison movies he'd watched in Saint Petersburg, and what kinds of tools and weapons the inmates had been able to come up with using bits and pieces like that. He finally decided there was only one thing that he might be able to duplicate.

He was betting on the toothbrush. He _might_ be able to carve a shank from the plastic handle, and then with a little luck he could use it against the dogs. He'd always heard (in those same movies) that if you stabbed someone between the ribs and punctured a lung then they couldn't scream, so surely the same thing applied to dogs, didn't it? If he could kill the Dobermans without giving them a chance to bark, then he might have a pretty good shot at breaking out.

It was worth a try.
Chapter Twenty

Brandon crept to the bathroom again, this time to grab his toothbrush and razor from beside the sink. Then he sat back down on his bedroll and got to work.

The house was silent as death except for the faint _scratch scratch_ of metal against plastic as he slowly sharpened the tip of his toothbrush like a pencil. The razor turned out to be an almost worthless tool for whittling, but persistence paid off in the end. It was several hours before he could prick his finger with the finished shank and draw blood, but the moment _did_ arrive. His back was almost completely healed from the whipping by then, so it was time to get started.

Brandon stood up, gripping his weapon tightly. One of the dogs was asleep in front of the bedroom door, and the other had found a spot for itself below the window. That might have been something they were trained to do, but in this case it chimed perfectly with Bran's strategy. He inched his way closer to the one by the door till it was right by his feet, sprawled out on its side like a flounder with its chest rising and falling gently as it slept.

Brandon offered a silent prayer, and then with a single hard thrust he plunged his makeshift dagger right between the dog's ribs. It went in nearly all the way up to the bristles before he yanked it back out again, just like he'd seen in the movies. The animal flopped and flailed like a headless chicken for a few seconds, and then expired with a shuddery sigh.

Bran let out a sigh of his own; it had been even easier than he thought.

Then a low growl startled him. He turned his head just in time to see the second dog getting up from beside the window, sniffing the air with bared teeth. The place was full of the coppery scent of fresh blood, and Bran watched the hackles on the dog's neck rise as the smell intensified. It might not understand exactly what was going on, but it knew _something_ wasn't right.

All of a sudden the dog began to bark wildly, shattering the silence. Brandon grabbed his blanket and dived on top of the creature in desperation, trying to wrap it up in the muffling cloth before it could wake the dead with its barking.

The Doberman was quick as a cat, but the slick hardwood floor kept it from getting any traction, while the blanket helped to clog the action of its teeth and claws. That didn't keep Brandon from getting bitten at least half a dozen times, but it did keep him from getting killed. He threw his weight on top of the dog to hold it down with one arm around its neck while he stabbed it to death through the blanket with his toothbrush, causing little red flowers to bud and grow all over the baby blue fabric. Finally the animal stopped moving, while Brandon lay on the floor panting for breath and bleeding profusely for the second time in one night.

Seconds later the light flipped on.

"Now what a waste," Layla said regretfully, and Brandon froze at the sound of her voice. She stood at the door in a filmy green silk nightgown, surveying the dead dogs and holding a snub-nosed revolver in her right hand. She had dark hair and pale skin, like the Spaniards of New Mexico from whence she came; a beautiful shell for such a wicked soul.

"That was cruel, you know. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself," she scolded, and Brandon couldn't think of single appropriate answer to such a statement. She didn't seem to notice the missing stripes on his back, maybe since he was covered in fresh blood from the dog bites. Otherwise she might have been more suspicious, and Brandon silently thanked God for small mercies.

"We'll have to have a nice little chat about this in the morning, I'm afraid. Prissy won't be pleased when she hears what you did to her dear little puppies. In the meantime I suggest you go back to bed and behave yourself. Craig and Albert will be standing guard outside in the hall for the rest of the night just in case you get any more bright ideas, and I warn you they're gonna be _really_ unhappy about that. I might be too, if you make me have to get up twice tonight," Layla said, and all the while the muzzle of the gun remained centered on Brandon's heart. He still said nothing, and finally she nodded.

"All right then. Good night, sweetie; see you in the morning!" Layla said. She flipped off the bedroom light before twirling on one bare heel and leaving the room without another word, leaving Brandon alone with the dead dogs. He heard the cold _snick_ of the lock being turned into place, and then the sound of Layla singing good-humoredly to herself all the way down the hall on her way back to bed.

A little while later he heard voices outside the door, no doubt Craig and Albert settling in for guard duty. They seemed irritated about it from the tone of their conversation; Brandon certainly hoped so. If causing his captors a little inconvenience was the best he could do, then that was better than nothing.

Still, he spent the next few hours in abject misery, first from the painful dog bites and then from lack of sleep combined with the knowledge that he was quickly running out of time. At one point he saw headlights pulling into the driveway, and then came the sound of a door opening and shutting somewhere downstairs. No doubt the mysterious Prissy had finally arrived, and for a while Brandon was afraid she might show up to deal with him immediately over her dear little puppies. She must have decided to wait till morning, though, because soon the house grew quiet and still once more.

Not long before sunrise, Bran felt ready to make another effort at breaking free. His bites were healed by then, and he hadn't heard any noises or conversation from the hallway in quite a while. Hopefully that meant Craig and Albert were asleep.

He still had the bloody shank, so Brandon retrieved it before silently approaching the bedroom door. The lock was ancient, as might be expected in such an old house, with a keyhole big enough to look through. His captors must not have cared too much about that, maybe thinking the dogs were good enough to keep a severely beaten boy under control till morning came. And they probably would have been correct, if that boy had been anyone else but Brandon. As it was they'd underestimated him, and that was his only asset.

He tried to fit the sharpened tip of the toothbrush into the keyhole, only to find that it was too bulky to fit. He needed something longer and thinner to use for a lock picking tool, so he sharpened the plastic a bit more, his palms slick with sweat as he worked. Time was frittering away.

Then he tried it again, and this time the slender plastic broke off inside the lock. A cold thread of fear ran through Brandon's heart, and it took almost twenty minutes before he was finally able to pull out the tiny stub. He didn't dare make a blunder like that again.

Then inspiration hit. The dead dogs both had metal buckles on their collars, and with a little luck those ought to be the perfect shape and size for a makeshift burglar's tool. Brandon snatched the nearest collar and got to work immediately, using the tongue of the buckle to manipulate the tumblers inside the old door lock, just as Lana had done at the pharmacy in Estonia. It was a lot harder than she'd made it look, but at last he heard a small metallic _click_ inside the lock, and when he turned the knob it opened.

Brandon had to suppress a shout of joy at that; he wasn't out of the woods yet by any means. He still had to deal with his captors.

He slowly cracked the door, peering out into the shadowy hall. Craig and Albert were sitting against the far wall with their heads slumped over to the side, obviously asleep. Fine guards _they_ made, Brandon thought scornfully. The lashing they'd given him earlier was still fresh and vivid in his memory, and he felt a hot surge of hatred rise up in his throat at the sight of them. Revenge might be a deadly sin, but he'd seldom in his life wanted to bust somebody's head open quite so much.

But no, in this case there was a better way. He couldn't have done it earlier without getting shot in the process, but finding Craig and Albert snoozing like that gave Brandon a golden opportunity to settle permanently with those two.

He tiptoed closer, until he stood right in front of them. Then slowly, with utmost care, he reached out the first finger of each hand to touch the two men in the middle of their foreheads.

"May you forget all the days of your life and the thoughts of your heart ever since you first chose to walk in evil," Brandon whispered, and then exerted his power to make it so. His hands grew warm, as they always did, and as he watched, Craig and Albert fell into a deep slumber of forgetfulness. When they woke up they wouldn't remember a shred of their entire wicked lives, like hitting the reset button on a stopwatch. Whether they chose to live differently from then on or not was an open question, but they certainly wouldn't be doing any more evil for a very long time. That was the greatest kindness he could give to such people.

Then he stood up, no longer interested in those two. Craig's pistol lay on the floor next to his right hand, so Brandon picked it up. He fully intended to wipe out Prissy's memory also, as soon as he could find her. But Layla was protected from anything like that by the same Guardian Stone that blocked her own magic, since Brandon's power was every bit as supernatural as any other kind. Cody was fond of saying that God never broke His own rules or contradicted Himself, so if the Stone was made in such a way as to block all supernatural powers, then Bran would have no choice but to abide by that same rule himself.

That meant he was going to have to kill her, and he didn't know if he had the strength.

The staircase to the ground floor was somewhere off to the right, shrouded in darkness. He didn't need to go that way, though. When Layla had left him earlier, after he killed the dogs, he'd heard her humming and singing as she went back to bed, and she'd definitely gone left along the shadowy hallway. Her bedroom had to be somewhere in that direction, and he hoped Prissy might be somewhere in the same vicinity. With any luck he might even catch both women asleep, the same way he'd done with Craig and Albert.

The soft shag carpet muffled the sound of his footsteps, and he kept his breathing as light as possible. There turned out to be six other doors along the passage, all of them shut fast, and at the very end was a brass plant stand with a fake mother-in-law's tongue sitting beneath a tiny round window.

Brandon touched the knob of the nearest door, and then instantly jerked his hand back when it shocked him. But nothing else happened, and he soon realized it was only static electricity from the carpet. He took a deep breath and gripped the knob for a second time, turning it with excruciating slowness so he wouldn't make any noise. Then he barely cracked the door just enough to see through.

It was a spare bedroom.

Bran stifled a snort. He couldn't imagine what kind of guests a human ghoul like Layla Garza might ever have, but the room's purpose was obvious. It had that unmistakable scent of old mothballs and musty linen. There was nothing he cared about in there.

He moved on to the next room, where he found an empty but rumpled bed which he supposed had been either Craig's or Albert's before they had to come out in the hall for guard duty.

There were loud snores coming from behind the third door, so Brandon was even more wary than usual as he turned the knob. Not that it mattered much, of course; the person in _that_ room probably wouldn't have heard anything even if he'd blown the door off its hinges with a bazooka.

Heavy drapes made it almost completely dark inside, so Brandon had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he crept to the bed. In the dim light he saw a frowsy middle-aged woman with curlers in her hair, and wondered if this could be the fearsome Prissy. It was hard to imagine who else it might be, but nevertheless he had to make certain. He touched his finger to her forehead just as he'd done with the two men, and sure enough, he could feel the wickedness in her soul like a swarm of stinging flies. So he wiped her memory clean as well, and then left her alone.

The next door he tried revealed a set of cobwebby stairs leading up to the attic; an old and unused set, by the look of them. He had no interest there.

The last door he knew at once was Layla's. It had a big Hollywood star plastered on it with her name done in fancy script with pink rhinestones. He hadn't seen it in the shadows until he came close.

He was horribly nervous now that the moment of truth had come, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound. But the house was quiet as the grave, except for the beating of his own heart in his ears.

Brandon cracked the door open a fraction of an inch, and then a little more, and finally slipped into Layla's boudoir. It was one of the richest rooms he'd ever seen, soft and inviting in a hundred little ways, full of velvet and silks and lace. It wasn't dark in there, either; a huge window threw a block of silver moonlight on the center of the floor which lit up the whole room. He noticed a set of car keys hanging on a nail beside the door, but he didn't take them right away. That could wait.

The room was dominated by a huge four-poster bed with a frilly canopy and lace curtains, and Brandon could barely make out a pale white shape and hear soft breathing. Layla.

He crept to her side and parted the creamy lace curtains, the faint scent of jasmine wafting out all around him. She was lying on top of the watered silk comforter, even more beautiful by moonlight than she'd been earlier. For a long time he simply couldn't tear his eyes away, but then he told himself sternly to get a grip.

Brandon lifted the pistol to aim it right at her chest, his finger trembling on the trigger. One little twitch would still that cruel black heart forever. It was only justice, after all the evil she'd done.

Then she spoke.

"Brandon," she said clearly, startling him almost out of his skin. He jumped back without thinking and almost dropped the pistol, though he soon recovered himself and stood his ground. But still he didn't fire.

Small sounds came from the bed; the whisper of silk and lace, a faint indrawn breath. She was getting up. Seconds later she stood before him, gowned in silver moonlight and more breathtakingly lovely than he'd ever imagined any human being could be. His throat was dry and he could barely hold the gun steady. She didn't smile.

"Finish what you started, boy," Layla said quietly, meeting his eyes.

But he didn't have it in him to be a cold-blooded killer, after all, and perhaps she knew it. She took a slow step forward, and then another, and he retreated until his back was pressed up against the wall and he could go no farther.

"Stop!" Brandon ordered in a harsh voice, jabbing the pistol at her, but she only smiled. Step by step Layla advanced until the barrel of the gun rested right above her heart, seemingly not fearful at all that he might still shoot her.

"I told you there's nothing to be afraid of from _me,"_ she reminded him, and even though he didn't believe her for a second, the words eroded the sharp edge of his fear and added a cool drop of uncertainty to the pool of his heart. She had no weapon, and no sorcery anymore, and he could easily overpower her in a fistfight if it came to that. It was true she couldn't really hurt him under the circumstances. Perhaps if she hadn't appeared so young and so incredibly beautiful then he never would have listened even partially. But she did, and his heart betrayed him.

Layla reached out one soft hand to touch his bare chest and run her fingers lightly across his skin, and Brandon shivered, just as he had when her lips brushed his ear in the dining room. She pushed closer until he lowered the gun to his side and her warm body was pressed full-length against him. One hand slipped around to play with the hair on the back of his head, then drew him gently closer. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes half closed.

"I've dreamed of this for a long time. Don't tell me you haven't, too," Layla whispered as she breathed in his ear. Brandon couldn't say the words, knowing it would be a lie if he did, and he felt her lips move into a smile against the nape of his neck. He _had_ dreamed of such things. Quite often, actually, as young men usually did. Bran was no exception, and as her kisses moved to the soft hollow of his throat, it threatened to drive every other thought from his mind.

But not quite.

On the day that you even so much as kiss another girl in yearning, the bond between you will be broken forever and you'll never be able to wake her. You could easily end up breaking your own heart in a moment of weakness if you aren't careful.

Brother Manchin's words came to mind with sudden, startling clarity. Brandon knew he was teetering on the very edge of catastrophe; a single kiss could rob him of everything he held dear. But he also knew that in a very few seconds he might not have the strength to turn away.

And along with that came another unwelcome thought; that Cody had been forbidden to kill this very same woman, even under much worse circumstances.

He still had the gun, clutched almost forgotten in his right hand. With a silent prayer he gripped the weapon tightly, and then struck Layla in the temple with all the force he could muster. She never saw it coming. Her body slumped to the floor with a soft thud and a sigh, leaving Brandon breathing hard and trembling. It wasn't till then that he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. He dashed them away with his hands and fled, pausing only to grab the car keys.

His clothes and other items were still in a pile on the floor beside the bloody whipping post, and he quickly got dressed before heading out into the frosty pre-dawn silence. Moments later the custom Camaro roared down the steep drive, the sound of its engine slowly fading until nothing could be heard but the cold whisper of morning wind on the hilltop.

Chapter Twenty-One

For several weeks Brandon was hyper-watchful, half expecting a squad of thugs to show up at his house at any time. He barely slept, and when he went to school or baseball practice he often wished for a third eye in the back of his head. But nothing ever happened, so after a while he finally started to relax just a bit.

Then came a cold and rainy Saturday in late February.

Brandon was home alone while Crush worked an extra day at the mill, a fairly common thing on weekends. Bran's opinion of his father had softened over time, to the point that he didn't really resent him all that much anymore. Crush did work hard, and he liked to fish and to read poetry, and he had a pretty good sense of humor. He was basically okay to live with, as long as you didn't argue with him and he got his own way all the time. Brandon had learned to go with the flow on the surface and then do as he liked privately; an arrangement which kept friction to a minimum.

Besides which, Bran could afford to be generous for a little while. Graduation was only three months away, and after that he'd be back in Texas anyway.

He was fiddling with his electric guitar that afternoon, practicing for church the next morning while he had the house all to himself and the sound wouldn't bother anybody. When the doorbell rang he was completely absorbed in _Amazing Love, Amazing_ _Grace,_ with his eyes shut and the amplifier turned up quite a bit higher than Crush would ever have allowed if he'd been at home. Brandon liked the way the beat felt against his skin, almost like he was swimming in the music instead of just listening to it.

He almost didn't hear the doorbell at first, but then set aside his guitar and hurried to see who was there. It was too early for Crush to be home, and he couldn't imagine who else it might be. They seldom had company.

He was still wary of thugs, too, so he left the chain in place and only cracked the door a bit at first, just in case. Sure enough, standing right there on the doorstep was Layla Garza herself. She looked haggard and worn, as if life had been hard on her since the last time they met, and she seemed to be alone.

Brandon's jaw dropped in shock, even though a part of him had been ready for that very thing. He immediately started to shut the door, but she put her hand against the jamb.

"Please. I'm not here to cause trouble. I only want to talk to you," Layla pleaded, and after a brief hesitation he allowed the door to open up again.

"What do you want?" Brandon asked suspiciously.

"I want to know why you spared me," Layla said.

"What do you mean?" Brandon asked.

"You destroyed Craig, and Albert and Prissy, too. They were three of the greatest _vrachoi_ in this part of the country, and now the others are all cowering in fear of you. They think I must somehow be friends with you or else I never could have survived what happened at Christmas. None of them will ever trust me again. Without them I don't have anything, not even a place to sleep at night. You know I can't hurt you; please tell me why you did this," Layla said, and Brandon reluctantly decided it couldn't do any harm to speak to her. He glanced around to make sure she was really and truly alone, and then undid the chain to let the door open completely.

"You better come inside then. It's too cold and wet to stand out there on the doorstep," he said, standing aside to let her in. The words came out a bit gruff, but he spoke as kindly as he could find it in his heart to speak to such a person. Vicious killers weren't high on his list of people to be sympathized with.

"Thank you," Layla said, slipping inside to take a seat on the leather couch. Brandon shut the door behind her and then sat down himself in the overstuffed chair beside the TV.

"Before we talk about anything else, there are some things _I_ want to know first," he said abruptly.

"What would you like to know? I have nothing to lose anymore by telling you," Layla said, shrugging slightly.

"Well, to start with, what's a _vrachoi?"_ Brandon asked.

"I think you'd call them followers of evil. Those who seek after dark and forbidden things of all kinds. Sometimes simply those who take pleasure in cruelty," Layla said.

"I see," Brandon said.

"There are lots of people who only dabble in such things, and then there are others who control entire regions and command all those lesser than themselves. My brother Andrew was one of the greatest _vrachoi_ of his generation; he was a sorcerer, and a brilliant scientist, and other things, too. So for his sake the others let me roam wherever I liked. Prissy was the most powerful sorceress in Georgia and a close friend of our family. She took me in after Andrew was killed and my own magic was lost," Layla said.

Brandon remembered a few stray facts about Andrew Garza from what Cody had said, and from what little he knew, Layla seemed to be speaking the truth. That was good to know, even though he still didn't trust her.

"What about Craig and Albert?" Brandon asked.

"Craig was the top crime boss in Birmingham, and Albert was the mayor of Huntsville. You did a lot of harm to them and their people before we captured you, and to Prissy, too. That's why they were the ones who came to the house and no others. They meant to kill you, _personally,_ and no one can understand why they failed. So now the other _vrachoi_ of this region are afraid of you, as I said. They think you must be incredibly powerful and dangerous, even though they can't figure out who you are. They said it's like you have a wall around you, blocking them from finding out anything. The only reason Prissy and I discovered that you were the one meddling in our affairs was because I spotted you fighting with one of our drug distributors in Atlanta," Layla said.

"I thought Prissy was a sorceress, not a drug dealer," Brandon said.

"She was, but you'd be surprised how well those two things work together. Prissy liked to make money just as well as the next girl," Layla said.

"I see," Brandon repeated. He supposed if a person were powerful, unscrupulous, and didn't mind indulging in murder once in a while, then the drug trade was probably an excellent way to make lots of money. The perfect business for a sorceress who enjoyed the high life, no doubt.

"Anyway, I was able to get the license plate numbers from your truck that day, and once we had _those_ we were able to confirm who you were and where you lived. I don't believe I've ever seen Prissy so infuriated. She was determined to kill you herself at that point, so we started watching for a good opportunity to waylay you. She bought that big remote house along the route you usually took on your way home from Atlanta, and then she had me follow you one night when we knew you didn't have a spare. I was able to plant a small explosive device inside the rim of your tire while you stopped for gas in Cedartown, and then when you were safely out in the wilderness I detonated it by remote control to give you a blowout," Layla explained.

"And then _you_ were there to kindly give me a lift," Brandon said wryly.

"Yes, and Craig and Albert were alerted even before you left the city. They had plenty of time to arrive at the house and get ready," Layla agreed.

"Sounds like a precision operation," Brandon muttered.

"Things like that always are. It's foolish to leave anything to chance," Layla agreed.

"So why didn't you just come to my house and set off a bomb or something like that? Seems like it would've been simpler," Brandon said.

"No doubt it would have been. But as I said before, Prissy wanted to kill you personally. She wanted to do it at her leisure, to make it last a long time and enjoy every minute of pain she could wring out of you. So did Craig and Albert, and they paid handsomely for the privilege to take part. Bombing your house wouldn't have been satisfying enough," Layla said coolly, and Brandon swallowed hard at the fate he'd so narrowly escaped.

"I'm surprised one of them didn't just capture me or put a bullet in my head next time they caught me in Birmingham or Huntsville, then. They sure didn't seem to like Prissy very much, from what I remember. Why would they pay her if they didn't have to?" Brandon asked.

"They had no choice. Information is power, and only fools waste it by talking too much. A loose tongue is like tossing fistfuls of dollars into the garbage disposal every time you walk by. Wise people learn quickly to reveal nothing except when absolutely necessary. Prissy and I told no one about you. Craig and Albert knew only that you were the enemy we'd been searching for; nothing more. Nor have I mentioned your name or anything else about you to the other _vrachoi_ I've spoken with since Christmas," Layla said.

"Okay, so why are you giving _me_ all this information, if that's the case?" Brandon asked.

"Because it's the only coin I have left at this point. If I answer your questions, then I hope you'll answer mine," Layla said, and it was impossible to doubt the truth of _that,_ at least. Her honesty was disarming, and Brandon had to remind himself once again not to trust her for an instant.

"All right, I can understand that. But I still have to wonder why you didn't tell those other _vrachoi_ about me. You probably could have won back some trust if you'd ratted me out," Brandon asked skeptically.

"Perhaps. But I knew they'd gang up and kill you immediately if I told them anything, and _they_ wouldn't have played cat and mouse games like Prissy did, either. They were already afraid of you at that point, so they would have used the fastest, harshest methods they could think of to make sure you ended up dead. I didn't want that to happen," Layla said, to which Bran couldn't help raising an eyebrow.

"You could have fooled me. You sure didn't seem to have a problem with hurting or killing me at Christmas. You told Craig and Albert to do whatever they wanted with me," Brandon reminded her.

"Yes, but that was before I touched you and smelled your scent," Layla said, looking down.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Brandon asked.

"Perhaps you already know that my sorcery allowed me to drink the life of a young man and stay young and beautiful forever while he got old and died within a few years. That's why I still look as young as I do. My magic is gone now, but I can still taste that life deep inside whenever I kiss a man, even though I can't take it from him anymore. It's hard to explain what it's like to someone who doesn't already know, but the life of each person has a flavor of its own. With most of them there's always a bitter aftertaste, like drinking tea with too much saccharine. But not with you. Do you remember when I kissed your ear in the dining room?" Layla asked.

"Yeah, what about it?" Brandon asked, not liking the reminder.

"I could taste you then. It's hard to explain, but the life inside you is. . . sweet. Clean, like pure water with a bit of sugar added. I've only tasted that flavor once before, long ago when I was young, but even then it was never as strong as it is with you. And then there's that _smell_ about you, something wild and heady but almost too faint to catch. I thought I noticed it when we first met on the highway that night, but I wasn't sure till I could get close enough to touch you and breathe deeply, right before I went to bed. The combination is almost intoxicating; the most irresistible thing I've ever encountered. I can still catch a trace of it now and then, even sitting here across the table like this. So I didn't want them to kill you anymore after that, but there was only so much I could do at that point," Layla said.

Her words reminded him poignantly of what Lana had said about the reason she loved him most of all, and that hurt more than he liked to think about, even after all this time.

"Do you really expect me to believe you were trying to help me?" Brandon asked, pained by the memory. But Layla simply shrugged.

"I never said I was, except maybe incidentally. But I _did_ want to ask you what it is that makes your soul so full of brightness, why you smell like love itself. I couldn't ask you those things if you were dead, or even badly hurt," Layla pointed out.

"That's true," Brandon admitted.

"After you destroyed Prissy and the others, I had a lot of time to think about what happened that night. I'm sorry for the way I behaved. At the time I was so enthralled with that taste and smell of yours that I mistook what it was I really wanted. In hindsight I can see that it was never like that at all. Touching you feels different, like a kiss from my father when I was very small. Only sweetness, only strength which I can never come to the end of. Why? What is it that makes you so different? And why did you let me go when you could have killed me or made me like Prissy?" Layla asked, bringing his mind back to the issue at hand. Brandon had no inclination to beat around the bush, so he spoke the truth bluntly.

"I don't know if you'll believe me," he said, and she shrugged.

"Try me. I think I could believe almost anything right now," Layla said.

"All right, then. Two years ago I visited a place called Elysium. It's a land where the sun shines forever in a blue and cloudless sky, where the rocks are full of light, and beauty lives in every flower and blade of grass. It smells just like what you talked about, and they told me the fragrance of that place would cling to me for the rest of my life. It's a shadow of the scent of heaven, and a faint reminder of God. So if that's what your heart really yearns for, then you should come to Him and be whole. Nothing less will ever be enough," Brandon said, using every bit of his newfound charm to make her listen.

For a very long time she was silent.

"Even if that were true, I don't think God would want anything to do with me at this point," Layla finally said.

"Yes, He would. That's the reason I let you go, actually. God loves you and He's forbidden anybody to hurt you," Brandon said, and Layla's eyes widened for a second.

"I don't believe that," she said flatly, and Brandon shrugged.

"It doesn't really matter whether you believe it or not. I know for a fact that it's true. He called you His daughter and asked us to bless you. I was there when it happened," Brandon said.

"But why would He do that? I've hated Him, fought Him, done everything I could to oppose Him. I've been a _vracha_ ever since I was a child," Layla said.

"That doesn't mean you can't change your mind, does it? Human beings always have a choice," Brandon pointed out.

"I don't know," Layla said, looking away.

"I know He's given you dreams," Brandon said softly, and her dark eyes narrowed at that.

"Do you, now?" she asked, her face revealing nothing. But Brandon was on firm ground when he talked about _that_ subject. He shut his eyes to pray silently, and the vision of her dreams that he saw in his mind's eye appalled him.

"You've been having nightmares, full of blood and pain. You see the faces of every person you ever hurt, and you feel exactly what they felt as they died. They've been tormenting you almost every night since Christmas. I'm so sorry," Brandon said, feeling a wave of compassion for her.

He supposed in a way it was only simple justice, that she should have to pay for all the evil she'd done in the world. And maybe compared to what her victims had suffered it was barely a drop in the bucket. Still, it was hard for him to endure.

"Then you know some of the terrible things I've done," Layla said, watching his face.

"Yes, but wouldn't you like to be forgiven for all that? To be free of it forever? There's nothing you could ever do which is so terrible that God can't forgive it. He's standing there in heaven right now, just waiting to run throw His arms around you and cover you in kisses, to forget all the evil you've ever done and give you all the deepest desires of your heart. All you have to do is ask," Brandon said.

He wasn't totally sure if something like that would appeal to the woman or not. No doubt she'd suffered a lot recently, and he knew that on some level her heart still yearned for the fragrance of Elysium. But it remained to be seen whether God could take such a feeble spark and blow it into flame.

"You wouldn't say that, if you knew the rest of it," Layla said.

"What's the rest of it?" Brandon asked, uncertain what she was talking about.

"We also did _you_ wrong, long before Christmas," Layla said.

"Like how? You didn't even know me then," Brandon said.

"Not personally, no. But I definitely knew your sister and her husband. I hated them for destroying my sorcery, and I was determined to get revenge for that. I wanted them to suffer, but it took a while to figure out a good way to make that happen. I was afraid to move against them too directly, and Prissy wouldn't help me with anything which might have endangered her own position. But when I discovered how much they loved _you,_ then it became obvious how I could hurt them in a more subtle way, by hurting you instead," Layla said.

Brandon recalled that Dr. Anderson had warned them about that very thing at one point, even though nobody had taken it very seriously at the time. Now he wished they had.

"But what did you ever do to _me?"_ Brandon asked, trying to think of anything that hadn't been his own fault or that of others. But Layla was looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face.

"We were careful to make sure you never knew. Prissy helped me by spying on you with her sorcery, and I personally recruited two boys on your football team for that same purpose. I needed to find out what your weaknesses might be, what kinds of lies you might wish to believe if you heard them at the right time. Things like that. Most people can eventually be lured into committing the foulest offenses imaginable, provided the trap is baited sweetly enough. Many a saint has been destroyed by thinking himself immune to sin. Or perhaps you've heard the story of the Pied Piper, who lured the children of Hamelin into the forest with music and laughter and fun, and then viciously murdered every last one of them as soon as they were beyond help. The work of a _vracha_ is very much like that. One must always be careful to hide the sting inside a pretty wrapping, to beguile the victim until it's too late. It required a lot of patient stealth and planning, but finally we found an opportunity to set you up," she said.

"Which two boys was it?" Brandon asked, partly because her cool and matter-of-fact discussion of evil made him ill at ease. He could think of several possibilities, some of them more likely than others. But Layla only shrugged.

"Jason Lewis and Bobby Jones. But you shouldn't blame them too much. They were young and easy to corrupt, by a _vracha_ who knew her business. You see, Jason wanted desperately to believe that a beautiful girl could find him attractive, so I carefully stoked and fed that wish until he was putty in my hands. Bobby was tired of being poor and yearned after all the things that money can give, a thirst which made him even easier to control than Jason. They never stood a chance against me, even with no magic," Layla said. There was no pride in her voice, just a simple statement of fact.

After he got over the initial surge of fury at such a betrayal, Brandon supposed she probably had a point. Jason and Bobby had always been fairly shallow and thoughtless individuals, with both feet planted firmly in the world. They were fun to hang out with sometimes as long as you didn't mind the lack of depth, so Bran had always shrugged it off and made allowances. In hindsight, it didn't really surprise him that somebody like Layla could have ensnared them for her own purposes.

"So what did you finally do?" Brandon asked, unnerved by the revelation that so much manipulation and deceit had been going on behind his back for so long.

"After you won the game at White Oak, we knew you'd be in a good mood and therefore easier to influence. I told Bobby to arrange a party immediately, even before the bus left Tyler, and I specifically told Jason to invite you and what arguments to use. You crave love and approval, so that was how we baited our hook, by leading you to believe you were pleasing your friends. Then I went to the party myself to ensure that everything went smoothly," Layla said.

"But why? What did you think you'd accomplish with something like that? Embarrass me?" Brandon asked. Now that she mentioned it, he _did_ remember seeing her at the party, and even wondering briefly how Jason ever managed to snag such a pretty girl. But he hadn't thought anything of it at the time, and there'd been an awful lot of water under the bridge since then. No wonder she'd looked vaguely familiar when he saw her on the highway at Christmas.

"No. We planned to have you arrested for drugs after we called the police later on. We'd already arranged to have Bobby plant a large package of methamphetamines under your truck seat and then tell the police you were there to sell them. Jason was available to back up his story if need be, as a second witness against you. But then I saw that you'd brought your girlfriend along, so Prissy and I thought of something to make it even better at that point," Layla said.

"Like what?" Brandon asked. He simply couldn't get over Jason and Bobby's almost bottomless perfidy. They were supposed to be his _friends,_ for God's sake, and yet they'd betrayed him in ways that no honorable person would ever dream of. The sting of broken trust was almost worse than any scheme they could have plotted. Bran hardly wanted to imagine what sort of cruel and despicable plan might seem "even better" in the eyes of such wicked people.

"I told you Prissy is a powerful sorceress. You were drunk already, and so was your girlfriend; that gave us exactly the opening we needed. I poured a vial of poison into your drinks, to make you both irresistible to one another and to ensure that she became pregnant. You even saw me do it, if you remember. I told you it was cherry flavoring, and you were too drunk to give it a second thought. It would have been the perfect add-on, you see. You would have been in prison, and your girlfriend would have been sent home in shame to face her father alone. Best of all, the whole series of events was similar enough to a lie your sister once agreed to tell Cody on my behalf that both of them would have known immediately who was responsible, even though it would have been far too late to help you by then. They would have seen that it was purely vengeance, and it would have broken their hearts to know that your life was ruined at least partly because of them. The guilt and pain on all sides would have been sweeter than honey," Layla said.

For a while Brandon was speechless at that. It reminded him of something else Cody had said, about how the Garzas loved the taste of pain in all its forms. Bran had no reason to like or trust this woman in the first place, but the idea that she hated him enough to do such terrible things was almost incomprehensible. What had he ever done to deserve such a thing?

The answer was obvious, of course; he hadn't done anything at all. Layla hated him simply because Cody and Lisa loved him, and what kind of defense could he possibly make for _that?_

She never would have had the opportunity to hurt him in the first place if it hadn't been for his own foolish choices, of course; he couldn't lay _all_ the blame on her. But still, she'd definitely twisted everything to her own advantage and in the process caused him more pain than he'd ever thought possible.

Nevertheless, _something_ must not have gone according to plan, or else he would have been sitting out a lengthy drug sentence somewhere in a Texas prison at that very moment.

"But the cops never came," Brandon finally managed to say.

"No. The plan didn't work out quite the way we hoped. Bobby's brother Tommy stole the drugs we meant to put in your truck, so then there wasn't much point in calling the police anymore. At that point we decided the most entertaining option would be to stand back and watch everything unravel in slow motion, so to speak. We expected you to abandon your girlfriend when you found out about the baby, or at least that both of you would turn bitter and angry at each other. But instead you stayed together and even started to love the child. Prissy was _livid_ at that point, so finally she lost patience and cursed the baby with death," Layla said.

"You tried to kill Stephen?" Brandon asked numbly, wondering how much worse this story could possibly get.

"Yes, we slated him to die on the same day as Blake McGrath, as a final swipe at Cody if he ever happened to find out. We didn't know if you and the girl would manage to keep the secret that long, of course, but it was entertaining to think you might. It didn't really matter anymore after that beautiful meltdown in January when everything fell to pieces like a leisurely train wreck. Prissy and I watched with her crystal ball while you and the girl broke up, and then everything that happened to you at school for the next few days. We laughed till we cried. But that was the end of things as far as we were concerned. The girl was gone, and we soon found out your father meant to take you away, too. You were no more use to us after that, especially when we saw that your father meant to cut off all contact with Cody and Lisa. We were both getting tired of dealing with you by then, anyway. It's not much fun to torment people who don't react the right way, and besides that, I'd finally cooled off enough to decide I had better things to do than spend the rest of my life getting payback for an old grudge. It was enough at that point. So we never paid you any more mind after that, at least not till you started causing trouble in Atlanta," Layla said.

"But. . ." Brandon said, and then trailed off again. In spite of all the cruelty and corruption he'd seen the past few years, he couldn't think of a single thing to say to something like _this._ Maybe it was because none of those other things he'd seen had been directed at him personally, and this had been a deliberate attempt to destroy everything he loved and held dear. An attempt which had very nearly succeeded several times, and the cost of which he'd still be paying for years yet. Prissy and Layla must have written him off not long after the letter came from his father's lawyer in Tyler, right about the time when he'd been contemplating the idea that even death might be better than the misery of living. It had been the darkest, slimiest pit of black depression he'd ever experienced in his life, when there seemed to be no hope at all for the future. No wonder his secret enemies had decided he was no more use to them.

He wanted to kick Layla out at that point, and then maybe punch a few holes in the wall while he cursed her and cried. But just as he'd done in the bedroom at Christmas, he remembered once again the words of Brother Manchin.

Your tears are not without purpose. When people see that you hold fast to God and praise Him in the midst of your troubles, then He is shown to be righteous and true in the eyes of the nations, in a way which could never otherwise happen. We suffer as the Lord did, and for much the same reason; that the blind should see the light. You're never more like Christ than when you suffer, and it's often at times like that when you draw men closer to Him by your example, without even realizing what you're doing.

Brandon stared silently at Layla, and then thought of what Lana had told him on the lake, about how she didn't think they could ever have been together if none of these awful things had ever happened. If Prissy and Layla had never attacked him, then Lana would have gone home to Vyborg at the end of the school year right on schedule. There would have been no party after the game at White Oak, no drugs, no poison in the drinks, no shame and humiliation, no gangs or imprisonment, no nothing at all. Just the same calm and mostly tranquil life Brandon had always thought he wanted.

But then again, there would have been no Stephen, either. There would have been no visit to the Fountain of Youth in Elysium, no new home for Tatya and Vlad, no promise that someday Brandon could have all the desires of his heart if he didn't give up; even the ones he'd never thought of before. In every case, death and defeat had been swallowed up at last in victory, as the weapons of evil were twisted free and forced to serve as blessings.

Therefore Brandon took heart as he remembered all these things, and wiped the tears from his eyes. If praise in the midst of suffering was such a powerful thing, then he might never again in his life have such a potent opportunity to use it as he did now.

"It doesn't matter anymore; I forgive you for all that. Everything you meant for evil, God used it for something good. The only thing you accomplished in the long run was to give me everything I ever wished for, and to bless all the people I've touched since I came back from Elysium. So yeah, I still say the same thing as before. Come and be whole. Learn to serve Him like a daughter instead of like a tool from now on, and taste the only joy there is," Brandon said at last.

Layla sat there silently for a long time, and then slowly her own eyes filled with tears.

"I wouldn't even know how to start," she finally said.

"I can help you, if you like," Brandon offered.

And so it was that he found himself praying for salvation with one of the wickedest sinners he'd ever known, unbelievable as that would have seemed even just an hour ago.

"What should I do now?" Layla asked when it was over.

"If you're really sorry for what you've done then I think you ought to make it right, if you can. Not just with God but with all those people you hurt, too," Brandon said.

"But there's nothing I can do for them," Layla said.

"Yes there is. Go talk to my sister. There's a place near where she lives called Cadron Pool, and anyone who goes to swim in that water can be whole and healthy again. Help find all those people you hurt and take them there to be healed, or bring them to me if this is closer. I think that would go a long way towards making amends. I'll tell Cody and Lisa what happened here today. I'm sure they won't hold a grudge," Brandon said.

"Thank you. Maybe I'll do that," Layla said. The haggard look had melted away from her face, which looked soft and beautiful again.

"Thank God, not me. Oh, and one more thing before I forget. Here's your keys that I took when I left Prissy's house. Your car is parked at Wal-Mart," Brandon said, grabbing the ring from where it hung on the wall.

She nodded as she took the keys from his hand, and then got up from the couch to put her arms around him again before she left. There was nothing sinister about it anymore; just the hug of a sister for a brother, when he's done her a kindness too great for words alone.

Then she was gone, and Bran sat back down to marvel at it all. One of the lost had been found, which was cause for joy in both heaven and earth. And if Brother Manchin was right about the redemptive power of suffering, then perhaps Brandon's own tears might have had a part in saving her. His anguish had seemed greater than he could bear sometimes, true enough. But maybe no less of a sacrifice would have been sufficient, for such an evil person as Layla to finally see the light.

This idea gave him a lot to think about over the next few days. He felt in his heart that it was undoubtedly true, in that same deep way that he understood the meaning of dreams sometimes. Just a simple, unemphatic certainty. And even though he could never be sure, he liked to imagine that Lana might have smiled in her sleep, if only she knew.

For things like this, a hundred years of sorrow was indeed well spent.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Less than a week later Brandon was at baseball practice after school when a black 4x4 truck pulled up right next to the bullpen. Bran barely noticed it at first, intent as he was on watching the field. Other than his teammates he was alone as usual, though he hardly noticed that anymore either. But when he felt somebody tap on the back of his helmet through the chain link fence, he turned his head to behold none other than Cody McGrath, along with Lisa and Mikey still waiting in the truck. What they were doing there he didn't have a clue.

Nor did he care at the moment. He jumped up and ran outside the fence in spite of the rules, and after a general round of hugs and kisses he sat down on the tailgate with the others in his blue and gold Piedmont Bulldogs uniform, to talk for a while and catch up on old times.

Mikey sat on one knee, his wispy strawberry-blond hair getting tangled in the breeze, and even though Bran had seen pictures now and then it was still amazing how much the kid had grown in not quite two years.

"Does Daddy know you're here?" Brandon asked, thinking to himself that it didn't seem like the kind of visit Crush would approve of.

"No, we didn't say anything to him. Didn't seem like a good idea," Lisa said.

"Yeah, he probably wouldn't have liked it much. He still thinks it'll get me killed if I ever set foot in Texas again, apparently. I still don't know what possessed him to get so overprotective all of a sudden, but that's the way it is," Brandon said.

"Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him just this once. It won't get you in trouble because we stopped by, will it?" Cody asked.

"I don't really care if it does. I'll be out of here in a few months anyway, soon as school is finished. Did y'all come all this way just to see me?" Brandon asked.

"Mostly, yeah. But we're going down to Pensacola for a few days, too," Lisa said.

"Oh yeah? Going to the beach?" Brandon asked.

"Yeah. Mikey's never been," Cody said.

"Wish I could come. Daddy would never let me, though," Brandon said wistfully.

"Do you really have to ask him? You're eighteen now, after all," Cody pointed out.

"Well. . . yeah, that's true, but I kind of have to do what he says as long as I'm still living with him, you know," Brandon said.

"Well, if it turns out you can make it, we'll be at the Gulf Breeze Motel, room 208. We'll be there till Monday," Lisa said.

"I'll try, but I can't promise you anything," Brandon said.

"I know. That's why we came this way, so we could make sure to see you for just a little while. It's been a long time apart, bubba," Lisa said.

"Yeah. . . I know," Brandon said, kicking the tip of his bat on the ground.

"Anyway, we won't think about that anymore. When's your next real game?" Cody asked, nodding his head at the baseball field.

"We've got an invitational tournament down in Montgomery on Saturday. Starts at noon," Brandon said.

"That's not _too_ far from Pensacola. I think we might come watch you play," Lisa said, after looking it up on her phone.

"That'd be cool," Brandon agreed.

And so they did, to watch and cheer for him even though the Bulldogs ended up losing to the Dothan Tigers by three points. Bran drove to Montgomery himself instead of riding the school bus, which gave him some free time to hang out for a while after the game was over. It wasn't as good as a weekend at the beach, but much better than nothing at all.

"You'll never guess who showed up the other day," Brandon mentioned as they left the stadium.

"Who?" Cody asked.

"Layla Garza," Brandon said, knowing full well what kind of reaction he was likely to get from that little tidbit. Nor was he disappointed; Cody choked and sprayed cold Dr. Pepper all over the steering wheel, and Lisa gasped out loud. For a second Brandon kept quiet, enjoying the shocked looks on their faces.

"She didn't try to hurt you, did she?" Lisa asked urgently.

"No, it was nothing like that. She just wanted to talk to me for a while. She'd been having really bad nightmares about all the horrible things she'd done, to the point she couldn't even sleep sometimes. I guess it finally broke her heart," Brandon said.

That was the edited version, of course. He didn't mention what Layla and the others had done to him at Christmas; the whipping, the dogs, how close he'd come to death or to losing all that made life bearable. Nor did he say anything about Layla's part in the events of two years ago, or about his ongoing battles with the _vrachoi_ ever since. There was no need to burden Cody and Lisa with stories like that, especially when there was nothing they could do to help. It was simply the nature of reality, after all. When a boy walks alone through the strongholds of darkness then it's only to be expected that he'll end up with a few scars now and then, even if they're mostly the invisible kind. It didn't do any good to cry about the fact.

"Well, I _would_ say that serves her right, but I'll wait to hear the rest of the story first. Did you help her?" Cody asked, too busy wiping up the spilled Dr. Pepper to notice Brandon's momentary distraction.

"Yeah. . . I did. She found her way to God, believe it or not," Brandon said, enjoying that revelation even more.

Cody was silent at first, and then suddenly laughed as he wiped tears away. It was a much more emotional announcement for him than it was even for Lisa, all things considered. Cody had actually _seen_ it when Layla cold-bloodedly smashed his father's head with a rock and then drowned him in the Brazos River. He knew what it was like to have his own life drained away by her sorcery, and that wasn't even counting the torture she'd put Lisa through. All that was a lot to get past.

But Cody had never lacked for greatness of heart, in this or anything else. Partly by choice and partly by nature, he was a flaming torch at the heart of the world's darkness. No doubt he would have liked that comparison, as soon as he finished laughing at it. But in the meantime, he chose the high road instinctively.

"It's all been worth it, then," he finally said, while Lisa nodded and grasped his hand.

"I said if she was really sorry for what she'd done then she ought to try to make up for it. She's supposed to get in touch pretty soon and see what y'all can do for any of her victims that are still alive. I hope you don't mind if I told her that," Brandon said.

"No. . . we have to think of those poor people we might still save. It'll be hard to handle at first, I'm sure, but you did the right thing, Beebo. I'm glad you told us, though. I'm not sure what I might have said if she just showed up on the porch one day out of the blue. In fact I'm _still_ not sure what I'll say," Cody said.

"Me neither. I wonder when she'll turn up," Lisa murmured.

"Bran said it's only been a few days. We'll give her a little time before we start wondering _too_ much," Cody said.

They didn't have to wait long. Three days after Cody and Lisa got home from Pensacola, Layla Garza showed up at Goliad to ask forgiveness and to make amends if possible. Then for a while they were busy tracking down dozens of her erstwhile victims all over the country and bringing them to Cadron Pool for healing, if they could be talked into coming.

"I can't get over it, Beebo; she seems like a totally different person," Cody told him on the phone one day, several weeks later.

"Maybe she is. God can do some incredible things," Brandon said.

"That He can. But I'm glad, not just for her sake but for all those guys she went after, too. We never would've found them all if she hadn't helped us," Cody said.

" _Did_ you find them all?" Brandon asked.

"Not yet, but we're getting there. Layla's been staying in one of the bunkhouses next to the peach orchard while we try to locate everybody. But I think she really wants to go home to New Mexico after it's all said and done. That's where she's from, you know, from White Sands," Cody said.

"Yeah, I think I remember that," Brandon agreed.

"Her brother Orem is serving ten years for burglary out there, but she thinks he'll be out on parole pretty soon. He's the only family she's got left anymore, so she wants to try to help him get his life together too, if possible. I told her we'd be praying for her," Cody said.

"Yeah, so will I. How are you and Lisa getting along, having her there?" Brandon said.

"It's been hard; I won't lie about that. Kind of strained and awkward, especially at first. Every time I saw her I kept thinking about what happened at the river. Did I ever tell you Daddy was trying to save her when she killed him? She pretended to fall into a deep current so he'd come in after her. That's when she knocked him out with that rock and drowned him," Cody said.

"That's horrible," Brandon said. He'd heard the story before, but never the part about Blake McGrath trying to save Layla from drowning.

"Yeah. . . I don't like to think about it much. But he was always noble like that, always loved God and tried to do what he thought was right. That's how Layla knew he'd come in the water to rescue her if he could. They'd been watching him for a while, she and her brothers. Stalking him, I guess you could say. They knew exactly how to manipulate him when the time came," Cody said.

"I'm sorry, Cody," Brandon said, although the story didn't surprise him. It sounded exactly like the way Layla had approached all her other victims.

"Well, yeah, me too, Beebo. But sometimes when you fight the devil you can get hurt, that's all. He died in battle against evil, if you want to think of it that way. He'll always be a hero for that, at least to me," Cody said.

"Me too," Brandon agreed. He'd been stalked and hurt several times himself lately in those kinds of fights, even if nobody knew it. He'd never stopped to think about whether it was anything heroic or not, but the notion that he might have done something to make Cody proud was enough to warm Bran's heart.

"But that's not the end of it. Layla told me she never forgot the taste of his life and nothing else ever satisfied her after that. I guess that's a strange thing to say to the son of a man you killed, but it's the reason she came after me, too. She thought since I'm his son that I might taste the same. But she told me she never understood what she _truly_ wanted till she met you and listened to what you said, Beebo," Cody said.

"Yeah, I remember her saying something like that, I think," Brandon said.

"She also told me she wouldn't have been ready to listen to _you_ if she hadn't spent all those years yearning for something she couldn't understand, and she never would have learned to do that if she hadn't killed my father. So you might say he really _did_ save her, in a deeper way than anybody ever thought. And I think if Daddy could've known ahead of time that the only way to save Layla from hell was to give up his own life, then he was the kind of man who might really have done it. You know what he always used to tell me?" Cody asked.

"What?" Brandon asked.

"He always said _never take your joy at the cost of another man's tears._ I've had a lot of time to think about that over the years, and I believe I understand what he meant now. He never wanted me to be the kind of man who could be happy at somebody else's expense, regardless of the circumstances. Not even if that other person has done me wrong. It's a rule that applies to all kinds of situations, but it fits this one better than most. If I let myself hate Layla and refuse to have anything to do with her because of all the things she's done then yeah, I might get some personal satisfaction out of that for a while. But I'd also be doing exactly what Daddy always told me not to do, because even though it wouldn't cost _me_ anything, all those boys she hurt would end up paying the price for my choice. They'd never be healed, all because I cared more about my own feelings than I did about their suffering. That's not the way God meant for me to act when He gave us Cadron Pool; I _know_ it's not. So surely I can be noble enough to get over myself and forgive this woman so we can work together to save others, can't I?" Cody asked.

"If there's anybody in the world who could do it at all, then I'm sure you can," Brandon said, shaking his head a little. As usual, Cody was a lot to live up to.

"Maybe. I'm sure gonna try, anyway. But in the meantime I guess I'll talk to you later, Beebo. Love you, boy," Cody said.

"Yeah, love you too, old man," Brandon said. He could finally say the words sometimes nowadays, even if he still had to wrap them in a joke. At twenty-six, Cody was hardly an old man yet.

Bran soon went back to his campaign against the _vrachoi,_ perhaps a bit more cautiously in light of everything he'd learned from Layla, but with no less determination. He was careful to splatter mud on his license plate whenever he had to visit dangerous areas, and other such minor safeguards as that. Layla turned out to be an invaluable source of information about the plans and purposes of her former friends, not to mention ways to keep himself safe when he dealt with them. With her help, Brandon was able to wreck so many evil schemes that eventually the very name of Piedmont became a source of such cold dread among the _vrachoi_ that most of them would never willingly have come within a hundred miles of the place.

But of all the things he did in those days, Brandon still loved music and praise best of all. Even in the thick of his war against evil, he seldom missed an opportunity to play his guitar and sing hymns at church. His favorite of these was _In the Sweet Bye and Bye,_ partly because it reminded him of Elysium, with its talk of beautiful shores beyond the waves and the joyful songs of the Blessed. He no longer doubted what Cody and Brother Manchin had said about how praise is the greatest of all weapons against evil, and he was determined to make full use of it whenever possible.

He occasionally talked to Jonah, or to Tatya and Wolf, and it was during one of these conversations that Wolf told him about a dream he'd had.

"I saw a man with white hair playing chess, except there was nobody else on the other side of the board. And there were more pieces than there should have been, too, and the board had more squares than it was supposed to. Then when I looked closer, I saw that the chess pieces had the faces of people, and some of them I knew and some of them I didn't. I saw me and Tatya, and you and Lana, and Jonah, and Cody and Lisa, and I can't remember who all else. It was really strange," Wolf said. He had only the barest trace of a Russian accent anymore. Unless you knew better, you'd think he'd grown up in Louisiana all his life.

"I think that one's pretty easy, Wolf. It just means God has some ultimate purpose in mind for each of us, that's all. Maybe for the ones you saw in particular," Brandon said.

"Yeah, but what?" Wolf asked.

"That I don't know, buddy. Not about you and Tatya, anyway. If you have another dream like that, let me know and maybe we can figure out what it means," Brandon said.

"Okay then; I guess that's what I'll do," Wolf said, sounding unsatisfied.

After he hung up, Brandon couldn't help but wonder why God would give Wolf a dream like that, to tell him something he surely already knew. But there was no answer forthcoming, so Bran could only wonder.

In the meantime, he decided it might not hurt to keep an eye on the Bartows and the Andersons for a few generations, just in case. The idea made him think wryly of Layla Garza, and his assigned duty to guide and protect Mikey's baby someday. Brandon couldn't help but wonder how many more people he'd end up having to watch out for over the years. Babysitting hadn't been quite what he envisioned as a permanent career choice.

To save one life is to save the whole world.

The thought came from nowhere, startling him. Then almost immediately he recognized the voice of God, and he humbled the momentary pride which had started to creep into his heart. He had no business feeling put-upon by anything he was asked to do, not even for a second.

But he pondered that simple statement about the value of a single life many times during the next few months and beyond, considering it from different angles in light of his own experiences, and the more he contemplated it the more beautiful it became in his eyes. From that one small seed there slowly grew up in his soul a new awareness of the bottomless depths of the heart of Love; a sure and certain knowledge that just as God had died for the whole world, He would have done no less for a single soul.

From there it was only a short step to the realization that Lana and Stephen and even Brandon himself were also included in this group of things so deeply beloved by God, and even though Bran had known that fact in an intellectual sort of way for a long time, it had never really sunk into his heart before.

Indeed, the more he thought about all the things he'd been through and the results that followed, the more obvious it became that God had loved him all along, even during his darkest days. He might have been bruised and bloodied at times, but there was glory even in that. Being chosen to fight the most dangerous and desperate battles in the war against evil was a sacred trust; something noble and great. Not a punishment or a sign of indifference, but a mark of love and honor for a faithful son.

This was a deep and magnificent revelation, and although the process had first begun when Cody warned him about the bitterness in his heart, it was there at his father's house in Piedmont that Brandon finally let go of the last vestige of his resentment. God _was_ good, and love _could_ be trusted, and Bran silently promised himself that whatever might happen in the future, he'd never forget it again.

Epilogue

True to his word from the very beginning, the day after graduation Brandon packed up his things and moved back home to Goliad, in spite of his father's strenuous objections. Jonah was gone to North Carolina by then and the Bartows were in Florida, and even Layla Garza had gone home to New Mexico. That left Brandon with not many people to socialize with, other than family. He didn't much care to get reacquainted with Jason or Bobby or any of his other former classmates.

But that was all right. He worked on the ranch, and took up playing with the band again, and even though he was often lonely he never mentioned it. He worked with Cody and Lisa to heal and comfort those who came to bathe in Cadron Pool, and taught and loved his nephew Micah and later on his nieces Emma and Jessica. And just as he'd done in Alabama, he visited the sick and brought light to the darkness whenever he could. And sometimes, when he encountered the _vrachoi_ or their followers, he fought.

In the course of these things he became well acquainted with his distant cousin and fellow Curse-Breaker Zach Trewick, along with Matthieu Doucet and the other Avengers. And although Brandon never joined the group himself, he often worked with them in those days and became dear friends with all of them, a relationship which grew to include extended family as well. Cody and Lisa grew to be great friends with Zach's aunt and uncle Justin and Eileen, and even Mikey became friends with their son Josiah. For a little while, Brandon rested secure in this warm cocoon of blood and friendship, and he had many adventures in those days, till the _vrachoi_ shunned that whole region and Goliad itself became beautiful as a memory of Elysium far away.

But as the years passed he grew restless with all this, especially after the kids grew up and moved away. Therefore he wasn't too surprised when Lisa found him one day sitting beside the Pool, lost in thought. It was only a month or so after Jessica had finally gone away to college in Denton, and the house still felt empty without her. Emma was already married and living in Dallas, and Mikey was about to start the last year of his PhD work in astronomy. A real genius that sickly little kid had turned out to be, but good-hearted and loving, too. His worst fault was a tendency to get lost in his work for hours and days on end, so much so that he even forgot to eat sometimes. He definitely wasn't sickly anymore, though. He was tall and muscular like Cody, with the same messy mop of strawberry-blond hair he'd had ever since he was a baby.

He didn't seem interested in girls most of the time, even though he was twenty-two years old by then. He much preferred to tinker with electronics in the astronomy lab, and he'd mentioned once or twice lately that he was curious about reworking Andrew Garza's old tachometer, to see if he could get it to function again. The prospect of getting to study the nature of time or maybe even catching a glimpse of what the future might hold was enough to make him almost drool with anticipation.

It was useless for Brandon to warn him about the dangers of fiddling with an evil man's pet projects. Mikey would only laugh and hug him and promise to be careful, even though they both knew the words were meaningless.

Nevertheless, Micah was destined to have a son in the far-flung future someday, and Bran was beginning to worry that the tachometer might end up having something to do with that particular event. It was a scary thought which gave Brandon a cold chill of foreboding for his nephew's sake.

_God be with you, boy,_ he muttered under his breath.

"Whatcha thinking about, Beebo?" Lisa asked, interrupting his ruminations as she came to sit beside him on the bench. She was in her late forties now, with the first strands of silver in her auburn hair. He could remember when she was barely older than he himself still appeared to be, and he felt (not for the first time), the ache of sure and certain loss; long foreseen but no less hurtful because of that. But he bit his tongue and didn't talk about those things.

But he didn't want to talk about Mikey, either, especially when he didn't really know anything for sure.

"I have to leave here," Brandon said abruptly. He wasn't sure what Lisa might say to that, but she only nodded.

"We knew it was coming, sooner or later," she said.

"Did you?" Brandon asked, surprised.

"Yeah. I see you out here brooding like this, and I hear you say little things now and then. I can tell you're getting restless, just like Mikey and the girls did. That's the way kids are, you know," Lisa said.

"I'm not hardly a kid anymore, even if I still look like one," Brandon said.

"I don't think that has much to do with it, bubba. You may technically be thirty-seven years old, but I've known people that age and even older who still had the mind and heart of a child. We all grow at our own pace, you included. You just have the benefit of having a body to match," Lisa said, and Brandon laughed a little.

"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult," he said.

"A compliment, of course. It'd be much worse if you _didn't_ match, wouldn't it?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Brandon agreed.

"So. . . where do you think you'll go?" Lisa finally asked.

"I don't know yet. Haven't really thought about it much," Brandon said, turning his eyes back to the Pool.

"Not at all?" Lisa asked.

"Well. . . I keep thinking about that dream Daddy had. You know, about the war. I thought I might join the army for a while, maybe see if I can get some special forces training while there's still time. I might need it," Brandon said, and Lisa looked at him askance.

"I never would've thought that was your cup of tea," she said skeptically.

"I never would have either, up till now. But I think it's what I'm supposed to do," Brandon said.

"Maybe so," Lisa said.

"Don't worry about me, sis; I'm a tough little scrapper," Brandon said, and Lisa laughed.

"Yeah, you've always been _that_ much, at least," she agreed.

And so it was that Brandon went away for the second time, coming home only rarely to visit Cody and Lisa while they were still alive.

As time passed he grew in wisdom and strength, and he became a scholar, and a mighty warrior of renown, till there was none like him in all the world. But in all the lands where he lay his head (and they were many), he sought always throughout his long, long life to live by the simple rule that God had given him; that to save one life is to save the whole world.

Therefore he pursued peace whenever possible, and indeed it was often the strength of his hidden power which brought harmony to warring nations in many parts of the world, and life to countless thousands who would otherwise have been lost. By the touch of his hands he gave beauty and healing to all those who lived in darkness without hope, and in later years it was largely he who made the barren isles of Eleuthera and Barbados to blossom into the loveliest lands which human eye had ever beheld; as a comfort to those who dwelt there in exile. He was indeed a blessing to many, just as Lana had foretold.

And when the time came at last for him to teach Micah's son Tycho all the wisdom he'd learned after many long years, the one thing which he sought most of all to lay upon the boy's heart was simply this: to do all things for the sake of love.

He took great care to draw no attention to himself as he did all these things, but as time passed he became known among those who loved him as Bran the Blessed, the title he was given by Brother Manchin long ago. For no other man walked so close with God as Brandon, whose feet had once stood in the meadows of Elysium, and who had breathed for a while the clean air of that place.

But even though he was adored by many, his heart's love never wavered. He resolutely held fast to his promise, and after a century and more had passed, he knew in his heart that the appointed time of his work was done. Therefore he set sail alone from the western shores of the island of Hawaii where he lived in those days, slipping silently across the blue Pacific in the misty morning hours of Easter Sunday, till he found himself once again in the realm of hidden things.

He beached his boat on the rocky coast before making his way quickly to the monastery, and although his body was still not a day above sixteen, he felt ancient indeed as he knocked on the front door.

No one answered, and he noticed that the grounds were unkempt and deserted, as if no one had set foot there in a long time. Brandon suffered a small twinge of worry, but then thrust it out of his mind. He silently begged Brother Manchin's forgiveness before kicking the door open, and then went directly to the third floor room in the tower that he remembered so well, ignoring the desolate house in between.

Then he came at last to the stone chamber, and there indeed she lay, still sleeping in her lace-covered bed. Then it seemed to Brandon that the years fell away, and he was no longer a famous commander, or a man of learning, or the Blessed One who brought peace to tear-stained lands. He was only a boy again, and he trembled as he approached Lana's side. Then he closed his bright blue eyes and kissed her softly.

"Wake up, _milaya,"_ Brandon whispered, hardly daring to believe.

After a long few seconds she took a deep breath and opened her eyes for the first time in a hundred and fifty years, and she smiled when she saw him standing there.

"I knew you'd come," Lana said, as if she'd never doubted him for an instant.

"It's been a long road," Brandon said, and she nodded. Then Lana rose to her feet, more beautiful in his eyes than he could ever remember. She kissed him once more and held him tight, and together they left the old house.

They were married three days later, in the Mo'Kuai'Kaua Church of Kailua Kona, surrounded by family and friends. Some of these people Brandon had watched over for generations, had they but known it. Hunter and Leah Bartow, whose blond hair reminded him poignantly of Wolf, their grandfather's grandfather. Tommy and Amie Anderson, Jonah's far-flung descendants. Cameron Parker and his family, and also Jacob Trewick, a distant child of Zach. Even Danielle Black, whose grandparents Edmundo and Catalina he'd saved with his own hands from the bombing of Santa Fe during the Union War, for the sake of Edmundo's grandmother Layla Garza.

They danced to _Forever and Ever, Amen,_ a song so old by then that Brandon had to write down the sheet music from memory before the band could even play it for them. No one had ever heard of it before.

But that wasn't so very surprising, after all. The youngsters knew nothing of the world that had once been, nor of the struggles and hopes of their long departed ancestors. Much less Bran's part in protecting them for so long. Nor would he have wished to burden them with such things. He loved them in memory of his lost friends, and that was good enough. The price had been high indeed, but it was well spent.

Thus it was that when Stephen was born two months later, red haired and green eyed, no one thought it strange that Brandon and Lana retired for a while to his little house across the street from the high school football field. She to play music, and he to write down the story of their lives for whatever inspiration it might be to those who came after. Then the two of them spent many years in gladness, even as God had promised him at the Fountain of Youth long ago.

And in all the time since, there has never been another like Brandon. For no one has ever been so faithful and true, nor so blessed and brave of heart, and this tale of his deeds was soon repeated with love by all the survivors of Earth.

But to all those who praised him for his many great and wonderful works, Bran merely smiled and answered them nothing, except to murmur perhaps these few simple words from his youth long ago:

To God alone be the glory, amen.

The End

The story of Micah McGrath, his son Tycho, Brandon Stone, and several other characters from this series continues in:

### Nightfall

The Tyke McGrath Series: Book One

A Curse-Breaker Book

By William Woodall

## Chapter One

Friday, April 25, 2036

At the worst possible moment, the power died.

The lab instantly went pitch dark, causing the tip of Micah McGrath's screwdriver to slip just the tiniest bit. Metal touched metal, and before he knew it one of the capacitors had discharged its built-up load right into the circuit board he'd been trying to fix.

Mike cursed and slammed his fist on the table in sheer frustration; what _else_ could go wrong today? He didn't have _time_ for things like this; he was supposed to have his dissertation finished in only three more weeks.

After a few seconds the university's emergency generator kicked in and the lights flickered back on. Then Mike promptly forgot about power glitches and burnt-out circuit boards, and his eyes widened in shocked surprise.

The tachometer was gone.

Mike knitted his brows and stared at the empty spot where the machine had been sitting just a few seconds ago. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things, but there was no doubt about it. The thing had definitely vanished.

He didn't know quite what to think about this unexpected development; in spite of all his efforts to fix it, the tachometer hadn't actually worked in years. And even if it had, he'd certainly never switched it on or set the controls for it to do anything. There was no reason he could think of why it shouldn't still be sitting there on the workbench.

His first thought was to wonder if the discharge from the capacitor might have inadvertently activated some obscure function, even though that seemed highly unlikely. Anytime the tachometer was operational it was always surrounded by a silvery bubble of energy several feet across, and he certainly would have noticed if anything like _that_ had appeared.

But then again, Mike would have been the first to admit that he didn't really understand the blasted thing very well.

The machine was designed to capture and manipulate tachyons; those ghostly, faster-than-light particles which supposedly contained the power to foresee the future before it happened, and perhaps even to travel there.

True, Mike had never actually witnessed any of those things personally, but he'd heard plenty of stories from people who had. It was a fascinating subject, and when the time came to pick a research topic for his dissertation, there'd never been the slightest doubt that he'd choose to study tachyons. Never mind the fact that not everybody even believed they existed; Mike was determined to be the one who finally proved it to the world.

Dr. Bevels had smiled and called it "a learning experience", but that was okay; Mike was confident he'd show them all someday. He might only be twenty-three years old, but then again some of the greatest Nobel Prize winners in history had been in their early twenties. Mike himself was on track to become the youngest Ph.D. graduate in the history of the university, and surely that had to say _something_ good about his prospects, didn't it?

He would never have admitted to harboring such grandiose thoughts, of course, but they were awfully nice to think about now and then.

He glanced at the clock and saw that it was already 4:15; close enough to call it a day if he liked. He normally stayed in the lab at least till five, but the inexplicable disappearance of the tachometer was a mystery he felt too mentally tired to tackle at the end of such a long day. Not to mention the fact that he'd skipped lunch and his stomach was beginning to suggest pretty urgently that it was high time to get something to eat. Maybe he could come back in the morning with a fresh mind and think of some new ideas.

He shut down his laptop and turned off the lights before locking the door and putting the keys in his pocket. When everything was in order, he tiredly climbed the stairs from the basement and walked outside to where his Jeep was parked in front of the athletics building. The science center and several other structures on campus were closed for renovations at the moment, which meant Mike had been assigned this little niche in the gym instead. It was adequate, perhaps, but certainly not very glamorous.

His "lab" had actually been somebody's office before Mike moved in, but he'd done his best to make it work as a research space, shoving the desk up against one wall and moving in a lab bench from the science building. He'd even hung a portrait of Tycho Brahe above the desk, the father of modern astronomy and one of his particular heroes. Heaven knows he needed some inspiration and encouragement now and then.

There were more people than usual gathered in scattered groups outside, but Mike was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to pay much attention to that. He fired up the Jeep, intending to drive home, find something to eat, and then do absolutely nothing for the rest of the evening.

He heard police sirens wailing somewhere off to the north, and wondered idly what was going on. He supposed he'd hear about it soon enough, if it mattered.

He drove slowly down the quiet street next to the university, and other than the traffic lights not working there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Just a typical springtime afternoon. An old lady weeding her azaleas waved at him, and he smiled and waved back. He passed the fire station and the white-columned library, then the bank and his favorite coffee shop and the big red-brick Victorian courthouse on the town square. Almost home!

The house he shared with his best friend Joey Wilder was built on the side of a hill maybe half a block past the courthouse, where Third Street ran steeply down to cross the railroad tracks. But then as Mike swung into the front yard, he noticed an anomaly. There was a small crowd of people standing in front of the church across the street, but it was what they were staring at that immediately caught his attention and left him every bit as speechless as they were.

Just past the church, the street ended. Where it had once swept on down the hill to the tracks, now it just. . . stopped. And where the street used to be, now there were only trees. Large ones, that looked as if they'd been there since the day the world began.

That was shocking enough, but when Mike raised his eyes swiftly to look out over the treetops, he was in for an even greater shock. Where there had once been railroad tracks and factories and houses scattered thickly as far as he could see across the valley, now there was nothing. No tracks, no houses, no streets. Just an unbroken canopy of green that stretched all the way to the horizon.

Mike broke his stupefaction and walked slowly the last hundred feet or so to the end of the pavement, reaching out to touch the trunk of a massive oak tree that stood right in the middle of where the street should have been. The bark was rough and solid. Then he knelt down and touched the edge of the pavement, and found that it cut off as sharply as if someone had sliced it with a gigantic razor blade and left only this side behind.

The cut extended smoothly in both directions from where he knelt. To the east, it crossed the parking lot between the church and where the Family Life Center should have been, and then it passed quickly behind the church itself and out of Mike's sight. In the other direction it passed right through his own back yard, almost clipping off the corner of his house as a matter of fact. He could see a little bit farther in that direction, and it seemed that the razor's edge had a slight curve to it, though it was hard to be sure.

A dark suspicion flirted at the edge of his mind, but he dismissed the thought immediately. It _couldn't_ be.

He gingerly took a step past the end of the street, and then another. Soon he was standing amongst an almost silent forest of trees that whispered tranquilly in the breeze. They were unusually large and thick, but otherwise no different than any other trees he'd ever seen.

Except for the fact that they hadn't been there when he left the house that morning, of course. The trunks were widely spaced and the forest floor was level enough to drive a small car through, if the driver were careful.

After a few seconds he quit gaping at the trees and walked swiftly back up the hill to his own front door. As soon as he got inside the house, he found Joey fiddling with the little battery-powered radio they kept for emergencies.

"Where have you been, Mike? Have you seen what's going on out there?" Joey asked. He was almost exactly two years older than Mike himself, but they'd known each other ever since Mike could remember.

"Yeah, I see it. I don't believe it, but I definitely see it. Have you heard anything on the radio?" Mike asked.

"No, I couldn't find any batteries for it. All the ones I've tried are already dead," Joey said. For some reason Mike had never been able to force himself to throw away old batteries, and as a result almost every shelf and drawer in the house contained at least a few of them. Joey had complained about it times without number.

"I guess I better run go get some, then. I'll be back in a little while. One of us better stay here and keep an eye on the house, though, don't you think?" he asked, and Joey shrugged.

He grabbed a chocolate chip granola bar from the kitchen before running back outside to where the Jeep was parked. He usually walked or rode his bike around town, partly to save gas and partly to get some exercise, but at the moment he cared more about speed than anything else.

He didn't head directly for the store, though. As soon as he was out on the street, he began following the razor-edge to the west. There were places where it had sliced right through the middle of houses or buildings, with the other half disappearing like magic, with no trace of rubble or destruction. Except in a few cases, where the remainder of the structure had collapsed from the stress and fallen into the trees that crowded right up to the line. After a while, he also noted that the tree branches were cut off in a similar fashion; not even so much as a twig crossed the boundary.

People were gathered all along his route, staring at the trees with attitudes that ranged anywhere from mild curiosity to dumbfounded amazement. No one seemed panicky or hysterical, and some were even laughing and socializing, as if the whole thing were some kind of huge joke.

The line crossed right behind the National Guard armory and the post office, cut through some more houses and streets, then clipped the corner of the old cemetery. Then Mike saw some major damage; the blue jean factory and the junior high school had been sliced in half, and both of them had mostly collapsed. Thank God school had already been over for the day.

The line continued on into another residential area where Mike couldn't follow, but he drove quickly to Pine Street and picked it up again. It ran right through the middle of the Arby's drive-thru, and then plunged back (again) into residential areas.

Mike doggedly followed the line as far as he could. It ran right behind the university football stadium, and sliced off the main highway out of town exactly where Pizza Hut should have been. That was a bad scene; someone in a black Lexus had smashed into the trees when the road disappeared in front of her, and two other cars had piled up behind the first one. There was no ambulance to be seen; nothing but the smashed Lexus, and three bewildered-looking cops who kept glancing at the trees.

Mike made an illegal U-turn and drove urgently back to his lab, parking the Jeep right by the front door. The group of students from earlier had disappeared, which suited him just as well. The fewer witnesses there were, the better.

As soon as he got inside the gym he heard the sound of someone playing basketball, apparently unaware of what was going on. He rushed downstairs to his little cubbyhole and unlocked the door, almost stubbing his toe in his haste to get inside. There was a city map in his desk drawer, and he quickly unfolded it on the workbench next to where the tachometer had been. Then he took a pencil and carefully marked every location where he'd seen the razor cut pass.

He noticed immediately that it was an almost perfect circle, and with shaking hands he drew three separate diameter lines with a ruler so as to find the center point.

The lines met right where his lab stood.

A cold knot of fear threatened to cut off his breath when he saw that, because there could be only one explanation for everything he'd seen. Namely, the tachometer must have been activated somehow by the discharge of the capacitor, and then dragged the entire central core of Arkadelphia to some unknown point in the future.

Never mind that it hadn't been switched on, or that an ocean of trees looked nothing like any kind of future Mike had ever anticipated, or that he'd never imagined the tachometer could swallow an area big enough to engulf nearly a whole town. Those were incidentals which could be explained later. In the meantime, there wasn't a shred of doubt in his mind about what had actually happened.

_You've really done it now, boy,_ he thought to himself.

Even worse, he knew it wouldn't be long before other people started connecting the dots and reaching similar conclusions. Oh, they might not know exactly what happened, true, but it wouldn't take a genius to figure out who was responsible for it, as soon as somebody noticed whose lab was at the exact center of the circle. His research wasn't a secret, and neither was the location of his lab. One of the few things he liked about working in the gym instead of in the science building was the extra peace and privacy, but that wouldn't mean a thing once the whole town was looking for him. And he was sure they soon would be.

He quickly gathered up his own research notes along with Dr. Garza's original lab manuals. He didn't dare leave anything at the lab to be confiscated or destroyed, and least of all _those._ He even took the laptop, although he felt guilty about that. It technically belonged to the university, not to him, and he wasn't actually supposed to leave campus with it. He was careful to make sure no one saw him removing items from the building, since that would only focus attention on him that much faster.

He finished loading up and calmly drove away, thinking hard. Most people in town probably didn't really comprehend what had happened yet, and some of them might not even know. Things still seemed bizarrely normal at the moment. But Mike could guess what was coming within the next few weeks, if a world of trees were really all there was in this future time. Food and clean water would run out quickly, and when that happened, it was only a matter of time until cholera or dysentery reared its ugly head. And with no medicine to speak of. . . He shuddered.

Without wasting another second, he drove immediately to the bank. The lobby was already closed, of course, but the drive through was still open. He pulled up to the window and stopped, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the girl at the computer. It was Allison, and he knew her well enough that she might do him a favor. He smiled and waved at her so she could see his face, and she smiled back when she recognized him. He pushed the call button and noted with satisfaction that the bank must have had a generator, since the machine was still working. Thank God for small blessings.

Mike quickly wrote a check for 2419.85, which was every nickel he had in his account.

Allison took the check and sent the cash and his driver's license back out, which he took with trembling hands. Somehow he managed to smile again and thank Allison before he left. He stuffed the cash in his pocket and then drove directly to the grocery store. If trouble were coming then he wasn't taking any chances.

It was busier than it should have been at that time of day, which worried him; apparently word was getting around and people were starting to get uneasy. The bread and milk sections were practically wiped out already, he noticed, but those weren't the kinds of things Mike had in mind anyway.

He grabbed a shopping cart and filled it as quickly as he could with anything that wouldn't spoil, especially canned goods. Then he filled two more. Not just with food, either; he quickly cleaned out everything useful he could find in the pharmacy section, too, including all the antibiotics and bandages, all the painkillers, and all the major vitamins. As an afterthought, he grabbed two handfuls of lighters, six bottles of chlorine bleach, and anything else he could think of that was useful and couldn't be replaced. The checkout lady gave him an amused look when he got to the cash register.

"You think the end of the world is comin', honey?" she asked with a chuckle.

"No, ma'am, just making sure," he said. That only made her laugh again, as he hoped it would. It took a while to pay for everything and get it loaded in the back of the Jeep, but there was still one more stop to make before he dared go home. His usual sporting goods store was gone, but there was a hole-in-the-wall gun shop downtown, and as soon as he got there Mike bought every .22 bullet they had. He got some raised eyebrows for that, but he couldn't have cared less.

He didn't park in the front yard when he got home as he usually would have. Instead, he backed into the garage to unload his supplies.

"Where have you _been,_ dude? Don't you know-" Joey began, coming out of the kitchen door into the garage. Then he saw the mountain of grocery bags and trailed off.

"Uh, do you know something you're not telling me?" he finally asked.

"I'm not sure. Help me carry all this stuff inside and then we'll talk about it and try to figure things out. But first let's lock all the doors, and the windows too for that matter," Mike added as an afterthought.

"Whatever you say, buddy," Joey said, with a shrug that indicated he clearly believed Mike had lost his mind.

They quickly locked every door and window, even drawing the blinds and drapes. Joey was mostly quiet during all this, even when Mike started taking food down to the basement instead of the kitchen, but when he saw the case of bullets that must have been too much for him to keep silent about.

"Hold on a minute, dude. Seriously, what's going on? If you're gonna come home and start acting like it's world war three you should at least tell me what's up," he said.

"You're absolutely right, but let's finish putting this stuff away first. As soon as that's done I'll tell you everything, I promise," Mike said. Joey looked like he wanted to argue about it some more, but then seemed to change his mind.

"All right, then," he finally said. And he was as good as his word; he worked as fast as Mike did to get all the groceries hauled down to the basement and hidden carefully behind the old furnace. Not just the food and supplies, either, but Mike's computer and lab notes, also. Only when everything was safely stashed away did they both sit down at the kitchen table and partially relax.

## Chapter Two

It was dim in the kitchen with the blinds drawn, so Joey quietly lit an oil lamp and put it on the table between them. The light cast dusky shadows across his face and made him look like a mummified corpse. Mike thrust the hideous image out of his mind

"So, are you going to explain now?" Joey asked.

"I'm not sure where to start," Mike said.

"Well, the beginning is always a good place," Joey pointed out.

"Well. . . I think I might've accidentally activated the tachometer," Mike said.

"I didn't think it worked," Joey said.

"I didn't think so either, but can you think of any other explanation for all this? You see the way the street cuts off like somebody sliced it with a knife, don't you? It goes on like that all the way around town, it even cuts right through buildings and houses sometimes, in certain places. It makes a perfect ring just a hair bigger than a mile and a half wide. Everything inside the circle is exactly the way it always was, but outside that there's nothing but trees. I followed it all the way around before I came home," Mike said.

"Okay, I admit that's suggestive, but it doesn't _prove_ anything," Joey said.

"No, but there's more. My lab is at the exact center of the circle, and I know I accidentally discharged the capacitor this afternoon at the exact same time the power died. And besides that the tachometer itself disappeared. What other conclusion could you draw from all that?" Mike said bleakly.

Joey digested that thought.

"I don't know, Mikey. I can see how maybe you might have accidentally switched it on when you discharged the capacitor. But I never heard of the tachometer covering such a big area as this," he said.

"Me neither, and I can't imagine any time in the future when there wouldn't be anything but trees, either. This is more like a million years ago," Mike said.

"But it can't be. The tachometer doesn't work backwards," Joey pointed out.

"Not that we _know_ of, anyway," Mike said.

"No, it's scientifically impossible; you know that as well as I do. We've got to be somewhere in the future, if that's what actually happened," Joey insisted.

"Okay, so maybe we skipped ahead ten million years and there are no human beings left on the whole planet," Mike said.

"Don't get so far ahead of yourself, Mikey. We can't know what year it is unless we go out there past the ring and find some kind of hard evidence. Which I'm sure we will, sooner or later. It's not like we won't have time," Joey said wryly.

"Yeah, you're definitely right about that," Mike admitted. If there were anything certain about the entire situation, it was the brutal fact that there was no going back. Once you skipped ahead with the tachometer, you were stuck there forever. Time was the one thing they had no shortage of.

"In the meantime, all we can do is deal with what we see. I'm guessing that's why you bought all those supplies?" Joey asked.

"Yeah. It's all stuff we could either use or trade later on, if we had to. Things could get nasty around here in a hurry if people start running out of food and water," Mike agreed.

"So what are the six gallons of Clorox for? Any special reason?" Joey asked.

"Yeah there is. We can use it to sanitize water to make it safe to drink. It won't taste too good, but it'll get the job done," Mike explained.

"All right, I guess I can understand that. But what about the ten bottles of cinnamon and the fifty pounds of sugar? Planning on baking a really big cake?" Joey asked.

"No, those are for keeping food safe, and like I said maybe for trading later on when everybody else runs out, which they will sooner or later," Mike said.

"And the .22 shells? I assume those are for hunting?" Joey asked.

"Yeah, mostly. But also just in case we need to defend ourselves," Mike said darkly.

"I really don't think anybody will come after us with torches and dogs, Mikey," Joey said. He was trying to lighten the mood, which Mike appreciated, but he didn't agree with his assessment of the danger level.

"They might. Things are hectic right now and maybe nobody's had a chance to think it through very much, but they will. They'll notice that this little slice of town that's left is a perfect circle, and it'll cross somebody's mind to see where the center is. And once they do that, it won't be long before somebody puts two and two together and figures out one of the astronomy students was doing experimental research down there in the gym. I don't know if Dr. Bevels is still in town or not, but he wasn't the only one who knew about it. People will talk, and then they might just start to wonder if maybe Mike McGrath was on to something with his silly little tachyon machine, after all. Then what do you think they'll do?" Mike asked.

"They'll come looking for you, to see if you know anything," Joey guessed.

"Bingo. And then what will I tell them?" Mike asked.

"The truth, maybe? You didn't mean any harm. Nobody ever thought you were doing anything dangerous," Joey pointed out, and Mike gave him a withering look.

"Do you think that will matter, when people start going hungry and getting sick? They won't want to hear excuses when that happens. They'll want answers, and they'll want all this to be undone, and if they can't have that, then they'll want vengeance. You of all people should know how folks think in a disaster," Mike said, and that was unquestionably true. Joey was a psychology major, and a pretty sharp one, too.

"Nothing to say to that?" Mike asked pointedly, when the other boy didn't answer.

"No. . . I guess you're right," Joey admitted, and then they were both silent for a few seconds after that.

"I don't guess you remembered to get any batteries for the radio, did you? We might hear something on the university station, at least," Joey finally asked.

"No, I forgot," Mike admitted, feeling supremely stupid. He'd been tied up in a million knots, of course, but that was no excuse.

"Well, it's too late to do anything about it now. We'll get some in the morning, if they're still selling them, that is. How _did_ you get all that stuff, anyway? It must have cost a fortune," Joey said.

"I used what I had in the bank," Mike admitted, and Joey raised an eyebrow.

"All of it?" he asked.

"Yeah. . . I wasn't sure if I could even get access to it after today, so I figured I better grab it while I could. Besides that, I figure it probably won't be worth the paper it's printed on within a couple days or so. I wanted to get what we needed to maybe save our necks while I still had the chance," Mike said.

"I don't know, Mikey. It'll be hard to get by even in a little place like this without some form of money to simplify trade. You might end up feeling kind of silly if everybody goes right on using the same old cash as always and then you're broke except for fifty pounds of sugar and a case of lard," Joey said.

"If that's the worst problem I have to deal with then I'll be happy to eat sugar and lard for the next six months. Besides, if that's the way it plays out then we can always sell the stuff, probably for a lot more than I paid for it. I'd be glad to waste all the money in the bank, if I knew it would undo all this," Mike said sadly.

"It's okay, buddy. You didn't know. Nobody can blame you for this," Joey said, and Mike laughed a little.

"Oh, there are all different kinds of ways of being to blame, you know. _I didn't mean to_ isn't much of a defense," Mike said.

"Well. . . Let's not worry about that right now, okay? There's nothing you can do about it at this point, anyway," Joey said.

"No, I guess not," Mike admitted.

"The only thing that matters right now is what we'll do tonight and tomorrow. Everything else can wait," Joey said, and Mike realized the comment was sensible. With an effort, he pulled himself out of his momentary funk and refocused on the present.

"Well, we have enough food to last us for a month or so if we're careful with it. I still have a little bit of cash, if it's worth anything. There's enough clean water in the water heater to do for drinking for a while, and we have plenty of bullets for the .22 if it comes to _that._ The Jeep has almost a full tank of gas, even though we don't really need to go anywhere for a while. I think it'd be best if we stayed put and kept all the doors and windows locked for now. We have oil for the lamps and wood for the fireplace; I'm not sure what else we need at this point," Mike said. Joey nodded all the while, and finally smiled.

"See, there you go. We're all set," he agreed.

"Are you not worried at all about what's going to happen or the fact that we're stuck in this weird place for the rest of our lives or anything like that?" Mike asked.

"What good would it do to worry about it?" Joey pointed out reasonably.

"I just don't see how you can be so calm about everything," Mike said.

"Mikey, there are really only two kinds of problems in the world. There's the kind you can do something about, and then there's the kind you can't do anything about. If you can do something about it, then quit worrying and go do it. If you _can't_ do anything, then worrying won't help you in that case either. Worry is nothing but fear, and fear is nothing but lack of faith. We can't do a thing about being stuck here and nobody knows what the future will bring. We've done everything a reasonable person could do at this point, so I'm not going to worry, and you shouldn't either," Joey said.

"I guess so," Mike finally agreed. He sometimes envied Joey for his untroubled tranquility. He'd never found it that easy, himself.

They spent a quiet evening, Joey reading by candlelight and Mike pretending to do likewise, even though he was too preoccupied to pay much attention. They both went to bed early, and Mike was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

He woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of an explosion, followed by gunfire and a blood-curdling scream. It must have been far away because the sound was faint, but it was piercing nevertheless.

He jumped out of bed and grabbed his jeans from the floor, quickly slipping them on before he ran outside into the hall. Joey was already there.

"What was _that?"_ he hissed in the darkness.

"I don't know. It sounded like machine guns," Mike began, and then he was cut off by another explosion, louder than the first one. He crept quickly to the window at the end of the hall to part the curtains and see what he could see, but cautiously so as not to show any movement.

It was almost pitch dark outside, with all the street lights off. The only illumination came from starlight, faint and far. And yet, even that was enough for him to glimpse darker shadows here and there, moving between the buildings. They looked like soldiers carrying assault rifles, but he couldn't have said for sure.

Then the night was lit up suddenly by the orange glare of a bomb blast somewhere downtown, and for a second he glimpsed the soldiers perfectly. Somewhere in the distance, he heard more screams.

His mouth grew dry and his heart was pounding as he pulled the curtains shut and turned back to Joey.

"Did we lock all the doors and windows today? _All_ of them?" he asked urgently.

"Yeah, I think so. What did you see?" Joey asked, whispering as if someone might overhear them.

"Bombs, and a bunch of soldiers roaming around everywhere," Mike said, also whispering.

"Friendly or not?" Joey asked.

"I'd tend to say not, if they're the ones blowing things up. But I don't know for sure, and I don't want to find out the hard way, either," Mike said.

"We'd better go check the locks one more time, then, just in case. I'd feel a lot better if we did," Joey said.

"Yeah, me too," Mike agreed, and they quickly did so. Only when they'd double checked the last one in the house did Mike relax even a tiny bit.

"Do you think it's safe to stay here?" Joey asked. They were standing in the kitchen by the arch that led into the living room, and the sound of bombs and gunfire hadn't let up for a second.

"Where else would we go?" Mike asked.

"Well, I don't know. We could take the Jeep and go hide out in the woods, if we had to," Joey said.

Mike considered it, and then shook his head.

"I think we're better off if we sit tight for now. If we head down to the basement then we ought to have pretty good shelter," Mike said, nodding his head vaguely in that direction.

That was right before someone kicked the front door in.

There was no order to freeze, no attempt by the intruders to identify themselves, nothing like that; only a flurry of bullets that barely missed Mike and Joey and left holes in the living room wall big enough to put a fist through.

Mike was no fool; he ran for the Jeep as fast as his feet could take him, ducking low and hoping the soldiers wouldn't realize what he was doing in the pitch darkness of the house. Apparently they didn't, because he made it to the garage without getting a hole in his head. Joey was right behind him, and half a second after he reached the driver's seat he had the engine started. There was more gunfire from inside the house, and he hit the gas without even switching on the headlights. The Jeep shot out into the driveway, and Mike fought the wheel to make a hard right turn across the yard and down the hill onto Third Street. He knocked down the picket fence beside the curb and heard more bullets whizzing far above his head before they finally hit the edge of the pavement and slipped into the deeper darkness of the trees.

"What _happened_ back there?" Joey yelled.

"Shut up! We'll figure it out later!" Mike said.

He switched on the fog lights to give him just enough illumination to see his way between the huge trunks, if he paid close attention. But it was nerve-wracking, especially when he didn't know if a posse of homicidal maniacs were hot on their trail or not. He didn't dare turn on his bright lights for fear of giving away their position, even though it slowed them down.

But eventually the adrenaline rush began to wear off, and several hours later he found himself creeping through a thicker-than-usual patch of trees maybe three or four miles south of town. There'd been several times already when he'd had to stop and back up to avoid obstacles even the Jeep couldn't get past, and every delay made him want to chew his fingernails down to the elbow. Finally they came to a wide creek that looked like it might take some serious maneuvering to get across, and Joey spoke up.

"Don't you think we're far enough from town to be safe by now? We sure wouldn't want to get stuck in _that_ mess," he pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Mike agreed reluctantly, and parked the Jeep under a big heavy-limbed magnolia tree that he hoped might keep it hidden from prying eyes. It was the best concealment they could hope to find on such short notice. Then they kicked the seats back and tried to sleep, but the distant sound of sporadic explosions and gunfire still coming from town made that awfully hard to do.

"Why would they be shooting machine guns at people?" Mike finally asked aloud. He didn't really expect Joey to know the answer; he was more or less talking to himself. But the whole thing was so senseless and inexplicable, his mind wouldn't leave it alone.

"I don't know, but there's nothing we can find out till morning. Let it alone and go to sleep, Mikey," Joey muttered.

That was easier said than done, and for a long time Mike lay wakeful in his seat. But eventually, sheer exhaustion closed his eyes for a few hours.

To continue reading, please visit your favorite ebook vendor to purchase a full version of

### Nightfall

You may also purchase a copy directly from Smashwords at:

William Woodall's Smashwords Page

The Curse-Breaker Books

by William Woodall

Long ago, there was a Godly woman named Marybeth Trewick, who for various reasons found herself married to a rich but wicked man named Daniel who practiced all kinds of evil. She could only watch helplessly as her five sons grew up to become just as wicked as their father, and as her only daughter was forced to flee for her life lest she be killed.

But in the midst of her despair, God sent Marybeth a dream that after seven generations had passed, there would be five boys born to replace and redeem the ones that she had lost. These five would be breakers of curses and fighters against all things wicked and evil, and each of them would have the same vividly blue eyes, the same color as Marybeth's.

And even though the Curse-Breakers are each called to very different tasks in the world, the basic goal of fighting evil and loving God is always the same. These are their stories below. Each series tells the tale of a different Curse-Breaker (or sometimes more than one), but all of them put together form a single unified storyline. Read more about each series below.

### The Last Werewolf Hunter Series

Zach Trewick always thought he'd become a writer someday, or maybe play baseball for the Texas Rangers. What he never imagined in his craziest dreams was that he'd find himself dodging bullets and crashing cars off mountainsides, let alone that he'd ever be expected to break the ancient werewolf curse which hangs over his family. But Zach is the last of the werewolf hunters, the long-foretold Curse-Breaker who can wipe out the wolves forever, and he's not the type to give up just because of a few minor setbacks. . .

Cry for the Moon: What would you do, if your family wanted you to become a monster? What if they wouldn't take no for an answer? When 12 year old Zach faces questions like these, he seems to have only one choice; _run._ Thus begins a long search for refuge, and perhaps redemption also.

Behind Blue Eyes: When a stranger kidnaps him from his own back yard, Zach soon finds that the past isn't quite as dead as he might wish. For the time has come at last for Zach and his cousin Cameron to break the wolf curse forever; and his family has no intention of letting that happen.

More Golden Than Day: When his girlfriend Jolie and then Cameron fall into the hands of the wolves, Zach has no choice but to take on his enemies for a second round. Only this time the stakes are horribly high, and if he fails he may end up losing everything he's ever loved.

Truesilver: When a family of wicked ex-wolves is accidentally awakened, Zach soon finds himself locked in a desperate fight for survival that he never anticipated. And even though he's sworn an oath to fight evil to the utmost of his power, there are times when courage is awfully hard to come by.

* * * * * * *

_"If you are looking for a story about a boy who learns valuable lessons about family, love, friendship and God this is the book for you. I recommend this book to a pre-teen or adult. I truly enjoyed this book."_ **–** _Rae,_ _My Book Addiction Reviews_

The Stones of Song **Series**

These are the stories of the other three Curse-Breakers: Brian and Brandon Stone, and Cody McGrath. In this series you'll read about many things which were only hinted at in _The Last Werewolf Hunter,_ including Cody's fight with Layla Garza, the history of the Trewick family, and the Fountain of Youth of which the Sweet Spring is only a pale reflection. You'll also hear more of Matthieu's adventures.

Unclouded Day: Brian Stone's life isn't easy. Abandoned by his father, abused by his alcoholic mother, and mocked by his classmates, his only treasures are his beloved little brother and his old guitar. This is the tale of his journey to find the Fountain of Youth, and perhaps to save the world.

Many Waters: Lisa Stone is a small-town waitress with heavy burdens to bear. Cody McGrath is a young cowboy with mystical dreams and some very dangerous enemies. But when the two of them must face down an evil witch who tries to destroy their very lives, it seems that only a miracle can save them.

Bran the Blessed: Brandon Stone hasn't always made the right choices in life, but he's never found himself in quite such deep trouble as this. But even though his life seems ruined forever, Bran still has a high calling to answer, if he can find the courage.

* * * * * * *

" _I would absolutely, without reservation, encourage you to read this wonderful novel, even if you aren't the fantasy genre type. It was a blessing."_ _-Sue, Reflections and Reviews_

" _There are so many nuggets of truth in this book. It's about Heaven. It's about bad things happening for a reason. It's about deciding for yourself what truly matters most in life. It's a really good book!"_ _-Tattie, Christian Fiction Ebooks_

**The Tyke McGrath Series**

In the year 2154, the world has become a dangerous place. Extremist groups would like nothing better than to wipe out humanity completely, and even the people sworn to defend civilization against such threats have become deeply corrupt and untrustworthy. When a virulent plague destroys all warm-blooded life on Earth, a small band of survivors clings to life on the partially-terraformed Moon. But fresh dangers lie in wait for the unwary; nor have they left behind all the wickedness in the hearts of men.

In this series you'll hear a lot about Brandon Stone, and also Cody's son Micah and grandson Tycho. You'll also read about Cameron and Joan, Josiah, the tachometer, Annabelle, and even a bit about Zach Trewick. This series is a direct continuation of both _The Last Werewolf Hunter_ and _The Stones of Song,_ in which all five Curse-Breakers (and sometimes their children), play large parts.

Nightfall: When Micah McGrath suddenly finds himself thrust into a dangerous and ugly future after a lab accident, his only choice is to make the best life for himself that he can. But when the secret police get wind of his research into time travel, only Cameron and the other Avengers can save him.

Tycho: Tycho McGrath is a high school honor student in Florida when he discovers a terrifying secret: a man-made bacterium is about to wipe out all warm-blooded life on Earth within days. The only hope for survival is to flee at once, a plan which carries its own set of unexpected dangers.

Avenger: After spotting an SOS coming from the abandoned Moon, the survivors must organize a rescue mission. But the expedition quickly becomes far more complicated, leading them to the icy world of Titan in search of a holy mountain that no human eye has ever seen.

Freedom: When a cruel and power-hungry military commander on Venus decides to reconquer Earth, the only thing he needs is the formula for Tyke's Orion vaccine. The survivors soon find themselves locked into a bitter battle over the future of mankind, and who will inherit the Earth after all.

Elysium: What began as a simple mission to recover lost comrades in the Martian desert quickly turns deadly when Tyke and the others find themselves stranded on the Red Planet, with only the slimmest of chances to make it home again, or to fulfill the destiny which God has in store for them.

* * * * * * *

" _Reminiscent of Freedom's Landing, by Anne McCaffrey, Tycho combines the best of traditional space-exploration sci-fi with modern apocalyptic fiction. For any fans of hard science fiction, it doesn't get much better than this."_ _\- Liz, 0H2 Reviews_

All the Curse-Breaker Books

The Last Werewolf Hunter Series

Book One: Cry for the Moon

Book Two: Behind Blue Eyes

Book Three: More Golden Than Day

Book Four: Truesilver

The Last Werewolf Hunter: The Complete Series

The Stones of Song Series

Book One: Unclouded Day

Book Two: Many Waters

Book Three: Bran the Blessed

The Stones of Song: The Complete Series

The Tyke McGrath Series

Book One: Nightfall

Book Two: Tycho

Book Three: Avenger

Book Four: Freedom

Book Five: Elysium

End of Days: The Complete Tyke McGrath Series

You may purchase any of these books today from your favorite retailer,

Or directly from Smashwords at:

William Woodall's Smashwords Page

