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Luminary

P.S. Meraux

Text copyright © 2015 by P.S. Meraux

All rights reserved. Except for the use in reviews, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented including xerography, photocopying, digitally copying or recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. 

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Books by P.S. Meraux

Luminary

Beacon

Candlelight

Spotlight

Blackout

Beam

Flare

Vessel Series:

Without Merit

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"The Lord God said: It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a suitable partner for him....So the Lord God cast a deep sleep on the man, and while he was asleep, he took out one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh."

Genesis 2:19, 21

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## Chapter 1: The Secret

Emily Wren grabbed the large plastic tumbler from her brother's hands, quickly raising it to her curious lips to take a sip.

"NO!" Sam bellowed in a reproachful tone. "That's not for you!"

Big brothers could be such a pain, she thought, ignoring the censure.

Sam reached quite violently for the container, tugging it back from her mouth just before she got a taste. It was obvious to Emily that he was trying to snatch it away from her clinging hands without wasting the contents inside. The dark, fizzy liquid sloshed against the interior, splashing over the top.

Her stumpy fingers held the green plastic with the death grip of a pint-sized badger as she drew it closer to her mouth.

"How can a twelve-year-old be so damn strong?" Sam hissed. Temporarily losing his grasp as the liquid doused his hands, making them slick.

"Aha!" she said relishing her success, tilting the glass upward with the momentum of its release. Greedily she gulped mouthfuls of the carbonated liquid without really tasting it just for the satisfaction of seeing the dismay in her brother's eyes.

Dismay turned to shock followed by resignation in his baby blues, a shade of cobalt so similar to her own. "Dad's gonna kill me if you get drunk," he muttered.

Satisfaction turned to disgust in Emily's.

"Ewww!" she half-coughed, half-gagged as the strong flavor caught up with her taste buds. Sticking out her tongue with an ugly expression, doubling over she spit out what was left in her mouth. The move did nothing for the burning sensation in the back of her throat. She gagged again, her face growing warm with the effort.

Sam hastily grabbed the tumbler out of her now unresisting fingers before any more spilled. "Give me that."

"That's positively awful! What's in it?" she pointed a finger back at the offensive, plastic, former 'Big Gulp' cup.

"It's Captain Morgan... you pest," Sam retorted, clearly aggravated. "It's bad enough you tagged along with me and my buddies all the way out here in the woods. Nobody invited you to get drunk in the process."

She scowled at him.

This area was the teens private hang-out, crudely made as it was. It consisted of several discarded, mismatched, patios chairs -- many missing cushions, most had seen better days -- placed around a small hand-dug, earthen fire-pit at the side of a clearing.

It's where they secretly drank beer or rum, sampled cigarettes, the occasional cigar or organic substance that happened their way -- clearly by accident. None of the boys did anything illegal, at least not technically, not that Emily had ever seen.

It was the center of spirited debates or grunts -- depending on who held the floor sort of speak -- as they discussed how they were going to change the world, that is, when the subject of girls or cars or pickup trucks wasn't the forefront of conversation. At the moment the focus was again on members of the opposite sex, the teenage variety.

He looked at her expectantly.

Emily's mind was blank, she had no idea who Captain Morgan was. Her eyes darted to the other teens nearby, none looked old enough to be in the military.

"It's rum and coke... you know... liquor? I said it wasn't for you... dumb ass!" he added more sternly than needed.

The words hurt. Feeling dejected her gaze focused on the ground. Her cheeks grew very hot, partly from the rum, more so from her big brother's insult.

Sam apparently noticed.

Raising her head, she glared at him.

He shook his head ruefully, "Look I didn't mean that... but this isn't the time or place for you to pester me."

"Yuck, that's nasty," she complained before spitting again. Raising a hand, wiping it across her lips and tongue briskly -- as if the action itself could rid her mouth of the taste. She grimaced. It didn't help much.

"Go home," Sam ordered, pointing his long muscular arm back toward the woods, away from the clustered chairs.

Emily glanced at the lonely-looking stretch of trees before stubbornly looking back at her brother. "I don't wanna go..." she drew a tremendous breath before blowing it out. "Micheal's at band practice, Daddy's not home yet and Momma's still at the hospital... filling in for some nurse who had to leave the pediatrics unit early."

Her gaze turned back down toward the leaf littered ground, she idly kicked at a tuft of grass and pine straw with her shoe, scattering pieces of it into a brief puff about two feet in the air.

"There's nothing to do."

A laugh, followed by a chorus of baritone cheers on the other side of the clearing caught her attention, she looked back up. Some of the other boys, all friends of her brother, had improvised a soccer-ball from a derelict, empty, milk jug and were kicking it around. A game was starting in earnest.

Several of the teens had risen from their chairs, a couple unsteady on their feet, no doubt more the influence of their new acquaintance, Captain Morgan, than a lack of actual physical coordination. Most were athletes.

Names began to be called out, sides were obviously being drawn. A mumbled discussion about the latest one -- neither side particularly eager to draft him -- was cause to think that the debate was more about the lad's lack of skill rather than the presence of the Captain at least in his case.

One of the young men looked pointedly at Sam avoiding her eyes. "Come on Wren... we need ya!"

"Be right there," he answered.

Glancing back at Emily, he said more quietly, "Go home now."

Her thoughts turned stormy. Nope, she thought. Bottom lip curling up -- telegraphing her intent to argue. Emily had often been told that she was blessed or cursed -- depending upon your perspective -- with a glass face. Everything she was thinking was visible on her features.

Sam didn't have to be so bossy, she huffed, just because he was the oldest, he wasn't in charge! Hands coming to rest on her hips, exhibiting a chief characteristic of her personality: stubbornness

She could tell from Sam's more conciliatory expression that he didn't want to fight in front of his friends. He blinked as if trying to focus, giving her a loopy smile, making her wonder if he was slightly inebriated.

"Look if you go home now..."

She opened her mouth, on the verge of a protest.

"Without a fuss..."

Sam sharply tilted his head meaningfully at her, eyes wide, the gesture heading off her tirade.

Slowly she shut her jaw, wondering what carrot he was going to dangle. Her brother was a good negotiator.

"uh... err... then come Saturday... during the festival... I'll let you sit up front with me when I'm driving the hay wagon."

The horse-drawn wagon would be used to ferry passengers, usually couples, around the Jenkins' farm, ending at the nearby corn maze.

Her thoughts relaxed in juvenile reflection. The proverbial wheels and cogs were churning in her brain as she considered the proposal.

Her brother's smug expression said-- That's the right bait.

Emily let out a breath, accepting defeat and the approaching boredom that would accompany it.

Sam brushed his free hand across his jaw, doing his best to hide a smile.

She noticed, eyeing him with distrust but said nothing.

Her mind focused on the coming weekend. She really wanted to ride in the hay wagon, not in the back but up front near the horses. Her practical musings already planning on cutting up real carrots and bits of apple to put in a plastic baggie as a treat for them. She could get a head start on that now, she thought. That was something to do at least for a little while.

"Oh, alright," she agreed, nodding obediently.

"Good, go now... and go straight home," Sam admonished. He gave her a light cuff on the shoulder, making sure she was heading in the right direction.

He placed the tumbler on his chair, running across the clearing to join the game.

Emily walked back to the woods thinking about what else was in the fridge that might make a good snack for horses. Did they like cheese?

Preoccupied with her own thoughts, Emily didn't pay much attention to her surroundings as the tall trees of the forest closed in on her. Nor did she pay much attention to the scents of the pine, hemlock, or the red and white cedars as she dodged the roots or trunks that crossed her path.

Naturally brave, her feet walked with determination while her mind was lost in her own abstraction, aided in no small part by the effects of guzzling rum. Unfortunately, neither were heading in the right direction.

About a half-hour later -- it occurred to her that she should be staring at the backyard by now or at the very least her mother's garden. She realized that a wrong turn must have been taken along the way. She was lost.

Suddenly the details of the forest seemed to demand her attention. Where had that stand of birch and hickory trees come from? And what about the maples? Those didn't grow near their house, Dad said the soil was too rough for the roots.

Appraising her immediate area, she felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. It was an odd sensation like someone's eyes were on her. The birds were silent as if something had startled them. Birds don't sing when there's trouble, she thought. Dad had taught her that too.

The odd sensation traveled down her spine causing her to twitch. Moving her gaze right and left for a long moment, she didn't see anyone else around. Looking at her arm, she noticed a fresh crop of goosebumps erupting on her skin.

Did rum make one psychic or paranoid? she pondered feebly, her thoughts fuddled.

The brush, foliage and wild shrubbery retained much of their greenery creating screens in almost every direction her head swiveled, although the ground was covered with dead leaves. Anyone could be hiding behind them and she wouldn't know it.

Emily did a u-turn, retracing her steps in hopes that it would lead back to familiar territory. It was getting late enough in the year that it got dark fairly early. The sky was already pretty dim under the trees.

As she headed back on what she hoped was the right route, every little sound seemed to echo around the forest. Muffled shapes appeared to linger in the gloominess behind her, causing her feet to pick up speed while losing accuracy. Glancing over her shoulder one too many times, she stumbled on unseen yet highly exposed tree roots not once but twice. Fortunately she landed without hurting herself, much.

Not the same could be said for the fuzzy feeling in her head, with each jarring trip accelerating her uneasiness and the queasy feeling in her stomach. Getting up yet again, she squinted into the gathering shadows. Were those footsteps? she wondered.

Being lost in the woods, slightly drunk and a little scared, her inventiveness jumped into overdrive. Was someone or something stalking her? Were there wild animals out here? Pausing to listen, the noise suddenly stopped. Had she imagined it?

She was too young to be logical, yet practical she certainly was. Maybe her brother wanted to apologize and was looking for her. Listening to see if the footsteps repeated themselves, she heard nothing. So much for it being Sam.

It briefly occurred to her that she was being stupid and was actually all alone out here. What if she had to spend the night? Not without a coat, she thought. Growing upset at the prospect she pressed on.

It couldn't be that much farther, she pondered, facing what she hoped was the right path. Plodding forward her bleary thoughts were suddenly interrupted by something spotted in the corner of her eye. Was that a dark figure emerging from the trees. She turned to look, too late.

One moment her feet were moving over the ground, the next they were swinging in the air -- as a long arm encircled her body from one side, lifting her up. A leathery, muscular hand clamped down roughly over her mouth from the other.

The grab from behind frightened her senseless. Her heart leapfrogged convulsively in her chest. Still, she remained immobile only a few seconds.

Instinctively hunching forward away from the warm body behind her, she struggled against her unknown attacker, flinging her feet and hands backward trying to break his grip. The hold was too strong.

One of her extremities made contact with some part of him though. She had sense enough to realize that it was a him. A very big him.

There was a grunt, followed by a sharp hiss as the stranger clearly drew in a breath through clenched teeth.

Kick him again, she thought with frightened fury. Driving the heel of her shoe against him repeatedly she didn't care what particular appendage below his waist it was hitting.

At the very least he was going to be walking funny.

Emboldened, Emily squirmed and thrashed around wildly trying to dislodge his hold as well as see her captor's face. The next instant she almost did, as his hand released her mouth, at first she sputtered in fear, "Let go of me!" Then she screamed with all her might, "LET GO! LET GO! LET--"

A large fist smashed into the side of her head near one ear with such force that she was stunned into silence, barely conscious, eyes drooping half closed. Her body sagged on the remaining arm which held her aloft like a rumpled rag doll, head spinning in part from the rum, more so from the blow.

Relieved of its job of keeping her quiet, she felt the attacker's free hand slowly travel down her body, testing the firmness of her shoulder, stopping at delicate places on her torso leaving her with a vague if not fully realized sense of alarm. Her blood froze.

No stranger should be touching her, Emily's confused mind mused.

A sudden noise permeated her semi-alert state, followed by a bright flash like the forest erupted into light. It was everywhere all at once as if the tree canopy opened up and the sun shone from high noon overhead, clear and glaring.

Whatever it was -- it startled the stranger into speech.

"Bloody hell?" the hoarse words came from overhead. His hand stilled its exploration. The man spoke with an accent.

Seconds later she heard: "Oh God, No!"

It was the hoarse voice again, this time laced with fear.

Some movement was evident beside them.

Emily wasn't alert enough to see it. Lifting her head wasn't an option at the moment.

All hell broke loose around her.

The light was too bright, the action too fast, it was all a blur. She tried to make out shapes. Little could be seen with any distinction. Something like a face glowed at her. Or was it a pair of eyes? Her own half-opened ones squinted automatically against the brightness prior to closing fully.

Help. It was help, she thought. How did they get here so fast?

A word or sound echoed through the trees. Recognition was on the tip of her tongue. What was it? her jumbled thoughts inquired.

Eyes tightly shut, the bright light was visible beyond her closed lids. The breeze picked up and a rustling sound came to her ears. Was it leaves?

An image swirled behind her eyelids.

It was as if the sunlight and decaying foliage had conspired to create a form or at least the outline of one in black ink... someone not real, she supposed. Someone who looked faintly human but only faintly, swimming across a deep blue expanse. Was it the sky or the ocean? She couldn't be sure. What was that whooshing noise -- the air or the surf?

Abruptly the stranger's arm released its hold. There was a sensation of falling, not far, and landing on something incredibly soft. The solid body that had sprung behind her in assault was instantly gone. A cool impression of air now held that space. Was she floating on a cloud? Her hair was blowing loose behind her.

All was peaceful now in the forest save the rushing noise of the insistent wind.

Thus conveyed, it felt like the breeze pushed her along unimpeded by bushes or tree trunks, roots or limbs.

The odd sensation that someone was close by returned, her heart hammering away in her ears for a moment before something intuitive told her that the person was benign. Her heart eased into a steadier rhythm, calm.

"Is she alright?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

"I think so... there's a nasty goose egg on the side of her head. She's breathing normal," answered another, more detached.

Lost as she was in her near senseless state, head pounding, part of her wondered if she ought to speak? It occurred to her that she should thank her glowing faced, leaf-shrouded savior or saviors, remembering that there were two voices -- with as much grace as might be achieved while buoyant on a cloud.

She struggled again to open her eyes, eyelashes raising a few millimeters before closing. The task became moot moments later as she finally lapsed into unconsciousness.

Max's persistent barking woke Emily, startling her out of the dream.

Sitting straight up in bed, she held on to the remnants of it like a woman does a jacket against a brisk wind, remembering the details vividly. Her mind spiraled back more than a decade to when she was twelve.

Gosh, it's been years since she'd thought of that. What brought it up this time? she considered.

Emily had never spoken of that day -- when she'd been lost in the woods, half drunk, knocked in the head by the stranger and rescued by the luminous beings -- to anyone. Mainly due to the fact that she wasn't entirely positive that it had happened.

The last concrete memory that she'd been absolutely sure about was the rum.

On that point there could be no debate. Quite certain that she'd gulped down the Captain Morgan concoction, taking in more of the nasty brew than any 12-year-old should have had.

Coming to her senses that day, she'd awoken in the papasan chair on the screened-in back porch of her family home-- where she'd apparently been sleeping for a while.

"So... you're finally awake sleepyhead?" her mother had purred from the doorway in the kitchen, a pleasant smile on her face.

Mom had clearly been home a considerable amount of time, long enough to have shucked off her scrubs and slipped into comfy jeans, a Badger's sweatshirt and her well-worn moccasins.

"If you sleep any longer you're going to miss dinner. Come in... wash up. Your dad's already changing out of his suit."

Dad's home? She'd been asleep that long?

Emily had stared numbly at her just then.

A fresh vision of leaf people, still swimming like an afterimage on her retinas and the sensation of the cool cloud of air beneath her felt real enough -- she patted the chair cushion with her hand enjoying the tactile feel of the worn fabric. Was it just this?

No longer groggy from alcohol, sleep or head trauma, her reasoning returned. Had she dreamt it?

Her inertia caused her mother to clap her hands together a little too cheerfully. "All right, up and Adam."

Emily sat up straight, too quickly. "Ouch," she grimaced, hands reaching for her cranium. Her head was pounding and not just the area behind her ear. Although she could feel a sizable knot in that vicinity as well.

That was real.

Had the rest been real too? The stranger who grabbed her, the glowing face of her rescuers, riding on air? It seemed impossible yet the lump was unmistakable. Had someone hit her or had it been acquired by accident during one of her many falls when her drunken feet had stumbled over roots?

Too much to process with a hangover, for surely that's what she had.

A throbbing ache covered all of her brain, pulsating, like it had suddenly grown too big for the confines of her skull. Her mouth was unusually dry. She needed to get some water, a lot of water.

The utterance had passed through her lips without thought of her mother. Mrs. Wren was a licensed pediatric nurse.

Wearing a concerned expression, Mom walked over to more closely examine her. Leaning down she looked into Emily's eyes and drew in a sharp breath. Wrinkling her nose, her own lighter cobalt eyes grew wide with definite unease as she obviously recognized the odor.

"Emily! Why are your eyes bloodshot? Have. You. Been. Drinking?"

Emily's bloodshot peepers went wide.

Not wishing to toss Sam under the bus, after all she still wanted to ride in the hay wagon, that wouldn't happen if he got grounded. She held her tongue if unable to avoid the guilty flush that crept across her young, pale features.

"You have." Accusation and disapproval were clear in her mother's tone.

Admitting that she'd sampled the rum without implicating her brother, Emily received a lecture first from her mother then her father about the dangers of liquor at her age. They need not have worried.

Whether the events in the forest had been real or a Captain Morgan induced nightmare, the apprehension and confusion the day produced was enough to keep her away from alcohol until she was legally allowed to drink it.

Her first sip of beer didn't happen until she was 21, even then she hadn't immediately developed a fondness for the malted beverage.

Wine on the other hand she used for cooking, one of her other passions in life, next to writing. Her finicky taste for it had sharpened on par with her skills in the kitchen. Luckily her parents' anxiety had slackened over the past decade and they no longer worried about her becoming a lush.

Of course by the time their initial lectures about the degenerative effects of alcohol were done, her conscious mind had forgotten about the stranger and her rescuers but not her subconscious.

Each had come back to her dreams, several times. Events played out consistently; she'd been tipsy, lost, grabbed, punched, groped and saved.

Bright sunlight streamed around the edges of the miniblinds covering the front windows of her apartment, sending reassuring beams through the space as she wondered what triggered the reappearance of her childhood mystery.

The bridge it had created to that hazy, distant memory left her feeling unsettled. She didn't like the feeling, preferring to have control over her life and surroundings.

In the past a conscious decision had been made, choosing to let those impressions drift away, over the years becoming more detached. There they had remained... until now.

An obscure feeling persisted in the back of her mind, making her feel that she should grab this chance to re-examine the recollections that she'd allowed herself to forget. So she did.

Concentrating on the dream, frame by frame, each image flickering through her thoughts then floating away like a leaf on the wind as it falls from a tree in the autumn. Kind of like her rescuers, she mused sarcastically, not without humor.

The more she thought about it, replaying the dazzling images, the more it all blurred together losing coherence in the process, not making any sense in the repetition.

A nagging suspicion bothered her like she needed to prepare for something in anticipation of events to come. Was the bad dream a warning? Of what?

She frowned at the prospect.

No matter how logically she examined the dream or her memory, there was no rational explanation for being able to travel on a puff of air. People didn't do that.

Max whined.

Resigned, she shook her head ruefully as if trying to dislodge the tangled snapshots in her mind. More pressing matters needed attention at the moment, like letting Max outside to do his business before he had an accident on the hardwood floor.

Cleaning up a puddle or a pile of poo was absolutely not the way she wanted to start her weekend.

"Come on Max," she called, rising from the bed and heading to the back door. She paused before opening it, rubbing her forearm. The skin was clammy. A glaring notion accompanied the sensation that the world felt wrong. She could sense it, clinging to her almost like something icy had seeped into her pores.

Solemn brown eyes looked up at her, Max was waiting.

"Something's wrong," she told him reaching for the latch, as if that explained her delay. "What is it?" she mumbled to herself, distracted.

Max gave a small whimper indicating the increasing urgency of his need to go.

She opened the door to let him run in the backyard.

He took off like a rocket, propelling himself off the deck in his haste. Rushing over to a boxwood shrub, he paused long enough to sniff the base suspiciously before deciding it was okay to do his business.

Standing just inside the threshold, Emily peered out. Edging forward slightly, she leaned against the door frame glancing right and left, there was nothing unusual in the yard. Still, she couldn't shake the unsettling mixture of emotions the old nightmare had spawned.

Trying to calm herself she took a deep breath and exhaled. The morning air was fresh and cool. It helped. Surely she wasn't the only person dealing with disturbing dreams, Emily pondered.

## Chapter 2: The Nightmare

He was tired, sweaty, his clothes were dirty and he stunk. Corporal David Bowen was outdoors and in his element, plodding forward, putting one foot in front of the other.

Coming off a twelve-hour patrol, he wasn't thinking about the rebels they had encountered in the mountains, nor the firefight that had followed, nor the six dead bodies of the enemy insurgents that had been the end result. His unit was well trained and did their duty protecting the villages at the base of the mountains while coalition forces took the battle forward to the upper elevations.

His platoon was entering their section of the camp on Forward Operating Base Kopet-Dag. They'd have ten hours before their next patrol. Most were eager to get some shut-eye or a shower.

Neither appealed to David.

His stomach was leading him toward the mess hall. He'd heard there might be pie. He didn't know what kind. Hell, pie is pie, he thought. It had been a long time since he'd had a slice, hoping maybe there would be enough for him to have two. Those kinds of little indulgences made all the difference to David.

"Where are you going?" Second Lieutenant James asked one of the soldiers who was not heading in the direction of quarters.

"Shower... sir," replied the private.

"Save some water for the rest of us," chided the lieutenant as two more soldiers followed him.

Several others headed straight for their bunks, not David. He had a one-track mind. And that mind was focused on food, besides if he waited until he cleaned up, they might run out of pie.

"You going for chow?" asked the lieutenant as he saw David turn in the direction of the mess tent.

"Yes sir."

"Hang on a minute... I'll come with you."

He handed his pack to another soldier, "Drop this off at my bunk." It was not a request.

"Yes, sir," replied the private first class.

The lieutenant gave David a light smack on his backpack, fell into step beside him and glanced over his shoulder before saying, "I heard they have pie... I wanna get a slice before it runs out."

Two hours later David had finally stowed his gear and was heading to the showers. He was stuffed. He'd had a good meal and yes, there had been pie. It was apple and it was delicious, wonderful crust, nicely baked, satisfying filling.

The lieutenant had managed to get his hands on a whole pie and they'd split it.

David didn't feel one bit guilty, not a man who worried about his weight, at least not anymore. He'd been a husky kid but had grown into a natural athlete.

He'd entered the U.S. Army with a lean, muscular body. All the training Uncle Sam dished out had bulked him up and turned him into a weapon, as a result, he viewed food as fuel. On the next patrol he'd march off that pie and then some.

By the time he was clean, the sun had set and it was dark outside. An easterly wind was blowing across the valley bringing a chill to the night air. David spotted Specialist Hunter Sims and another soldier, Private Todd Dupree, they were standing around a blue oil barrel outside of their sleeping quarters.

There was a shimmer of heat rising off it from the fire inside. It was built in the lower third of the drum, big enough to generate warmth but deep enough not to be observed from a distance.

Hunter was drinking a Corona.

"Man, how can you stand it ...that tastes like horse piss," argued Todd.

"It's not that bad... Honestly," replied Hunter, tilting the bottle back for another swig.

David grunted, honest was not a word he associated with Hunter.

The man was a specialist alright, in acquisitions \-- meaning he got anything the unit needed through some dubious back channels; extra ammo or gear, a couple of additional RPG launchers, one time a flatbed truck, even the occasional contraband items. That made him popular with the guys.

David did not care for him.

Every time Hunter opened his mouth, some tall tale would tumble out. David would grunt with disdain, roll his eyes and not call him on his bullshit. Sometimes.

He tried to keep the peace, valuing candor and integrity, two things he felt certain that Hunter knew nothing about. Needless to say, the two were not close. So he was surprised when Hunter called out to him while lifting the lid of a nearby cooler with his boot.

"Hey Bowen, want a beer?"

Eyeing the label in disbelief, David snorted, this time not with disdain but curiosity. Corona was his favorite beer, David wondered briefly if Hunter knew that? It was hard as hell to get here. Unwilling to look a gift-horse in the mouth, he grabbed a bottle and popped off the top. "All right... Thanks man."

By the time he was on his fourth Corona he was feeling no pain. One of his best friends in the unit, John Ross, stopped by and tried to talk some sense into him.

"Bowen... what you doing man? We got patrol in a few hours... You gonna get some rest or what?"

"I hear ya... lemme finish my beer," he replied with a slight slur.

"Yeah, let him finish his beer," urged Hunter.

When David didn't finish it right away, Ross walked off, pissed.

"Ah, man... don't be like that."

David was eyeing the number of Coronas left in the cooler, by his calculations there were seven. Hunter must have gotten two six-packs, he thought. He didn't want to leave just yet, not knowing when he'd get the chance to enjoy another one.

As the evening wore on, the number of bottles in the cooler dwindled to none. David didn't drink them all but he made a valiant attempt.

Once inebriated, he barely remembered stumbling into his rack, it wasn't long afterward that he woke up retching. Utterly helpless, he couldn't stop.

Someone was smart enough to put a bucket under his face. After the latest round of puking, he laid his head on the floor, eyes closed, fearful of the next wave of nausea.

"Not feeling well... are you soldier?" A voice asked.

David cracked an eye open. A medic was kneeling beside him, hand reaching down trying to take his pulse.

Damn idiot, he thought grumpily, why would he be on the floor if he wasn't sick as a dog?

"Here... let's get you on your feet," the medic said soothingly.

The thought of standing made David's stomach lurch. With a growing sense of alarm, he tried to tamp the sensation down before he hurled again. When he did open his mouth, it was to let the medic know what he could do with his suggestion. The string of profanities apparently had no effect.

Rough hands grabbed him on either side. The medic and someone else took him to the aid station. Astonished that he'd reached it without dying, he curled up in a ball, knees pressed to his belly in a futile attempt to stop the ache and passed out.

David awoke after midnight with an I-V in his arm which he promptly pulled out. His mouth tasted funny. Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he sat up. Head pounding, he blinked. Both hands gripped the bed frame on either side of his thighs to keep himself from falling. After a minute or two the pain seemed to let up, a little.

Putting both feet on the floor, he eased himself forward.

The doctor on duty, a Captain Vincent by the look of his name tag, tried to stop him from leaving.

"Hold on there, don't do that... you can't simply leave... you're sick. You might have food poisoning," said Vincent.

"Is Second Lieutenant James here?" David asked in a hoarse voice.

"No, he left on patrol two hours ago... Don't worry soldier, he knows you're here... relax," coaxed the captain.

Standing to his left, the doctor tilted a pitcher over a paper cup.

David felt thirsty and watched the captain's actions with interest.

"Here," the man said offering the cup to David.

He drank the water then got out of bed. "I gotta catch up to my platoon."

"You don't need to do that."

"With all due respect sir, I ate the same food as the lieutenant, if he doesn't have food poisoning, neither do I. I guess I had one too many beers," David admitted feeling a trifle shamefaced, pausing for several seconds. "I feel okay... please let me go."

Giving the doctor his most earnest look, David pleaded with his eyes. He truly wanted to be out with his team.

The doctor could clearly see how determined David was.

"I only mentioned the possibility of food poisoning due to the severe symptoms you displayed when the medic brought you in. I won't know for sure until the lab results are back. That might not be for another twenty-four hours."

The pleading look intensified.

The captain sighed.

"All right corporal... but if you experience any more symptoms... come right back here."

"Yes Sir."

David left the aid station, grabbed his gear and hit the trail. He knew the area his squad was patrolling well. They'd been rounding up or engaging insurgents there for months. He raced to catch up with his team while battling the demons in his own thoughts, not wanting to let his guys down. The idea of being unreliable bothered him much more that the lingering effects of nausea.

In his haste, he wasn't as careful as he should have been. He ran through the village outside the base, then through another up into the foothills where the houses were fewer and more spread out.

It was early morning and everything was dark; the houses, the dirt road that served as his trail. He was breathing heavy with exertion then he heard it. Somewhere ahead in the distance, a scream, a girl was screaming.

He ran forward into the darkness, more cautious now, he was exposed.

There were no structures to take refuge behind if the enemy opened fire. Was it a trick? he pondered. Looking around, trying to see what was happening while advancing his position. The screaming stopped. Had it been an animal? A wildcat? A feral one? His platoon had encountered such strays in the foothills.

As the trail climbed, he rounded another bend and saw the outline of a small house with a light on inside. He crept up beside it and carefully looked through a dirty window. Cringing at the scene, he felt the bile rise in his throat and feared that he might start vomiting again.

A gas lantern was sitting on a wooden table in the room, which was sparsely furnished with an old iron-framed bed, a chest of drawers and a couple of wooden chairs. The level of poverty among the villagers was often gut-wrenching to see.  A young woman, not much older than a teenager was sitting on the bed sobbing. A trickle of blood was coming down the side of her swollen lip and a bruise was forming on her cheek. She was naked. Hunter Sims was beside the bed pulling his pants up. Another soldier, whose face David couldn't see, was gathering up their backpacks and gear.

It was obvious to David what had happened.

Rage welled up in him as he ran around the side of the house looking for a way inside. He wanted to rip them both apart.

A volley of gunfire halted his steps and he dropped to the ground a yard from what he realized was the front porch. Bullets whizzed by, striking the wood frame of the house.

He scanned the darkness looking for the gunman. Perhaps he too had been drawn by the screaming, David thought. That didn't mean he was a friendly. The house went dark. David heard rather than saw the front door open, Hunter and the other soldier came out.

"It came from over there... by the rocks I think," whispered Hunter.

"Stay down! Go left by the trail... I'll go right... We'll get him," whispered a second voice.

David recognized it as Todd Dupree.

Another volley of gunfire had both soldiers jumping off the far side of the porch and scattering into the darkness.

From his vantage point David could tell that the shooter was about a quarter of a mile ahead, somewhere in the hills. The terrain there was rocky, plenty of big boulders to hide behind.

David mentally worked out a route to get to the gunman even as he heard more gunfire and explosions in the distance -- maybe a mile or two ahead. Was his unit in trouble? he feared.

Part of him wanted to check on the girl. He stopped himself, figuring that the last thing she needed to see right now was another soldier in her house. He'd check on her later, get a medic to take her to the aid station, he thought.

More gunfire erupted from another direction.

It wasn't the same shooter. David couldn't tell if it was Hunter or Todd. The bullets were not aimed at him.

He got off the ground, trained his weapon ahead of him while running in the direction of the first shooter, adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart thundering in his ears. Could he hear the sniper over that? he worried. Dashing across the road, a hundred yards up the hillside more gunfire shattered the air, some of it snapped past his helmet, forcing him to hit the dirt again.

"I got 'em... I got the son of a bitch," Todd crowed in the darkness some distance ahead of him.

His celebration was short-lived.

A blast of high explosives somewhere farther up the trail shook the ground like an earthquake. It was followed by more gunfire in the distance, not a single shooter, multiple firearms, a gunbattle.

"Sounds like the platoon's under fire... come on," called Hunter, running in the direction of the sounds of war.

"On your six..." replied Todd.

Both soldiers raced up the trail. David ran after them, wanting to make them pay for what he suspected they'd done. He lost sight of them as they went over the ridge about a quarter of a mile ahead of him.

When he got there, his chest heaving with the exertion of the run, he sucked in a deep breath. Expelling it, he drew another, this time more from shock than need.

The spectacle was devastating.

His platoon was pinned down near the smoking remains of a military convoy. Several vehicles were still on fire. The flames provided ample light for the insurgents.

There was a nest of them on the ridge and they were shooting at anything that moved below. Several bodies of American soldiers were on the road, not moving. There was no way to tell if they were breathing or dead.

He could not see which way Hunter or Todd had gone.

David knew he had to protect his men. From his position on the ridge he figured that if he could sneak along the opposite side of the trail, well off the road, he might be able to get the jump on the rebels. With any luck, if he got close enough he could toss a grenade or two and take them out. It was risky and dangerous; the odds were not in his favor.

It has to be done, he thought grimly, not relishing his chances. Otherwise the insurgents could pick off members of the platoon at will. They were on higher ground.

He didn't hesitate, plunging forward, darting among the rocks and brush sparse as it was. He almost made it.

One of the rebels spotted him. A cry went out, alerting the others. Two of them started shooting at him while the rest kept his comrades pinned down.

One round slammed into David's arm and another in the shoulder. Staggering from the impact of bullets in his flesh, he fell to his knees muttering unsavory comments about the renegade shooters, almost dropping the two grenades he clutched in one hand.

Gritting his teeth for a moment, he used them to pull the pins -- hurling both with all his considerable might -- forward into the nest.

Seconds later, his efforts were rewarded with a series of powerful explosions. The initial blast knocked him backward.

He lay stunned for several seconds. Face coated in dirt and soot, he eventually sat up, disregarding the pain of his injuries and managed to get to his feet.

Eyeing the shadows, his heart was hammering like crazy as he checked for more shooters. This might not be over yet, he thought grimly.

He didn't find any.

Stumbling wearily down the hillside, he called out, worry clung to his voice. Were his friends alive? He lost his footing, fell on one knee and struggled to get up again before trudging on.

"They're dead! The insurgents are dead!" he shouted the words in a matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't bragging, it had to be done to save the unit. David licked his lips; his mouth was dry again and he felt queasy.

"Lieutenant? Gunnery sergeant? Can you hear me? You guys alright?"

"That you Bowen?"

"Yes sir."

The lieutenant rose from his hiding place.

"I'm sure as hell glad to see you! The medic said you had food poisoning," the lieutenant explained, walking up to him on the road. A big smile lit up his dirty face.

"No sir... I don't... we ate the same thing."

David paused as more members of the platoon abandoned their cover, "Sorry I'm late guys." He apologized as more men came over.

"Man, what are you talking about... if you'd been here... your ass would have been pinned down too," theorized one private.

"You saved the day... Bowen."

"You're a freaking hero, man!"

"Perfect timing," praised another soldier, slapping him on the back.

David grunted, wincing in pain.

"Hey, he's hurt, get a medic!" the soldier called, "Sorry man... I didn't see."

Most of the other comments were lost in the extensive uproar of thankfulness and congratulation. The men in his unit were all very happy to be alive.

In the calm that followed, a corpsman bandaged his wounds and tended to the surviving members of the convoy.

One specialist was pulled out of the burning wreckage of a truck and placed on the ground near where David sat at the edge of the road. She was a young woman.

The first pink rays of sunrise were lighting the sky as the medic tried to stop the bleeding, she was badly hurt. Her abdomen had a hole through it about the size of a coffee cup. David watched the medic glance over at the lieutenant and faintly shake his head. He moved to the next victim.

The nod was a death sentence. She wasn't going to make it.

David couldn't see her face, there was too much blood. She was small and had dark hair. He didn't know what compelled him but he moved to her. Squatting down, instinctively reaching over with his uninjured arm, he picked up her hand. It was covered in blood.

Her head wobbled slightly with the movement of her arm.

"She's gone corporal," the medic reassured him in a solemn tone.

"I don't think anybody should die alone," David replied, not the least bit dissuaded by the finality of the medic's tone. His shoulders felt knotted beneath the uniform.

Up to his elbows in the blood of another patient, the corpsman raised his own shoulders in a small shrug, the gesture indicating that he wouldn't deny a dying girl a moment of comfort.

Her hand was tiny in David's, it still felt warm. He gently squeezed it, her fingers moved slightly. Had he imagined that? he wondered.

There was something about her that felt familiar to David even though the two had never met. He sat there like that, holding her hand until the earth started to fold in around him, dragging him under like quicksand as he clawed and clawed, trying to get back to the surface. His lungs were burning as he struggled to get air, he felt her hand slip away.

David Bowen woke up screaming in the bedroom of his Atlanta condo. Now 29, he felt confused, like he was on the same battlefield that he'd left six years earlier.

Drenched in sweat, he sat up on the side of his bed, head in his hands, thoughts in turmoil, still twisted by the nightmare as he tried to control the shaking. He could still smell the bloody, dead bodies, the scent of combat and the smoldering wreckage.

What had triggered the return of his traumatic nightmares?

## Chapter 3: Hidden Realm

No light could be seen in the distance in the corridor ahead; only a wash of mist and blackness was visible in that section of the realm. The uncertainty of what lay out there did not hamper Wicus' steps. He rushed along the corridor between reality and the tangible, a realm hidden from the world of mankind by magic.

Troubling thoughts scampered after him, both exasperating and unsettling. Slapping the side of his head with his palm he tried to evict the aggravating idea which plagued him. It didn't help.

"What's going on with the safeguards?" he fumed, as random thoughts ricocheted across his mind, wishing they would go away, knowing full well they would not. Heart thundering in his chest, it echoed his inner turmoil.

"The Safeguards..." his voice rose sharply before breaking off as he tried to control his tone. He felt like screaming in frustration. That kind of behavior wouldn't do, Paragons didn't lose control.

"They're supposed to prevent this! Oh the council is not... not going to be happy... not happy at all." His voice rang off the walls of the passageway.

Waxine glided effortlessly in midair beside him. She bobbed smoothly over the crosscurrent created by their movement and her magic.

Her three-foot-long power cord was whipping along in front on them, its enchanted three-pronged Plug pointed the way as the corridor ahead responded to her unspoken commands; shimmering and shifting, turning form into nothingness and back into form again. The scurrying pair moved right, left and even diagonally without encountering any obvious corners. Her magic propelled them where they needed to go: the Council of Nine.

It was light enough in the structure she created. The air was clear and dry in the corridor surrounding them. Their approach was viewed by none. No other living entity moved inside or out of the passageway.

Caught up in his own mental ramblings, Wicus didn't stop to ponder the noiseless nature of the corridor or the reasons behind its existence. It offered protection enough for their destination that there were no challenges to their progress. No sentries were posted at odd intervals monitoring or reporting on their approach.

Tension created by his outbursts floated in the air around him. The breeze faintly crackled with it, like some restless electrical charge looking for a place to spark.

He'd been seething for about an hour while she silently guided them through the secret passages which provided security around the chamber housing the Paragons' ruling body.

He had yet to run out of steam.

Waxine lifted her chin, casting a sideways glance at him with her metallic eyes. She spoke, "They will intercede."

He blinked.

To Wicus her voice seemed to come out of nowhere. It shocked him that he'd almost forgotten her presence, his mind had been so absorbed by this pressing dilemma.

"They have to!" he exclaimed, "without it the alternative is too bleak," allowing more of his vexation out. Self-doubt was surfacing. What if they didn't?

Wicus eyed the corridor with a hint of dubious incredulity, cutting his eyes sideways confirming that she was indeed at his side. His instincts kept him from revealing just how surprised he was. After feeling the initial shock traipse across his face, he once again resettled it into an inscrutable mask as he studied hers.

For a fraction of a moment he ceased to recall why he was in an agitated state, such was the calming effect of Waxine's voice as it echoed in the chambers of the metal shafts which made up her body. It sounded like the tinkling of chimes.

What had she said? he mused, feeling peaceful in that moment as one does around a cherished friend.

Remembering, his distress quickly returned. He looked around the shifting passageway once again, saw nothing save the solid floor under his feet and the walls on either side of his party. He had the oddest feeling of paranoia.

Glancing briefly over his shoulder, there was nothing behind but the shapeless black where the previous bit of corridor had evaporated. A growing surreal sensation troubled him, hounding his thoughts.

Was he forgetting something else? Impossible, he thought with great arrogance. He was too good at his job, dutiful to all under his care. And yet, a primary and secondary soul mate for one girl were both dead.

His thoughts instantly sobered.

"What is happening in the world that both candidates had to die like that?" he muttered, beginning to feel anxious again. "What if the council doesn't agree with my plans? I can't have the girl go mateless."

Peering forward again, squinting, he tried to make out what was ahead in the inky darkness. Even with his unique vision, there was nothing to see in the nebulous blur. There were no boundaries to cross here, no authorities to appease. And yet his feet felt oddly leaden like the odds were growing against him with each step. He needed to get council approval to put this situation to rights, not just from one member but all of them.

Something was amiss in the human realm, something that should not be happening, he thought. Something that he would need to fix. He felt a pang of insecurity. Were his skills up to the task?

The corridor was silent save for his footsteps and the faint swishing noise as Waxine's power cord danced back and forth doing its work. Neither sound was loud enough to drown out any other should someone come after them, none did.

He increased his pace as a growing sense of dread urged him forward. It couldn't be much farther, he thought, eager to get to his destination.

"This is unprecedented... no one... never has anyone lost both a primary soul mate and a backup candidate before a meeting... this simply has to--" he stopped mid-sentence as the true ramifications hit him, shock resurfacing.

Now he consciously understood where the dread which felt like a brick in his stomach heralded. That realization was accompanied by a shot of terror in his gut.

"I'll have to change an existing soul... already in human form. That's the only option... a human who has met and lost his soul mate," he hissed.

The words came out hoarsely, partly because he was afraid to voice them and partly because his mouth had suddenly gone dry. Uncertainty was in his mind as he glanced at Waxine. "It is a nasty business, a nasty, painful business indeed... retrofitting a soul... but maybe--"

Another wave of doubt threatened to wash over him. That kind of work was not something he was used to. So many things could go wrong. He couldn't worry about it right now. He had other things on his mind.

Wicus fell silent, maintaining his frenzied stride, distracted. Not trusting his judgment about what the council would do, he was weighing his options.

The girl deserved a shot at happiness.

Waxine shifted closer to him.

He glanced her way.

Her metallic gaze was intent on his. She seemed to be assessing him. Did she doubt his ability to do this project as much as he did?

Wicus felt warm and flushed -- a byproduct of uneasiness more than activity. Not someone who enjoyed confrontations, he readied himself for what she might say. It was an automatic reflex. Despite her loyalty she could be awfully brutal.

"Does that seem like the only prospect?" she asked a trifle cynically.

Grimly nodding, he agreed.

"I see no other possibility... a Paragon can only retrofit a soul that has been introduced to his or her mate... prior to that moment there are locks in place, locks which protect the person's soul from magical interference."

"What about creating a new one from scratch?"

"Considering that one hasn't even been started, she'd be decades older than the soul mate. Not the best formula for a cohesive relationship," he said bluntly.

"So it's retrofitting or nothing."

"Yes," he agreed, frowning, allowing a note of worry in his tone, bracing himself for a visit with the council. It hadn't been a good morning. It might not be a good afternoon either.

Waxine clearly didn't like it. "Hmph," she snorted. "I wonder if they'll give us the evil eye when we get there. Some of them are right evil bastards."

"Waxine..." Wicus began.

"Don't Waxine me," she cut him off in a slight huff. Shaking her head, she muttered, "Sanctimonious lawmakers."

Eyeing him, she continued, "Despite an epoch... watching you Paragons fulfill your duties... I've never observed this retrofitting that you seem to dread."

"It's a nasty business. I don't like the prospect of inflicting pain on a human," he confessed.

"I've been retrofitted... with Plug here... and it wasn't painful at all," she announced.

Responding to her words, Plug abandoned its duty as guide and turned toward Waxine. Its three-prongs transforming into a grinning face, before nodding in obvious agreement.

Without the attachment's magical direction the corridor began to settle into a cohesive form and Wicus slammed into a wall that suddenly appeared right in front of him, face first. The elegant, charcoal gray cloak that covered his 6-foot-3-inch frame swayed noiselessly around his legs.

He wore the cloak on formal occasions and when visiting the council. It matched his tunic and trousers perfectly. The garment was snug across his arms and torso, secured in place both at mid-chest and at the waist by black leather straps and buckles. Black boots clung to his calves. The same non-embellished attire was favored by most soul minders.

Wicus stepped back, uninjured. His features and hair snapped back into place like a rubber doll. He relaxed the crease on his forehead while jutting his jaw forward in a surprised grimace. Thank goodness he was a Paragon.

The race of super immortals was aptly named. His kind were ageless beings who secretly worked their magic behind the scenes. While his body reacted to solid objects like rubber, he appeared for all intents and purposes like a human man, albeit, a rather stubborn one.

Snorting at the ridiculousness of the situation, his mood lightened.

She smiled at him.

Sensing her appraisal, Wicus patted the buckle over his chest, glancing down to make sure it was unharmed. Hand smoothing the fabric of the tunic, he evaluated it by touch. His attire was simple but elegant. Always concerned with quality, he took special care in his appearance. Everything in place, his scrutiny returned to his companion.

"Don't worry... you're simply perfection. Like always.... just beautiful. It's a pity your kind are hidden from the human world," Waxine observed.

The beautiful Paragon grunted his disagreement.

Although the accident was plainly an unintentional slight, he gave Waxine his full attention. Noting the pesky Plug's misplaced gaze was the cause of the mishap, Wicus raised an eyebrow, lips quirking in an involuntary smirk.

"You're calmer at least," Waxine quipped.

"You're right, the closer we get to the council chamber, the calmer I feel," he admitted. "Perhaps hitting the wall knocked some sense back into me."

The corner of his mouth quirked again.

Wicus' initial anxiety was beginning to recede, replaced by his natural resourcefulness. If retrofitting were approved -- and it would have to be, he'd need to come up with a list of new candidates. He started to outline a game plan in his head.

Waxine grinned at him, raising her eyebrows in an unspoken question which seemed to say, Ready to continue?

He nodded.

Flicking the power cord-- the corridor once again shimmered.

Wicus made a point of looking where he was going before resuming the hectic pace, recalling her announcement with uncanny accuracy as he did so.

"It's not the same, Waxine. You were never... human. At least... you have never mentioned that you were... am I missing something?"

Curious, he glanced at her.

"Humph," the candelabra huffed with evident disdain.

"Elusive as ever I see."

Wicus never delved much into his enchanted companion's past. It wasn't allowed. Stubborn Luminary. That said, he accepted her for who she was.

What little he did know was fascinating; Waxine was crafted in Denmark into a beautiful eight-socketed candelabra in the 10th century, during the time when immortals hid among the Vikings. A wizard -- grievously injured in a battle with one of them -- accidentally deposited some of his power onto Waxine.

She came to life and joined the race of Luminaries, as it were. Her past prior to that was murky. If she had any memories of her non-enchanted self, she never spoke of them.

"Still unwilling to share how you came to be in the hands of that immortal oaf in Iceland?"

Waxine snorted. It wasn't a dainty sound. A small line formed between her delicate metallic brows as she clearly concentrated on ignoring him.

Wicus stifled a chuckle, raising a knuckle to his lips to hide a smile. He was well acquainted with her stubborn nature. It would freeze her tongue when she didn't want to reveal something about herself, not her face.

She continued whipping around her appendage. Plug didn't look at him either, maintaining its focus on the magical passageway. There were no more unfortunate delays or corridor crashes.

Wicus knew that the candelabra had passed from the possession of one immortal to another until she was placed on a spot on the edge of reality. She was there only for an instant. Faster than a spring breeze, he'd reached through the veil into the visible world and taken custody. Her hulking owner Marsden never saw what happened.

Something about her had captivated him completely, he felt an instant, deep connection and knew she belonged here. After all, Paragons used magic in their daily duties. It was fitting that Wicus had an enchanted being at his side. He wasn't the only one with a Luminary companion.

Waxine had helped with his more difficult cases.

"I thought you were worried about more pressing matters at the moment," she interjected, effectively turning the conversation away from her.

Wicus gaped at her profile for a moment, closed his mouth and nodded mutely. His throat was suddenly dry again. It occurred to him that he should have had a good stiff drink before undertaking this errand.

His thoughts immediately returned to Emily Wren, the 23-year-old college student in Georgia without a soul mate. Talk about difficult, this case was going to be a doozy. Yet he was determined that she would get her chance at happiness.

"Emily deserves a soul mate like every human does. The Yoke Accords of Tusome guarantee it.... I'm not going to be sidetracked by another human war." Shaking his head in regret, he said, "I should have been watching them both like a hawk... maybe I could have prevented all of this."

Wicus groaned. If he'd been more diligent perhaps they wouldn't be dead.

A vision of their fallen bodies haunted him. Blood seeping through the fabric of each one's uniform as the soldier lay immobile on the ground. The breeze took no notice of either passing, blowing dirt and other earthly sediment over each prostrate man.

Waxine sighed, faintly shaking her head in clear disagreement making the flames over all eight invisible candles tremble. Her brow wrinkled and her eyes turned thoughtful. She pursed her lips and paused before speaking as if choosing her words carefully.

"Don't be stupid! Do you really think you could do that? With all the souls under your care... there aren't enough hours in the day. You have millions of people in your region alone. How can you keep track of two of them when they go off to war on the other side of the world?" asked Waxine logically.

"I feel like I should have been more prepared or something," he whined.

Wicus hunched his shoulders not so much in defeat as frustration. He blew out a breath through his lips. Failure wasn't an emotion he was comfortable with. He hated it when something messed up his carefully laid plans. It rankled him that the deaths had occurred. Was he missing something? Self-doubt resurfaced in his mind.

"You cannot interfere with the lives of humans."

"Interfering in the lives of people is what I do... all of the time... IT'S MY JOB," he added emphatically, pulling his eyebrows upward. His job was making sure that assigned soul mates met.

"You know that's not what I mean... You cannot change their fates... if someone is destined to die on a battlefield, you cannot stop it. You're a Paragon... not God," she eyed him, countenance slightly sardonic. "Work is the only thing really important to you... Wicus."

He snorted lightly but stopped short of contradicting her.

"Problems from another damn war," he muttered under his breath after a moment.

The wars of man had caused every alteration that existed in the Paragons' laws. The original pairing of soul mates culminated in a wedding, resulting in the perfect kind of love... releasing magic into the world. That edict ended a century ago. Nowadays soul minders like Wicus were only responsible for bringing people together.

The chance meeting, the unexpected turn of events, the remarkable concurrence of circumstances -- all of which were actually carefully planned to set two souls on the path to lasting happiness.

To advance mankind, magic was constantly needed, as a result souls were mated on a regular basis. There existed a very intricate plan. Every soul mate had a primary and a backup, who in turn had two soul mates as well.

Every person except Emily Wren, at least not anymore.

"Great things are expected from the girl, leastwise according to the mystical report passed to me from the seer. She claims that Emily's unusual magic will be quite beneficial."

"Did the seer give you any specifics?"

Shaking his head, No. He grimaced. The report had been astonishingly short on details.

As they drew closer to the council chamber, Wicus felt a change in the atmosphere as if some other kind of desperation lingered in the air. Was that the cause of the nagging feeling? he pondered.

"It doesn't make sense that both of her soul mates were killed... at the same time... in the same battle. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be allowed."

"Quite a coincidence, don't you think... that both died today," the candelabra observed with a pensive expression on her metallic features.

Her words stopped him short.

"It can't be a coincidence," he breathed, feeling vaguely alarmed. Coincidence was the hallmark of Paragons.

Was there something else going on? Did Emily have an enemy in this realm? Was there some plot against this particular human... something he'd not seen? It didn't make sense.

Wicus searched his memory... he was very dedicated to duty. It had taken him years to get into the soul minder brotherhood and it was a job he took seriously.

Distracted as he was, it was some seconds before he noticed they weren't going anywhere. Blinking, he came back to the present staring at Waxine straight on.

She had stopped, her attachment ceased its undulations. Grinning at him, her metallic eyes were earnest as she said in a sing-song tone, "We're here."

The corridor vanished as quickly as the vapor it was constructed from, the lingering amorphous blackness in front of them quickly retreated, easing into a cohesive shape that towered overhead and down to the newly formed floor revealing a pair of intricately carved, eternal, redwood doors that stretched 15-feet-high.

Standing perfectly still he took a couple of deep breaths, not that he was winded from the journey. Being a Paragon, he wasn't bothered by the exertion. The breaths were a way to steady himself for the discussion to come. The council had to see things his way. What if they didn't? The nagging doubt persisted.

Emily Wren deserved a soul mate.

Soothed by the breathing and his brief lull in movement, he took the time to straighten his tunic and cloak, running a hand through his curls, patting them down assuring that they were in place. He paused, passing his hand across his chin and the corners of his lips in thought. The grooming gesture did little to erase the abiding doubt from his mind. Would the council approve the retrofitting?

Waxine interrupted his conjectures with eerie precision.

"You will persuade them. You'll see. They'll agree with you about what needs to be done... Or we'll go rogue and do it behind their backs."

Wicus was appropriately scandalized. His companion was proposing something close to treason right outside the chamber doors.

"No I won't... nor will you," he said primly.

"You always do right by the souls under your care."

"Not against council orders."

"Then they'd better agree," she scoffed, "...or you'll have to turn me in."

Wicus flinched slightly. Pursing his lips together in objection. He was too loyal to do anything like that and she knew it. Momentary dislike replaced his anxiety, flaring his nostrils at her in defiance.

She didn't bother to press her case. Her gaze shifted to the massive doors.

Wicus eyed the entrance too, imposing as it was.

Images of his ancestors, the Beings of Light, as they were called--- with their red, yellow and blue eyes of flame, gazed back at the pair. Etched panels illustrating other images were interlaced through the carvings; one depicting a hand holding an archer's bow; another showing a hand reaching up from the earth pointing to a glowing orb that was shining bright like the sun, a golden circular mark surrounded the wrist; while a third image showed a glowing triangle that seemed to melt into the earth.

Some Paragons theorized that the symbol of the archer was the basis of the Cupid myth in the human world, while the hand reaching for the sun symbolized Paragons reaching through the veil into the human realm to perform their duties. Each bore a mark, a golden scar around at least one wrist. The image of the glowing triangle sinking into the earth was believed to symbolize the release of magic.

Plug, its duty over, wrapped quietly and snugly around Waxine's base as Wicus glanced at the Latin inscription above the doors:

"Deferens animam, et concepit, venenatis in mundo," he spoke the words aloud with reverence, proud of his people and the work they did. It was noble.

"Bringing soul mates together and magic into the world," Waxine translated.

From where he was standing, Wicus pondered less than a second closing his eyes, focusing his thoughts. He rummaged through his brain for the suitable enchantment.

The temperature at the entrance was slightly cooler than it had been in the corridor, again he felt that nagging sense of urgency. The air fairly sizzled with it, like misplaced static electricity after sliding over a carpet in one's socks.

Wicus wiggled his toes in his boots, grounding himself.

Opening his eyes, he reached out with his mind and watched as an invisible hand materialized in the space in front of the massive double doors, made a fist and knocked.

Emily Wren will get a soul mate.

## Chapter 4: Chaos in the Hall

"What the hell?"

He stood without moving, legs slightly apart, shoulders squared at the scene in front of him. Wicus was astonished at the noise level that echoed across the normally tranquil Great Hall. It wasn't simply the volume that bothered him, more the obvious rancor and tension that accompanied it.

Stunned into silence by the pandemonium, he knew that he'd been right about the nagging sensation. There was something else going on. The question was, What?

The chamber's vaulted, arched ceiling was some four stories high, resembling the interior ribbing of a giant walnut shell, carved out of some unknown stone that looked as smooth as highly polished granite but was warm and soft -- almost spongy -- to the touch. Each arch was so true it supported its own weight.

Golden animated chandeliers -- more members of the Luminary race -- floated elegantly a foot below the ceiling where each arch curved into the next. Their warm glow illuminated the chamber in a glorious light that seemed to have its own texture. The natural acoustics amplified the tiniest sound which meant that even the meekest voice -- Paragon or Luminary was easily heard across the room.

The impressive architecture was now forcing the clamor of its current occupants upward and downward, a wall of sound ricocheting around them, creating a din so loud, that a Paragon might describe it as, 'ten humans shy of a riot.'

Despite the unsettling uproar, now that they had arrived at their destination Wicus was calmer and more in control. He handled the problems of others better than his own. And he had important business to do here.

Beside him, Waxine hissed.

The magical flames on all eight of her invisible candles began to rise. Plug partially uncoiled from her base, hovering ten inches in front of her, its face forward like some bobbing electric cobra, poised to strike.

Wicus knew from past experience that Plug was insanely protective.

"Hold on there girl... don't flameout, no reason to burn down the place... I need to speak to the council... not charbroil it," he urged, quirking his mouth slightly.

Even though his cautionary tone was teasing, he was concerned that she might do exactly that. He admired Waxine's spunk, he didn't feel the same way about her temper. When she got pissed off she could be unpredictable, not to mention extremely flammable.

She rolled her eyes ignoring his attempt at sarcasm.

Already the rows of uneven flames that circled Waxine's face soared five inches higher than normal, burning brighter, hotter and wider on the unseen wicks over each socket. Diamonds, crystals and pearls dangling off the edges of each bobeche swayed with the intense heat, twinkling shards of light beautifully around her. The temperature of the surrounding air was rising by the second.

He grimaced.

On more than one occasion Wicus had been forced to jump into action, preventing her from igniting their surroundings. He wondered briefly if there was any kind of built-in fire suppression system at their current venue, eyeing the impressive architecture again with a different mindset.

Talk about making a dramatic entrance, he thought. Good grief! He needed the council on his side, not angry at his companion.

Wicus refocused on the crowd, trying to discern the reason for such a vehement reaction.

Only three council members were visible on the raised circular dais in the center of the hall. Two were surrounded by a knot of their acolytes. One elder was leaning over, talking to two of them who were standing on the floor. He appeared to be calming them down. The intense blue flames of their eyes belied their youth.

The third council member was on the other side of the dais, hunched over in order to be face to face with the diminutive Dallus, Wicus' west coast counterpart. The fidgety Paragon and Wicus managed the meetings of all the soul mates in North America.

Dallus wore the traditional gray tunic and trousers, his cloak was a different story. It was spun of a magical fabric that seemed to have a life of its own. Large panels on the garment depicted different scenes; with flying dragons, knights and their squires battling in mystical glens. Whenever Dallus twitched or moved around, the images danced. And if he was in an agitated state, any Paragon who stood too close could feel the heat of the dragon's breath.

Few were standing close to Dallus at the moment, a testament to his heated state. He gave the elder a distracted look, clearly not happy with what the council member was saying.

Between his animated mantle and flaming red eyes and hair, Dallus cut a striking figure in a room filled with them.

Paragons didn't physically age, at least not in the way humans did. In fact, most looked to be between 23 and 30 years old. Their unusual eyes showed the passage of time by shifting color.

Light blue flames meant the individual was less than one thousand years old. The blue darkened as a Paragon approached two thousand years then the flames began to change, turning from blue to green to yellow, like someone adjusting the pilot light on a furnace fueled by an unknown gas.

Green was strictly a transitional color, if it was a color at all.

Wicus' eyes showed the steady yellow flame of his 2752 years, physically he didn't look a day over 29. That same yellow gaze now scanned the denizens gathered in the Great Hall.

"Ah ha!" Wicus beamed as he spotted a friend across the expanse and waved. "Ah yes, now I see what's got you in a tizzy, his Luminary is here too."

Waxine hovered nearly motionless next to him.

Her metallic eyes seemed focused on some inner memory. A scowl was on her face. It was several moments before she responded. When she did there was a sneer in her tone.

"I don't care how fond you are of him, I'll never trust that loathsome lantern."

Wicus suppressed a chuckle. He couldn't understand why Waxine hated the lantern with such intensity. She was never forthcoming about her reasons. She wouldn't even call the other Luminary by name.

"Calm down Waxine. Best not forget we're guests in the Great Hall."

He felt a little uneasy at her unregulated combustible display. Privately, he pondered whether they might get kicked out before he had the chance to voice his concern. Cutting his eyes sideways, he glanced at the lengthening flames.

Wicus sighed, thinking that perhaps he should make that report sooner rather than later.

Her eyes were distinctly fixed on the Moroccan-style lantern across the chamber. The enchanted lantern was doing his best to look anywhere but in Waxine's direction.

"Wait here," Wicus instructed.

He began to move forward, paused and turned back to Waxine. "Please lower your flames.... or I'll ask a certain Moroccan lantern to come over and keep you company. He isn't a friend of yours... but he is one of mine."

"You wouldn't dare!" she fumed, glaring at him.

He stood firm, stubbornly glaring right back. Two could play this game.

Begrudgingly she complied by lowering the flame on each invisible candle, one by one so that a gradual halo of short blue flames surrounded her head.

"Good girl."

He approached the dais trying to focus his hearing on one conversation at a time. It was difficult to make sense out of what was happening in the hall. Only snippets filtered through to him.

"How has this happened?" wailed once voice.

"I need to protect my souls," cried another.

"Master what should we do?" asked a third, given the deference in the speaker's tone, Wicus assumed that it was one of the acolytes.

A young Paragon with blue flamed eyes was engaged in what appeared to be a serious discussion with council member, Enver. Enver tried to reassure him. Like all members of the council his red-orange flamed eyes were tinged with black. A strange compliment to his blond hair and lashes. His glance shifted, settling on Wicus as he arrived at the edge of the dais.

"How are you?" he called out amiably.

Wicus eyed Enver levelly, "I am well. But I have serious news to report. A primary and secondary soul have been lost." Pausing briefly, he again looked at the others in the chamber, "Is this a bad time? Why is there such a commotion here today?"

"You're not the only one in distress," another Paragon chimed in, a bleak expression on his face. "I have lost a primary and secondary too... neither having met their mate."

"Same here," a ginger haired Paragon echoed as he marched across the room to join the group. His flaming red eyes were alight with a mixture of concern and mischief.

Wicus wondered briefly if his friend, Stanus, ever took anything as seriously as the rest of them did but his presence was reassuring.

"I see you haven't kicked the habit," Wicus smirked. He couldn't resist teasing his hulking friend about his size... due in large part to frequent trips to the human realm. "You really have to learn to stay away from those 'All you can eat' \-- Chinese buffets."

Despite the hall's tension, Enver grinned. His acolytes snickered.

Stanus chuckled, apparently ignoring the rebuff, patting his ample middle with pride. Like all Paragons he was not simply handsome but beautiful, his face was totally symmetrical.

At 7-feet-3-inches tall, he was larger than any of his counterparts, not obese nor fat, thick was the word, definitely thick. His aristocratic nose gave his flawless features a noble air. "After you've been here more than three thousand years... then you can give me advice about my eating habits."

"I don't mind what you eat... it's merely the amount."

"Perhaps it's not the meals that attract his attention quite as much as it is the company he keeps," Enver interjected, raising his brows meaningfully.

Stanus had the good grace to look a little sheepish.

Wicus was astonished.

"A romance? How intriguing, do tell. Who has captured his massive heart?"

"I believe her name is Myling, she is the tiny Asian witch who runs several restaurants in the human world."

Wicus looked at Enver, incredulous. "An Asian witch, are you joking?" The latter shook his head. All eyes turned to the hulking Paragon.

"We are simply friends, good friends," Stanus mumbled in his defense while his cheeks turned as red as his hair and eyes.

Wicus saw his friend scan the hall.

The giant Paragon seemed to deliberate for a second on how best to focus their curiosity elsewhere, spotting salvation not far from where they stood.

"If you're looking for a hopeless romantic, you need not look any farther than our golden-haired brother," he nodded conspiratorially to where Wellmus stood about five feet to their right.

The group fell silent as they refocused their collective gaze on the moody soul minder.

Wicus closed the gap. Moving beside Stanus to get a better view of the argument Wellmus was currently having with a council member and the Paragon in charge of security.

One soul minder, who was shorter than Stanus and Wicus, leaned to the left to see around them. Wicus was conscious of them both; the giant Paragon and the smaller one, being so quiet, so unruffled in their secret observation.

Enver, who was elfin by comparison, had a better view from the raised platform and merely turned his head. His gaze narrowed.

"My Teresa must have her soul mate. She's already suffered much.... lost her parents ... her brother.... three cats. There's so much goodness in her. So much talent... charm. She has gifts the world needs. I won't have her go mateless," Wellmus' entreaty was passionately delivered. His expression was clearly troubled -- full of helpless anxiety.

There was general murmuring of agreement from others in the hall who were worried about their unmated souls as well. Each echoing his sentiments.

"I wanna know how this happened," Wellmus added more heatedly. His handsomely lean face looked fatigued at the moment, from within it yellow flamed eyes flashed with anger.

Wicus' mouth quirked again as his thoughts turned more sarcastic. The two were not exactly friends. He spoke in a low voice to Stanus, "I trust that he's not fallen for another one.... otherwise he'll be saying that his candidate takes precedence."

Stanus ignored the cynicism.

"Sounds like he has," interjected Enver.

"That's why he broods so much. If he didn't monitor some of them every second of the day for as long as time allows, he wouldn't keep falling," Stanus paused then added ruefully, "He's a possessive fool."

"How many does that make... sixteen... seventeen?" asked Wicus, racking his brain, trying to remember the number of times Wellmus had fallen for a person under his protection. Wellmus had no self-control, he mused.

"Probably closer to eighty," Stanus chuckled.

A tall legislator was doing his best to reassure Wellmus that a solution would be found. "No one is suggesting that she go mateless Wellmus. Give the council a chance to deal with this... we will come up with a plan to address all of these losses. And get to the bottom of this."

Wellmus didn't look the slightest bit reassured.

"I don't have time for your stonewalling," he said more quietly as though the lone Paragon present who possessed the absolute conviction that his work was the only kind that mattered.

"When the others arrive, we'll figure out..."

Wicus didn't hear the rest of the council member's platitudes, his attention was diverted by a shimmer in the air a few feet away from the arguing trio.

The molecules seemed to visibly quiver before realigning themselves into a large rectangular shape, a portal was forming right in the Great Hall. There was a slight whoosh, like air escaping from a sealed door. A moment later he was not surprised when two more council members stepped through the magical doorway onto the dais.

Swiftly moving to where the third council member stood on the platform, the new arrivals spoke in hushed tones -- as their acolytes arrived on foot and sought to be near their masters in case their assistance was needed. Each lawmaker had at least two.

"I wish I could do that," Stanus said wistfully, eyeing their movement. "I'd love to be able to portal anywhere."

"Perhaps one day," said Enver enigmatically.

Wicus wondered if that was a playful hint indicating that Stanus was destined for council duty. The two exchanged a curious look.

While all Paragons possessed varying levels of magical abilities and gifts, only members of the council had the power to portal into the Great Hall. That was one of the more intricate security precautions. The room was coded to the DNA of every single member of the council, all combined into the very stonework on which the hall was built. That allowed them to come and go as they pleased, handling the urgent business of the council immediately.

"Er, it's been a thousand years or so since the composition of the council changed," Stanus offered.

"You have a good memory," Enver replied.

Stanus looked around the room at the council members present then back again at Wicus and Enver before continuing. "I haven't heard that any current elder wants to retire... Are you suggesting that one of these guys wants to live out eternity following other pursuits?"

"I'm not suggesting anything of the kind," Enver replied with a wink.

"What does that mean?" asked Wicus, undoubtedly echoing Stanus' unspoken question.

"You never know what the future holds."

Before either could ask him to explain, Enver walked over to join the new arrivals on the platform.

Stanus looked thoughtful, a small smile playing about his large mouth. "Wow, can you imagine? The hall genetically coded to my DNA."

"Maybe it will be MY DNA," Wicus deadpanned.

Stanus chuckled.

Wicus was in a better humor. His words were viewed as an empty threat. Every Paragon knew that he had no desire to serve on the august body.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Perhaps you're interested in finding a quicker way to pop over and visit Myling," teased Wicus.

The ginger giant's expression swiftly changed. Red flamed eyes now serious as he stared at Wicus. "Sometimes having friends with gifts in the human world can provide unexpected benefits. Especially given our current situation."

Wicus sobered at the thought. Was Stanus using the Asian witch to do his bidding? Before he could ask, Stanus stepped away.

Turning to stare after him, Wicus spotted additional soul minders joining the crowd. They entered from the main entrance as he had done.

Still confused about what Stanus meant, he found himself smiling in greeting. He waved at each upon catching the newcomer's eye.

Dutifully floating by an Arab soul minder's side was an enchanted brass oil lamp, made famous by the children's stories about Aladdin and his magic torch. The Luminary had been a resident of the Paragon world for as long as Wicus could remember.

If humans only knew how many of their fairytales and childhood legends were based on real elements from the magical realm: witches, wizards, immortals, enchanted beings and other devilish creatures in between -- well they probably wouldn't sleep easily at night or ever for that matter.

There were no stories about Paragons in the mortal world, no tales of their beauty or courage or valor in any of the human literature. And there was a good reason for that. His kind was better at keeping secrets while exercising their duties than any other supernatural beings that ever existed.

## Chapter 5: The Council of Nine

"I'm going to have a word with a friend," Waxine informed Wicus as she breezed by.

The message was delivered as a statement of fact, not as one asking for permission. Waxine was loyal but she never acted in a submissive manner. Quite the contrary, she was one bold candelabra.

Wicus turned to speak to his companion.

She was already floating away up, up, up to the high vaulted ceiling. Waxine gave the Moroccan lantern -- hovering not far away -- a withering look in passing, her flames rising slightly, no doubt for added emphasis should he dare speak.

Wicus' lips twitched at the nonverbal exchange, noting that the lantern was not foolish enough to open his mouth. Shifting his stance slightly, Wicus rubbed his own palms together lightly and aimed a small smile in the lantern's direction, meant to be diplomatic. He didn't hate the lantern even if she did.

Glancing back at Waxine, he wondered what the candelabra's friend might have to say about the present quest facing those assembled. "In it up to her eyebrows, no doubt," he said aloud to himself.

As was often the case, Waxine might again prove to be a valuable ally at ferreting out information that others were reluctant to share. Her skills almost rivaled his own, Wicus thought. "Only she never seems to question her judgment the way I do," he muttered.

Movement by the entrance caught his eye and a wide grin split his lips, spotting his former mentor, Ozel, walking in with a new acolyte. He rushed over to greet him with a one-armed embrace, the Paragon custom for those held in great esteem.

"Hello, my old friend."

"Ah Wicus, how wonderful to see you... well perhaps not in these circumstances," the elder hedged.

"So you've heard what's going on?"

"Yes, yes, it's a bad business I'm afraid... but we'll sort it out." Turning, Ozel motioned for his assistant, "Come Karl, meet one of the more interesting, former acolytes that I've ever had the opportunity to train."

"Oh, you are too kind Ozel. I remember making plenty of mistakes when I was working with you." Wicus beamed at the praise.

He had vivid memories of being in Ozel's employ, seeing his fair hair gleaming under the hidden lights that the elder Paragon favored for illumination as he'd worked at the desk. Always one to play matters close to the vest, Ozel wouldn't endure the scrutiny of a Luminary.

Light had also poured in through the open portals that the then soul minder now council member, used as windows in his office overlooking the fjords of Iceland. Wicus had been young and eager to help with any project offered.

Of course Ozel was no longer a soul minder even though he'd been quite good at it.

The thought made Wicus wonder at how training with certain Paragons opened doors. He had not selected Ozel. Ozel had picked him.

Were some born to be soul minders or administrators or security agents and the like? Was it a voluntary calling or an involuntary one? Clearly such predispositions didn't apply across the board to all, he mused. Humans had scientists, inventors, artists and entertainers.

In this realm none of those vocations existed. Was it because his society only focused on mating souls? he pondered.

Much like Wellmus, Wicus knew what he was meant to do. He never questioned his duty to the souls under his care. Even if he sometimes questioned his judgment.

Wicus turned to Karl.

"I was fortunate enough to learn from this Paragon.... It's because of his guidance that I was finally able to join the ranks of soul minders."

Karl, clearly impressed, shook Wicus' hand with both of his.

"Very pleased to meet you sir."

"I remember you were uncertain about carrying out some of my orders, especially if they differed from the course of action you believed correct. You can be a slowpoke and indecisive," recalled Ozel, "You were however always loyal."

Wicus felt a stab of disappointment. He hated being rushed. His smile faltered at the veiled criticism. Pulling his jaw back, lightly grinding his teeth, he was careful to make his expression unreadable.

Standing a little taller, he straightened his shoulders and inclined his head in a formal way, too polite to publicly argue with his former boss. Besides now wasn't the right time. So much for a pleasant reunion, he thought sarcastically.

"You can count on me to quickly carry out your wishes master," Karl said with great deference.

"Spoken like a true zealot," observed Wicus dryly. He had a gift for detecting bullshit and false confidence. "Who knows, perhaps you'll follow in my footsteps... we could always add another to the brotherhood."

"Save the recruiting talk for another time Wicus, it's only his first day," admonished Ozel, frowning.

Karl grinned.

Ozel motioned for the acolyte to follow as he turned toward the dais.

"Duty first."

The trio was spared further interaction by a council member with light brown hair-- raising his voice above the din speaking from the platform. Wicus quickly moved to listen.

"Soul minders, friends, Luminaries, all Paragons, cease your worry and this turmoil. In the coming hours we will find a solution to this disturbance in our work... none of your souls will go mateless," the council member tried to assure the anxious crowd.

The gathering drew back in anticipation that an answer to their shared dilemma was about to be given.

The other council members shook their heads in agreement. Beside them, Dimitry looked distinctly uncomfortable which was not normal for the head of the Protection Division, euphemistically known as the Safeguards.

The Paragon was older than Wicus, not by much, his eyes had only recently flamed red. He now stepped forward to address the multitude, eyes gleaming with intensity.

Even as he spoke, attempting to quell the unrest, Wicus was assessing him. He's cagey, Wicus thought, not a surprising attribute for the head of security.

Dimitry's people were supposed to keep alert for such anomalies. This event marked a failure of some kind for the department. Again Wicus questioned the unit's competency.

At that moment, Dimitry seemed to consciously slow down the cadence of his words. His fiery gaze searched the crowd-- moving from face to face as if committing each to memory.

Did he think there would to be a test later? Wicus thought wryly, scowling. Was Dimitry planning to recite all the names of those here?

Perhaps the security chief was already facing repercussions. How could so many unmated souls be killed without someone noticing and taking preemptive action? If they had \-- perhaps Emily's soul mates could have been spared their fates today.

Fiery eyes around the hall were looking at Dimitry. Some of the expressions attached to them were bordering on belligerent.

Were they thinking the same thing? Wicus mused. Moments later his face settled back into an inscrutable mask as he listened to the speech.

"We have assets among the vampires, immortals, witches, and werewolves... in many areas... and if our enemies in the human realm played a role -- I will get to the bottom of it. Rest assured I will find out what caused this... there will be an investigation into the death of each and every human killed today."

There was a murmur of approval from those gathered.

His words surprised Wicus.

"Wait! They were all killed today?" Wicus asked a little too loudly, his face growing slightly warm. "That's too much of a coincidence."

His words echoed across the noise of the hall. Others in the room and those on the dais gave him their full attention.

"Coincidences are our domain," Wicus stated bluntly, feeling puzzled and strangely uneasy. Was there a conspiracy afoot? Who would target Paragons and their work?

"Yes, yes, they are," echoed several others.

"We control coincidences that befall humans," chorused still more Paragons.

A member on the dais gestured at Wicus. His red-orange eyes glowed like charcoal briquettes as he waved his hand.

"Are you suggesting that someone is intentionally orchestrating this?" asked the council member with an angry expression, his frustration at the implication was clear.

Wicus shrugged, uncertain.

"The information's plain... something is going on here. Do you mean to ignore it?" challenged another.

"Who would do such a thing?" Pockets of the crowd murmured.

"You must be wrong, no Paragon would attempt such treachery," muttered others. Wicus' observation ricocheted from soul minder to soul minder.

A legislator on the platform leaned down, quickly speaking to two of his acolytes. They went scurrying out of the chamber then he stood upright and nodded to another lawmaker who raised his hands, gesturing for the crowd to be silent.

It took some seconds before they settled down enough for him to be heard.

"Two of our nine have been delayed," the lawmaker announced.

His words created renewed unrest and rancor from the group, so again he gestured for quiet.

"We'll have to meet with them... all of us... and vote on how best to go forward. For now, go back to your provinces and determine your most viable candidates to replace those lost. We will reconvene shortly and finalize a decision about the scope of what will be allowed."

Rather than achieving the desired, calming effect, his comments touched off more upheaval in the room.

"More must be done," another soul minder abrasively objected.

"You know we must have an answer, there's no alternative!" shouted one redheaded Paragon with yellow flamed eyes.

"YOU WILL HAVE ONE!" the lawmaker shouted back, red in the face. He gave the crowd a look of measured dislike.

"You can't set arbitrary limits!"

"I don't have any candidates who are even close."

"We have to act now!"

"My people need action, not waiting."

"There's no telling how long the retrofitting will take, we must act now."

"We have to act--"

"We must act--"

Their comments ran together getting lost in the general clamor.

Seeing nothing to be gained by joining in, Wicus clamped his lips shut, feeling exasperated. Could someone really be orchestrating this? he wondered, worried. Were they targeting unmated people in general or was there a reason?

A flaxen haired council member stepped forward with a determined look on his face, fair brow furrowed, shouting to be heard above the din.

"Go home!" he repeated, in a loud, stern voice. "Crowing about like a gaggle of geese will not settle the matter any faster. When our nine are together, we will let you know our decision!"

Groups of Paragons fell silent, obviously irritated.

The speaker turned abruptly away from the crowd to consult with other elders on the rostrum.

Wicus maintained a blank expression which belied his inner turmoil. Disappointed that the council was not leaping into action, he wanted to begin work right away.

Or was Waxine right? Should they go behind the council's back?

Emily Wren deserves a soul mate.

He rubbed his temple. The noisy uproar was starting to give him a headache. Pulling his fingers away from his forehead, he fiddled with the cuff of his tunic, not that it needed straightening, he needed something to do with his hands. His mind was buzzing with all that he'd heard.

For now, he wanted to get away from the discord, find a peaceful spot and sort this out. Wicus needed time to think and plan as was his nature.

He turned, eyes searching the ceiling for Waxine -- to motion for her in order to leave.

"Looking for me?" she asked, already hovering by his side.

Glancing at her alert expression it was evident that she was ready to go, yet he could detect traces of something else in her metallic eyes which made him wonder about the conversation she'd had with her friend. He looked at her quizzically, would it help ensure that Emily got her soul mate?

He was more worried now than before.

What had happened to cause all of this? Doubt resurfaced in the back of his mind. Had it been the unmated souls who were targeted or the Paragons? Who would target a Paragon?

## Chapter 6: Gardens of Tyree

"I think this place is having the desired effect," whispered Waxine as if unwilling to disrupt the tranquility of their setting.

"You're right, they seem less agitated," Cynthia softly replied. The hexagonally-shaped lantern hovered next to the candelabra above the top of the high hedges that surrounded the Gardens of Tyree.

Wicus was seated below with one of his oldest friends, pretending that he wasn't eavesdropping. Both Paragons had left the Great Hall at the same time. Neither realizing that the other was there until they ran into one another near the exit.

Wicus' gloomy conjectures lifted the moment he saw Titus.

It was Titus who suggested that they visit the gardens, located not far from council chambers.

Beloved by all Paragons for their stunning beauty, they were also a physical metaphor for life and work. The gardens had no beginning or end, in fact, every leaf, flower, vine or blade of grass seen growing so vibrantly-- seemed to have no edges at all.

"The shape of each flower flows into the next... it's subtle the way it changes into something new but there's no outline of it... I love that," sighed Cynthia appreciatively.

"Yes, it's lovely that there are no borders," murmured Waxine distractedly. Her mind was obviously elsewhere.

Both stopped speaking for all of twenty seconds. During which time Waxine's gaze took on a twenty-yard stare while the other Luminary cleared her throat lightly and shifted position minutely, hinges creaking with the movement.

Was Waxine thinking about what she'd learned in the Great Hall? Wicus mused. His companion had a network of Luminaries that shared gossip.

"The colors remind me of the paintings of Henri Matisse crossed with the impressionist work of Claude Monet," offered Cynthia.

That got Waxine's undivided attention, "I didn't know you knew about human art."

"Shh, keep it to yourself... our friends down there don't need to know everything about me," warned Cynthia in a low voice, "I like to keep some mystery."

The elegant Luminary, an enchanted glass lantern from Africa, glowed with a warm inner light, evidence of her contentment. Her fount was clear glass, hinged on each side to the center globe, touches of bright raspberry, orange and yellow paint adorned the edges of the globe's six upper corners. Cynthia's colorful display was nothing compared to the gardens.

Waxine smiled at that, "Don't we all."

Wicus glanced in her direction. Having overheard much of their conversation, a small smile sprouted on his lips.

The same could not be said for Titus. His mouth was working steadily-- too discomposed by what he was saying to pay attention to anything else. Despite the peacefulness of the surroundings he wore a grim expression. When he spoke, his voice sounded loud and rough like a diesel engine belching smoke.

"Nasty business, this is," he said, pausing.

"We'll have to have faith in the council. But yes, I have to agree," Wicus answered in a candid tone. Secretly questioning his judgment. What if they didn't come through?

"What bothers me most is the way it impacted us. I mean not only mine... and yours, but the global nature of the deaths... so many unmated souls; primaries, secondaries. Just enough so that every soul minder except for those handling the top and bottom of the world are affected. What are the odds?"

Wicus pondered that for a moment before answering, "There's more going on here than we know."

"I hope Dimitry and his crew figure out what's going on before we lose anymore," growled Titus, sounding as though he lacked the conviction that it was likely.

That dismal thought hadn't occurred to Wicus. Surprised, he asked, "MORE? Do you think there will be more?"

Titus shrugged his massive shoulders, clearly unsure. Typical of the tribal Africans he served, his ebony skin gleamed in the light of the gardens, despite the high clouds that had formed overhead. In stark contrast were the yellow flames of his eyes which occasionally revealed hints of green. Titus was still in transition and not quite as old as Wicus.

"Who would benefit by orchestrating the deaths of unmated people?"

This produced another shrug from Titus -- the gesture revealing some of his frustration. His expression changed as if a new thought occurred, "Unless someone is actively trying to halt the advance of mankind."

Wicus tightened his eyes at the suggestion. "What kind of nut job would want to do that?"

Titus shook his head, he didn't have an answer.

Both Paragons lapsed into silence.

"This waiting... is... maddening," Titus confessed.

"I'm more concerned about what happens after."

"After?"

"What if it doesn't work? Soul adjustments\-- I mean they're tricky. Reshaping a bowed curve on a soul marker is a relatively simple procedure... compared to adjusting the entire length of one...." Wicus shook his head, candid about his concern, "Which I haven't done. What if no magic is released?"

Titus nodded, "I agree... there's no good alternative though." He sighed. "I hope I don't botch this up."

"Me neither," Wicus confessed, wondering whether his skills were good enough. He was a craftsman and believed himself to be a fine soul minder but retrofitting was not a normal part of his duty. He ran a hand through his curls, using his fingers to massage his scalp.

His job was more than an obligation, it was his passion.

Without magic to advance the causes of mankind, the world would plunge into anarchy. Good and evil existed in equal measure, each side always pressed for an advantage. Magic helped keep evil at bay, most of the time.

Past lapses in magic had led to great wars, destruction, floods, famine and other tragedies. Wicus wasn't about to let that happen on his watch.

"I suppose I should go home and begin sorting through candidates. I haven't looked at Emily Wren's soul signature in decades, not since she was a baby. You know how time can change a soul. The trials and tribulations of life altering it. Until now, I've had no reason to examine it... I have to admit, I'll take no pleasure in selecting the names, knowing that they'll have to be retrofitted... even if it is for Emily," ventured Wicus.

"It was her primary and secondary that were killed?"

"You remember me talking about her?"

"I know that you expect great things... the seer said she has unusual magic."

"You have a good memory my friend," Wicus smiled.

Evidently unwilling to sit any longer, Titus got up from his bench, waved a hand behind his hip and the comfortable seat disappeared into nothingness. He moved around restlessly.

A slight breeze blew across the freshly cut grass and he noisily sniffed the air, twice. His nose wrinkling each time, a slightly bemused look appeared on his face.

Wicus smelled caramelized sugar and vanilla-- like creme brulee on the wind. He knew from past experience that fragrances and scents of the garden were not set... they changed according to the needs and tastes of the individual smelling them. With that in mind, he raised a knowing brow looking with intent at Titus.

"I smell the pleasant scent of roasted pistachios," Titus supplied.

Wicus allowed himself another slight smile.

Despite the horrible reason that led to their visit today, he was pleased that his friend was here. It had been a while since he'd enjoyed the pleasure of his company.

"What makes Emily so special?" Titus asked, clearly eager for more conversation.

"In a word, patience.... hers is an old soul in a young body," Wicus said, a hint of patriarchal pride was in his tone.

"Let's hope that she has enough patience to wait until her new soul mate is prepared."

Wicus stood up, flicked his wrist and the large leather ottoman that he was sitting on disappeared.

"She will be... I've watched over her most of her life, she's not the type to fall for a barren... She's never even been in love."

"Don't get me started on barren loves..." grumbled Titus, his booming voice thundering with renewed agitation, "Why do so many humans fall for the wrong people who are obviously not their soul mates?"

It was a common complaint among Paragons in the soul minder brotherhood.

Lip quirking, Wicus thought for a moment before giving a reply.

"I have a theory," he offered, smiling at his friend's crusty demeanor.

"I'm all ears."

The two walked side by side along the ornamental flowerbeds heading toward the singing fountain. Wicus relaxed into his element-- allowing the serenity of their surroundings to wash over him. He had a deep appreciation of nature.

He laid out his theory.

"I think too many humans are in a hurry for someone to witness their lives... they mistake lust for love, even barren love. How else can you explain the selfie craze and the rapid rise of social media, people posting every mundane detail of their lives online for all the world to see?" he paused, eyes scanning the beautiful landscape.

"There are still too many pockets of poverty in my territory.... I don't have as many problems with social media because many of my souls don't have the resources for the technology," admitted Titus.

"Well... that won't last much longer."

"I expect that you are right. But even without those diversions... far too many young souls hook-up with barrens and squander their virtue... gaining nothing in return but disease or worse... continuing the cycle of poverty in my districts," lamented Titus.

"Barren love is indeed a waste of time," admitted Wicus, spitting out the words. Just speaking them left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I miss the old days... we used to nurture the courtship of soul mates."

Wicus' lips quirked wryly. It was another familiar complaint among soul minders.

"That's not our job any more... Remember the Accords? Now we only make sure they meet... Nothing beyond that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know... But you have to admit, there were fewer barren romances back then... not like it is now."

"People want validation that their lives matter... they'll accept anyone that reflects what they THINK they want to hear... even if that reflection offers a distorted image of their dreams... or is the wrong mirror to look at. Many people are simply so impatient... too impatient if you ask me... wanting their lives to begin."

By the time Wicus finished his often-recited diatribe, they'd arrived at the fountain and were greeted by a joyous choir of bubbling music and tiny darting fish.

The mini-denizens created a haunting lilting melody by rubbing their fins and tails among the stones and carvings that made up the interior of the fountain's basin.... a fitting end to any visit to the Gardens of Tyree.

"How lovely," said Cynthia as the fish finished their tune and darted out of sight.

The two Luminaries had joined them as they listened to the aquatic symphony. She and Waxine tried unsuccessfully to mimic the melody that they had heard -- by humming.

Titus chuckled at their efforts.

The corner of Wicus' mouth curled as he eyed the African lantern with some curiosity. He didn't know much about her and wanted to inquire about her history, learn how she became animated, how she came into Titus' life. Cynthia was a recent addition to his inner circle. The Paragon's complete affection was evident.

Wicus thought back to the last time he had seen his friend, realizing that it had been a while. He decided to save his questions for a later time. No need to be rude, he mused. Instead, Wicus stepped forward preparing to say his goodbyes.

"There it is again... what is that noise?" asked Titus in consternation, looking around.

Wicus looked in askance at his friend as Waxine floated to his side.

"Don't you hear it? That jingling sound... Is it a bell? Or maybe the fish are going to play for us again," Titus asked. He glanced at the fountain expectantly. The fish were not in sight.

Waxine laughed. The flames from her invisible candles burning orange with mirth... a little too close to Wicus' ear. He jumped slightly, looking at his companion with measured dislike. She had a habit of surprising him that way.

"It's Wicus," explained Waxine.

"Me? I don't sound like a bell."

"It's what's in your tunic."

"My tunic?"

Waxine turned to Cynthia and Titus, unceasing in her conspiratorial tone. "He has coins in his pocket.... from the human world."

"Oh, those. Yes, I forgot I was carrying them," Wicus admitted as he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. There were pennies, dimes, nickels, even a couple of quarters... all U.S. currency.

Looking at it, he made a face. Odd items indeed to see coming out of a Paragon's pocket, he supposed. There was no need for money in the realm between reality and the tangible.

"He keeps them for Emily Wren."

"Oh... do tell us more," coaxed Cynthia moving forward to examine them on Wicus' outstretched hand. Obviously eager for a bit of gossip.

"There's really nothing to tell..."

Waxine interrupted him, "He watches her a lot, like he does when he's still trying to figure if he's correct in his assessment of a soul's personality.... Although by now, I would think he knows everything about her."

Her tone turned more conspiratorial, "Emily finds coins on the ground, but instead of picking them up like most humans, she turns them over... leaves 'em for someone else to get."

"Why?" chorused Cynthia and Titus in unison.

"You have to understand Emily," defended Wicus, unwilling to have the girl made out to seem daft.

"I think she's--" before Waxine could continue Wicus interrupted her with a stern look. Shrugging one dainty metallic shoulder, she relinquished the floor to him.

"I think I'd better explain... if you don't mind... Emily is a very lucky girl and she's a bit obsessive about her weight, she jogs every day."

Titus and Cynthia exchanged a glance with Waxine. She made a point of clamping her lips tightly shut, allowing him to finish telling the story the way he wanted to.

"She finds money almost daily. In the human world, in America, it's not lucky to pick up a coin if the tail side is facing up. So she turns it over and leaves it for the next person to find. She's a generous person."

"Why?"

"I think she saw a character in a movie do it once, now she does it too."

"Okay. I understand what she is doing... I mean why do you collect the coins?" asked Titus.

"If her intention is to be kind to another human... leaving them the coin to pick up... aren't you working against her?" asked Cynthia.

"He puts the coins back out with the heads up... for her to find again," interjected Waxine.

"Really?"

"How engaging!"

"And she doesn't recognize the coins?" Cynthia asked. She clearly did not have much experience with human currency.

"Money all looks the same in its country of origin."

"So she's not really lucky, since you're the one putting out the coins," observed Cynthia.

"No, she is... You don't understand... I don't put out ALL of the coins that she finds." Wicus ran his other hand through his hair in frustration. He had not explained the situation as well as he'd hoped.

"Why are you getting flustered my friend," said Titus playfully, "Oh good grief, you're not falling for one of your souls are you? Wellmus does that enough for all of us."

Wicus gave him a look which spoke volumes about his opinion of Wellmus.

"No, it's... well... you see... she collects coins too. Old ones. These are old coins... See the dates?" He held the coins up for Titus to see since Cynthia had finished her examination of them.

"And I'm not turning into Wellmus!" Wicus assured them a little too adamantly. "She keeps old coins. Her grandfather is a collector and he got her started. I'm making sure she doesn't lose out on these by being overgenerous to others, that's all."

"She sounds very sweet," purred Cynthia.

"Yes, she is very sweet," admitted Waxine, matter-of-factly, "Sweet and kind... are two words that I would use to describe Emily."

Wicus' logic seemed sound to his own mind, like any conscientious Paragon-- he was protecting the interests of one of his own. Emily's a good kid, he thought paternally.

The girl deserves a shot at true love, she needs a soul mate.

Then why did he feel so warm under the collar. And why were they looking at him like that?

## 

## Chapter 7: Stumbles

Wicus was comfortably settled back at home. He was reasonably sure that he wouldn't be interrupted. Waxine had fluttered out of the residence, going off to visit another of her Luminary buddies. He opened a viewing portal with a swipe of his hand to check on the girl's whereabouts. It was about the size of a medium flat-screen TV. A thin membrane called a skim covered the other side of the magical opening making it invisible to human eyes.

As a rule, he didn't often spy on humans unless he was preparing a soul mate match and even then it was only to make sure there were no snags along the way. He hated problems that side-tracked his well-laid plains.

Besides, there were simply too many people, millions of them, to try and keep up with any of them for a prolonged period of time.

Yet the seer had foretold that great things were expected from Emily Wren and the release of her soul magic. Wicus kept tabs on the girl now and then. The small window into the world of man revealed nothing too shocking.

"Well that's not surprising," he murmured.

Emily Wren was on the way home from an evening run. Her dog was leading the way, tugging on his leash as he trotted ahead of her.

"No doubt, she's going to drop off the coins I left out," Wicus spoke to himself, eyeing the scene calmly.

The girl kept them in a jar in the kitchen. She was nothing if not predictable.

The canine clearly had other plans.

Abandoning the sidewalk, the dog took off, barking excitedly after a squirrel, one furry, gray body in hot pursuit of a slightly smaller one.

* * * * * *

"Max, NO!" Emily commanded.

She held tight to the leash as her pet darted to the right between two short rose bushes, jerking her forward with his enthusiasm for the prey.

Emily tried to jump the gap between the shrubs while pressing the retraction button on the leash. Multitasking while running wasn't her forte.

The toe of her sneaker snagged the bush and the lace of the bow caught the tip of a newly pruned branch, stopping her forward momentum quite comically. She did the same to her dog.

As the canine barked after the now escaping squirrel, Emily did a face plant in the neighbor's front yard, landing with a mighty, "Oomph!"

Sprawled on the lawn, temporarily stunned, she emitted a muffled cry with her sweaty face still embedded in the turf. "Oh crawp!" she sputtered, spitting out blades of grass.

Slowly she got up on all fours or tried to, the laces of one sneaker were still held secure by the branch. Mortified, Emily realized that she probably looked like a human imitation of a rather pale praying mantis. Shaking her foot several times while maintaining this awkward yet absurdly humorous position finally freed the shoe. Pulling her leg forward, she turned over and dropped back to the ground.

Her antics were carefully scrutinized by her pet.

"Bad Dog!" she spoke sharply, still aggravated by having been abruptly snagged by the shrub in the most undignified manner.

The gray terrier, thoroughly unabashed, looked at her face with interest apparently deciding it was too dirty and promptly began cleaning it with his tongue.

"Uh, alright, alright... enough already with the licking," she groaned, less mad, sitting upright, pushing her canine washcloth away.

Emily lifted the hem of her shirt and began wiping her cheek. Between the dirt, grass and Max's efforts, there was a big smudge on the fabric when she finished. Finding another relatively clean corner, she rubbed it over her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

"That's really... filthy," she observed looking at the newly stained fabric.

There were sudden signs of life from the house.

Humiliation complete, Emily thought, a wave of warmth was creeping over her face. Not only had she tumbled from a public sidewalk on to the lawn, apparently the owner witnessed the entire incident. Had Emily any doubts about her conjecture, the next words were more than enough to shatter them.

"Are you okay?" a voice behind her queried. The kindly neighbor came rushing out to help her.

Emily sat up straighter as if the change in posture alone would be an assurance that she was unhurt. Secretly hoping that most of the dirt was off her face, she smoothed down the front of her shirt as though tidiness made the situation less uncomfortable.

She heard a giggle followed abruptly by a snort like someone was trying to control their laughter. Shifting her head, she glanced over one shoulder.

It was obvious that the giggles had come from the neighbor. The woman had a huge grin on her face.

A couple of decades older and much taller than Emily -- the woman had fair hair, dark roots and warm brown eyes. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, she lightly bit down on the tip of her thumb which seemed to halt any more giggling-- at least temporarily.

"I'm sorry," the woman snickered. Talking required that the thumb be removed and that was her undoing. She cackled for several seconds before regaining her composure. "Oh, please forgive me..." she grinned, "I can't help it. You were quite a sight... hung up on the rose bush." She chuckled again, hastily closing her mouth to suppress it.

"I suppose I was," Emily conceded ungraciously.

She pushed herself off the ground with both hands, making sure there were no obstructions in front of her to trip over. No this is not cringeworthy at all, she thought sarcastically.

Standing, Emily bent to brush the grass and dirt from her nylon running shorts. Normally light blue with pink stripes. Now with brown and green patches that Max had seen fit to redecorate her with.

"Ah, don't be embarrassed, our dog dug up the neighbor's tomato plants last week... now having to go over and deal with that..." the woman looked off in the opposite direction for a moment, shook her head ruefully, "That... that was a shameful experience. That's why he's locked up in the house now."

Her smile was irresistible, despite her discomfort Emily couldn't help smiling back.

"Max has a problem with squirrels."

"I think that's universal with all dogs, dear." Her smile didn't waver. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"Just my pride and maybe my shoe lace," Emily admitted briefly glancing down at her sneaker before looking back up, still a bit mortified about appearing so stupid.

Saying goodbye to her neighbor she tugged on Max's leash. At least it was getting dark, she mused.

Lights shown in windows up and down the block, mostly single-family homes. Emily's studio apartment was a bit farther up the street, one end of a large ranch-style house that had been sectioned off into cozy units.

Less illumination meant fewer prying eyes, she thought. A little sore from the face plant, Emily waddled toward home more slowly than the pace the pair had set before.

Raising a hand to her nose, she blew a quick, strong breath out of her nostrils. There was still enough daylight to see that more dirt came out as well. She abruptly stopped moving.

Max tugged on the leash, whining slightly in protest. He glanced back at her for a moment before his own nose led him to the edge of the sidewalk. No doubt he was investigating some new odor.

Emily grabbed another section of her shirt that was relatively clean, leaning over she used it swab around her nose, wiping her hand in the process. Self-conscious of her exposed abdomen, she bent over more out of modesty. No need to show the world my bra, she mused, still rubbing the end of her nose.

It was not the first time she'd been in an awkward moment.

How could someone with such short legs be so clumsy? Her feet weren't exactly big enough to be considered a trip-hazard. That didn't prevent her from being klutzy, she mused without amusement.

"Come-on boy," she said, straightening and loping forward again.

Max looked up, dark eyes vigilant. He began trotting beside her.

Whether it was rose bushes or the occasional slick floor, bumbling into obstacles wasn't new. Thinking back nine years ago -- she remembered a day in high school shortly before the Sadie Hawkins dance, surprised at how easily all of the embarrassing details returned to her mind.

"You have to ask him," instructed her classmate. "It's the Sadie Hawkins dance... girls ask the boys... it's tradition," the girl added with evident glee.

"I dunno... I'll think about it," Emily's then 14-year-old self replied.

She had another plan in mind, one that was already in action. Emily had stayed up late the night before writing a poem about the object of her affection. The folded sheet of lined notebook paper was in his locker. Secretly, before lunch, she'd slipped it inside through one of the metal slits in the door.

Emily smiled quietly to herself. He's going to love it.

"You have to ask him... before somebody else does," stressed her friend as the line slowly moved forward in the cafeteria to where the trash cans and the tray racks were.

Both girls needed to discard the remnants of lunch before heading back to class.

Emily nodded benignly, her friend required little more response from her than the occasional, "Oh wow!" to keep the conversation going.

Another classmate, immediately behind them joined in, debating whether it was better to go up to the prospective date... uh... teenage boy... with the assistance of a wingman or wing-girl rather. The theory being that it was less frightening in pairs.

"Oh really?" Emily murmured, looking at the tray in her hands. She shouldn't have gotten the lima beans, they were way too salty, she mused, keeping part of her attention on the discussion going on next to her.

The girls had moved on to the big no-noes of social engagement. Clearly a great deal of consideration had gone into the proper planning of how a girl should or should not ask a boy out, which included nothing in writing.

That tidbit of teen insight got her full attention.

"What if I just pass him a note or something," Emily asked speculatively.

"Oh God! Don't do that! I know a girl who did that," her friend replied leaning closer with a conspiratorial look on her face. "She passed it to the girl in front of her and it went down the row of desks... but."

"But what?" Emily asked, interested.

"Another student... this guy... I don't remember his name... he snatched it and read it aloud to the whole class. How embarrassing! The boy made smooching-noises and everybody teased her about it for months."

"Months?"

That sounded appropriately terrifying to Emily. Opening her eyes wide, she asked, "What'd she do?"

"She ran out of class and into the girl's room of course."

The last vestige of sanctuary for a teenager \-- the school bathroom.

"You never... ever... want to do it in writing," her classmate advised wisely. "What if the boy says No? How awful! Then the boy can pass the note to all of his friends and wham! You're the laughing stock of the whole school!" The girl shuddered at the monstrous notion.

Emily's gaze remained wide as the feeling of optimism drained from her body. Her quick wits digested that friendly caution a bit too late. Mind now racing, she tried to think, had she signed the poem? In her haste to get it into his locker, she had not checked.

Each stanza started with a letter of Ben's name. She wasn't sure however if her own name was on it. What if he said no and made fun of her?

Inwardly she cringed.

Lost in adolescent abstraction, she didn't see the slick spot on the floor near the garbage cans where multiple containers of milk, soda and water, missing their mark, had landed on the floor before being hastily grabbed by young hands eager to rectify their flubbed aims and escape the disapproving glare of the cafeteria monitor.

Size six shoes soon informed her of this oversight as her feet slid out from under her. Contents on the tray spilled backward sending a half-finished carton of chocolate milk, and what was left of the lima beans that she'd merely poked at during the meal -- slopping onto her. All the mess taking direct aim at her t-shirt and face it seemed. She landed squarely, rather hard, on her bottom with a noticeable thud.

Several students witnessing the spectacle, cheered. A dozen boys applauded. Even her friend had difficulty suppressing a giggle as she reached down to help. A snicker escaped her bow-like lips.

Emily half-glared at the traitor.

"Sorry."

From the way people were grinning at Emily, her too warm skin must have produced a nice compliment to the pale green lima beans and the dark liquid. She felt the flush deepened as the laughter around her spread.

"Give me your tray, I'll take care of it," a classmate promised her.

What was there to take care of? The contents were all over her. Still, she relinquished it willingly, mortified.

Emily floundered, looking ridiculous. The knapsack full of books strapped to her back didn't help her graceless efforts. She resembled a rather large turtle on its shell struggling to right itself.

Scrambling awkwardly to her feet with all the dignity she could muster, which wasn't much. Her face felt so hot, it must have been scarlet. Emily ducked her head down and ran down the hall, passing other students who, not having witnessed her clumsiness, barely glanced at her.

She made it to the girl's restroom without any interference. Luckily, she was alone. What are the odds, at this time of day? she mused.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she realized it wasn't as bad as she'd imagined. Lima beans clung to the dark strands of hair mainly around her neck in a few mushed tangles, the milk stuck some of it to her flushed cheeks. The splatter didn't make it to the top of her head.

Her t-shirt was a real mess. In terms of general dishevelment though, she had to admit, there were times when she looked worse, much worse.

Sensible and practical, she set about repairing her appearance.

Turning on the tap, she washed her face, neck and arms, then did her best to finger comb the beans out of her hair. Splashing handfuls of water on the dark strands to dilute the bean juice or chocolate she encountered, she squeezed it out.

Trying to clean up the t-shirt caused additional problems, the wetter the lightweight fabric got, the more translucent it became. Her bra was clearly visible and it was an older, ratty one with a tear in the side of the band from where it had gotten caught in the washing machine. And the cup size was a little too big.

The way some teenage boys visibly drooled over the cheerleaders when they were in their skimpy uniforms, there was no way she was going to class in a wet t-shirt. Fortunately the sweatshirt she'd worn over it that morning was still in her backpack.

Dashing into one of the stalls to change, closing the door, she heard a metal pinging noise and saw a hanger on the door's inner hook -- swinging back and forth. Swapping out the disgraced garment for the clean, dry one, she rung out the t-shirt over the toilet before shoving it in her bag.

Half sitting, half leaning against the three rolls of toilet paper on the row of holders on the inside wall, she hoped the paper would absorb some of the wetness on the back of her jeans. She didn't have a spare pair of those in the bag. They were damp, not sopping wet. The dark denim camouflaged the stain well.

Now all she needed was time enough to calm down and for her face to cool off, she thought. Not caring at that moment if she was late for class.

The hanger slowed its arc and eventually stopped swinging altogether as she waited. She stared at it, mentally preparing herself to go to class. There was still time.

Now that she was relatively clean, dry and away from the laughter, her thoughts strayed back to what her friend had said about the note. The heat returned to her already flushed skin. Her earlier embarrassment was supplanted by the perceived humiliation to come.

"How can I get my poem back?" she murmured. Truth be told, she wasn't sure if the boy she'd written it for liked her all that much. He was older. His big brother and her big brother, Sam, were friends.

Footsteps entered the bathroom walking across the tile interrupting Emily's conjectures. She expected them to pass by the obviously locked stall. Instead, they stopped outside of it. A hand lightly tapped on the door, rattling the hanger again.

"Occupied," Emily called out.

Whoever was out there could just go to the next one, she thought crossly, unwilling to leave the relative seclusion of her refuge just yet. Anger was edging out her embarrassment.

"I wanted to check on you... Are you okay?" Her friend called from the other side.

"Oh." Chagrin colored Emily's tone at her uncharitable thoughts.

"Um... I'm fine... just needed some time to clean up... collect myself," her tone now was more tolerant.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"We've still got fifteen minutes before class starts. I need to get a book from my locker, but I can wait here with you... if you want me too."

"Nah... I'm fine... really... I mean I'm totally embarrassed... my face feels like it's on fire, but I guess it will cool off in a minute... I hope so... anyway. I'm okay... really."

"Em... don't worry about it... I fall all the time. Remember last week in gym class?"

The corners of Emily's mouth flashed upward unexpectedly at the memory. Her friend had caught her shoe on the edge of the tie-down bracket for the net and had tripped on the tennis court landing in a mud puddle. The girl did fall down a lot, Emily thought wryly.

Suppressing the grin, she said, "Go on to class... I'll be there in a little while."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am."

The girl tapped the door once more before departing, making the hanger bounce again. "Okay I'll see ya in a bit."

Emily's eyes rested on the swinging piece of metal, feeling better about the cafeteria mishap. Her friend was right. Ever practical, Emily would get over it. It's not like she'd never fallen in public before. Still, she worried about the poem, not wanting to be humiliated twice in one day.

The hanger slowed again and finally stopped moving. It was the old kind, the ones that came from the dry cleaners, all metal.

Someone must have left it, she thought. Had another girl rushed into this very stall with clothes on it -- to change like she had? To get out of a wet blouse? Or an embarrassing situation, she wondered, deciding the latter was less likely.

Inspiration struck.

It would be a good hook, she thought. The rudiments of a plan were forming in her mind.

"Maybe there's still time," she murmured.

Hand reaching up and seizing the hanger, she untwisted the top of it below the hook and proceeded to bend out the kinks until it was in a straight line. Armed with the wire, she slid the straps of her backpack on her shoulders before unlocking the stall door.

Taking a hasty look in the mirror over the sink at her hair, satisfied that no more lima beans lurked in the strands, then confirming that her face was pale again. Turning sideways, checking out her backside, patting the fabric with her hand so she could feel where it was still slightly damp but she couldn't see it. That was the important thing.

She walked out of the bathroom holding the long stiff wire discreetly by her thigh, determined. She was on a mission.

The hall was less crowded, what kids there were took little notice of her recently changed sweatshirt and dark, damp, jeans. Most were chatting with their friends or retrieving needed books, notebooks or projects for the next class.

Walking past row after row of lockers, her target was a third of the way to the end of the hall, where it intersected with another hallway. His locker was there, about eight or nine from that cross-point.

Using the hanger, Emily believed she could retrieve her poem before Ben saw it, saving herself from more grief. It was a good, solid plan.

At the corner of the intersecting halls, she drew up short, ducking back for cover by the wall of lockers. There was a slight hiccup in her thinking.

Ben was at his locker!

Another teen was by his side. Both had their backs to her.

Emily edged forward, holding her breath, spying on the pair.

The boy's nimble fingers turned the little black knob to the right, then the left, then right again as he entered the combination.

"Oh God, why did I have to put that poem in his locker?" she hissed under her breath.

Heart hammering so loudly in her chest, she was surprised when neither boy turned to see what was causing the racket.

If Ben teased her about it... or worse... showed the note to his friend... it would be ten times worse than slipping on some spilled milk.

Ears straining to hear what they were saying over the thudding noise in her temples, she leaned forward. Pressing herself against the cold metal lockers that served double duty in hiding her.

"What was everybody cheering about in the cafeteria?" Ben asked.

Heat resurfaced in Emily's recently cooled-off skin just fifteen feet away. He hadn't seen the accident. Oh well, he'd have a good laugh, she thought. Why not? Everybody else had.

"Oh that... a girl slipped and busted her ass."

"What girl? One of the cheerleaders?" Ben's voice sounded worried.

"Nah," replied his lanky cohort, "a freshman... Emily Wren... you know her?"

Ben was quiet for a second, eyes focused unmistakably on the task at hand, opening the door to the locker. Fingers reaching inside, retrieving a book for his next class.

A piece of folded, white, lined notebook paper fell as he did so. Armed with the quick reflexes of youth, he snagged it with his other hand.

Emily's heart stopped. She felt faint. Any second now, she anticipated falling right there on the floor. This time spilled milk would have nothing to do with it.

Pressing the book to his chest with one arm, he used both hands to open the note. Light blue eyes scanning it, unaware of the darker gaze that spied on him from across the hall. His brow puckered, his expression turned thoughtful. A slight smile grew on his face.

"Emily Wren? Yeah, I know her," Ben responded belatedly.

Emily's heart thundered back to life in her chest rushing much needed blood throughout her body, insuring that a collapse was less imminent. He knows me, she thought, smiling smugly. Of course he does, Sam and his brother were friends.

"...Sam Wren's little sister," Ben said as if confirming her thoughts. "He's awesome on the soccer pitch! You know he's at State with my brother," Ben turned slightly to the teen beside him.

He didn't say anything about the poem. He read it. She saw him. He must have liked it, Emily mused, heart swooning. Cafeteria incident completely forgotten, fear of being humiliated by the object of her affection ebbing, joy spreading through her adolescent soul with unchecked restraint.

"Cool man... I know Sam... he's got real talent," the lanky teen agreed, "But that sister... what happened to her... talk about a plain Jane! She's stumpy with serious thunder thighs."

The spreading joy froze. Emily cringed. A new wave of mortification sent the flush on her flesh right to the roots of her hair.

"Yeah man, what a dog," Ben agreed.

The breath left Emily in one quiet whoosh like a deflated balloon and with it -- any hope she had of going to the dance.

Slamming the locker door closed with a metallic clang, Ben turned to face his friend.

"What's that?" the other teen asked, eyeing the note.

"I dunno... some stupid way to write out my name... I guess."

"Who sent it?"

The paper crinkled as the lanky teen pulled at it, examining it for himself. His mouth soundlessly formed the words as he read them, narrow brow crinkled in concentration.

For one agonizing instant -- there was silence. Just enough time for Emily to wish that the earth would open and swallow her whole right then and there.

"Dunno... there's no name on it but mine... Stupid huh?" Ben replied, balling up the paper with one hand as the two began walking down the hall in the opposite direction of Emily.

She suddenly felt nauseous, like any second now she was gonna hurl. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass of the bulletin-board case not far from her, Emily saw the ghastly expression on her face. She leaned back against the lockers, dropping the metal hanger on the floor with a slight clatter.

Emily sighed, shaking her head at the distressing memory. They had finally reached the front yard of her apartment.

Max trotted over the grass, sniffing. Pausing here and there he seemed to be inspecting it for any signs that intruders dared to step on it in their absence.

The air around her felt dry and somehow heavy. People could be very ugly to one another -- especially when they're young, she pondered.

How long had it taken her to get over that insult? To get that message-- that she didn't fit in\-- out of her mind. Sometimes she wondered if she ever had.

## Chapter 8: Two-Faced

Patience and disquiet were two emotions that didn't pair well together -- no matter if the viewpoint was human or Paragon. Both affected Wicus at the moment. The council still hadn't reached a consensus. That was a problem.

He was eager to begin while less eager to tempt fate. Standing in his large office with its high paneled walls and lavish furnishings -- all done in earth tones of greens, tans and browns-- the whole effect was normally serene. Even the evidence of his good taste didn't appeal to his restlessness today.

His extensive collection of memorabilia was housed in cases that appeared to be made out of a gossamer-like material. They were in fact very sturdy units, well placed throughout the room. His collection was entirely unique to him and in an odd way revealed his devotion to duty.

Flint-rocks, clubs, spears, bows and arrows, swords, knives, muskets, rifles... all manner of guns were displayed. Small weapons from every era of human history that were developed or found favor in North America. And he knew their back-stories, not from extensive study; he'd witnessed them in action.

The battles, the losses, the deaths, all viewed from the vantage point behind the shroud that protected his world from theirs; the indistinguishable area between reality and the tangible that all soul minders called home.

Each item served as a reminder of the brutal nature of mankind and the constant need for magic, the constant need to get it right when he matched people together.

His thoughts shifted into a determined frame of mind as he considered the work that confronted him: finding a replacement soul mate for Emily Wren. Many were beginning to refer to the day that her soul mates were killed as the culling. It seemed an odd choice of term, since culling traditionally meant cutting the worst or weakest from the herd.

In this instance they had been the best, those souls already properly equipped with the correct attributes to meet the people who were their designated soul mates.

With a swipe of his hand across the empty space in front of him, Wicus produced a portal revealing Emily's studio apartment. Her twin-sized bed was pulled out of its normal resting place, the blue sleeper love-seat.

Ever practical, she'd bought the piece at a thrift store for fifteen dollars and re-covered it with a staple gun and eighteen dollars' worth of jersey fabric even though she had never upholstered anything in her life. Although as he recalled, there had been some trial and error involved.

He smirked at the memory.

The girl was thoroughly capable with a sensible nature that allowed her to tackle most any problem she attempted. Idly, he wondered what would happen when she met her soul mate and released magic into the world? Of course that would depend upon how well he did his job. He had to get this right.

Emily was tucked under the covers breathing deep and slowly, sound asleep.

He'd forgotten to check mankind's time.

Paragons operated on a different clock than the human world. Their days were 36-hours long and while they didn't actually need sleep, many indulged in a two-hour nap before beginning a new day.

Centuries ago, the Council of Nine tried to transition the Paragons into a 24-hour day but it never really took. There was one positive result, most soul minders had two clocks, one set on Paragon time, the other reflecting the hours that made up a human day.

Wicus watched Emily sleep for a while.

He was satisfied that she seemed at peace. The girl wasn't the type to sit up fretting over a boy, he thought. Perhaps there would be time to do the work required without her falling for a barren. The conversation with Titus had rattled him a little, made him question his judgment.

Asleep she exuded a quiet confidence which was surprising considering how bashful she could get. He wondered briefly what she might be dreaming about, he couldn't tell for sure.

A Paragon, especially a soul minder, could usually see into the dreams of a mated soul -- even influence them-- but not into those of a chaste girl like Emily. Her dreams were the sole providence of God, unless she ate or drank something weird in which case they were at the mercy of her digestive tract.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Wicus heard a noise in the room. He saw Max sitting up near Emily's feet at the end of the bed, his tail was beating a steady rhythm on the bare wooden floor. The terrier had a curious look on his face. He began to whine.

Max issued three half-halfhearted barks, "Woof... Woof... Woof," each low and breathy.

Narrowing his eyes, Wicus assessed the animal more closely.

While his side was open, he knew a skim was covering the other side which made the portal invisible. Yet from where he stood, he could swear that Max was looking right at him.

"You can't see me... can you boy?" he spoke in a low tone, disbelieving his burgeoning theory.

"Woof... woof..." barked Max.

Surprised, Wicus stepped back from the portal.

"That's not possible." Concern rattled him.

There was no equivalent of a dog or any kind of pet in the Paragon world. The souls of animals were not under the purview of the brotherhood as their lives were less complicated than humans. Their mating rituals were governed by instinct rather than messy emotions.

Max's timid barks woke Emily. She turned over to where he sat, instantly alert, eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" she asked the canine while looking around the studio apartment. She paused and sat still for a moment, clearly listening for signs of an intruder. Satisfied that no one was trying to break in, she reached for him.

"Here boy."

Max got up on all fours and trotted happily closer to his master's outstretched arms.

"Oh, I get it... you really want some attention... can't sleep huh? You know there's not much room up here... especially the way you like to squirrel around," she lightly scolded, scooping him up and pulling his body to hers in a one-arm hug, ruffling his gray fur with the other hand making it stick up in wild spikes along his spine.

"You are such a good boy... you're spoiled... but I love you anyway."

Max joyfully licked her face while she giggled. Releasing him, she laid down, patting the mattress.

"Come on... settle down, I have to get some sleep."

Wicus had moved back to the portal and watched the entire tender scene

Max stepped over to where Emily's hand rested on the mattress. Sitting on his haunches, he looked up from his new spot on the bed, stared at the portal and slowly put his head down on his paws.

Wicus could have sworn that the animal looked right at him. How was that possible? he mused. Stepping back, he waved his hand and the portal evaporated.

Still pondering what the encounter meant, he was startled by a quiet whoosh.

Quickly turning, he was surprised by the appearance of a shimmering square in the middle of his office.

Aaron and Al had dropped by for a visit. Both stepped through the magical portal in front of him, one after the other.

"I told you he would be in," said Aaron to his companion.

"You were right, very right... as always your timing is impeccable," replied Al.

"Have you started? We're here to lend a hand," the two graciously offered.

Recovering quickly, Wicus was pleased by his great good luck.

"What a wonderful surprise! It's so good to see you... see you both... no I haven't started. Your assistance is most welcome."

Doubt poked around in the back corner of Wicus' mind. The newcomers' arrival fueled his secret apprehension that he might not possess the skills needed to do this properly.

The oddly matched pair were much older than Wicus and had the flaming red eyes to prove it.

Aaron was short, barely 5-feet tall.

At 6-foot-5-inches tall, Al towered over him.

Each had the same straight, short, jet black hair. What made them unique among the brotherhood were their faces or more precisely, their face.

In the annuals of their history, no one knew of any other Paragons who even slightly resembled each other, let alone were identical. At least their faces were.

"I'm glad that you're here but I didn't expect you. You weren't at the Great Hall. I understood that neither of you suffered any losses?" observed Wicus, striving to be a gracious host even though their arrival caught him off guard.

"We were fortunate, the culling didn't touch either of us," replied Aaron.

"We're volunteering... yes, volunteering where we can... to make it easier on the rest of you," added Al.

Aaron tended to the souls in Antarctica, while Al's domain was over the Arctic. They alone had been spared the tough duty of selecting new souls to retrofit as replacements.

"Where's Waxine?" asked Aaron, "I had hoped to speak with her during our visit."

"She has other pursuits at the moment, but she'll return later." Wicus replied.

"Other pursuits? Oh... other pursuits. Yes, well, perhaps we'll still be here when she gets back." He exchanged a quick blank look at his mirror image.

Wicus saw it but said nothing.

He wondered briefly if the true purpose of their visit was to help him or to speak with Waxine. He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it entered his head. He understood Waxine's popularity. Those without Luminary companions were fascinated by them and by her more than most.

The presence of the pair seemed to magnify the gravity of the task ahead of him. Emily Wren will have her soul mate. Seeing as they were here to help, he thought, it was best to get on with it.

"Gentle Paragons, shall we begin?" he asked with a great sense of ceremony.

"By all means."

"Yes, yes, let's begin, by all means," echoed Al.

With a wave of his hand Wicus called up a large, curved, flat panel screen that unfolded, stretched upward and downwards, and unfolded again and again, until it wrapped around the entire room from floor to ceiling, leaving the trio standing free in the wide area that remained open in the center. This panel was not some inanimate object. Like many things in the realm between reality and the tangible \-- it was supernatural.

"I'd like your help finding the best possible candidates to replace those that were lost," Wicus formally asked the enchanted nematic display, or E-N-D as it was called, speaking as though talking to a friend.

It sprang to life.

The screen was imbued with a special kind of magic. Not only was it diligently prepared to do Wicus' bidding, it was eager to start. The images on the curved panel were more vivid than any high-definition or plasma screen invented by man.

Already there were millions of red dots populating the entire span of the screen, all possible candidates. Each representing a soul who had met and lost his original soul mate through some mishap or misfortune.

"It's a dark obligation that lays ahead... Whatever names are selected..." Wicus paused. His brain was stormy in contemplation. He wouldn't wish this on any of the people under his care, yet it was necessary.

"Will have... er... difficulties to surmount," offered Aaron.

Wicus' gaze shifted to Aaron and he mutely nodded. The air in the room suddenly grew thick with the heaviness of the assignment.

"Well, look at this spread," observed Al, glancing back at the flat panel.

He and Aaron took a few steps forward and began walking the length of the display.

One dot near Wicus seemed to be blinking more intently than the rest, the pattern was odd, inconsistent. Without lifting his hand, he casually moved his left index finger to the right less than an inch.

The screen responded to his desultory magic and the dot turned into a blue dash which unfolded into letters revealing two words, a name. Wicus raised his eyebrows, eyes tightening in displeasure as he read it.

"Humph," he grunted almost silently and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head precisely once. No, he brooded, not him, definitely not. Was there a glitch in his magic or the E-N-D's? he wondered. He didn't know what else could have caused the problem.

Quickly he moved his finger to the left and the name on the panel wrapped back onto itself until it became a dot again and then disappeared from the screen all together.

Convinced that it was removed for good from the pool of candidates, he glanced back at his guests. The older soul minders gave no indication that they had taken notice of Wicus' action. In fact, both seemed engrossed at the sheer volume of names on the display.

"It's fortunate there's an ample list of possibilities," observed Aaron from the other side of the room to his tall companion, "at the same time it is rather depressing."

"Rather depressing indeed... To see that so many young people have both met and lost the loves of their lives... It's... It's humbling," agreed Al.

"They have suffered much already which may mean less retrofitting will be required. Loss always alters a person... leaves a mark on the soul, it's unavoidable," Aaron announced wisely, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Unavoidable," echoed Al, "Let's hope we find a candidate that does not need too much adjustment."

"That would be my wish as well," said Wicus more to himself than his visitors.

Again questioning whether his skills were up to the task, he drew in a breath. He routinely tweaked a soul if it needed adjustment before a match-up with a secondary... but a full-fledged retrofitting? That was something altogether different.

Glancing back at the screen, he noticed that the dot had returned. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. Was the screen intentionally defying him? Such things rarely happened in his world. Again he moved his left index finger, magically making the dot disappear.

"Such a list... nothing to do but go through it one by one," observed Aaron.

"Yes, one by one," echoed his friend.

"Fine soul minders you lot make," said Wicus gruffly, grinning to soften the sting of his words. His spirits, while not high were full of energy anticipating closure to this current problem; providing replacement candidates to be Emily's soul mate.

## Chapter 9: Candidates

Over the next ten hours they whittled down the list of candidates with speed and efficiency. Wicus stood frowning in concentration more than once. He, Aaron and Al were acutely aware of the burdensome task, slogging through all the profiles blinking on the panel.

They accomplished it by checking soul markers, comparing programming hallmarks and by discussing the pros and cons of the best contenders.

In the end there were two names and photos left on the display: Josh Taylor and Charlie Anderson. They were the best choices for primary and secondary soul mates for Emily Wren.

Profiles of both were prominently displayed under each name on the E-N-D which had shrunk until it was about the size of a large flat TV. Wicus could reach inside the display and turn the image around to see it from another angle or rewind any attached live video feed with a flick of his wrist.

Josh Taylor had lost his wife, Julia, to breast cancer. He had medium brown hair and quick brown eyes that took in everything. His 5-foot-10-inch frame was slim and muscular, he was a natural born leader and athlete.

Charlie Anderson was only an inch taller, a good bit leaner and blond with hazel eyes. He had been dating his soul mate for only a few weeks when she was killed in a car accident. Since then the 26-year-old had had three barren romances. None had lasted for very long.

Oddly enough there was no sense of relief when the selection process was complete. No cheering or hoopla. No self-congratulatory pats on the back. The three kept it to themselves for a bit. Perhaps out of respect for what would transpire in the coming months for each young man.

Much harder work lay ahead, Wicus mused. His expression grim as hell, not relishing the torment that he'd have to put each through. He wasn't cruel, hurting a person in any manner was abhorrent to his nature. Yet he understood the rigors of soul transformation were needed if either man was to become Emily's soul mate.

Not to mention the toll it would take on himself being the instrument of such brutish distress, he resigned himself to the task. Once the retrofitting was complete, order and routine would be restored to his own life.

"Josh will need to have two of his markers remastered and at least four of his hallmarks reprogrammed," observed Aaron, "but that's far less than any of the others."

"Far less, yes far less indeed," agreed Al, "Although I think Charlie only needs two of his hallmarks done."

"But he needs four of his markers remastered," reminded Wicus.

"Yes, Yes... You are right about that, four markers remastered," confirmed Al, "...markers are tougher to retrofit than hallmarks."

"I'll have to do it when they're asleep," Wicus theorized, speaking more to himself than the others. Unafraid of hard work and a plodder by nature, a plan was already forming in his head.

"That's best.... It's gonna make for some horrible nightmares... months and months of nightmares... but that's the best time to reach them," advised Aaron.

"Months and months... they'll be waking up shrieking... how I hated the shrieking," confessed Al, "Sometimes they looked like zombies... It was awful."

"Wait, am I understanding you right... there's been a large-scale retrofitting that you've had to do before... primaries and secondaries were lost?" During his time in this realm, Wicus had never heard of such a calamity.

Two versions of the same face nodded grimly at Wicus.

"It was thousands of years ago... there was a great flood..." started Aaron.

"It was a great flood..." echoed Al, "but secondaries weren't part of the equation back then... We handled primaries."

"You don't mean... I mean are you saying the flood that covered the earth... Noah's ark... the animals two by two... the whole--" Wicus stammered and stopped speaking abruptly. The warmth in his face had been rising with his level of excitement, now his skin felt flushed for a different reason.

Aaron's lips were twitching, the Paragon was doing his best to contain a smile, unsuccessfully.

"Good grief," chuckled Aaron, "No, not THAT FLOOD!

"Not that flood. This one killed several dozen unmated souls and hundreds of mated ones in Antarctica.... It was the first time I met Aaron.... Imagine the shock on my face when I saw his.... or rather, saw that he had MY face," chuckled Al.

"I'd never retrofitted anyone, didn't even know what to do... until Al showed me," confessed Aaron more solemnly. His gaze turned inward for a moment as if viewing the past.

"I showed him... yes, I did. But it's a nasty business... Nasty indeed.... it causes people to have such horrible nightmares. Some reliving the worst moments in their lives-- on a loop. Their own personal hell. They wake up screaming... always those pitiful high-pitched screams."

Wicus felt foolish in front of the senior soul minders, mentally chiding himself for being impatient and showing such poor judgment. The flush on his cheeks felt like it deepened. He always tried to do the right thing by others no matter the cost to him or his pride. "I'm sorry for jumping to such conclusions."

His guests were not offended in the least.

Aaron nudged his longtime buddy in the arm and grinned, "He thinks we were retrofitting Noah's crowd."

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" crowed Al, "Noah's crowd... Like there were enough souls left to retrofit anyone back then."

Wicus was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Waxine.

She floated into the room with Plug directing a cart heaping with succulent and savory dishes. The candelabra was heartily welcomed by the soul minders.

"Perfect timing my dear, we're famished," conceded Aaron.

"What a wonderful sight," gushed Al, his attention was temporarily distracted by the food.

"Waxine takes good care of me," Wicus said winking at his companion. He loved a good meal and Waxine had a way of coming up with inventive, yet delectable dishes. She could combine different, even conflicting flavors of meats, grains and vegetables into such delicious menus. Good food was one thing that always made Wicus weak in the knees.

Al beamed at the Luminary. "Thank you for being so considerate," he said, piling food on his plate.

While the three ate, Waxine moved over to the panel and examined the display. "These young men are to replace Emily's soul mate?" she observed.

"One of them will," replied Aaron before taking another bite.

"One's a primary, the other's a secondary," added Al helpfully, as he spooned in another mouthful. A content look entered his eyes as he chewed.

"Which is which?"

"That all depends on how they handle the retrofitting."

Plug turned its prongs toward Waxine and bobbed until getting her attention, speaking to her silently.

"Wow, this is a busy day... we have another visitor... I'll be right back..." she said exiting the room.

Wicus barely had time to finish chewing a mouthful of food before she returned. When he saw who followed her into the office, he quickly swallowed. It was Karl, Ozel's assistant. They'd met at the Great Hall.

The young acolyte greeted all three Paragons graciously.

"Good evening soul minders. I've come with important news from the council."

Wicus wiped off his face and mouth with a napkin, his mind was all on business. "They've reached a decision then?"

"Yes, of course... as soon as the nine were all together. They know the seriousness of the situation... they wanted to allow everyone as much time as possible to retrofit the candidates."

Wicus rose from his seat, dropping the napkin by his chair and walked over to where Karl stood. Aaron followed and took a place next to him.

"So retrofitting is approved for all selected candidates?" Aaron asked.

"I think that there was never any question that it wouldn't be. The council wanted to establish some guidelines to make sure that only the best candidates were selected," Karl replied. He glanced at the two profiles on the large screen.

Now that it was official, Wicus felt a sense of relief. Glancing at Waxine, the two exchanged a look. No need to go rogue, her expression seemed to say.

He curled the corner of his mouth. Now he felt more confident that things were going to work out.

"Those yours?" Karl asked.

Wicus' eyes flickered back to the acolyte, "Yes."

"Only two?"

"That's all I need."

"Excellent. Ozel said you'd be organized and efficient... and probably have a list compiled. He said you'd be protective of your souls... not want to inflict more harm than necessary."

"What I am about to do will be painful enough, I've selected the minimum that I need... no more." Wicus scowled briefly at his visitor, bristling over the implied suggestion that anyone would select more candidates than necessary. "Hmph," he scoffed before making his expression bland. His old boss was a jackass, he thought sarcastically.

A metallic brow rose over Waxine's burnished eyes, a knowing expression lit her face as she caught his. Pursing her lips together, she gave him a small smile obviously realizing that he was perturbed.

"You're very judicious in your selection... I'm afraid that others have been less so," Karl replied.

"What are you talking about?" asked Aaron.

"As you all know... retrofitting works better on some candidates than others...a few soul minders... very few... have chosen to uh... ahem... adjust more than might be needed," Karl said, looking uncomfortable.

"More than needed, indeed? That's barbaric," uttered Al as he rose from his seat. Rather than join them, he turned his attention to Waxine. "My dear, a word please?" he requested in a soft voice.

The enchanted candelabra put on her best smile and floated over to him. Al walked a few feet away from where the others stood as she glided along by his shoulder.

Wicus wondered what was up? Had he been correct in his earlier assumption that the twins' visit was due to the Luminary and not the candidates? There was no time right now to pursue the notion, he thought. Duty came first.

He returned his complete attention back to Karl. "Rest assured... I have no plans to retrofit more souls than I need. What has the council decided then?"

"Yes, the guidelines... er," the acolyte said. His face grew rosy, apparently flustered at not getting to that sooner. "The council has issued limits on which souls can be considered viable candidates... since these are in humans and not pure souls that you're dealing with."

"Okay, let's have it."

"No more than six soul markers or ten hallmarks can be adjusted in any single soul to make him or her a candidate to replace those that were lost," replied Karl, quoting the council's edict, sounding very much like Ozel.

Wicus' lip quirked. This one's really an eager beaver, he thought sarcastically. Momentarily he recalled his own time as an acolyte, he was less fanatical.

"Wow, that many?"

Wicus turned to Aaron, "I think I'm extremely fortunate with my guys..." Then turned back to Karl, "Rest assured, my candidates are well within those parameters. Tell the council there's only six markers and six hallmarks in total that need to be altered in the two of them put together."

"Ah, that is great news. I will inform the council at once. Since you're within the permissible guidelines... consider yourself officially authorized to proceed," finished Karl formally.

"Thank you very much."

"I'm sorry to have interrupted your meal," Karl's blue flamed eyes darted over to the impromptu dining set-up.

Wicus watched him. Was that envy or hunger in the younger Paragon's eyes? It occurred to him that Karl and other acolytes had probably been delivering the same news for quite a while.

Council announcements were usually delivered by messenger rather than magical means. The reason was twofold. First, the council would be assured that everyone who needed to hear it, did. And second, could get instant feedback. Both verbal and nonverbal.

He was about to offer Karl a plate when the young Paragon said, "I really have to push on now."

"No worries."

Wicus glanced over to see that Waxine and Al were still deep in conversation or rather that Al was doing all the talking while she listened. He couldn't tell what they were discussing. Waxine's flames were about two inches higher than normal. Was she surprised or angry? he wondered.

"I'll show you out."

Wicus led Karl out of his office, through the chambers where he resided and back to the entrance of the collapsible hallway between reality and the tangible that would lead the acolyte to the Great Hall.

"You have sufficient training to direct your path?"

"Yes, sir... I'm prepared," responded Karl, "I have an errand to handle along the way."

Wicus bid the messenger farewell and watched as the acolyte accessed the corridor. He waited until reasonably certain that the youngster could negotiate the magical walkway then returned to his office to discover that Waxine was alone.

Her burnished gaze was examining the screen.

"Where are Aaron and Al?"

"They left... They asked me to tell you goodbye... They apparently have a few more stops after this one," she grinned.

"More stops?"

"Since they didn't lose anyone... the council has put them to work checking in on all of the soul minders, evaluating their progress...pitching in where they can."

So the visit was about assessing his skills, Wicus thought, earlier doubts returning.

"Is that what Al was talking to you about?"

"Oh that..." she hedged and replied airily, "You don't need to know all of my secrets... I gotta keep some mystery."

Wicus was stunned, "Waxine! Everything about you is a mystery."

He thought, not for the first time, it's a pity that Luminaries didn't sleep. If she did, perhaps he could see into her dreams like he did mated souls. It was one of his gifts.

As things stood now, Waxine's thoughts much like her past were shielded from his abilities. At least he could evaluate those of the candidates, he mused, eager to get to work.

## Chapter 10: The Gentleman

Candidate One.

Josh Taylor wiped a moist hand over his sweaty brows, pushing the perspiration up into his already damp hair. Tired as he was, it didn't help much. He thought his fatigue was merely a byproduct of the current exertion combined with sleepless nights, unaware of the impact retrofitting was taking on his soul, unaware of the retrofitting, period.

"Look at that fatty... now that's what you call a Big Bertha," huffed Bode, breathing heavy, not so out of breath though that he couldn't talk while running. The guy critiqued everything in their path.

"I don't think you should call her that," huffed Josh, keeping pace with his friend and slightly aggravated with the commentary. Would running faster shut Bode up? he pondered.

"What? Am I not being politically correct? What should I say... she is height challenged... because she's not tall enough for her weight? It's not like she can hear me. When did you become such a prude?" questioned Bode.

"I'm not a prude... I see her out here every day, rain or shine... I've seen her out here walking even when it's too cold for me to run," he confessed. So much for being a tough guy, he thought.

He didn't know the heavyset woman striding down the sidewalk about a block ahead of them on the opposite side of the street. In fact, he'd never really gotten a good look at her, she was usually covered up.

"Well that sucks... If she walks that much you'd think she'd lose some weight... wouldn't be such a chunk."

"Actually, I think she has."

"Oh my God... You mean she was fatter? Wow!"

Josh eyed Bode with quiet disgust for several seconds. "You really are a prick. You know that?" Was he being a hypocrite? Didn't he used to make such mental judgments about fat women when he saw them in public?

He was different now.

Several of the nurses who had helped care for Julia were large women. They had been kind, took their time with her, even encouraged her on the really bad days. He could still see them, getting warm washcloths to wash his wife's face when the chemo made her sick and she'd vomited, or brought her cups of ice to suck on so that she wasn't thirsty when she couldn't even hold down water. They'd brought her extra blankets and pillows, anything that she needed to make her more comfortable.

Nah, he thought, he wasn't the same man he once was. No man could be after seeing the love of his life go through that.

Bode looked secretly pleased. A hint of a smile was on his sweaty mug.

Josh frowned, becoming suspicious. What's he up too? Was this an act? Recalling that several people had commented about his appearance lately, some noted the fact that Josh looked weary. There were dark circles under his eyes, again.

Those same eyes gawked sideways at Bode seeing through the charade. So that's it, Josh mused. It was a test. Anger being a healthier emotion than depression. It sure as heck beat being the gloomy shell of a man mired in bitterness and grief-- that he had been.

Bode was intentionally trying to push his buttons. Instead of being angry he allowed some of his old cockiness out.

"You up for a little challenge?"

"Hmph... Race you to the light."

"You're on," Josh agreed, his competitive spirit kicking in.

Bode kicked it into high gear and was passing him.

The two raced down the wide sidewalk, Bode reached the light first, only by a few steps, shouting, "I win, I win!"

"Race you to the library," egged Josh, as he caught up then passed Bode who was dancing a little jig.

The Cobb County Library was the halfway point on the seven-mile loop that the two had mapped out.

"You won't be ahead of me for long."

"Wanna bet."

Josh made it to the library a full yard head of Bode.

"RACE YA BACK!" called Bode as he rounded the grounds, darting past the large duck pond and up the side street the two routinely used. It ran along the backside of the library.

"Damn it," replied Josh, annoyed that his innate sense of timing had failed him, taking off after his friend.

His muscles were warmed up and he was hitting his stride. It IS getting easier, he thought, being disciplined helped. The inner voice was one he had listened to often over the past eighteen months, driving him to improve, to push himself to go on. Slowly it was getting easier for him to breathe, to be alive without her.

He'd even started dating again, well sort of.

There was a girl from human resources with Cobb County that he'd had a drink with two days ago, exactly one beer after work and some pleasant conversation. It had been okay, certainly better than his previous attempts, he mused.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to see her again. Josh had not realized how superficial she was before they'd talked at the bar, plus there was the whole dating a colleague aspect. Not that he was against social climbing, but she was kind of arrogant and seemed really interested in fast-tracking her career.

Unsure if he could be of help to her, or even if he wanted to -- had soured his expectations. Added to that, he'd had another bad dream about Julia that really upset him, put him off his game.

Josh was a self-taught, software engineer. He had a job with Cobb County Public Safety installing upgrades, making sure that the network was secure and protected from hackers.

He worked behind the scenes and didn't have to deal with criminals or access records. His bachelor's degree was from Georgia Tech which he got in record time, opting out of many of the classes other students labored through by acing placement tests. Josh graduated two months before Julia had been diagnosed.

"You're moving like an old man," goaded Josh as he caught up to Bode.

They'd passed by City Hall near the main square and had to stop at the intersection -- the traffic light was against them. Both runners were breathing heavy and jogging lightly in place.

Bode wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He started to dry it on his shirt, seeing as that was drenched too, he shook his hand like a wet dog letting sweat fly everywhere.

Josh, eyeing this activity, stepped farther away to avoid the flinging drops, he was already wet enough. His nose wrinkled in mild disdain, wrinkling even more when he took a deep breath and realized how bad he smelled. Geesh! Got to hit the shower, he thought, hoping that there was enough soap left.

The white figure on the crossing signal on the opposite corner changed to orange numbers and began counting down from twenty-four.

"Not long now... By the way... how's it taste?"

"How's what taste?"

"My dust in your mouth..." Bode grinned.

"I think you mean my dust ... Three... Two ...One..." Josh counted down with the orange numbers and took off before the signal changed. He narrowly missed running into a car, while calling back, "Sucker."

"Man... you're getting reckless...you little shit."

Bode was hot on his heels. Catching up, he said, "I think you need to get laid... get rid of some of that pent-up energy."

Josh grinned.

He'd been out with two other women in the past eight months. All he had done at dinner with each was talk about his late wife.

How much he'd loved her and how he'd felt powerless to help as she'd battled the cancer. He even admitted that part of him had died with her. At the time he'd known he was committing every cardinal sin in the book, breaking every dating rule. He'd been a complete mess.

Surprisingly, each woman had had sex with him, pity sex to be sure, it was still sex. He'd never called either one after. A girl who gave herself up that easy? That wasn't what he was looking for, he thought.

They were not like Julia.

Back when the two of them were in high school, Julia had made him wait and wait and wait until he thought he'd go crazy. He'd wanted her so badly. It wasn't until senior year that she finally agreed to let him make love to her. By then he was already head over heels. So was she.

Love changed things. He'd been so afraid of hurting her, it being her first time that he'd messed up royally. Growing overly excited when she had touched him with those gentle, soft hands, he'd lost it, literally, before things could even get hot and heavy. She'd been an angel, patient, kind, encouraging and they'd tried a second time with more success. The next day he'd proposed.

"Push it," hollered Bode, breaking into Josh's memories, scattering them like his own sweat. He smacked Josh on the right shoulder as he got a second wind before passing.

"Where are you getting this energy?"

Bode laughed.

They were nearly at the city park where they'd left their vehicles, Bode's Chevy truck was parked about six spaces from the sidewalk.

Josh's motorcycle was parked a few spaces farther down on the right side near the drinking fountain.

Family members had been worried when he'd bought the Harley after Julia died. Remembering the looks they gave him, he smiled ruefully. He could tell they thought he'd lost his mind. The murmured conversations behind his back as they had stared at the metal and chrome monster. Some feared that he had a death wish. Perhaps he might have had one then, he didn't now.

"YES! YES! YES! Take that man... I won fair and square!" Bode did a little victory dance as he stepped on the curb surrounding the edge of the park.

Josh followed on his heels, entering the grassy area a few steps behind. He stopped, leaned forward slightly with his hands on his hips, catching his breath. "Good run man... I almost had you though."

"You wish," Bode replied, a friendly challenge in his tone.

"Next time."

"We'll see. Hey I gotta head out... you're okay, right? Not going to have a heart attack or anything like that on me?" he asked mockingly.

Josh gave him a withering look. Familiar with the fact that Bode's teasing was his way of making sure that he was okay.

Over the past eighteen months he'd learned to wear a brave face in public. Friends and family worried less about him when he did.

"Too soon huh?" Bode shook his head, unrepentant. Pulling his shirt off, he squeezed some of the wetness out, waving it as he moved to his truck, "Later."

Shaking his own head at his friend's irreverence, Josh rolled his eyes. Bode was a piece of work, he mused. There were days that he'd like to throttle him and others that he couldn't have made it through without his friendship.

The truck's engine sprang to life with a mechanical roar.

Josh lifted his chin, giving a parting nod at Bode while the vehicle backed out of its space.

As the Chevy pulled out of the lot, Josh fished out his phone and walked to his Harley. No longer surprised by the volume of email that clogged his in box, he thumbed through them.

Two items in particular caught his attention: an email from the HR girl and a notification from Millstone University that his new interns were starting today. He hoped that they had more drive than the last one.

His mind was fast-tracking to the duties looming on his plate, he'd need some time to work on a couple of projects alone. Inhaling a deep breath, Josh exhaled.

He'd give the interns something simple to work on, figuring that even if they weren't that advanced in their studies he could put them in charge of setting up a multidimensional array to collate data files or better yet, clear out the network's cookie cache. There was little they could damage doing either and since he'd written the cache clearing program, basically they would be babysitting while it did all the work. Eventually, he'd evaluate what kind of skills they had.

HR girl wanted to know if he had plans for lunch. He didn't but was unsure if he wanted to spend any more time with her. Be tactful, he thought, then smiled and sent her a text:

"2 new interns arriving 2day, swamped. Thanks tho."

He climbed on his motorcycle fully aware that she would probably ask him out again, he'd worry about that later. He drove home and jumped in the shower.

When Julia was alive he would have been in and out in four minutes flat because he liked to make sure there was enough hot water for her bath. These days the shower was his refuge, the one place he didn't have to hide his pain, the one place he allowed his feelings to surface and cried when he needed to. Over the past year and a half, he'd used up a lot of hot water.

It didn't take long to dry his hair or body. He wrapped the towel around his waist.

Using his left hand to wipe the condensation off the mirror in order to shave, he noticed his fingers, one more predominantly than the others. The telltale white line around the third finger was nearly gone. He rubbed the base of it with his thumb, could almost feel the warmth of the gold band still on his skin. Of course it wasn't there.

Julia had made him pledge to take off his wedding band one year after her death. She'd said that that would be long enough. He remembered the look in her eyes when she'd said, "I don't want you wasting your life grieving. Promise me."

He'd done what she'd asked, in stages. His mournful heart was reluctant to part with it.

Taking it off on the anniversary of her passing. He only made it through a few hours. Julia might have thought the vow relieved him of a burden. He had not seen it that way.

The weight of the band had become part of him, the absence of it was acutely felt like an open wound, reminding him especially that day of all days -- that he'd lost something more precious than a piece of gold. Part of his own flesh was gone, his link to the life they'd shared.

Nonetheless, a promise was a promise, he'd thought. If she was looking down from heaven, he didn't want to disappoint her.

Each day he took it off again for a few hours, trying to distract himself with work, exercise or friends, keeping it in his pocket until he could put it back on.

Slowly he got better at it, developed the requisite stamina. By the end of the month he found that he left the ring in his pocket all the time. Close enough that he could feel its reassurance through the fabric.

While fishing coins from his khakis one day, it had dropped on the floor, rolling out of sight for several panicky minutes. Eventually he found it near the back leg of his desk. After that he didn't carry it around anymore, knew that he couldn't risk losing it.

He'd put it on Julia's little glass ring holder atop the dresser, right beside where she'd left her teardrop earrings. That's where it remained.

Next to burying his wife, it had been one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do. It was a signal, meant he was moving forward even though he wasn't over her, even though he didn't want to.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked a little less hollow, the bags under them were evident. The nightmares had returned.

What triggered them he didn't know.

They had stopped, that is, up until a couple of weeks ago. Several of them had left him unbelievably raw, he'd woken up shaking, screaming out, trying to save Julia, reaching for her and finding nothing but cold air. Those were difficult mornings.

He wondered if his subconscious was trying to work through some residual guilt that he was still alive and she wasn't.

For what must have been the umpteenth thousandth time, he thought that things were slowly getting better. Still, he missed her every single day and knew that even with the constant mental pep talks part of him always would.

After getting dressed he hopped back on the Harley Softail and spent the next ten hours at work, following his mantra that a steady plan was the path to success.

Living was getting easier.
Chapter 11: Retrofitting

Satisfied that Josh Taylor was sound asleep, Wicus stepped through the portal with a mixture of anxiety and dread. He'd spied on the young widower for forty-five minutes and felt reasonably sure that his arrival would go unnoticed. Granted, when Wicus had started his task a while back, he used a cloaking spell to mask his movements, eventually deciding it was overkill and abandoning it.

His feet were reluctant to proceed in spite of the energy pulsing through him, believing that it was his body preparing itself for the severity of the work ahead.

At the moment it wasn't his body he was worried about, his concern centered on the software engineer. The adjustments were plaguing the young man.

Wicus wondered if they were having a larger, negative impact on Josh's health. Every night the horrific nightmares returned.

Not that Wicus doubted his obligation, it had to be done. Emily Wren needed a soul mate. He sighed, growing more irritated with each session, hating the inadvertent turmoil that he was causing.

Once he entered the bedroom, he heightened Josh's sleep with a wave of his hand, sending him into a magically induced dream state. The spell was guaranteed to keep the candidate under while he worked.

Wicus also hoped it might numb some of the side effects. From what he'd witnessed, it hadn't.

During the months that he'd been making nightly visits to the Taylor home, he'd made slow progress.

In the stillness of the room he now heard a slight clink behind him. It sounded like a diamond striking metal. One of the candelabra's no doubt.

"You gonna finish his second marker?" whispered Waxine from the magic gateway.

There was no skim on the portal when Wicus looked back. He saw her hovering there in all of her shining glory with an inquisitive look on her countenance. How could a metallic face seem so human? he marveled, not for the first time.

He imagined what a shock it would be if Josh awoke and saw a bejeweled candelabra floating in the air. Wasn't it already bad enough that he was giving him nightmares? Seeing her might make the lad question his sanity. Did she want to send him over the deep end?

"Shh... Waxine... close that portal," he hissed, glancing at the sleeping form of the widower. Josh was under the slumber spell, that didn't mean it was time to press his luck.

"I'm restless... I want to help," she carped, edging closer to the threshold.

Wicus noticed.

"Don't do that... you can't come over here... channel your energy into something else right now," he instructed in a low tone.

"Like what?"

"Don't I have some other pairings about to be made? Do some recon on that..." he whispered, adding "Please," to soften the sting.

A moment later the portal disappeared.

He felt a pang of guilt.

Obviously Waxine had wanted to come along, she loved exploring and traveling. Since he was actually working in the human world while both men were asleep, they couldn't chance it.

If someone spotted Wicus, he could simply blink on a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes and he'd pass for human. Waxine on the other hand... well there were not many living candelabras hanging out with people on this side of the veil, he mused, the corner of his mouth twitching.

She did once with an immortal!

The sudden thought sent a chill down his sturdy spine. He had faith that she'd get over it.

Inhaling, he blew out the breath slowly.

Time to get to work.

It was the same message he thought of each night, usually followed by; Don't screw this up.

Standing there he felt the grip of fear in his stomach. The dull pain would subside after he got going, he knew that.

His mind was now settled and he turned to the business at hand. Wicus had had a fairly easy time retrofitting the first marker. The second one still needed a bit more work. Surprisingly, the hallmarks offered the most resistance in this human.

Usually hallmarks were easier to change than soul markers, at least in his limited experience, never having needed to do a full-scale retrofitting before. But Josh's were identical to his late wife's. Due to the trauma of her passing they were emotionally tied to his soul, linked to memories in his amygdala meaning they were connected to his physical body, that's why Wicus was having such a hard time adjusting them.

Hence his anxiety.

The physical ties had to be completely severed. A painstaking process that made his work all the more difficult. For Josh, it meant that all the painful memories would be dredged up, again and again, until all ties were detached.

Doubt again assailed Wicus' mind. Should he abandon Josh as a candidate? The young man had been through enough misery already. Had Aaron and Al thought as much during their impromptu visit? Why hadn't the pair said something? Or had they?

Wicus frowned.

In his arrogance had he ignored something? The notion set off more questions about his judgment.

He decided to finish work on the second soul marker before trying to sever any more of the physical connections to Josh's hallmarks. He began the delicate task by pulling out part of the widower's soul.

If the entire soul was taken out of the body, Josh would die. A human could not live without a soul -- even for a moment. And Wicus had no desire to kill the candidate. As a safety precaution, Wicus pulled only a fifth of the soul out at a time.

He paused for a moment as he did every night, marveling at the unrivaled beauty of a soul.... at its complete vulnerability. Comprised of pure white light, raw and unsullied, it was more innocent than a newborn babe. He fought the urge to shield it and return it to its host. The protective impulse receded.

No, the die was cast. There's no going back, he must do this, press on and complete the task.

"Emily must have her shot," he mumbled, glancing briefly at Josh. No reply came from the snoring engineer, save his taking another deep breath and exhaling with a low gnarring noise in the back of his throat.

Wicus measured the marker and found its dimensions. "Still four ticks too short," he mumbled to the sleeping man.

Reaching one hand into a deep pocket, Wicus retrieved his stardust chisel from within the folds of fabric.

All humans were made out of stardust; accordingly, he needed the tool to adjust the soul. Next, he pulled out a mallet of light, which looked like a modified gavel -- slightly larger than a judge's and smaller than the comic book character, Thor's, infamous hammer. One side wielded angelic power, the other not so much. Some souls needed an element of mischievousness added now and then.

Deftly placing the chisel on his last stopping point, dexterous fingers wiggled the cutting edge into the groove. His eyes narrowed, focusing their intensity on the spot. This was a demanding affair which he conducted with a great deal of solemnity.

His companion said that he looked like a sculptor as he went to work, except he was hammering on the equivalent of a beam of light. No hard marble or granite here, he thought. A small smile spread over his mouth in remembrance.

Pounding over and over, moving the chisel carefully yet strategically around the soul until the marker gradually yielded to his will, he worked carefully. The skills he'd displayed in the past sessions had surprised even himself.

How had he figured out so quickly the best way to inflict the meticulous blows? Pleased. He forged on, sparks flew as the chisel hit its spot, removing particles of soul.

Wicus wished he could gather them up, hating for them to go to waste. When the particles detached, they instantly withered and disappeared. Each uttering a tiny pinging noise that sounded like a minuscule cry.

Blinking several times, he tried to refocus his attention. Distracted partially by the perceived whimpering and partly by his own self-doubt, he began to question his judgment about whether the engravings were of the best quality.

One moment the chisel was in the right place, the next it wasn't.

The mallet struck it hard.

A corner edge came down at an angle, creating a small hole where a line should be.

He gasped aloud.

Forgetting the sleeping figure, he cried out, "Oh my God, No!"

Hastily pulling aside his tools to examine the blunder, his eyes went wide. It took him a moment to even check on Josh, such was his distress.

A quick glance reassured him that the young man was still under.

What to do? he cringed, eyes searching the soul for a remedy. That mistake would have to be repaired. Could it be? A hole was not part of the required pattern. If he didn't get the pattern right, there'd be no magic.

"I'll have to go over it," he whispered. Finding some small relief in confessing his plans to the slumbering candidate, Wicus filled in the details. "If I stipple enough holes together perhaps I can reshape it into the line I need.... or rather... you need."

The next hours were arduous to him, every ounce of his being felt possessive over the soul and he struggled against altering it in this manner. His attention and diligence however were not distracted by his discomfort.

Anticipation of the kind of magic that would be released into the world when the two met supplanted his most pressing worries. This would be good for Emily and all of humanity.

He dared not spend more than five hours a night working on either Josh or Charlie. Humans needed time to recover from the effects of the retrofitting -- as poor a remedy as sleep was in these cases.

Wicus hoped that the magical anesthesia of the slumber enchantment would have prevented Josh from having nightmares, unfortunately it didn't work that way.

After that first night, when the adjustments were complete, he'd stood vigil on his side of the portal until the sleeping man ripped the quiet with a shrill cry, clawing the air, evidently battling waves of torment and grief that had threatened to drown him. They washed over Josh again and again like a violent tide, as if sucking him down into a drenching pit of despair.

For Wicus, witnessing it, knowing that the young man suffered due to his actions was a crippling feeling. He didn't care for cruelty or being the one to inflict it upon others.

"Forgive me Josh, this must be done... Emily must have her chance," he'd whispered to the afflicted form.

Josh had thrashed on his bed, his heart beating so savagely, Wicus feared that the young man was going to have a cardiac episode. His posture ached with apparent signs of loss that radiated from his very core, tremors had sent shock waves of anguish ricocheting through his arms and legs until he woke up screaming for his beloved wife. "JULIA... JULIA... JULIA! WHERE ARE YOU... JULIA?"

Josh had sat up blinking as if trying to rid himself of the nightmarish image before his eyes. A confused expression, like what he saw made no sense, flickered over his face.

"Why are you threatening her?" Josh asked the darkness -- blinking quickly -- like some image had entered his mind in a flash. One shattering heartbeat later it must have vanished.

Replaced no doubt by Julia's face.

He cried out again, talking to the phantom in his memory, "Julia... it's you... so fresh and lovely and healthy... I miss you."

Holding his arms up to whatever image haunted him, no welcoming embrace was returned. Blinking again, he looked around in disbelief. Sanity resurfaced.

Wicus saw the moment when Josh realized that Julia wasn't there. The young man seemed to choke on the agony of losing her all over again, looking as though a hand had torn through his skin and pulled out his guts, shredding them. Unable to do anything about it -- he broke down sobbing.

Wicus had felt terrible.

Even so, he couldn't stop, it was part of the process, horrid as it was. After what he witnessed that first night, Wicus used his time more wisely and spent the rest of the wee hours working on the secondary.

"There... all done," he told the sleeping Josh.

It had taken longer to fix the mistake than he'd anticipated. Eventually completing the pattern, he got the second soul marker adjusted.

Wicus eased the final section of Josh's battered soul back into his body and allowed him to rest.

He winced, feeling a little ashamed of himself. There's no way that he would stick around to hear the screaming that would come from this night's adjustments.

Instead Wicus opened a portal directly into Charlie Anderson's bedroom. He tried to stand still as it formed. It took effort. Tension from the previous hours of work and worry showed in the trembling of his hands.

Breathing deeply, he tried to slow his racing heart -- waiting for the portal to solidify.

The 26-year-old was sprawled on the bed on his stomach, snoring. Blond head face down on the mattress between two pillows.

Wicus stepped through the second portal.

Charlie choked back another snore and turned his head sideways, his dominate nose which had been broken once or twice gave his handsome face a somewhat high-born air.

During months of making adjustments to Charlie's soul, Wicus had come to realize that the young man was very active in his sleep, had lucid dreams and acted very oddly-- even for a human -- that had nothing to do with the aftermath of retrofitting. Not a night had gone by that the elementary school teaching assistant had not been tangled up in his bed sheets and blanket, his long legs dangling off the side of the bed, feet, toes first, on the floor.

Wicus had watched often enough to know that Charlie didn't start out in that position, the twists, turns and rolls of his sleeping contortions put him that way over the course of the night. He was quite a character for one so young.

The secondary's two divergent hallmarks were modified to within the correct specifications within the first two months of the retrofitting. One of his soul markers had also been altered, leaving three to go.

Wicus had started with Charlie's hallmarks since fewer of them needed reprogramming. They were much easier to adjust than the other candidate's.

He hoped that his manipulations were correct. They would need to match exactly if this was going to work, he thought, wrestling with a pang of doubt. The stress of this duty weighed heavily on him.

Not that Charlie didn't present his own share of obstacles.

About six weeks into the retrofitting process, the young man started giving Wicus other problems unrelated to the rigors of altering the soul. That's when Charlie decided to burn the candle at both ends with a new barren.

The romance had stymied Wicus in his task.

Charlie and his new hookup were having sex, lots of it. The young woman was very boisterous, bossy and quite flatulent.

Wicus could have put a sleeping spell on the pair, except the teaching assistant was not getting much sleep, barely a REM cycle a night. Any retrofitting under such conditions could have been dangerous. Fortunately, the romance had not lasted long.

Relieved. It meant Wicus could resume his duties unimpeded. He suspected that Charlie was too, albeit for different reasons.

Now, feeling rushed -- a feeling he hated, Wicus began work on Charlie's second marker, very mindful of the time. Mallet and chisel in hand, Wicus was ready to pound away. Yet he hesitated.

Doubt racked his brain.

His eyes burned intensely as he paused to look at Charlie's soul. Well suited to the undertaking, he examined each visible trace, impression, spot, dent, line, shadow or wrinkle in the marker that needed to be changed.

Alarmed, he paused, irritated to discover a dark stroke where there shouldn't be -- from the previous session. Another blunder!

"What am I doing?" he hissed under his breath disgusted with his own detected incompetence. "I can't make these kinds of stupid errors."

Taking several more deep breaths, he tried to calm down.

It wasn't a mistake like he'd made with Josh but it could present a problem if he couldn't maintain the right proportions on the design.

Steeling himself, he went to work.

Despite his protective feelings about the soul, in his efforts, he showed it no leniency. He had to do this right.

Not for the first time-- his mind pondered the reason behind this exercise. Why had both of Emily Wren's soul mates been killed on the same day? What was behind this culling? Did someone really want to impede the progress of mankind?

The idea was insane. Who would benefit? If some unknown enemy was behind this, surely the foe would know that the Paragons would act. Just as he was doing.

Wicus gasped as a new thought struck.

Glancing quickly at Charlie's sleeping form to see if his outburst had been heard.

A snuffling snore escaped the young man's mouth, clearly it hadn't.

Was he putting the teaching assistant's life in danger? It was a chilling notion. One that he didn't have an answer for.

Wicus shook his head in aggravation and kept working.

Hammering here, tapping more lightly there, he swiped the chisel across another vein of soul. This was progress.

Wicus reached a stopping point close to dawn.

Charlie wouldn't have time for a full REM cycle of sleep, he thought.

"Unless--" he murmured, mentally calculating how long he could allow the young man to sleep and still get to work on time.

"You can forego your morning shower and coffee," he mumbled to the snoring figure.

Receiving only a gurgled-snuffling sound in reply, Charlie didn't wake.

Wicus reset the clock so that it appeared to have suffered a power outage. The alarm would sound, only it would be ninety minutes later than usual.

"That should help..." whispered Wicus, paternally patting the sleeping man's head before opening a portal for home.

It had not been an easy session for either candidate.

As he came through the gateway back into the office, his steps were punctuated with exhaustion.

Waxine turned abruptly. Her burnished gaze narrowed, obviously assessing him.

Wicus hesitated.

Briefly closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and released a long sigh. Since he'd been keeping erratic hours, he'd grown very moody. The task was causing him physical pain.

Every morning he returned drained, suspecting that his pallor was no better than Josh's. Charlie's coping ability was only a slight improvement.

He opened his eyes.

"Why are you staring?" he asked, having quickly speculated and discarded several possible reasons for her scrutiny.

"You look awful," she said in a tone suggesting that Wicus might not be aware of his condition.

"I'm fine," he lied.

Her eyes shifted, giving a fretful look at the still open gateway behind him and she added in a more alarmed tone, "Good grief... close that portal before the screaming starts! I have no stomach for the repercussions of this kind of work."

He did so with a wave of his hand.

"I can't watch them anymore," she admitted, shamefaced. "I've seen a lot working with you. Most of it far more fun... downright beautiful. But the suffering--" she stopped speaking, her metallic face was grappling with emotions.

She made a harsh noise clearing her throat, "You weren't kidding before... when you said this was tough."

Her burnished gaze looked distant and raw. Shaking her head at whatever inward image she remembered, the movement caused the flames over her invisible candles to sway and the jewels on her bobeches to twinkle casting a rainbow of color around the room.

"The screams and thrashing... especially from Josh's room... it's enough to wake the dead." Her metallic body shuddered.

It was plainly too much for the candelabra \-- which should illustrate that if retrofitting was that upsetting to a hollow, metal, heartless Luminary, it was not difficult to imagine how Wicus felt.

## Chapter 12: Disfavored

Nostrils flaring, Wicus breathed in a hearty whiff of the savory sight that awaited him. Refreshments! The appetizing tray looked wonderful. His lips curled involuntarily.

"Ah... Waxine... Just what I need. Thank you," he expressed his gratitude before heading over to the table by his desk. He was famished, mentally and physically.

The tray piled with food and drink awaited him. Sitting down, his mind was focused on the task of fixing himself a plate. There was enough food for more than one helping.

"How'd it go?"

Her question halted his movements. He didn't want to talk about the night's gaffes but her eyes were on him.

"There was progress," he stated guardedly.

His eyes held steady on hers, searching. How much had his companion seen? Would she have noticed the mistake? Was she asking about progress in general or about the blunder?

"That's not much of an update."

"Greedy for news, uh?"

"Yes!" she admitted.

He blew out a breath, some of his anxiety going with it.

Adding another spoonful of potatoes to the plate, his stomach began to rumble. Sniffing again, mindful of the anticipated meal, Wicus was torn. He'd rather eat than talk so it took a moment before he responded.

She had probably watched him all night without closing the portal, he speculated. Waxine was just as capable of putting a skim on one to make it invisible-- as he was. The old gal didn't like being left out of the action.

Quirking his mouth, he tested the theory, "How long did you watch?"

Waxine turned away in apparent surprise and gave him a sideways look before rolling her eyes. She twitched her nose impatiently over pursed lips as though considering her answer.

"What makes you think I wasted my time floating here while you pounded the crap out of two human souls?" she replied in a huff. A look of embarrassment appeared on her face.

He'd guessed correctly what she'd been up to.

"Because I know you Waxine... better than you know yourself. First, you'd want to see what was happening. Find out the progress I was making... Then..." Wicus softened his tone, "Then, you'd want to see that the candidates were okay."

His tone turned teasing again, "And last but not least... You'd want to figure out how close I was to finishing so you could whip up this delicious meal."

"Okay... okay... so maybe I watched for a little while... Am I really that predictable?"

Wicus chuckled and began eating, watching her from the corner of his eye. She turned toward the two profiles that looked back from the screen in the office. The E-N-D updated in real time without any external input.

"I see that both of Josh's markers are changed, but none of his hallmarks are."

"Yes," Wicus mumbled and paused as he swallowed, "Josh's emotional ties to his first wife are unusually strong. I've cut several of the physical links from his brain to his soul... I won't be able to begin altering his hallmarks until they're all severed."

"You didn't spend as much time with Charlie tonight."

"I didn't have it to spend. But he is coming along, his hallmarks were easy. I need only focus on his remaining markers now."

His gaze returned to the plate in front of him. Picking the fork up again, he speared a chunk of meat. Instead of plopping it in his mouth he stared at it.

Insecure thoughts circulated in his mind. Were his skills up to the task? There was much work that needed to be done on both men. He couldn't have any more slip-ups.

The action didn't go unnoticed.

Her eyes narrowed with a hint of suspicion. "What? You suddenly don't like the food? Or am I missing something? What happened?"

"Not much... C'mon Waxine. Don't make me rehash the whole night," he said simply, feeling intensely private. He didn't want to review each groove or design while eating.

"Fair enough," she allowed, giving him some space. She was quiet for several moments. "Do you think Charlie will be finished first?"

"I dunno... but pretty soon they'll be the best candidates that I can make them. I want Emily Wren to have the best soul mate possible." If he did the job right, this should work, he thought. Had he? Doubt rearing its ugly head in his thoughts again.

Plug uncoiled from the candelabra's base and tugged at Waxine. The pronged attachment was floating in front of her, looking intently at the screen, examining something on the panel.

"What?" she asked her attachment.

Waxine leaned forward examining the same area under the pictures of the candidates. "That wasn't there a second ago... it's like the E-N-D unit automatically updated itself," she muttered.

Wicus speared another chunk of steak only half listening. He would need to be more diligent, double-check his work each night. Sinking his teeth into the meat he wondered, what had she put on this? It was really good.

Leaning closer to the screen, Waxine mumbled, "Does that belong to one of the profiles? That's odd... the other side doesn't have one... That doesn't seem to belong to either."

"What's that?" she asked aloud.

Wicus looked up and managed a, "What," still chewing, distracted by his meal.

The display had remained in place since the day he, Aaron and Al had selected the candidates. It exhibited their profiles in his office for all this time. He knew the E-N-D would not close down until Emily was properly mated. He'd seen it so often, he could recite the details of each candidate without looking.

With a flick of its cord, Plug touched the screen. The blinking dot grew into a dash unfolding until it turned into letters which formed a name and slowly more details began to populate the screen.

Waxine called to Wicus without looking at him. "Wicus... Who is David Bowen?" she asked, reading the new profile.

Wicus nearly choked on a mouthful of food. Not him again. He sputtered, grabbing a goblet, hastily draining its contents in order to speak.

Evidently unaware of his startled reaction, she recited the details on the screen. "A war veteran... awarded the Medal of Honor... Present at the death of his primary soul mate," she continued to read, "Wait, never mated... No, he shouldn't be here."

"It's a glitch," managed Wicus, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Is that normal? A glitch in your magic?"

"No, it's not... this shouldn't be happening... He definitely should not be in the pool of candidates."

Why did the E-N-D keep defying him? Wicus pondered. Did the magical device have the gall to think it knew better than him? The prospect put him in a foul temperament.

Waxine looked surprised, clearly detecting the anger in his voice. "Do you have a beef with him or something?"

He snorted briefly.

It wasn't proper for a Paragon to dislike any of his people... especially an unmated one, Wicus knew. But this one gave him good reason.

"He has no drive, no ambition, no consistency," he answered, allowing censure in his tone as he rose from the table and approached the screen.

"What has that got to do with his soul?"

"He's a glutton... a coward... and there's a recessive gene... his ancestry is questionable." Wicus ran a hand through his curls, exasperated. Pulling it free, he shook his head at the idea. Talk about an unlikely candidate!

"It says he was decorated for valor.... or is that another glitch?" Waxine asked.

He gave an obliging grunt and lapsed into silence.

Plug tapped the screen again and more details came up.

Oh, now here comes trouble, he mused.

Waxine's curious gaze was back on the panel clearly unaware of how closely Wicus watched her. He didn't like where this was headed.

Curiosity transformed into absolute shock on her face. Her jaw dropped. "OH. MY. GOD. Wicus, is that?"

"No, it is not!" he assured her adamantly. Here was yet another reason why the Bowen kid bugged him. Hands doubling into fists at his sides in aggravation, his body tensed for the discussion to come.

Waxine was studying him, her burnished eyes narrow. "Hmph," she said. "There's nothing wrong with my vision. This is unbelievable."

Wicus' raised his eyebrows, offended. Why didn't she believe him?

She glanced back to the new photo on the screen and the face that stared back was none other than his.

"David Bowen's got the same black curls, the same high square forehead... the same full lips. He'd got your cleft in the chin... the same benign smile. Look at how muscular his arms are... why he's the same height and build. The only difference that I can see are his eyes... they're human and cyan blue. He's got the same long lashes and dark thick brows as you do too." Finished with her description, she blinked several times like her mind was unable to process what her eyes saw.

Wicus tried his best to look as innocent as possible. His posture was aided by the fact that he was certain of it. This was his home and he belonged here but at the moment he rather wished that he didn't.

Standing next to the screen didn't help, it could have been a police lineup.

"How is this possible?" she turned to Wicus. "Seeing you right there beside the photo makes it all the more uncanny. There's no difference except for your eyes."

She chewed her lower lip for a moment and seemed to be pondering something. Her burnished gaze blinked again as if a realization had struck, "He could be your son."

Wicus snorted in disagreement.

"That's not possible," he defended himself, drawing up to his full height in indignation. He glared at her for a moment, of all the nonsense to suggest.

"You have been with me for centuries. Have you ever seen me with a human...? I mean aside from the ones I introduce to their soul mates? I have never been with a human."

"So you say... But how can you explain this?" challenged Waxine, the flames of her invisible candles rising higher. Jealousy was plain in her tone.

"And you of all beings must have an explanation for any mystery," he added with a certain sardonic tone. Far be it from him to challenge her about keeping secrets. Not that this was any sort of thing.

Paragons were asexual beings -- his kind did not reproduce. There were no children in this realm. And she very well knew that, he mused. Still... the evidence of the screen was apparently more compelling to her than his word.

He grimaced, annoyed with his companion.

Waxine glared right back at him. "This man could practically be your twin. If I had a foot -- right now I'd stomp it." Her flames shot higher.

Wicus noticed the temper spike.

"Waxine, you know me... You know my kind doesn't do that," he assured her with a level gaze. They were not geared for such activities. Why wouldn't she believe him? He stared at her-- silently pleading for a moment.

Wicus glanced at the fiery display over her head with caution. He took a small step away. He didn't like confrontations and this was heading in that direction.

She was glaring at him obviously still angry.

Eyes darting back to her burning halo, he tried to be more diplomatic. "Please," he said. He waited as Waxine lowered her flames indicating that she was calming down.

The sight of David Bowen had raised questions in his mind for as long as he could remember, questions that even he -- with all of his resources could not answer in a satisfying manner. And not for his lack of trying.

"... I've done some checking and his questionable gene is diluted.... which means it's from a distant ancestor... and he is not of Paragon blood."

"Not of Paragon blood.... Wait... You knew about him... and didn't tell me?"

"Of course I knew about him, he's a soul under my protection. That's also how I know that he is a coward who squandered his primary because he is unreliable," he admitted, allowing disapproval to drip like venom from his tongue.

"I think you'd better start from the beginning."

"It's not a long story to tell," offered Wicus, "And you already know part of it.... remember six years ago... the soldier who was to meet his soul mate in Turkmenistan. He was late and she died in that convoy attack? You remember how angry I was... You had recently come back from visiting your friend in the Great Hall... what's her name... uh... when she organized that celebration?"

"This is THAT soldier?"

Wicus nodded.

The primary's designated time to meet David had popped up out of the blue as happens every so often. Soul minders tried to orchestrate meetings well in advance, sometimes life interfered-- if something changed their fate -- and it became a rush job. It should have been a simple match up. War had a way of messing up even the best laid plans.

"I remember you told me about the debacle after the fact... but I never saw his face." She shook her head ruefully, glancing back at the screen before looking again at Wicus. "You were fit to be tied that day... Looking at you now, it seems like you still are."

"He squandered a primary! Just like that... because he was too drunk from partying the night before... I even sent in reinforcements to help him... but it didn't matter... He was late and his soul mate died," he spat out the words bluntly, scowling with the recalled agitation.

Wicus craved order and reliability, he hated it when something or SOMEONE sidetracked his plans. That's when he got angry. That day, he certainly was.

"Okay, I get why you are angry about that.... How do you know he's not of Paragon blood?"

"Do you think I wasn't shocked the first time I saw him too?"

Wicus thought back to his first recollection of David Bowen.

The sheer volume of souls that he mated made it impossible for him to watch every one of them 24/7 as they grew up, he only checked on them randomly during their formative years. David was at least 10-years-old the first time he appeared on Wicus' radar, even then the similarities in his appearance were striking.

"When I noticed how much he looked like me, I investigated... checked his soul... even got a little blood to test... that's how I know about the recessive gene."

With a look of mild alarm, Waxine asked, "What did you do Wicus?"

"Relax, Waxine. You know I would never hurt a soul. You know that when children grow up they get bumps, bruises, skinned knees... etcetera.... it wasn't hard to get a blood sample."

"What did the blood sample tell you?"

"One of his ancestors is an immortal."

"Immortal?"

"Yes, an immortal.... I don't know which one."

Waxine's eyes turned thoughtful. She was staring at Bowen's photograph on the display, yet her metallic gaze seemed to be viewing something with repugnant detachment from another time.

He wondered briefly if she was thinking about her life among the immortals. Would she ever tell him about it?

His mind swirled with questions, namely did she want to go back? In the end he resisted mentioning it.

She asked something that surprised him, "Do you think this immortal could be a relative of yours?"

"Ha," Wicus chuckled as the question caught him off guard, "What a ridiculous idea... Paragons and immortals do not share the same blood," he added condescendingly. His kind were superior, he thought smugly.

"So you believe, but how else can you explain the resemblance? I mean come on Wicus... He's your twin," she said.

Plug pointed to the screen for added emphasis like an electrical Vanna White indicating a Wheel of Fortune puzzle.

"I have no explanation. Like I said... I don't know," Wicus complained with a wry twist of his lips. The lad might look like him, but that was all. David didn't share any other similarities.

Her metallic eyes stared at him keen with interest.

"Wicus, do you remember nothing of your life before you were a Paragon?"

"No."

Waxine pursed her lips. The distant look returned to her eyes and a small line formed between her metallic brows.

He watched her cautiously. Her flames were low now. The change of topic was to a well-worn one that bored him. He had no secrets. That couldn't be said of his kind.

There was no rational explanation for where Paragons came from. New Paragons, fully-grown, arrived mysteriously into this world with no memory of themselves. Naked and perfect with blue flamed eyes. Each bore the simple scar around one forearm or wrist, although some Paragons had the same scar on each arm.

While the prospect of amnesia might freak out a human, Paragons were especially suited for it. He didn't question where he came from. It never entered his mind to be curious about it. He'd been eager to move forward and begin a new life of service.

"What's the first thing you do remember?" Waxine asked.

He paused for a moment stroking his chin with his hand then sighed. Not this again.

The candelabra hovered quietly, waiting for him to begin.

When he did, he spoke haltingly. "Uh... my oldest memory... It's not real clear... I'm not sure it is a memory or simply a fantasy... I think I was outside the doors of the Great Hall... Or maybe I'm only remembering the first time I saw them." He screwed his lips in a knot for a second, finished, before jutting his jaw out in rebellion.

Waxine shook her head, the flames over her invisible candles swaying with the movement. "Then he could be a distant relative--"

"Waxine..." Wicus interrupted, his tone firm.

He was not willing to consider that option. It's simply preposterous, he thought, frostily. The idea that a Paragon was kin to a mere mortal offended his dignity.

"No... Wicus... listen to me... You don't know your own history... so it is possible."

"Doubtful... besides he shouldn't even be on the list. He has a secondary left to meet... in fifteen or twenty years."

"Fifteen or twenty years? Why so late with his secondary?"

"David was a little boy when his original secondary died of influenza as a baby. His primary was still alive... there was plenty of time before they were slated to meet... so the council deemed that a replacement soul mate could be designed from scratch."

He turned from Waxine to look at the display.

She did the same.

"He's like Emily... he's lost his primary and his secondary," observed Waxine thoughtfully examining David's profile.

"NO... He's nothing like Emily..." Wicus said crossly, growing irritated again. "He has a secondary who will grow up and meet him one day."

"Why are you so against David Bowen... Is it simply the botched meeting... the recessive gene or something more? Is it because he looks like you?"

Her eyes narrowed.

Giving her a sidelong glance, he reassembled his face into what he hoped was an unreadable mask. He blew out a long breath, patience running thin.

Wicus hoped they would soon exhaust this discussion. He wanted to go back to his meal. And truth be told, he wanted time to consider all aspects of the internal monologue going on in his mind about this David Bowen.

Why did he keep reappearing on the panel? David's an unmated soul. The locks protecting his soul from retrofitting were still in place. And he had the recessive gene of an immortal, meaning one of his ancestors was one.

Wicus didn't know what any of this could mean for Emily. That troubled him.

"Emily's special... She has a special kind of magic. I want her to have her best shot at happiness... Her best chance for bringing that magic into the world. That's all."

"And you're sure that has nothing to do with him looking like your illegitimate son?" Waxine's flames were burning a bright blue, teasing.

He decided rather than get angry, that two could play this game. Amusement now winning the tug-of-war with his mouth, he gave her a slight smile.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the tables.

"Any what?"

"Illegitimate candle sticks running loose in the human world?"

"Are you daft?"

"As secretive as you are... You could have...I don't know much of your history."

"Now you're just being an ass."

"No, I'm not," he objected charmingly.

The Luminary grunted with obvious suspicion, "Mmphm...Fine, since you asked... NO I don't. Unless that is... " she paused, looking at Wicus expectantly then showering him with a broad smile, "If you don't count that annoying Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast."

Both corners of his lips twitched involuntarily, broadening into a real smile. The tension waned as Wicus erupted into laughter.

His stomach rumbled reminding him of the abandoned feast. Suddenly recalling that prawns were on the menu too, he began stepping back toward the table.

Amid the mirth and his hunger, a stray worry invaded his thoughts, not about prawns but pawns. It was normal in a game of chess to sacrifice pieces to gain a tactical advantage.

It occurred to him that the people killed in the culling might be pawns. Were his new candidates in danger? he mused yet again, unable to shake the nagging uneasiness from his mind.

## Chapter 13: Interrogation

Nestled in the home library, Wicus received an urgent summons from Ozel asking that he come to his personal office. Surprised, Wicus called to Waxine, halting her momentum as she headed out of the room, "Do you want to take a trip to your old stomping ground?"

"Which one?" she asked vaguely. She was floating over the threshold. Plug was doing something unseen by Wicus in the hallway outside.

"Would you fancy seeing the Icelandic landscape?" he hinted.

"What has Marsden done now?" she asked.

"Not Marsden... We're going to see Ozel," Wicus amended, mindful of the jealousy that was hardening his tone.

"Meet you at the corridor entrance in three minutes," was her cryptic comment before she allowed Plug to pull her away.

Wicus looked disapprovingly at the doorway that Waxine had vacated. What was Plug up to now?

He wasn't jealous of her attachment. There were days however when the three-pronged appliance tested his patience.

Closing the magical volume that he'd been consulting, it obediently went back to its place on the shelf.

Wicus could easily navigate the amorphous corridor between reality and the tangible himself. He'd spent centuries working for Ozel and knew exactly how to get to his home. Although it did not exist on any map made by man.

The elder Paragon's residence was not actually in Iceland. A portal encompassing the entire back wall of his office was kept open to the country's Pingvellir National Park, a wall-sized portrait of a living landscape.

The council member loved the raw, unspoiled wilderness caused by the continental pull of the tectonic plates, specifically the North American and Eurasian ones. Global friction created cracks and fissures across the region.

Wicus had mixed feelings about the landscape.

It had served as a backdrop for several unpleasant confrontations with his old boss. On the other hand, it had been a favorite haunt of the immortal who once possessed Waxine. Had he not been there in a position to see the magical Luminary in all her shining brilliance, she might still reside with Marsden.

When Wicus arrived at the entrance to the passageway Waxine was already there.

Plug whipped back and forth eager to begin their journey. The power cord looked at Wicus for the go ahead.

"By all means," he said, extending a hand out, the gesture evidently kicked Plug into action.

The shapeless mass of black space began to take form as Plug responded to Waxine's unspoken commands. A floor, walls and a ceiling illuminated by some unseen florescence beckoned them forward.

Wicus enjoyed allowing Waxine to guide his journeys. It was like letting someone else behind the wheel for a road trip. When his companion felt hemmed in or left behind, as if her freedom was limited in some way, she could get impatient and cranky. Traveling was the true magic to keeping her flames at a safe level, he reasoned.

As they moved along the corridor he let his mind wander.

Ozel had not given a reason for the urgent meeting.

Wicus respected his former boss too much not to respond quickly. He thought about the rumors he'd heard regarding soul minders retrofitting more candidates than needed. Could the council be taking some kind of action?

Edges of the corridor rushed past as his feet moved forward barely registering in the corner of his eyes before they were gone. It was good that Waxine directed the passageway, his brain was so deep in thought he could easily slip past their destination without realizing it.

He reflected on his continuing adjustments to Josh and Charlie, one of them would have to make a suitable soul mate for Emily, right? The teaching assistant was coming along but Josh-- Wicus shook his head in dismay.

The young man had become so bleak. Josh had dropped the weight he'd gained stress-eating due to the nightmares. With his now gaunt frame, he looked like a zombie some days.

And there had been another setback with the hallmarks. They were proving more difficult to disentangle than he had bargained for. It was like Josh's soul was fighting to stay connected to the emotions associated with the memories of his late wife. Not that Wicus was trying to eliminate them. Josh would still have the memories, they just wouldn't be as painful.

It was taking a toll on the engineer and Wicus too. He was worried, and not just about the adjustments. Of course he had a few lingering doubts about those too. What if his initial assessments about the candidates were incorrect? Would they still produce the required match? He got bogged down in thoughts about his own indecision, grimacing.

Emily Wren must have a soul mate.

"Wicus... Wicus are you listening to me? We're here." Waxine looked at him oddly as she sometimes did when it was apparent that he was not listening to her.

Plug avoided being part of the potential squabble, wrapping itself around the candelabra's base.

"Oh, sorry Waxine... thanks." Blinking, he focused his attention on the here and now; Ozel's place.

In keeping with the longhouses that the Norse people built during the Viking Age, there was no front door to Ozel's home. It wasn't needed. An enchantment prevented unannounced visitors from entering until the elder Paragon or one of his acolytes escorted them inside.

A young Paragon that Wicus recognized was waiting in the doorway. Karl had no doubt anticipated his arrival.

A flash of disdain filled Karl's blue flamed eyes upon seeing the candelabra. Recovering quickly, he smiled a warm greeting before addressing them formally.

"Wicus, Waxine... Ozel is waiting for you in his office... Please follow me," he pivoted toward the interior.

Wicus noted the change in tone as Karl said his companion's name. So apparently did she.

"If I'm not wanted I can leave," Waxine huffed. Eight flames rose alarming high around the top of her head. She was definitely in a snit.

Wicus' mouth twitched. This should be interesting.

Karl looked horrified. He eyed the impressive display shooting higher above her invisible candles, swallowed once and chose his words very carefully.

"My apologies... dear Luminary... I didn't... truly didn't... mean to offend," he offered.

Mollified, Waxine breezed by him in the direction of Ozel's office.

Karl rushed to catch up with Waxine.

Wicus quickened his steps.

When the trio entered the office, the elder Paragon was standing on the far side of the room with another fair-haired lawmaker. Both council members were examining a floating stack of glowing documents which obstructed their view.

Ozel glanced around them as Waxine, Wicus and Karl crossed the threshold. He held up his index finger indicating he would join them in a moment.

A third figure present was apart from the council members. Dallus stood by the portal wall, fidgeting. His eyes widened when he saw Wicus, hastily turning his face back to the portal.

"Please have a seat, they're finishing up," Karl said before leaving the office.

Waxine rose to glide about the space instead of sitting on the side table that the acolyte had pointed to.

Wicus understood the Luminary well enough to know that she wouldn't roost on a table like some garden variety home accessory.

Watching Karl's exit, his companion became sarcastically philosophical.

"He's an idiot," she whispered to Wicus before floating off.

He was left sitting alone among several empty chairs listening to the council members' discussion.

"Wellmus has done an excellent job," praised one lawmaker while examining a glowing report.

The magical document took its name from the way it presented the findings. It physically displayed the minute changes that had been made in each candidates' soul in an animated diagram, highlighting the details, literally glowing as each change was illustrated.

"The retrofitting is well done, not flawless but nicely crafted," agreed Ozel, "look at how those markers are cleanly defined and the lines on those hallmarks." He traced the glowing diagram with his finger.

"I've heard that he's dragging his feet a little bit, now that he's close to finishing... Something about being worried his selections won't be good enough for the girl," replied the fair-haired legislator.

"Yes, I fear he's fallen for another one, her name is Teresa."

Dallus looked at the lawmakers in between sneaking glances at Wicus. He seemed even more jumpy than normal.

The images on his magical cloak responded; in one panel the dragon spat fire at a squire hiding behind a tree. In another panel, the dragon was sleeping, his massive head was cradled on its front paws like some obedient pet while the knight and his squire crept up from behind.

The diminutive soul minder turned to the portal briefly and then twisted a little again, giving his attention back to the council members. His posture was definitely that of someone uneasy.

The two elders didn't seem to notice.

"We will need to address the situation with the European soul minders, the competition between them is getting out of hand... as it stands right now... they will have to retrofit three more souls each to compensate for what they've already done," said the flaxen haired council member.

"Neither uses the chisel or the mallet with much finesse... they might as well be using a cudgel," assessed Ozel as he glanced at a different set of reports.

From where he was seated, Wicus frowned.

The council member's comments reminded him that Ozel could make retrofitting sound like factory work. These were human souls, he thought grimly, have some compassion!

Across the room the discussion continued.

"Let's bring it up at the next council meeting," the second lawmaker suggested.

"There seems to be a growing agenda... don't you think?"

The other Paragon nodded.

In his spot near the skimmed view of Iceland, Dallus seemed to have made up his mind about something. A look of determination appeared on his face. Abandoning his position by the portal he stepped across the space and nodded at Wicus as he took an empty chair.

"Wicus..." he whispered hesitantly, after casting another glance at the council members, "I want you to know that I am sorry about this." His expression was apologetic.

"About what?"

"It took me by surprise... that's all... That's the only reason I even contacted the council. I wanted to get some advice... I didn't know that it would become this inquiry..." he was stopped from saying more by the arrival of Karl who had Al and Aaron in tow.

Suddenly the air in the council member's office changed from one of calm indifference to unexpectedly charged. The hair on the back of Wicus' neck stood on end.

The same could almost be said for Waxine, not that she had hair. There was a sharpness in her gaze. From her expression he could tell that she was acutely aware of the palpable energy.

"Something's up," she hissed in a hoarse whisper floating down to his side.

He barely had time to glance at her, narrowing his eyes in acknowledgment. Wicus became watchful and wary.

The twin-faced Paragons greeted Wicus warmly, becoming aloof in their cooler recognition of Dallus.

Across the room, the council members seemed to finish their assessment in conjunction with the new arrivals.

"Ah, you're both here, now we can begin," acknowledged Ozel.

He flipped his hand backward and the remaining glowing reports curled into convenient scrolls and arranged themselves in a neat pile on the corner on the Paragon's desk.

"Sorry for the delay...We've been helping Wellmus... He's back on track," said Aaron.

"Definitely back on track... I wouldn't be surprised if he's done with the retrofitting sooner than you think," reported Al before obviously being distracted by the Luminary and turning his attention to Waxine.

"Oh, my dear... Didn't know you'd be here... So very glad to see you... You're looking radiant as ever."

Despite the perceived tension Waxine beamed at the newcomers.

Wicus understood the gesture, at least he had allies in the room.

Ozel and his colleague joined the others as Karl stepped aside from the group and magically prepared a rolling cart filled with drinks, both hot and cold, as well as a light meal consisting of treats, both savory and sweet.

Wicus had a gnawing feeling of unease.

From Dallus' puzzling apology and Waxine's terse warning -- her intuition was usually good -- he'd derived that this gathering was about him. If he were accused of some infraction, the council could suspend him from his duties.

What would happen to Emily if he wasn't allowed to complete his work? All that magic going to waste, he thought with disgust.

Both council members eyed him with curiosity.

Wicus didn't know why, but he didn't think it was of a beneficial nature. In general, he didn't care what other Paragons thought about him, that's why he could be counted on to give his honest opinion in any discussion. That said, he was also intensely private and fiercely guarded his secrets. What did they want with him?

Glancing at each other, the council members took seats opposite of him.

"Shall we begin?" Ozel asked.

Al and Aaron took their places in the chairs next to Wicus which he accepted subconsciously as a sign of support.

"Wicus, is there something you've been keeping from the council? A secret perhaps... about a certain 29-year-old human in your region?" asked one lawmaker enigmatically. A benign expression was on his face.

Wicus was genuinely confused.

Apparently Waxine was not. High strung as the Luminary naturally was, she was getting visibly upset again, so much so that Plug unfurled from her base swaying in front of the candelabra protectively. Her flames shot higher. Their color turned a deep crimson.

The others noticed.

"Calm yourself Waxine," reassured Al, "No one in this room means any harm to your companion."

The others nodded. It was several tense seconds before his words had the desired effect on the candelabra.

She blew out a breath and lowered her flames slightly. Plug remained uncoiled from her base, defensive, obviously alert for possible schemes.

"Enough with the innuendos... if you have some kind of accusation... then out with it," challenged Wicus.

He was getting angry.

"No one's accusing you of any wrongdoing... Consider this a fact-finding discussion," coaxed Ozel.

"We're all here trying to understand what's going on... That's all," said Aaron soothingly.

"Yes... we're trying to understand you see... Aaron and I especially," agreed Al, trying to be reassuring.

The benign-faced lawmaker sitting next to Ozel produced a visual aid. Jerking his hand forward, flaxen head tilting to one side as he opened a small portal in front of the group, the magical aperture displayed an image that was as familiar to Wicus as his own face. "Care to explain this?"

"Oh, him," huffed Waxine, rolling her eyes.

"You knew?" chorused Al and Aaron together.

"Of course, I do... and I know it's not what you think... Tell him Wicus," Waxine encouraged.

Wicus' mouth quirked as he realized that Waxine wasn't willing to admit that she herself had only recently found out. She seemed more at ease now that the focus of the inquiry was plain. Her flames lowered a little more.

So, the Bowen kid was at the root of this, he mused dryly.

Several faces in the room relaxed, clearly thinking that perhaps Wicus had a reasonable explanation. But not every set of fiery eyes viewed him with clemency. He set out to clarify the situation.

"His name is David Bowen, yes I am aware of him... NO I am not keeping him a secret as there's no secret to keep. I noticed the resemblance in his youth. I investigated his ancestry, he has the recessive genes of an immortal. But his blood does not match mine. He is not a Paragon. More importantly he is NOT MY OFFSPRING... SATISFIED?" Wicus spoke bluntly, irritated. Good grief, how long would this kid be a thorn in his side?

"No relation whatsoever?"

"None."

"This is intriguing," suggested Aaron glancing at Al, his head tilted slightly, an unspoken message was in his expression. It was answered just as silently by a brief, almost imperceptible, nod.

"Intriguing yes... it appears that we have a mystery," twittered Al, "up until we learned of your human twin Wicus, we didn't think there were any more like me and Aaron among our race."

"This young man is not of our race," replied Wicus somewhat dismissively, gesturing toward the image of David with his hand, indignation rising.

"You do not like this man?"

"Is he not one of your souls?"

"He's one of mine. I have reason to be disappointed in him," conceded Wicus.

"He is too hard on the young man," commented Waxine, "Tell them what you told me." She was clearly relaxed now that the cat was out of the bag.

Plug silently coiled around her base.

Wicus obliged, briefly telling those gathered how David had been so tardy for the meeting with his soul mate that all he could do was watch her die.

"It was such a waste," he finished.

"Waxine's right, you're being too hard on him," commented Aaron, "It was war."

"That's no excuse," Wicus said bitterly.

"Paragon or not, I think perhaps you hold this human to a higher standard because he looks like you," stated Ozel, who had been silently listening to the discussion.

There were murmurs from the others who agreed.

"Still you should have presented this to the council... If for no other reason than we would have been aware of his existence... Dallus would not have been so shocked to see him," cautioned his colleague. Turning to Dallus he said, "It appears that you were worried for nothing."

The other soul minder looked sheepish. A flush crept across his skin. He glanced sideways at Wicus, before launching into yet another apology. "Council members, Wicus... I am ashamed at myself for jumping to such conclusions. I hope that you can forgive me for wasting your time."

"How did you meet David?" asked Waxine, interrupting his mea culpa.

Wicus leaned forward, eager to know the answer.

The red-haired Paragon who was now red faced as well, launched into a description of his retrofitting activities the night he encountered the look-a-like. The primary candidate that he'd been making adjustments to was visiting Bowen's condo.

Initially, David had been asleep in another bedroom while the Paragon performed his duty. It was only after David awoke and went to the kitchen that Dallus had gotten a good look at his face. He admitted the encounter freaked him out. At first, he'd thought it was Wicus until he'd seen the young man's eyes.

As Dallus finished the tale of his escapade, Waxine cut in again.

"This could have been avoided if you would have alerted us that you were in Wicus' territory," chided Waxine bluntly. "It's the simplest of courtesies!"

Dallus nodded in agreement, his fiery eyes cast downward. The room became silent. His admission and omission perhaps making him not the most favorite Paragon in the office.

The warden of Antarctica was the first to break the spell of the hushed atmosphere. Aaron lightened the mood when the noisy rumble of his stomach gave him the perfect cue.

"What say we next investigate the delicious concoctions Karl has created for us?" he asked in an ironic tone. His suggestion was greeted with murmurs of approval.

As they all stood, Ozel stepped closer to Wicus.

"Might I have a word?"

He nodded.

Ozel led him to the back wall. Waving a hand, the skim disappeared and his former boss stepped through the portal into the human world. There were no people around in the great expanse of the park, a rainbow was clearly visible arching across the valley, miles away, to the far side of the horizon.

The wind blew in sideways gusts, delivering a damp, mossy fragrance as Ozel and Wicus quietly walked across the landscape, stepping over fissures and cracks in the volcanic soil. Displaced by the breeze, Wicus shoved hair out of his face and heard the distinct crackle of Waxine's flames. They seemed quite close.

He twisted back to see if she was hovering by the portal, so did the council member.

She wasn't.

"Please excuse us my dear," Ozel spoke kindly but with authority. He obviously didn't want her to accompany them.

Waxine's flames shot higher.

Worried about the wind, Wicus shook his head sternly, giving her a look. A plea was in his expression, Don't set the park on fire, he silently begged as one hand pushed at his hair again.

She was miffed at not being allowed to tag along. Without a doubt, she'd deliver an earful later. After giving a dirty look in Ozel's direction, she turned back to the open gateway reluctantly. Plea heard.

"You know why I love it here?" asked Ozel, turning away from the candelabra, surveying the rugged landscape.

"It's uninhabited," commented Waxine sarcastically, now hovering by the portal entrance which remained unskimmed. Plainly, she wasn't happy about having to go back.

The corners of Wicus' lips twitched. No longer concerned with fighting the wind over his hair, he raised a knuckle to his mouth brushing it under his nose in an effort to conceal a smile.

Ozel chuckled, "She's a spitfire."

He glanced back at her before walking a few more yards forward with Wicus. They reached a large fissure in the earth, it was filled with clear water. Coins from all of the different countries of the world littered the bottom of the basin.

The two stood there, silently contemplating the environment, listening to the wind over the rocks. Wicus had learned a long time ago that Ozel would say what was on his mind when he was ready. Finally, he spoke.

"I think this human, what's his name, David Bowen, warrants another look."

Wicus started to protest but stopped as Ozel continued. "I trust what you say... that you have found out about him... but this human is an unknown quantity... We don't know if his appearance has any significance to our world or not. And we must be certain that we know all that we can."

"I'm not sure where else you want me to look," replied Wicus. He'd exhausted every possible genealogical reference.

"Oh, I am not asking you to do it... I appreciate that you have enough work to do with the retrofitting and your normal duties... I saw your report by the way... one candidate seems to be coming along nicely," he said in a complimentary fashion, "the other needs work."

Of that Wicus was quite aware, still worried about Josh. At the moment though his attention remained focused on David. "If not me, then who?" he asked.

"I'll get Karl... give the young Paragon a project," said Ozel glancing over his shoulder for a second before returning his gaze to the park.

His protege was not by the portal. Rubbing his hands together like he was conspiring in some great plot, he winked at Wicus.

Unable to tell if the elder was cold or going for a dramatic effect with the gesture, Wicus waited. Cautious.

"You may have noticed, he's very competitive. If he finds out something that you didn't.... it will give him something to crow about. If not... well... no harm done. He's full of energy... a trifle officious that one is.... bit of a know-it-all."

Wicus knew the type.

"Is there anything else you need from me?"

"In your investigation into David Bowen, did you research his family as well?"

"Of course, I was very thorough."

Secretly he felt offended at the inference. Did Ozel think him suddenly incapable of doing his job? Wicus mused. He should know better.

"Good, good, I figured that you were. Tell me... did you happen to find out who his immortal ancestor is?"

Wicus paused before answering, scowling as he thought about the numerous avenues of inquiry he'd tried, all without success. That was the only piece of the puzzle that eluded him.

Immortals were ageless, barring some unforeseen event or conflict, they simply didn't die. In all of his searching he'd not found the one in David's bloodline responsible for the recessive gene.

As much as he hated to admit failure, he had to be honest, "No, I didn't."

## Chapter 14: Glitch

David woke up screaming again. He couldn't detach the cold grip of absolute fear that seized him. His heart was racing, threatening to explode in his chest. Blood pounded in his ears. He tossed his long legs over the side of the bed, sitting up.

Wrapping arms around his torso, he tried to stop shaking. It didn't work. His body settled into a rocking motion, moving back and forth. His thoughts were confused, still tangled up in the nightmare. He was back in the combat zone again... watching the girl die over and over. Her tiny hand kept slipping from his grasp.

"Enough of this," he commanded himself hoarsely, striving to regain a measure of a self-control.

He had an appointment with his counselor at the Veterans hospital this morning. Doctor Jeff had been treating him for post-traumatic stress disorder. He'd want to know that the nightmares had returned.

After a shower and a cup of coffee, David felt more like himself. Still, he took a deep breath and exhaled. The dream had made him jumpy, the uneasy feeling lingered.

Putting the cup in the dishwasher, checking that the coffee maker was turned off, he wiped the counter and hung the dish towel on the rack, surveying the kitchen with an air of satisfaction. He valued order and routine, anything new or unknown made him apprehensive.

Picking up his keys, he left.

When he got to the V.A. center David didn't have to wait long.

Doctor Jeff's receptionist tried again, unsuccessfully, to flirt with him before showing him to the office.

"Glad to see you again David."

"Thanks... ma'am. Frankly, I'd rather not be here," he admitted bluntly, giving her a look of stern disapproval before shifting his expression to something more neutral.

David knew her name but he didn't want to encourage her. Practical, sensible and not about to date a girl from his therapist's office, he was a relationship guy, more interested in a high-quality woman and willing to wait until he found her.

He glanced around the waiting area, it was empty. No wonder the receptionist was still batting her eyelashes at him, he thought sarcastically, she had nobody else to flirt with.

The receptionist noisily cleared her throat, looking distinctly unhappy.

She'd been telling David a story about something that happened the night before and from the look on her face -- she clearly knew that he'd not been following along.

"Imagine how aggravating that was -- all my friends there with dates and me all by my lonesome... nobody to share a cocktail with."

Yes, he could imagine, he thought, not in a kind manner. The woman probably flirted with everybody's dates since she was flying solo.

He scanned her face with a jaundiced mindset. From the pallor of her skin and the circles under her eyes, she'd had more than one cocktail. Not that David considered her drinking any of his business.

The attention did not seem to make her self-conscious. On the contrary, she smiled a little too brightly for a little too long, licking the corner of her mouth with her tongue and using her index finger to adjust her lip gloss.

While his eyes rested momentarily on her countenance with slight curiosity, no smile touched his lips.

She must have finally detected the censure in his gaze. "This way," she said abruptly, ushering David down the hall.

It wasn't like he needed an escort, he thought wryly. It wasn't his first visit.

Most who knew David would not call him a romantic, yet deep down he was. Part of him believed in love at first sight, even if he'd never experienced it. He wasn't interested in the one-night stand that the receptionist's swaying hips were plainly trying to offer.

They walked in silence.

The doctor picked up his iPad as David entered the room, taking a seat in one of two nice, leather-bound, club chairs. The office felt like it belonged in a rich man's home library rather than a Veterans hospital.

Floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases along two walls were packed -- and not merely with medical or academic volumes but nice hardbacks with ornate covers. A large desk stood flush against the third wall by the door and the remaining one held large windows.

It was late in the morning and the sun was high enough in the sky that its rays didn't stream through the panes -- as often happened when David had a session in the afternoon. There was a giant burgundy wool rug on the floor with an intricate pattern on it. Many a visit David had watched those rays dance across the woven floor-covering.

All in all, it was a restful, tasteful room. There was nothing clinical about it.

"Good to see you, David," Doctor Jeff said, leaning over to shake his hand before sitting back down himself and turning to the girl, "Thanks... that will be all."

The receptionist backed out of the room glancing once more at David with a smile. He saw it out of the corner of his eye but didn't acknowledge it. No point in giving her false hope.

She pulled the door closed with a soft thump.

His gaze moved, resting on his lap.

David had rehearsed this conversation in his head on the drive over, working himself up a bit. Expressing his feelings openly didn't come easy-- from past sessions he trusted the doctor to be impartial and patient. David had reached the point that he felt comfortable talking to him about almost anything.

As soon as the door shut, he launched right in.

"I had another bad dream last night... It was the convoy attack all over again with the girl dying... I was in quicksand... fighting to get out... I couldn't breathe."

"The same nightmare about the ambush? Did you find the men who beat you... Hunter and Todd?" Doctor Jeff asked with an air of familiarity. Obviously, he was well-versed with the frightening details from David's reoccurring dreams.

David tensed, trying not to flinch, biting down on the inside of his top lip to halt the quivering. Recalling the painful assault, his body shuddered briefly, he fought to control it.

His hand moved by reflex to his long-healed shoulder, massaging it while his subconscious relived the injury being inflicted. As much as he'd psyched himself up to talk about the current nightmare, he didn't want to think about the previous attacks by fellow soldiers.

He was silent for a moment before emitting a long sigh. "Not in this one..."

Doctor Jeff eyed him for some time in silence. His expression indicated a comprehension that some psychological torments took longer to process. He veered his questions into safer territory. "Did you see the dead girl from the house?"

"Nope... She wasn't dead in this one... she was still in the house."

"Your C.O? The attack that he, Hunter and Todd died in?"

"Nope, none of that... none of the bullying or threats... It ended with the girl from the convoy... I know it sounds crazy... but I feel like I somehow let her down... I don't know why."

An image of the girl's tiny hand slipping out of his flashed through his mind. David winced at the memory.

"We've talked about this... about survivor's guilt... it's quite common among former soldiers like you who've had extensive combat."

"Doc, I really want to get on with my life... I thought... well I'd hoped that I'd put all of this crap behind me."

"Interesting... Your combat nightmares completely stopped a few years ago... We have to find what's triggered their return... Then maybe we can stop them."

Feeling anxious, David ran a hand through his hair not caring if it was out of place. He wanted to fix this, get through it. He stared at the therapist.

"I'm ready to do whatever it takes."

"Good, good... Has anything changed in your life lately?"

"No, work's the same... I mean my dad's wanting me to take on a larger role in the family business... but that's not new... nothing to complain about there. I can handle him," he grinned sardonically.

David worked at his father's publishing company, one of three heirs to the family fortune.

"Seen any of the guys from your unit?"

"Yeah, actually," David paused, surprised by the question. Why would the doc want to know that? he pondered, curious.

"My buddy John. We were stationed at F-O-B Kopet-Dag together. He was here... visiting from L.A. last week. He's been having some problems... adjusting."

"Problems?" prompted Doctor Jeff.

"He's been edgy... short-tempered... having nightmares about being in-country... surrounded by insurgents... not able to escape."

"Interesting... He came to see you because he was struggling with nightmares about his experiences and now your nightmares have returned."

The doctor's gray brows knit together. "Hmmm."

David was baffled.

John was a close friend, like family. He was fiercely loyal. The idea that helping John had somehow caused his own nightmares to return didn't sit well, nor did what the doctor was implying.

"I don't think I like what you're saying." David's puzzlement shifted, his thoughts turned stony.

It wasn't the first time that he'd been like this in the doctor's office.

David could be like a rather large boulder, hard and immobile. And at the moment, he showed no signs of crumbling.

Both were silent for a lingering period of time.

"Oh, relax David... I'm not blaming your friend. I think it's good that he has you to confide in. But the fact remains that when you discuss something good or traumatic... say your experiences on the battlefield... the mind can take its own sweet time in how it chooses to process it." The doctor's tone was placatory.

The boulder moved.

David nodded, drawing his lips together in a contemplative pout, concerned. He wasn't one hundred percent sure that he understood. Rather than mope with worry--he was willing to listen.

"The mind is a wonderful puzzling place. It's a great big vault... if you will... all of our experiences are stored inside. There are emotional connections to memories of sights, smells, sounds that can be triggered years after those events are long forgotten. You may not be consciously aware of the degree to which it extends to your waking life... but your brain processes things... the experiences you take in daily... and tries to make some sense of them.... to see if it fits in with other memories. It persistently modifies itself," the doctor explained.

His expression was kind and tolerant, the look of a man who didn't expect an immediate reply, if any.

In his original therapy sessions, David had often been incredibly pigheaded although he suspected that the doctor's professional ethics kept him from saying so. Once or twice though, David had glanced at the doctor's notes. He'd certainly been thinking that.

Right now, the doctor's words echoed in his ears.

Just talking about the past could trigger such horrors in his mind? A shudder threatened to shake him, he struggled against it, remaining still as he weighed the options, assessing and dismissing each as an array of emotions swept through him. Finally, some minutes later he spoke.

"Great... so about this big vault that's in my head... now all I have to do is figure out the combination... clear out the bad memories... and hopefully make some new ones to store in there... Is that about right, doc?"

David had been through this process years before when his PTSD tried to get the better of him. He was not afraid of trudging through his wartime memories again if it meant ending the nightmares.

"You got it. If it helps... don't think of me as your doctor... think of me as your handy safe-cracker," Doctor Jeff smiled ruefully at his attempt at humor.

* * * * * *

On the other side of a viewing portal in the realm between reality and the tangible Wicus turned away from the scene before him, stymied.

He'd observed the entire session hoping to learn more about David Bowen's history. The witnessed conversation held no interest for him as it offered nothing new about the young man's lineage.

While surprised that David felt some lingering guilt about the girl who died in the convoy attack, it did little to lessen Wicus' own vexation over the incident.

"Hmph," Wicus muttered. "He should feel guilty for wasting a soul mate." Frowning in resentment, Wicus' thoughts were abstracted.

Why was Ozel interested in this kid? He suspected that the council member was up to something. What precisely \-- he didn't know. Ozel had always been secretive.

Did Ozel question his tracking ability? He shook his head in dismay. Was it a lack of trust? Or was it simply council business that Wicus didn't need to know about?

## Chapter 15: Emily Wren

It was early morning Paragon time when Waxine entered Wicus' chamber with Plug directing a heavy breakfast tray.

"Have a care with that cabinet," instructed Waxine rather crossly. Unhappiness with her attachment was plain in her tone.

Wicus had heard the Luminary coming down the hall. From the gist of the one-sided conversation, he deduced that Plug had nearly bashed the salver into the wall twice already.

"Focus... or you're going to drop Wicus' breakfast," she chided.

"What's wrong?" asked Wicus. Standing next to a large open portal, he had to look around it to see what was going on.

"Something is off with Plug," announced Waxine with a puzzled expression. "Our quasi-psychic link seems to be on the fritz."

Plug spun its pronged-face to Wicus and nodded in agreement. Unfortunately, the movement took its attention away from the task at hand with disastrous effects.

"Watch the tray!" Waxine shrieked.

The warning came too late as the platter crashed into the wall, sending its contents spilling downward.

Plug whipped back around barely in time -- the tray and its contents suddenly froze in place.

"Good save," said Waxine in relief.

Plug looked up at her and shook its prongs No, then glanced over at Wicus in apparent gratitude.

Wicus had saved the tray.

His hand was in midair palm facing forward, fingers extended upward. The food stopped mid-fall. While not hungry at the moment, he wasn't about to waste a good meal.

Whipping his hand around the food began to pile neatly back on the dishes which then floated in a tidy procession over to the table beside him, landing safely on the flat surface.

Waxine gave Plug a look.

Seeing it, the corners of Wicus' mouth twitched with suppressed mirth, he didn't need to be part of their psychic link to read what it meant. She was really not happy.

Plug plainly avoided hearing what else she might have to say by wrapping its cord around her base and taking a nap.

She made a face.

From the glower on it Wicus knew that she planned to continue their silent chat later. The way the candelabra's flames were sizzling, it promised to be quite heated. The corner of his mouth twitched again.

Noting the portal, she asked Wicus, "Going or Viewing?"

"Viewing."

"Anyone I know?" she asked floating to his side.

"Perhaps."

The scene on the portal made it look like a door-sized flat-screen TV but the unfolding action was real.

"She's getting a haircut."

The magical window was open to the interior of a salon and the droning of a hair dryer could be heard. He watched a woman use it and a big round brush on Emily Wren's dark brown hair for several minutes, taming the curly long locks, making them smooth.

* * * * * *

Emily wiped a tear off one cheek.

The woman standing behind her immediately turned off the machine.

"What's wrong? You don't like it? I didn't take much off ... I did what you asked," wheedled Wendy soothingly, talking to Emily's mirrored reflection as she sat in the chair.

"Please tell me what's wrong... you know I hate to have an unhappy customer. Whatever it is I'll fix it."

"I'm okay... really it's nothing," Emily said tearfully, batting another runaway drop with her hand.

"Why did I read this damn book?" she commented aloud, not expecting an answer.

It upset her when heroic figures appeared then disappeared out of someone's life. That kind of a mystery gnawed at her insides. She didn't understand why.

With her Midwest upbringing it's not like she had abandonment issues; mom and dad, her brothers -- were all alive and well. Her childhood had been normal to the point of boring, with one possible exception, she thought. No need to think about that now.

Her emotions were still jumbled up with the beauty of the current story. It was poignant and wonderful. She tapped her tablet, closing the app.

Emily glanced up from the device, spotting her reflection in the mirror. Alert though tearful, she could see a trace of something -- a nugget from the novel perhaps-- in her own eyes.

"Why are you crying?" Wendy prompted again.

"It was sad... the book that I just finished reading... I mean I knew it was going to be sad, and I read it anyway," Emily admitted.

"What's it called?"

"The Light Between Oceans, by M.L. Stedman, You want me to spell it?"

"No" replied Wendy as she jotted a note to herself.

"If you want, you can borrow my tablet, that way you don't have to download it," offered Emily, in an effort to be helpful. There was no point in both buying the book.

"I'm not gonna download it."

"Then why are you writing it down?"

"To make sure I remember the title so I don't get it by mistake... I hate books that make me cry."

Mopping her face with the back of her hand, Emily snorted lightly. Wendy's candor caught her by surprise.

The hairstylist was still occupied with writing.

Emily ducked down, sliding the tablet into her backpack on the floor across from the booth.

She felt rather than saw the salon owner return to her rightful position behind the chair.

Leaning back upright, Emily apologized for worrying Wendy and moving out of place, "Sorry."

The older woman smiled, spreading her hands over the smock on Emily's shoulders, idly brushing off a few loose hairs then pushing aside her long locks before reaching for the garment's snap at the nape of the neck.

"You're such a big softy," Wendy chided.

"Well, if I'm going to be a novelist one day," Emily explained while looking at Wendy in the mirror, feeling wistful, "I've got to read all kinds of books... figure out what genre I'd be good at."

Wiping a hand across her eyelids, she knocked some of the moisture from the wet spiky lashes.

"Is Making People Cry a genre?"

"No, it's the mark of a really good book."

Would she ever be able to write something so appealing? Emily wondered. Doubt clouded her thoughts. The corners of her mouth turned down, slightly mournful.

Wendy's brow creased as if anticipating more waterworks.

Shaking her head ruefully, Emily gave the hairdresser's reflection a half-smile to prove that she was indeed okay. No need to upset a woman who owns so many pairs of sharp scissors, she thought wryly.

* * * * * *

On the other side of the skimmed portal, Wicus turned to Waxine and smiled more broadly.

"At least she's moved on from those vampire novels."

"Twilight" author, Stephanie Meyer, had one thing right, the monsters of folklore did exist, Wicus thought. He had yet to meet any that were as benign as the fictional vegan clan depicted in her books.

"I'm glad she's gotten over that phase. It's slow, painful work retrofitting the two candidates that I've selected to be her perfect soul mate as it is."

"I don't want to think how exponentially more difficult that process would become if you had to retrofit a vampire or a werewolf," smirked Waxine, obviously picking up on his train of thought.

Wicus snorted in good humor.

They watched as Emily paid her bill, hugged her friend goodbye and left the salon. She walked into the grocery store that occupied the same strip mall.

"Time for the cheez-its," announced Waxine.

Wicus watched silently.

He knew what the human would purchase without using any of his magical abilities; cheez-its, frozen dark sweet cherries, a dark chocolate candy bar and a bag of dog food for her blue-gray terrier, Max.

Wicus watched as those items were placed in the plastic basket. Emily headed to the front of the store.

"She does that every time."

"Emily Wren is one of those humans who likes order and routine," he said, trying not to sound judgmental.

Wicus could be funny or ruthless in his appraisal of people and he knew it. "She's a good kid though," he added.

"Do you disapprove?" Waxine asked, glancing at him.

He gave her a look, "Do I have a problem with orderly people? Of course not. And I have no problem with her dietary habits. There's nothing wrong with what she eats... Besides she's a very grounded person... considerate... practical."

"Yet I detect some measure of discontent in that assessment," Waxine observed, waiting for him to finish.

"I'm not unhappy with her... at all..." hedged Wicus, carefully shifting his expression. "But I do wish she were not so shy. She's uptight... and holds herself back."

He knew the edicts of this realm, knew that he wasn't supposed to favor any one soul over another. Privately, he did admit to himself that he was a bit paternal over this one. The girl will get a perfect soul mate. If he was doing his job properly, he hoped, once again questioning his judgment.

Emily Wren was a little too reticent to join in on the social activities that many of her peers enjoyed, activities that could have opened new doors for her and could have helped her make new friends, he thought.

Guaranteeing that she had a soul mate -\- might be the easy part \-- he couldn't create a social life for her.

"I expect she will grow out of that... there's nothing wrong with a little caution," encouraged Waxine.

"I hope so..." he responded, turning his attention back to watching the portal.

* * * * * *

Emily placed her items on the conveyor belt and watched the cashier ring them up.

Her phone beeped.

She knew from the tone that it was a new email. Hands occupied with her wallet at the moment, she didn't bother to grab it.

Playing a mental game of who-could-it-be, she weighed the options; Work? School? Mom or Dad? Her parents were always sending her adorable animal pictures from the internet.

She thought it was cute that they'd discovered the World Wide Web at their age. They claimed it kept them hip. A comment which always elicited a snort and a roll of her eyes. Mom and Dad were not hip, she thought.

Her friends sent texts, so it couldn't be them.

She paid her bill, picked up the two bags with one hand and walked outside -- heading toward her car. Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans with the other, she fished out the phone and checked her email, tilting the screen to avoid the glare of what was left of the sunny day. A warm wind was blowing.

There were two, one from Millstone University, asking if she had finalized her class schedule for next semester? The second was from work.

Her boss wanted to know if she could pick up an extra shift? He was old school -- hated texting. He'd sent the email to her and the six other freelancers. The unspoken rule was that the first person to respond would pick up the extra hours.

Emily wrote content for the local community newspaper's website. It was kind of like being an author, she reasoned, online anyhow, allowing her to get paid while indulging in one of her passions in life. She loved the idea of facing a blank page or in this case a blank screen and creating a story.

Granted it wasn't a work of fiction -- her true passion. Most of the duties involved follow up assignments on events that took place in the Marietta City Council chambers which meant that she did not go out and actually cover stories like reporters did. Still, she found the work satisfying.

To Emily writing wasn't an occupation in so much as it was a calling. It was simply what she was meant to do. And come heaven, hell or high water -- she meant to do it.

The breeze picked up several heavy strands of hair blowing them in her face. Detaching her thumb from the phone's screen, she used it to tuck them behind her ear.

She didn't remember which courses she needed to add to her schedule for her American Literature degree, so she ignored the email from school and called her boss. Luckily, she had him on speed dial.

He picked up on the second ring, so quickly that Emily thought, nobody's called in yet.

He must still be looking for someone to pick up the hours. Feeling buoyant, she smiled to herself.

"Hi, it's Emily, when do you need me?" she announced without preamble.

"Can you work Friday? Jenna wants to take a vacation day, I told her that I'd try to find someone to fill in," her boss, the managing editor of the Marietta Gazette, explained.

"Sure... Is it okay if I come in a little late...like around nine? I have to take Max to the vet."

"Nine's fine. Is something wrong with Max?"

"I think he's probably fine... but he's been favoring his back paw off and on for the past few weeks... I can't tell if it's hurt or not... the vet told me to bring him in to be on the safe side," she explained.

She loved Max and didn't like the idea that he might be in pain. Not only was he a beloved pet, he was her best friend. "I can come in after I drop him off."

"Great, thanks, I'll see you Friday.... and I hope that everything turns out well for Max... bye," her boss added kindly, before hanging up.

Emily was pleased to pick up another shift.

Classes were almost finished for this semester. All of her major projects were turned in. She didn't have any finals to worry about, and her social life... 'Ha, what social life,' she chided herself internally.

Aside from work, school or Wendy, the most social interaction she had was chatting with the Starbucks barista when she placed an order.

She did wish there was someone. Someone of her very own, someone to love, longing for that sense of belonging to another. It just hadn't happened yet.

Stowing her bags on the back seat, she climbed in her Camry and headed for home. Beyoncé's Lemonade came on the radio and she enthusiastically joined in with the chorus. She was in a great frame of mind.

Maybe there'd be time to get in a little exercise, she mused.

* * * * * *

Wicus listened as the girl sang, hitting every note horribly off-key.

Emily had a voice better suited to listening to music than actively participating in it. Not that she had a tin-ear, quite the contrary, she heard the notes well enough, it's just that something happened between that area of the brain that processed the sound and her vocal chords -- as they attempted to recreate it.

Fortunately for the surrounding motorists, her windows were up the entire time that her mouth was open. And her howling, though perhaps discernible by wayward canines, did not encourage any of them to follow behind.

Traffic was light, it didn't take long for her to drive to her apartment. Emily's voice gleefully massacred only four songs along the way.

She seemed blissfully ignorant of her cursed pipes.

Thank God for small mercies, Wicus thought with a smirk. 

## Chapter 16: Parkland

Max greeted Emily at the door. His tail thumped happily on the floor as he sat down and watched her quickly put away the groceries. She put the candy bar in one back pocket, her cellphone in the other and grabbed her keys and Max's leash.

"Ready for a walk boy?"

"Woof, Woof," he replied dancing around with excitement.

They walked down the street from the apartment which was off the main square in Marietta, Georgia. She was in a good humor and decided to head to the little park about three miles away. It had a nice jungle gym that kids were always swinging on, sliding off, or climbing over and a cheery water fountain. The sound of the children playing and the bubbling noise of the water made for a pleasant outing.

Poo stations were strategically placed around the circumference of the park -- making it easy to clean up after Max. That is, if he could wait until they got there which rarely happened. Thankfully, his leash had an attachment with a roll of plastic baggies.

Today he seemed like he was in a mood to hold it. Max trotted as fast as his paws could carry him -- not indicating that any paw caused him trouble, nose high in the air.

What scent was he investigating? Was somebody cooking bacon? Emily wondered abstractedly, doing her best to keep up. Maybe she should've put on her track shorts, it was certainly a nice enough day for a run.

One of the things she liked best about living in the south was the lack of snow, even in the winter the area rarely got any. Prospects for building a snowman in the months from October to February were about as good as spotting a UFO, she mused, a wry smile lifted the corners of her lips.

In Wisconsin, where she was originally from, it snowed five months out of the year. She didn't miss shoveling deep snow or having to use chains on the car. By comparison, in north Georgia if it snowed even half an inch, everything shut down.

City officials pretty much asked people to stay off the roads which meant classes were canceled and she didn't have to go to work. Here even the adults could get snow days... pretty sweet, she thought.

"Can I pet him?" asked a freckle faced little boy, interrupting her ruminations about the weather.

She had not realized that they'd entered the park.

"Sure."

Max sniffed at the little boy's outstretched hand, then danced around in a circle before settling down on his haunches, solemn eyes wide-open.

"You're such a ham," Emily playfully reprimanded Max.

"What's his name?"

"Max."

Upon hearing his name, Max jumped up excitedly, eyes still on the boy.

"He's a terrier, right?" asked the boy squatting down, eagerly scratching Max's back near his tail. The dog's hind leg was shaking with excitement. The kid had found the ideal spot.

"That's right, you're very smart, you know your dogs."

"Not really... I don't know all of them... But my grandmother had a terrier that I used to play with," the thought seemed to make the little boy, who Emily judged to be around eight, sad.

"You don't play with him anymore?"

"No, he ran off a few months ago... after my grandma died," he confessed.

His eyes were fixed on Max's backside, sorrow was in his tone. "Nobody knows what happened to him."

Temporarily dazed by the unexpected admission, Emily fell silent, wool-gathering.

She couldn't tell if the little boy was more upset by the loss of his grandma or the dog, perhaps it was both. His hand continued to scratch Max, who was more than appreciative of the attention.

"Gosh, I'm sorry to hear that sweetie," Emily felt compassion for the kid, "Well, we come here every day and Max likes to make friends... If you see us... you can come over and pet him. Okay?"

The prospect of seeing Max again seemed to perk him up, "Thanks."

"Brian, we have to go!" A woman's voice called out.

The boy's face looked a trifle alarmed.

Oh, maybe he's not supposed to be talking to strangers, Emily thought, not that she was anyone to be afraid of, but still.

She and the little boy glanced over at the parking lot to see his mother waving at them both. At least Emily assumed she was, as they shared the same rich brown locks.

The dark-haired lady had a plump face and was sizing her up with the astute eye of a parent, assessing whether her son was simply enraptured by the dog or in some kind of danger.

Smiling back in a companionable manner, Emily hoped to quell any lingering fears, after all she was mostly harmless. In truth, her temper was usually reserved for grown-ups who ticked her off.

Widely built with a round torso, the woman was wearing black sweatpants and a white sweatshirt like many of the people in the park, dressed to do laps around its winding trails.

Emily ran on the same paths herself at least four days a week, trying to do something about her thick thighs and the size of her butt. Despite her best efforts, hundreds of laps and countless diets, the jiggle wouldn't go away or tone up... it was frustrating that nothing seemed to help.

On the whole, she wasn't insecure about herself, when it came to her thighs however she was self-conscious. Taunted as a kid for having legs that were bigger than the other girls, she still remembered the chants.

"Hey thunder thighs!"

"Look it's potato butt!"

Or the worst, "Here comes chub rub."

Mortified by her recollections, her skin became flushed. At the time-- she'd laughed it off but there had been other times in her adolescence when she didn't. Kids could be cruel. It wasn't the first time she'd pondered that.

Almost single handedly she's tried to make board shorts popular among the fairer sex -- as a fashion statement in middle America it didn't take. Somehow, she'd survived. The teens years were supposed to be awkward, that's why it was called coming of age, she thought.

It's a pity the Kardashians weren't famous back then, big butts would have been more popular. She grinned slightly to herself.

Growing up had naturally given her a more mature perspective, yet she hadn't been able to totally shake the message that part of her was not good enough. And truth be told, still had weak moments when the question, Would she ever be? floated through her mind.

The little boy stood up and rubbed the terrier's ears a final time. The movement jolted Emily out of her reverie.

"Bye Max," he said, then stared hesitantly at her for a moment \-- color creeping up his throat.

With remarkable accuracy she understood his sudden bashfulness and smiled warmly. "I'm Emily," she informed him, "And you must be Brian."

He nodded.

"Well maybe we'll see you next time."

A stunning smile broke out over his bony face. Lifting a hand, Brian waved as he bolted with the clumsy grace of a young antelope to the car that his mother stood in front of.

Emily waved after him. His mother smiled and waved in return, eyes still scrutinizing her, not necessarily in a bad way.

Another thing Emily liked about the south -- how friendly the people were.

"I think you've made a new friend... boy," she told Max, who paid no heed.

His attention was recently diverted by a squirrel that had dared to land on the grass about twenty feet away. He started after it, barking.

Emily allowed him some freedom on his leash, not enough to catch the animal.

As she walked around a curve in the sidewalk she saw three little boys, between 9 and 11 years old, holding plastic swords, although one was actually a plastic light saber-- like the kind used in Star Wars. They were facing two other little boys who had plastic rifle-like guns, the big super-soaker types that sprayed water.

"Hey y'all wanna play war?" called one of the sword-wielding boys.

"Yeah... okay," answered the boy with the water gun. He glanced at his companion, "That tree by the fence is gonna be our castle." He pointed to the tree with the tip of his plastic rifle.

"Excellent, our base is that tree," said the first boy as he and his friends scrambled to hide behind it.

"Yay!"

The sword-wielding trio plotted their strategy around the lower branches of a blue spruce by the sidewalk as Emily and Max passed by.

"We can't let them take our tree," said the taller of the three.

"I won't let 'em."

"Here's what we're gonna do..."

Emily walked out of earshot and didn't hear the rest of their plans, or rather -- had been tugged forward by Max. The dog was eager to explore some new odor.

Tickled, she smiled.

Emily believed that kids were natural born writers in the way that they made up stories through their play. She really liked kids and hoped to have a few of her own, someday, after she was finished with school and her career had started to take off. Of course first she had to find a boyfriend -- which was easier said than done, she thought.

Her reflections strayed to her own grandparents, both of them were still alive and in their eighties. They still held hands, a lot, like every day.

Her own parents were ultra-conservative and hopelessly boring. Mom had worked in the pediatrics wing of the hospital for as long as Emily could remember. Dad was an insurance adjuster in Madison.

They hadn't understood why she wanted to move all the way to Georgia to work part time while she went to school but they loved her and supported her desire to become a writer. She loved them both dearly even if they sometimes made her crazy.

North Georgia was right there on the map, part of the continental United States, not some Third World country. And she surmised that they knew that. That was, until the mail had started coming with all its big, embarrassing, cardboard boxes, then all bets were off.

During the summer months after she had first left home, her parents shipped her vegetables from their backyard garden. The packages came every single week.

"We wanted to make sure you were eating right," her mother had explained when Emily called \-- after the mailman surprised her one morning with the first box.

"Mom there are plenty of fresh vegetables in Georgia!" She had complained with a mixture of annoyance and mirth.

The next day, she'd sent home a selfie taken at the local farmers market to prove it.

Pictorial evidence apparently wasn't enough.

The shipments continued for two more months with her mom or dad calling ahead of time, telling her to be on the look out for it. That system had worked fine, until the last shipment.

Her mother had called Emily the day she dropped it off at the post office. "I've put another package in the mail for you... We got in some cucumbers.... Squash... and---"

"Mom... I've told you, you don't have to do that," Emily interrupted.

"You know we'll never be able to eat it all before it goes bad... your dad planted too much... I've already given a bunch to the neighbors and your grandparents," her mom said coaxingly.

Emily had expected the package to arrive the next day. It didn't. The day after, no package either, a week went by and still nothing.

Feeling smug, she'd called her parents to let them know that it was missing. Maybe they'll take the hint and stop mailing her groceries, she'd thought, or rather hoped. When she'd learned that her mother had misplaced the tracking number, she thought the package was lost.

The following Monday, she'd been surprised when she came home from class. There was a brown cardboard box with a yellow Hazmat sticker on it sitting outside the door of her apartment.

The other side had been stamped with this official looking notice that the package had been checked for hazardous bio materials. The package had obviously been opened and resealed.

Carrying the dubious looking parcel inside, she'd carefully placed it on the counter. It came from her parents alright, noting the sender's address, surely they wouldn't send her anything dangerous, she mused.

Emily opened it and found an assortment of vegetables, all neatly wrapped in plastic bubble wrap. Her mother was a sensible packer.

She called her mom to tell her it had finally arrived, "Mom, what was in this box you sent me? I got it today and there's a big bio-hazard sticker on it."

"Bio-hazard? What? There's nothing... Oh dear..."

"There's a big red stain on the side of it like something leaked all over the cardboard, then dried."

"Oh no, it must be the tomatoes..." Mom chuckled, "I was worried that they might be too ripe to ship."

Too ripe indeed. They nearly sparked a postal event, Emily had ludicrously thought, snickering herself.

Looking back inside she cataloged what was left, "No tomatoes, but there's cucumbers, squash, bell peppers, and green beans."

Her mother had laughed and laughed for several minutes, finally catching her breath, she calmed down. "It had to be the tomatoes," she chortled, "I'll have to tell your dad the good news... that it finally arrived."

The good news for Emily had been that afterward they didn't send any more produce in the mail. Which meant no more surprises on her front stoop, unless her pet brought her a dead squirrel or something.

"GRRRR," growled Max, "woof... woof... woof."

The canine outburst brought her back to the here and now, she glanced down.

"What is wrong with you... don't be mean to other dogs..." Emily snapped at Max, pressing the button on the handle of his leash. It retracted, pulling him back from a very active beagle puppy about twenty feet away.

"Bad Max... behave yourself."

The terrier was straining against his shortening leash, barking furiously at the now frightened beagle. The puppy, not on a leash, ran back in the opposite direction to a guy Emily assumed was his owner.

"Sorry 'bout that... My dog is a little neurotic sometimes... usually he's a lot nicer," she called out, sheepishly, giving her not so nice pet a dirty look.

Much to her surprise, the man scooped the puppy up in his arms and approached her.

Aw, crap, she thought, feeling a growing sense of panic. Her racing heart increased the level of her nervousness. She wasn't good at talking to strange men, at least not up close.

"Now see what you've done," she scolded the yapping canine in front of her.

The closer the man got, the cuter he looked. He had sandy blond hair, a slim build and an easy smile. Stopping about three feet away, close enough for Emily to see that he had brown eyes.

Max wouldn't cease barking.

She retracted his leash until he was right by her side.

"Cool it," she hissed with a forceful tug on his leash that showed she meant business.

He finally quieted down. Max was still jumpy.

"Sorry... he's..." Floundering as she looked into the stranger's kind brown eyes and felt her face grow warm, her mouth opened and closed but she didn't speak. Emily didn't need a mirror to know that she was blushing. Her ears got hot.

"Kinda neurotic..." the stranger finished for her, " Yeah, so I heard... Did you say his name was Max?"

Emily nodded.

"Hey Max... it's okay... calm down. It's okay... good boy... That's a good boy," the stranger had a honey sweet tone to his voice and a country-boy accent as he addressed the nervous canine.

Max responded to it.

So did Emily.

Max sat down on the sidewalk.

Emily thought she might have to join him because for some reason her knees had turned to jelly.

"You're good with... good with dogs..." she uttered, feeling quite foolish. Her face was burning.

"I guess... I've never really thought about it," he admitted, "my name's John... and you are?"

"Emily... "

"Nice to meet you Emily."

"Likewise," she mumbled, suddenly self-conscious of the heat radiating across her face and found herself staring at her shoes.

An awkward silence lengthened between them.

"What do you do Emily... when you're not taking Max for a walk in the park?"

Surprised by the question, she looked up. He was smiling, not broadly, but still and there was something else, was that interest in his eyes? she wondered.

"I go to school and I work mostly."

"Where do you work?"

"The Marietta Gazette... I--" She shook her head, why couldn't she remember what she did for a living? "I write for the gazette."

"The gazette huh... Are you a reporter?"

"No... mostly I write content for the website about city council." Why was her mind so fuzzy?

"Wow... that really sounds... boring," he smiled. It didn't take the sting out his comments.

"Ouch... aren't you a charmer," she said sarcastically. Well truthfully he had been up until five seconds ago, she thought, embarrassed, temper flaring.

"It isn't all that glamorous but it pays the bills. You have a nice day," she finished in a tone indicating she hoped he had anything but.

Tugging on Max's leash Emily led him away. She was definitely clear headed now, not to mention red faced.

"Hey... don't go... I didn't mean to piss you off!" He called.

"Too late jerk, you should've thought about that sooner-- like before you opened your stupid mouth," she hissed under her breath, fuming.

* * * * * *

From the other side of the portal Wicus chuckled.

Emily and Max were heading out of the park, passing people strolling on the sidewalk with marked impatience.

Waxine turned to Wicus, "That's a good sign." Both had witnessed the entire encounter.

"What?"

"She's got a healthy temper... she's not afraid to speak up for herself... I like that."

"I already knew that," Wicus replied, not following Waxine's meaning.

"Good... we can use that when it's time for her to meet her new soul mate... she can't be shy and angry at the same time."

He nodded. There was logic in what Waxine said.

Wicus was still worried.

This John in the park could be a sign of brewing trouble. He didn't want Emily falling for some barren. Getting the souls of her primary and secondary retrofitted was already complicated enough, he thought.

He couldn't mess this up. The girl would have a proper soul mate.

Wicus decided that he needed to get back to work.

Josh Taylor required rest. Perhaps he should focus more attention on Charlie Anderson just now, he wondered idly how the adjustments were affecting him.

Wicus had been too busy with his other duties lately to check in on the teaching assistant during his waking hours.

## Chapter 17: The Prankster

Candidate Two.

The line of SUV's, minivans and sedans inched forward in front of Alfred L. Carson Elementary school. Wicus spotted Charlie Anderson on the open portal as the young teaching assistant climbed out of a shiny red BMW. The car was a graduation gift from his parents.

Charlie's hand carefully brushed a lone leaf off the hood that was pinned near the windshield wipers, the vehicle was clearly his pride and joy. Pressing a button on the key fob in his hand, there was an instant, loud beep as the young man locked the car before jogging forward to take up his position by the side gate.

Wicus had watched Charlie engage in the morning ritual before. Every Monday through Friday, except for school holidays and summer break, parents would slowly drive in the front gate, stop at the sheltered entrance of the building and drop their kids off for class.

Those who rode buses had to enter through the double doors on the side of the school. It was a shorter walk to the classrooms but there was a larger number of kids.

Occasionally some of the more adventurous ones tried to sneak around to the front of the building to play in the fountain before classes started. The principal didn't like kids showing up waterlogged, that's one of the reasons Charlie and his counterpart were on duty.

Right now, the fountain was gurgling merrily, spraying steadily out of the two elephant trunks that adorned the center of it. Water cascaded down their rounded sides into the pool below. The concrete behemoth was a gift from the widow of Alfred Leroy Carson, former wildlife photographer -- the school's benefactor and namesake.

Wicus remembered the couple well, as he had set up the soul mates' meeting. Both were primaries. The widow hadn't lived long enough to meet her secondary. The Carsons never had children. Needless to say, the widow went a bit overboard with the endowment before she died.

The basin of the jetted eyesore was just the right size for dipping toes and elbows, not to mention backpacks and pigtails. Currently though there was not a wet adolescent in sight.

Oops, scratch that, Wicus mused, a faint smile twitched at his lips. Watching the scene unfold-- he remained hidden from the participants.

A look of alarm crossed Charlie's face.

"Raymond climb down from there!" he called out to a fair-haired boy who was standing on the apron of the fountain.

Seeing who was calling, Raymond's mouth dropped open in protest. A mixture of determination and mischief appeared on his pale, young face.

Charlie's lips closed in a firm line, his fair brows pushed together. The stern expression was unquestionably meant to look intimidating.

Not the easiest trick for Charlie to pull off, Wicus mused, listening to the entire exchange above the noise of the bubbling water. The teaching assistant was graced with a slim build and a handsome face that was constantly smiling and making others do the same.

"I wonder how many times he's practiced that look in the mirror," Wicus mumbled. Looking mean was something that Charlie had to work at.

Raising one hand, the teaching assistant pointed to the building. "Inside!" he hollered.

Raymond sighed and climbed down, his little shoulders hunched together as he picked up his discarded Captain America knapsack and pushed his arm through one of the straps. Kicking at the ground as only a frustrated schoolboy caught-in-the-act could, he sulked toward the front entrance.

Watching the boy's retreat, Charlie's mouth twitched. A small snort escaped as he clearly fought to control the smile that threatened to break out on his irreverent mug. His blond head shook lightly.

Wicus studied the secondary candidate, bemused. Charlie left quite an impression on the students, he decided. Good or bad was debatable, especially given some of the more questionable escapades that Charlie had pulled.

This young man was a prankster.

Recalling the disapproval that had registered on the face of Janet Allen, the teacher-mentor Charlie worked with -- amid the one he pulled last week, Wicus chuckled. For the most part she seemed to enjoy Charlie's enthusiasm and didn't dictate how everything in her third-grade class should be done. Much like she did for the kids, she encouraged him to be creative and imaginative.

The teaching assistant obviously loved the school and the kids.

Wicus heard the animated babbling of a batch of new arrivals. He watched as Charlie's lively hazel gaze shifted to the group of children. They crossed the busy street under the guidance of the crossing guard. That same gaze followed them as they entered the grounds.

Charlie scrubbed a hand across his face. His fingertips stopped upon encountering a little stubble on the side of his chin. Fingers rubbed the same area repeatedly, his brow creased in consternation.

Clearly he missed a spot while shaving this morning, Wicus thought. But he didn't look that haggard. His appearance was nowhere near as fatigued-looking as Josh's. There were circles under Charlie's eyes. They'd been getting steadily worse over the passing weeks. His pallor was not sallow.

Charlie was definitely handling the retrofitting better than the primary. Yet neither candidate could seem to catch up on their sleep.

In the background of the portal, Wicus spotted a familiar face; Elle Hottinger. Now there was a woman who'd had a difficult time of it, meeting and losing first her primary and then her secondary soul mates within a few years of each other. Look at what's become of her, he mused.

She stood at the building's entrance, edging back out of the way, dodging four little boys chasing after one another into the entrance. One came a little too close and she frowned.

"Slow down, don't run!" she scolded.

Their footsteps immediately slowed.

Clad in a gray cardigan sweater, sensible brogues and long plaid skirt, her hawk-eyes watched as each kid climbed out of the back seat of his or her car and headed into the school. Her face was heavily lined with creases running from her nose to chin, accompanied by marionette lines on either side of her jowls.

Her gray hair was swept up in a tight bun low on the back of her head. No makeup was used to enhance her appearance except for bright red lipstick on her thin, too often pursed, lips.

That's what they were doing now, forming one red wrinkled line.

She'd evidently missed Raymond's attempted stunt.

Charlie's shout caused her to turn around, alerted to the boy's mischief. Her pinched stare scrutinized the now approaching eight-year-old with an intent gleam.

The boy wisely kept his own gaze averted.

On his side of the portal, Wicus grinned, Elle's one stubborn cookie.

It was apparent that the boy thought she was a lot more terrifying than Charlie, cutting his eyes to the side to hazard a peek only after he'd passed her location. Tiny feet picked up speed as if Raymond felt the need to propel himself out of real harm's way.

Charlie raised his arms, folded at the elbow, balled fists pressing against his shoulders in an unmistakable attempt at stifling a yarn. A smile still played about his lips, Charlie watched as Raymond scurried out of sight into the building's dark interior.

Elle Hottinger's eyes coolly met his from across the schoolyard and rested there a moment. Her head nodded stiffly in acknowledgment then she went back to perusing the children.

"What kind of name is Hottinger," Charlie mutter aloud, not without humor. "She's anything but Hot. Not that I look all that good... at least not lately."

Glancing down at his slacks, he appeared to be taking inventory of his appearance. One hand brushed across the fabric on this thigh, stopping to tug at an errant crease in the pants-leg.

His clothes were not exactly wrinkled, Wicus thought. This one hated getting dirty, he recalled. The young man looked presentable enough. Logical as the argument was, it didn't halt the pang of remorse that Wicus felt. It was his fault that Charlie wasn't getting the rest that he should. Still, it had to be done.

He'd noticed over subsequent retrofitting sessions that Charlie had replaced his alarm clock four times, in addition to setting the alarm on his phone.

Wicus made a face. His earlier smile vanished into a thoughtful grimace. Doubtless Charlie was aware that something was going on with his alarm and was trying to correct the problem. Only finishing the job would do that, Wicus thought, mildly worried.

Emily Wren would get her soul mate.

The atmosphere was full of promise and expectancy as the new school day prepared to start, even if Wicus didn't echo it. Flashing his eyes back to the portal he studied Charlie some more.

"Ding ding da ding... ding ding da ding..." the ring tone on Charlie's phone was playing the Mister Softee jingle.

An abashed expression quickly crossed the teaching assistant's face. Hazel eyes sweeping from side to side, evidently he was looking for witnesses to his transgression.

"Hmph, this should be interesting," Wicus muttered gruffly, eyes intent on the unfolding action. He expanded the size of the portal with a flip of his fingers.

Technically, the rules said teachers should have their phones on silent while on school grounds, not that Charlie was one to be pinned down by guidelines.

Charlie reached into his pocket, pulled it out, pressed the ignore button and slid it back out of sight.

Several kids who had entered the school grounds pivoted around at the melody, not looking at Charlie. Their vision was focused on the street.

"I tell you I heard the ice cream truck," said one brown-haired boy adamantly.

Charlie struggled to hide a grin.

"I heard it too," agreed another, looking through the fence to see where it went.

"It's too early... he doesn't come out this early," argued a little girl with cute blonde curls, she too poked her face between the iron rods of the fence, just in case.

The portal followed Charlie as he turned to covertly watch the kids.

From his vantage point, Wicus could see Charlie and the person coming up behind him.

"Uh oh, Here comes trouble... let's see how Charlie handles this," Wicus whispered, watching the portal like one might view a favorite TV show.

"Morning kids... Don't hang out at the fence... run along now... go to your classes," urged Principal Niobe with an air of official objection. They obediently ran inside.

Charlie looked startled. He clearly hadn't seen her come his way.

She turned her assessing gaze on him.

He visibly stood up straighter. A genial smile spread across his handsome face, not that it hid the sudden alarm in his hazel eyes.

This kid was nearly as transparent as Emily, Wicus mused. His fascination for reading the expressions of humans -- was peaked.

"Principal Niobe... don't you look snazzy... is that a new suit?" Charlie asked, undeniably affecting as much veneration as he could quickly muster.

He was a bad actor, Wicus thought wryly, avidly staring at the portal.

Principal Niobe's brown brow cocked in response to her employee's overt attempt at flattery, clearly she though so too. "Good Morning Mr. Anderson... Are you having a bit of fun with my students?" she asked, glancing at the children as they headed to the entrance then back at Charlie.

"Sorry Mrs. Niobe... darned forgetful of me... I usually have it on silent while I'm here," he lied persuasively.

"That's an interesting ring tone.... You've got a reputation as quite a prankster."

Charlie chuckled, "It's all in good fun."

"Uh huh," the woman's utterance audibly relayed that that was a point of debate. Her finely arched brows pulled a little closer together, ebony eyes studying his face.

"How are you doing today... are you getting enough sleep?" she asked kindly, plainly not thinking that he was.

He looked at her blankly for a moment.

"I'm perfectly fine," he lied again, making his handsome face quite sincere.

"Holy moly," Wicus said in mild surprise, nodding his head ruefully on the other side of the portal.

Charlie was a lot better at lying than Emily, he noted, contemplating a possible future for Emily with this secondary candidate. Extremely independent by nature, Charlie never seemed to mind being one of the schoolyard monitors.

Emily was independent too. That's something else they had in common. She could learn a lot from Charlie. His natural strengths and weakness would be a nice compliment to hers.

Wicus continued to monitor the conversation in the schoolyard.

If the principal expected more of an answer, it didn't come. The pair stood quietly for several seconds watching as a woman with brassy red hair, obviously a mom, wearing a yellow, butt covering tunic, yoga pants and sneakers, walked her son across the street with the latest group of children to go with the crossing guard who wielded his STOP sign like a shield.

Their advancement was heralded by a volley of giggles, yelps and murmurs as the children talked incessantly -- more than making up for their own silence. The redhead nodded at both in passing after entering the gate.

Mother and child headed directly to the main entrance. The others followed like a haphazard line of ducklings.

"I've noticed you've been looking a little tired... I hope Mrs. Allen isn't working you too hard," the principal persisted. Her expression was open and kind.

"Janet, I mean Mrs. Allen is wonderful," gushed Charlie. He blinked several times rapidly.

Clearly he was trying to come up with another lie, Wicus thought, reading the teaching assistant's expression with uncanny accurately.

"I've been catching up on my reading... burning the midnight oil, that's all," Charlie said.

And there it is, Wicus mused.

Charlie's fabrication worked. The twinge of uneasiness receded from the principal's eyes.

There was a look of relief in Charlie's. He stood there with a faint smile on his face, hazel eyes darting to the side as several more children clattered through the gate heading for the building.

"Ah, all right... as long as you're okay Mr. Anderson," the principal glanced at her watch, now all business then said, "The first bell is about to ring... Get your students inside, please."

"Yes, Ma'am," he agreed. Turning to the students, he called out, "Come along... kids... time to get to class."

Wicus watched as Charlie waved for the stragglers outside the fence to come inside.

Principal Niobe smiled at the teaching assistant once more before walking back to the front entrance.

The hazel gaze followed her. Nearby another little boy flew past old lady Hottinger too closely. Snagging the young man's collar with her bony talons, she pulled him up short, "Watch where you're going."

"Ah, Mrs. Hottinger, it's his fault---"

The little boy raised a small hand to point at the group of lads just inside the doorway. Four or five heads turned back in apprehension.

"We didn't do nothing---" one argued.

"Don't talk back... off to class with ALL of you," she interrupted crossly, what Wicus was positive would have been an amusing dispute.

Another involuntary yawn escaped Charlie's lips.

Seeing it, Wicus felt another stab of shame. He really needed to get this retrofitting finished and allow both candidates some time to recuperate fully. He faced a dilemma, knowing that he also couldn't rush the job. It had to be done right.

Charlie's head swung left and right, undoubtedly making sure that Principal Niobe was nowhere in sight. She wasn't, the principal had gone back inside.

He pulled out his phone. Pressing the record button on one of the apps, he said, "Call mom after work."

Slipping it into his pocket, Charlie entered the building.

The portal and Wicus followed his movements.

Two kids on the verge of a fight were standing in the hallway. Robbie Cole was pulling Lucy Vincent's hair, teasing her as she squirmed.

"Cut it out Robbie," she threatened.

The little boy grinned in enjoyment, distinctly pleased that she'd said his name, his overall countenance was beaming -- no doubt thinking that he was a clever boy.

Oh dear, Wicus thought, recognizing Robbie. The boy was in Mrs. Allen's class. He was a sweet kid if somewhat dimwitted about the opposite sex. The lad wasn't due to meet his soul mate for quite a few years yet.

Robbie followed the girl around like a puppy. Lucy, on the other hand, was clueless and a little feisty, she'd sock Robbie if he didn't stop bothering her soon.

It was clear to Wicus that the boy liked Lucy. "He's awfully young to be falling for a barren," he said in disapproval, clicking his tongue, "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk."

He could tell from the sudden look of understanding and humor on Charlie's face that he knew it too.

The teaching assistant interrupted.

"Hey there, Robbie, Lucy... go to your classrooms," Charlie instructed in an officious-sounding tone, slightly mimicking the principal.

The little girl immediately ran down the hall, plainly embarrassed by the older man's intervention. Her flaming cheeks were a nice complement to her flaxen locks.

Robbie took a step forward and stood by the doorway of the classroom looking after her like he'd lost his best friend.

"Buck up Robbie, you can play with her at recess, but don't pull her hair, okay? Girls don't like that."

Robbie's ginger brows furrowed suspiciously, "Are you sure? She knows my name now... today she said it."

The seven-year-old puffed out his small chest proudly, casting a glance at Charlie before returning to the retreating figure.

Charlie emitted a slightly amused kind of snort. The expression on his face was priceless. Had he ever been that young and stupid? It seemed to say.

"Yes, I'm positive."

"Okay Mr. Anderson," young Robbie reluctantly agreed sounding skeptical -- clearly not believing that particular observation.

Charlie patted the small tow-haired boy's head, gently nudging him forward. The two of them walked into the classroom together. Several other kids ran around them to get to their desks.

Once more Charlie's mouth opened widely as he inhaled deeply, undeniably battling tiredness.

From his side of the portal Wicus stared, feeling appalled and frustrated. The knowledge that what he saw would not alter the course of his duties. Still, it didn't mean that he liked it.

Mrs. Allen entered the classroom and clapped her hands together garnering everyone's attention, including his.

"Children get in your seats... are you ready to learn?" she asked.

A few stragglers rushed to comply, as short arms and legs navigated the tricky moves required to climb into the plastic chairs.

"Yes, Mrs. Allen," came the chorus of tiny, sweet voices.

"It's time for class to begin... time for little minds to learn."

## Chapter 18: Activation Deadlines

"Is everything ready?" asked Wicus, stepping into his office while surveying the string of portals, spotting his companion floating among them, his gaze locked onto hers momentarily before resuming their inventory. The room was very crowded, he thought. Today's going to be fun.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking logically about what he needed to do. All of his plans were in order, now was the time to watch them go into action.

Dozens of portals with clear views of designated spots around the world cluttered the room. Plug had strategically opened them in accordance with the activation schedule. While all of the people were from Wicus' territory, souls under his care, not all of them were meeting their soul mates in the eastern section of North America.

He sighed with pleasure.

This was the normal kind of work that he craved. The day would not be fraught with the uncertainties of retrofitting. For the next few hours at least, he could abandon the inner monologue about whether his skills were good enough.

This duty... he excelled at. Part of him felt a little guilty embracing the relief that this work offered, and yet he felt absurdly pleased that he would be able to allow his mind to relax.

A palpable vibrancy hung in the air. His eyes made another pass around the space. All was tidy on his desk, nothing was out of place on any of the shelves.

The next thirty-six hours were going to be full of excitement. Four hundred and sixty-four people were going to be matched with their primary soul mates.

Not retrofitted, these people were the unaltered kind -- born with the correct soul markers and hallmarks to be the perfect fit for their soul mate. Every person was born with a specific day, date and time -- usually down to the second -- when they were scheduled to meet their soul mate. It was known as an activation deadline.

The first time soul mates looked into one another's eyes, that first kiss, that first caress, the first time each heard the sound of the other's voice -- a voice they'd want to hear for the rest of their lives-- all of those moments created magic in the human world. That magic helped advance the causes of humanity and made the human race forge ahead.

It's time to add more goodness to the world, he thought.

The portals were necessary in case some of his carefully laid plans ran into trouble -- which usually didn't happen. If it did, he'd need to intercede. He was very organized and appreciated having a backup plan.

Satisfied with the preparations, he paused for a moment in silent mediation.

It didn't last that long.

Waxine zoomed around the office, her flames struggled to keep up with their invisible wicks. Plug pulled back just in time, dodging the side of an open portal as she maneuvered past it.

The corner of Wicus' mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile. His own posture echoed her enthusiasm.

"Someone's feeling super energized," he observed wryly.

Her burnished eyes were dancing. The candelabra's metallic lips pulled back in a grin. Waxine was responsible for keeping tabs on all of the activation deadlines \-- for all the souls under Wicus' care.

Although he kept the same schedule tucked away in a corner of his brain, not that he admitted that to her. More than once she'd accused him of doing that very thing. He thought it was best not to provide any evidence to support her theory.

"I'm so happy," gushed Waxine, metallic countenance beaming. "I love busy days like this... we're ready."

Her eyes twinkled up at him. "Let's hope nothing goes wrong."

"I shouldn't think my presence would be a threat to your organization skills," he said with a measure of self-mockery.

Plug echoed her excitement by moving up to the space between the Luminary's eyes and bobeches \-- what would be the forehead on a human face and executed a three-pronged salute. Electrical sergeant reporting for duty -- the gesture seemed to say.

Wicus chuckled at the power cord's comedic antics. His hands were loose by his sides.

The low hum of a building event alarm sounded.

They gathered to the first portal.

In it, they saw a big-eyed teenager struggling to get into his band uniform. It was clearly too snug. From the incredulous look on his face it was plain that the teen believed he'd overindulged one too many times during the school break and now his jacket didn't want to button close.

Fingers pulling fiercely at the fabric, the teen tried to get the two sides together. Really? Had he gained that much weight in two weeks? -- his expression seemed to say.

His instrument was abandoned on the field in its open case. The boy's back was turned to the other teams attending band camp.

Several nearby students were playing trumpets. Their music added to the general uproar of so many voices chatting in one place. He didn't realize that he'd stepped right into the path of a pretty blonde, not that the girl noticed either.

Reading texts on her phone, she walked across the field toward her team. Eyes glued to the screen, the girl was oblivious to all of the activity around her.

Her fair brow creased with anxiety, lips curling in a faint snarl indicating mounting irritation. Smacking the device with the side of her hand -- it was a clear sign of her frustration.

"Why isn't anybody answering?" she hissed in a tone barely audible above the noise of the practicing students. "Is this infernal device updating?"

Turning from the secret window, Wicus glanced at Waxine. "Good job with the uniform, I can't tell where you made the adjustments... Is her texting service about to crash?"

Waxine nodded. "I've halted the replies from her friends and her dad. She still has no idea that he's coming to watch the show."

The event alarm's volume increased until it was shrill.

All eyes returned to the portal.

The pretty blonde wasn't looking where she was going and ran right into the big-eyed teen. In the next moment both were on the field, their legs were tangled up. Her phone was on the grass where it dropped as she fell. Both struggled to untangle themselves and sit upright amid a volley of small squeaks and startled shrieks.

"Oh... I'm so sorry, are you okay?" the girl apologized. Recognition registered on her face as she saw the emblem on his uniform. "You're from our rival school across the Potomac River."

The boy looked into her eyes, dumbfounded. "Um, yeah." His fingers no longer yanked at the too small jacket. Clearly his focus was on the girl in front of him.

She stared back as though nothing else mattered in the world except looking into the big-eyed teen's hazel gaze.

Her dropped phone was plainly forgotten. The device began buzzing on the field a few inches away with all of the magically delayed texts from her dad and friends.

In the hidden realm, the event alarm reached a beautiful crescendo and quickly died.

"Nicely done," praised Wicus, trying to contain the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

Waxine beamed then confessed, "High school kids are pretty easy."

He moved to the next portal, expecting the event alarm to go off any second. It was already beginning to hum.

"Don't you want to watch what happens next?"

"As you well know, my job, ahem... our job," he corrected himself, "Is to make sure that they meet... Nothing more... That's the scope of our duties."

"What if something goes wrong?" A note of teasing was plain in her tone.

"Like what?"

"What if a tornado comes in the next ten seconds or something?"

Rolling his eyes at her hyperbole, he smiled broadly. For a candelabra, his companion had a remarkable imagination.

"You're being ridiculous Waxine. Even if one did, we can't change it ... We've done our duty... we can't take away their free will. It's up to them now... you know that."

His expression sobered.

The event alarm grew louder as they focused on the scene in the next portal.

In it, a 33-year-old divorced mother-of-two sat in a booth at the corner grill in Dayton, Ohio.

Her eyes flickered back to the front door, overtly scrutinizing each person that walked in. One hand was laying on the table, her fingers idly played with the spoon beside her coffee cup.

A waitress walked up and smiled, "Refill, hon?"

The woman nodded.

"Yes, please," she said, pushing her cup and saucer to the edge of the table under the spout of the waiting coffee pot.

She sighed.

"Can I get you anything else?" the waitress asked when she finished.

"Not unless you have a Xanax."

The waitress blinked in confusion.

The woman smiled, "No, I'm kidding... Really... I'm just nervous. I-I-I finally agreed to meet this guy that I met online in-person. I hope that he's not a creep."

The waitress smiled in comprehension, nodding. "I understand completely... far too many of the men trolling on dating websites are weird."

"Doesn't stop me from trying," the divorced mom confessed, shaking her head slightly. "I guess I'm too much of a hopeless romantic... but I want to spend my life with someone, I figure kissing a few frogs before meeting a prince is the price I'll have to pay."

"Ooh, having kissed my fair share... I know where you're coming from," the waitress agreed with a friendly grin. "If you need anything, just let me know."

She picked up the coffee pot and walked over to another table.

The diner's door opened again.

A man with greasy hair walked in and up to the counter.

Puzzlement was clear on the divorced mom's face as she looked at him. Tilting her head to the side, she tried to get a better view of his face, now openly staring.

She blew a quick breath out through rounded lips and pulled her hands off the table. Twiddling her fingers together in her lap she was the picture of nervousness.

The tan, oval face at the counter looked around the restaurant. His gaze locked on the pretty woman staring at him from across the room.

He smiled.

The divorced mom smiled tentatively in return.

The man's expression perked up with something like expectancy. Clearly, he thought that this might be his lucky night. He hastily ran a grimy hand through his hair and approached her.

On the other side of the portal, the candelabra's metallic gaze grew wide. "That's not her soul mate," cautioned Waxine.

"Yep... I'll take care of this."

Wicus carefully cloaked them both before he reduced the level of protection on the skim covering the portal, allowing his magic to pass through. Just a little adjustment should take care of this interloper, he mused.

In the diner, a busboy -- cleaning a table near the interloper at the counter -- suddenly picked up a gray plastic bin loaded with dirty dishes and stepped in his path.

The man side stepped him easily enough.

Stepping on something slick on the floor, the busboy wobbled dangerously and nearly fell. The man grabbed him and helped the busboy stand upright. Unfortunately, the move wasn't altogether graceful, the remnants of a glass of iced tea and what was left of a bowl of tomato soup got dumped on the front of the man's coveralls.

"I'm so sorry man," the busboy apologized.

Pointing a finger over the edge of the heavy bin that both of his hands held tightly, he said, "The men's room is back there. Go clean yourself up... I'll make sure your meal is on the house."

Grunting, the man pushed past the busboy toward the men's room, carefully stepping over the debris on the floor. It was at the opposite end of the restaurant, far removed from the divorced mom.

From the booth, she spied on him as he walked away, a look of wariness now crept across her face. Frowning, she shook her head slowly as if responding to some inner thought. Clearly she doubted that he was her date.

She pulled a compact out of her handbag and checked her makeup. Fishing a tissue out of her pocket, she wiped a flake of mascara off her cheek.

The woman was occupied with touching up her appearance and didn't see the man walk up to the table until he was right beside her.

"Uh, excuse me, you're Jane, right? You look totally like your picture... I'm Mark," the man introduced himself rather hurriedly and finished by giving her a huge smile. He made to offer his hand but hesitated, fingers pulling back into the safety of his weathered palm.

Jane's eyes shifted from her reflection up to the man's face, "Hi, yes... I'm Jane."

Several emotions swept across her countenance. Confusion. Surprise. Awareness. Serenity. She stared at him abstractedly before remembering her manners and offered him a seat.

Accepting it, finally Mark offered his hand. Rather than shake hers when she extended it, he calmly held it and stared into her eyes.

By the time the man in the coveralls came out of the restroom, Mark and Jane were deeply engrossed in conversation. Sitting on the same side of the booth, their heads were leaning together, each gazing into the other's eyes.

The man grimaced as if realizing that he'd be dining alone after all.

Back in Wicus' office, he wore a satisfied smile.

"I think Jane's days of kissing frogs are over," commented Waxine. "Nice move with the busboy."

Plug turned away from the portal and nodded its appreciation too.

"Minor glitch.... shall we continue?"

Plug turned toward the next match up, pulling Waxine to another portal which showed the Eiffel Tower in the background.

The event alarm began to hum.

A young man, about 25 years old, sat reading a book at an outdoor bistro table in Paris.

A young woman walked up and dropped her backpack on top of a nearby table. She pulled a guidebook and a map out, placing them both on the table before reaching inside again -- pulling at the edge of a scarf.

A gust of wind blew the map off the table.

She turned to pick it up.

The man leaned over grabbing it first, holding it out to her.

Their eyes met and held, obviously mesmerized in a lingering gaze. Her fingers grazed his hand as she reached for the map.

"Merci beaucoup," she said.

In Wicus' residence the event alarm reached its peak.

And so the day went.

He spent the next several hours racing from one portal to the next, tinkering with the circumstances of each meeting as needed, closing portals whose matches were completed, opening new ones as new activation deadlines drew closer.

"You should eat something..." Waxine told Wicus, after yet another event alarm reached its zenith.

Distracted, he nodded and moved to stand before another portal. Gazing intently at the scene inside, his stomach rumbled.

The Luminary quietly pulled away from the pairings.

Wicus' mouth quirked wryly.

He could handle things by himself, had done it for centuries without her. There were times when he got so caught up in what he was doing that he forgot to eat. The fact the Waxine never lost sight of that meant he viewed her as indispensable.

In the blink of a metallic eyelash, she created a tray of scrumptious food and drink for him.

Plug carefully placed it on the table.

"Eat," she commanded, zooming forward to trade places.

Now that hundreds of soul matings had occurred there were fewer open portals in the room.

Plug enlarged the current one.

It showed the emergency room of a Pittsburgh hospital.

A man followed a nurse, clad in deep maroon-colored scrubs, into an exam room. His forearm was wrapped up in a bloody towel.

"I was grilling some steaks for the guys... I thought I had the lid propped up all the way... it fell over... sliced up my arm pretty bad," he explained.

"Can you get up on the bed okay?" the nurse asked, taking the railing off the side while stepping on a device on the floor which lowered its height.

He sat down gingerly, his weathered face winced with the effort of moving his arm.

The nurse rolled a table over and placed his injured limb on the covered surface, carefully removing the towel in order to clean the wound. The cut was deep, penetrating several layers of flesh and still seeping. Before she was done cleaning it, a doctor walked in, her head was inclined reading his chart.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Nichols..." she paused, looking at the cut. "That's a nasty laceration."

Her eyes flashed up to the patient's face, clearly assessing him. "Your color's good... you're not going to faint," she said, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder reassuringly.

The doctor's own pallor changed dramatically. A pink flush tiptoed across her skin, her pupils enlarged slightly, involuntarily. Her mouth opened and closed again without her saying anything.

Watching the doctor's reaction from his new vantage point, Wicus narrowed his gaze and popped another morsel of salmon into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He was testing the bounds with this match-up.

The doctor had a strict policy of not falling for patients. Yet her expression revealed that she was wrestling with the indefinable pull she clearly felt for this one, her soul mate. Wicus hoped that she wouldn't try to shake it.

He swallowed just as the patient began to speak.

"Hi, I'm Walter," the man offered.

She smiled at him.

"Nurse please set up a suture tray," said the doctor, apparently trying to sound as professional as possible, turning back to Walter, she said, "Let's get that stitched up for you."

Dr. Nichols blinked several times as if having a hard time focusing, especially with Walter smiling at her like that. There was such a genial expression on his face. It stayed there the entire time she stitched up his arm.

Back in the realm between reality and the tangible, Wicus finished eating.

Waxine pulled away from the portal, moving to the next one. Seeing the subject of it, she smiled. "I've been waiting for this one for quite some time," she admitted.

"Ah yes, Annie's been a widow for many years now. But she's had a happy life, her first husband was her secondary," Wicus commented from his seat.

He knew the details of this woman's life well. The 63-year-old had originally met her primary soul mate when she was only fourteen, her family moved away soon after and they'd lost touch. She eventually married her secondary. They had two sons and eight grandchildren.

He wiped his mouth with the napkin, rose from the table and walked over to Waxine. Waving his fingers, he expanded this portal with his own magic.

The gray-haired lady stood beside the bakery counter in the Stew Leonard's grocery store in Hamden, Connecticut. She clutched a numbered paper ticket in one hand.

An old man standing farther down the counter was leaning over, peeking at the premade cakes on display. He lightly smacked his lips together, faintly drooling over a German chocolate creation by the look of longing on his face.

Blinking, he seeming to come out of his trance when the lady spoke-- as though his thoughts about decadent desserts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the woman's voice.

"I'm here to pick up the birthday cake for my grandson, the name is Wallace," she told the teenage girl behind the counter, putting the ticket on top of the surface for verification.

The old man abandoned the mouth-watering display, standing upright he turned and studied her with open curiosity. After a few seconds he walked over.

"Excuse me... are you Annie King?"

Mildly surprised, the lady chuckled softly.

"Nobody's called me that in decades... it's Wallace now, my late husband Paul died almost 15 years ago..." Annie looked like she was about to say more, at that moment recognition kicked in and traveled across her now startled expression.

"Caleb? Caleb Morgan is that you?" Her voice became thick with emotion, "Oh my word..." is all she managed to choke out before she reached out to hug him.

His arms surrounded her.

Both were soon crying tears of joy.

Watching the reunion, Waxine sniffed appreciably as the noise of the event alarm died off.

So did Wicus.

The ever-silent Plug shook its head side to side, clearly confounded.

Wicus inhaled mightily, running an index finger across the base of his nose. It's unseemly for a Paragon to blubber, he chided himself. Napkin still in hand from earlier, he now used it to dab his eyes.

Waxine didn't actually cry for all that her expression looked as if she were about to.

"We're a couple of big softies," Wicus acknowledged.

"Yes, but it's nice... they're finally back together. "

Plug looked puzzled.

"Plug hasn't seen one of these before," Waxine translated.

"Oh, okay," Wicus sniffed again, comprehending the situation, now fully in command of himself.

"If two soul mates meet and something happens... They don't fall in love... or something separates them... the activation deadline assesses the situation and in some cases resets. But it could be weeks, months or decades before they meet again. There is still magic, it's released at the second meeting too," Wicus explained. "You saw it bubbling up -- just there."

Plug nodded.

"The universe gives them a second chance at love," added Waxine.

For a life-form made of hollow metal, she could be remarkably sentimental, Wicus mused.

The candelabra's metallic gaze narrowed as her thoughts appeared to turn inward. Whatever her contemplation, it didn't last long.

She addressed Wicus with a speculative tone, "I hope that Emily Wren and her new soul mate form as easy an attachment as quickly as they did."

Shifting his eyes from the screen to glance at her, Wicus said, "I hope they do too."

First, he had to get the candidates finished, he mused, without making any more mistakes. Thinking that perhaps it was time to get back to work on that project, he knew that the retrofitting would have to begin again, and soon.

## Chapter 19: Progress

"This is an outrage!" Wicus sputtered. "Those knuckleheads don't know what they're doing. If the council was going to set a bloody deadline they should have said so from the onset!"

He stomped around the room, aggravated, talking to himself, venting, inwardly worried. "They could have given us an explanation for it," he muttered.

Now the primary and the secondary had to be finished within the council's time-frame. With all the extra measures that he'd taken with Josh, it meant that he had less time to work on Charlie.

Haste makes mistakes, he thought, not wanting any more of those.

His pacing took him back to his desk where he resumed his seat.

Before being alerted by portal about the changes and tramping about the office in a mini-rebellion, he'd been preparing an updated glowing report about his retrofitting activities for the council.

The august body or knuckleheads as he currently thought of them -- wanted to be kept in the loop about the alterations to ensure that all guidelines were being met. They'd been cracking down lately and had been highly critical of Paragons who were choosing candidates that required too many adjustments.

Wicus wondered if that somehow factored into the new deadline.

His thoughts were beginning to form a plan. He looked through his notes. Even though the magical monitor floating in his office kept track of all the adjustments in real time, being nearly three thousand years old, he was set in his ways, recording his own observations about how each candidate was handling the process.

The retrofitting was proceeding as quickly as Wicus dared. At first, he'd alternated his time between both candidates during the same night. Now that headway had been made -- he rotated nights -- trying to give them more time to recover. He could see the toll his efforts were taking on both.

There were two hallmarks left to modify on Josh. Grueling as the task had been, all the physical connections between the memories of his late wife and his soul were severed. Nudging them apart had taken patience and painstaking effort -- he didn't relish doing anything like that again.

Working on the secondary was by comparison easier. Although performing the complex modifications was not a job he had any intention of rushing through. A craftsman at heart, he took pride in his work. There were only two soul markers left to retrofit on Charlie.

This new deadline would surely complicate--

"Wicus you're going to want to watch this," Waxine called out, rushing into his office interrupting his train of thought.

"Plug open a portal on Emily's favorite Starbucks," she instructed her attachment in a breathless tone.

Wicus scowled briefly, not happy about the interruption.

Running a hand through his curls, no doubt leaving them scattered in an unruly, if not clownish line across his head, at least judging by the note of humor in Waxine's gaze. Her eyes darted to the top of his head before turning away as the corner of her lips curled up.

Moments later he felt them snap back into place. He got up from the desk.

The desk was a massive piece of furniture rather like a rhino's body with four sturdy legs and numerous drawers. In lieu of an animal hide, it was built out of the same gossamer material as his display cases.

He knew that Waxine admired it. She'd often questioned him about what secrets it held. He allowed her to speculate, nothing more.

Intensely private, he wasn't going to give anyone access to it. It contained his notes and reports from some of his most trying cases.

Waxine was loyal to him, that didn't mean she wouldn't snoop. To protect against her rather large curiosity he kept a special enchantment on it, keeping anything too important safe from prying eyes, even his companion's.

What current crisis has captured her attention now? he mused, sardonically.

Wicus stepped over and complied with her request, surveying the newly constructed portal, fighting to keep his mouth from twitching at the candelabra's obvious eagerness.

While some might view Waxine as bossy, he rather enjoyed her candor.

She was a natural extrovert -- excessively frank. When she got excited she was prone to talking so fast that only a Paragon could keep up with her. He wondered briefly how the immortal she once lived with ever did.

From the expression on her face -- today could be one of those speedy-conversation days. Her metallic gaze was now riveted back on the window into the human world. Her hollow body faintly vibrated with barely contained excitement.

* * * * * *

Josh Taylor was sitting in one of the four overstuffed leather chairs by the window in the corner of the eatery, drinking a Cafe Americano. His sunglasses were on the little wooden side table between two of the chairs.

Putting down the cup, he pinched off another chunk of banana bread, popping it into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he savored the taste before swallowing.

He sighed. It was pure bliss.

Josh loved banana bread. In an odd way it reminded him of Julia's baking fiascoes. She burned more than a few loaves and meals too for that matter. He was far better in the kitchen than she had been. Somehow thinking about those memories didn't hurt as much anymore, he thought.

Finishing his snack, he licked the tip of his middle finger and thumb. Grabbing the cup and the pink paper bag, Josh got up from the chair. Time to get to work.

A young barista with her hair twisted in of a series of elaborate braids walked his way carrying a round tray filled with small plastic cups topped with whipped cream. She had a round face and a genial smile.

"Do you want to try our Peppermint Mocha?" she offered.

"As appetizing as that sounds... I'm good," Josh smiled ironically.

He walked past her and dropped off his trash in the bin located near the door.

It was overcast outside as he put his helmet on, strolling to the Softail. Eyeing the clouds through the open visor he hoped the downpour would hold off until he got to the station, not wanting to stop and drag out the rain gear.

Tossing a leg over the seat, straddling it upright, he turned the key and the engine roared to life. Settling his weight on the mechanical beast, Josh maneuvered the Harley out of the lot. Judging by how gray the sky was, he didn't have much time.

* * * * * *

Emily Wren drove through the intersection, idly hoping that there was a parking space available. The Starbucks that she frequented was not only well liked by her, it seemed to be popular with everyone else. She wanted to sit inside and enjoy her coffee.

From the angry look of the clouds overhead, it was getting ready to rain. She rounded the curb, there -- less than 100 yards away was one spot vacant near the front door.

Oh no, there it goes, she thought, wrinkling her nose with disdain.

A shiny red BMW turned into the lot ahead of her. The owner of the Bimmer didn't park though, instead he headed around the backside of the building to place an order at the drive-thru.

Emily pulled into the lone free spot.

Climbing out of her Camry and silently thanking the parking fairy for her good luck, she walked inside.

The barista with dreadlocks behind the counter recognized her and smiled. Her teeth reminded Emily of a junior high school dance. Boys on one side of the gym, girls on the other... big gap in the middle.

Emily felt the corners of her own lips tugging upward with lightness at the thought.

"The usual?" the gap-toothed smile asked.

"I know, I'm too predictable."

The barista swiped Emily's Starbucks card -- a Christmas present from her boss. He was a generous guy and had made sure that every gazette employee got gift cards that they'd actually use. The barista held the card out over the register, Emily accepted it and put it back in her wallet.

"Here miss."

A male barista with a beard handed her a pink paper bag with a slice of banana bread inside before Emily took another step. He must be new, she thought.

Thanking him, she opened the bag \-- sniffing appreciatively.

Emily was an excellent cook and loved to bake. Talented as she was in the kitchen, she couldn't quite mimic their bread at least not yet. One day, she mused sardonically.

She surveyed the interior and decided to sit in the leather chairs by the window to watch the storm approach. Dropping her backpack on the seat with a slight plop, she sat the snack bag on the small side table next to a pair of sunglasses.

Glancing from side to side she looked for the owner. The three other chairs in the corner were empty.

"Hmmm," she mused.

Several people were on their feet at the counter and at the condiments' booth stirring something in their cups, maybe one of them was the owner. None appeared to be concerned with her actions, so she decided not to worry about it. Taking off her tan, leather jacket, she laid it on the top of the chair.

She'd brought her laptop, like everybody else, to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and plugged in the power cord to charge the battery.

The barista still had a bit of a backlog.

"I'll be right back," Emily said to the girl behind the espresso machine, darting across the store to the bathrooms. As she passed by the register near the front door, there was the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot. It was loud.

* * * * * *

Waxine expanded the portal. "Look," she said, eyeing Wicus while tilting her head sideways, the flames over her invisible candles crackled with her excitement. "See who's in the drive-thru."

Wicus nodded, giving a small smile as he examined the scene.

On the exterior of the building, the owner of the red BMW reached the open window and was picking up his order. The face was very familiar.

It belonged to none other than Charlie Anderson, fatigue was etched on his expression. His hazel eyes looked expectantly at the proffered cup as though the coffee held salvation.

Wicus frowned before biting his lip, the nightmares were still taking a toll on the secondary.

Charlie paid the cashier and drove off.

* * * * * *

Josh pulled his motorcycle between two parked cars in an area that really wasn't a parking space. The Harley Softail fit there nicely, as long as nobody opened a door, he thought, especially that Camry. The driver's door was right next to the handlebars. He'd be quick.

After getting a block down the road, he'd reached inside his jacket pocket and realized that he'd left the sunglasses on the table. He might not need them now with the rain about to close in but he didn't want to lose them. They were Ray Bans.

He walked back inside.

* * * * * *

On the other side of the portal, the candelabra was nearly beside herself.

"You're not orchestrating this are you?" asked Waxine, shaking her head at the unfolding scene.

"No... But I'd guess this is the first time you've seen a soul pull."

Waxine's confused expression was enough to goad Wicus into a proper explanation.

"A soul pull happens as the harmonics of soul mates get more in-tuned. They're drawn to be in the same proximity. It rarely happens with soul mates who are born with the correct designated markers and hallmarks because they have activation deadlines."

"I know all about activation deadlines," commented Waxine with a thoughtful look. The old girl was apparently absorbing this new nugget of information.

"Good, well... It's only during retrofitting or when I have to make minor tweaks that the harmonics of a soul are shifted in the human world. The people, the candidates... are inexplicably drawn to the same places as their soul mate."

"Are you worried about them meeting prematurely? Before they're fully retrofitted?"

"That's doubtful... I mean I've never had to retrofit a primary and a secondary for the same soul mate before. But it hasn't happened when I've made minor adjustments to secondaries either. Besides... listen."

A metallic brow rose in puzzlement.

From her confused countenance, it was plain to Wicus that Waxine didn't hear anything out of the ordinary.

"What?"

Plug nodded at its mistress, perplexed as well.

"No event alarm... No alarm. No meeting."

"Are you sure?"

"Watch."

Josh walked over to the corner of the eatery where he'd been sitting earlier. A backpack, a laptop and a jacket occupied his former seat. There was nobody sitting in it.

He reached down to the table and retrieved his sunglasses.

"I'm just getting my sunglasses..." he said aloud to nobody in particular.

Brown eyes open wide, looking undeniably honest, no doubt worried that someone might think he was pilfering the stranger's stuff. Nobody challenged him or approached as he briefly stood there.

Pocketing the Ray Bans, he sauntered to the front of the store and stepped through the exit.

The glass door fell back into place behind him with a slight swish.

Emily walked out of the bathroom and headed back to her seat.

A motorcycle engine roared to life somewhere in the parking lot as she passed by the counter.

The barista held up a hand getting Emily's attention and pursued her lips, evidently waiting for the noise to die down as the machine exited the vicinity.

"Here you go, Emily," she said, handing her a tall cappuccino.

Watching Emily walk off with the coffee, Waxine blew out a loud breath that she'd evidently been holding. Relief washed over her expression.

"See, told you," reassured Wicus.

"Are we going to see that happen again?"

"It's possible, neither candidate is fully retrofitted. I still have some adjustments to make on both.... so it is possible," he theorized. Both were coming along but more work needed to be done.

"Okay... note to self... Don't freak out, when I see the soul mates circling Emily," the shining candelabra chided herself. "I don't know if my heart can take it."

Plug looked at her in askance.

"Plug... you don't freak out either."

The attachment nodded, a sage expression appeared on its three-pronged face.

Wicus flicked his wrist and watched as the image of Emily became transparent. She took a sip of coffee, pulled off a piece of banana bread and popped it into her mouth before the portal entirely disappeared.

"I need to get back to work," Wicus remarked, especially with this new deadline looming.

"Do you know yet which one is going to be her soul mate?"

"At the moment, no, but both will be well within the specifications that her soul needs," he said with conviction.

The girl will have a perfect soul mate.

"I'm not worried about that.... I was thinking... technically Emily is going to have four soul mates, right?"

Wicus grimaced, unsure of where Waxine was headed with this conversation. "She never met her first primary or secondary... They were killed... Remember?"

"Oh, I know that, that's not my point. Her primary from this second batch though will technically be soul mate number three, right?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"Fine... Plug has been trying to make a wager on which candidate will be soul mate number three... I think it will be Josh... Plug disagrees."

Wicus frowned.

He disapproved of wagering on so sensitive an issue as to who would be Emily's chosen soul mate. He was very protective of souls in general, especially those under his care. Closing his eyes, he became perfectly still then pinched the bridge of his nose while figuring out how he wanted to respond.
Chapter 20: Witness

David Bowen stepped into the sunshine outside of the administration building at Millstone University and stopped briefly on the sidewalk, shifting his shoulders under his shirt. Not that there was anything wrong with the fabric, it was high quality, just the kind he liked. Nor were his shoulders tense, he was attempting to resettle himself after sitting for the past hour.

Dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt and a dark gray blazer, David knew that he didn't look like the average college student. He didn't care. His attire probably looked more appropriate for the office's casual Friday or perhaps a Ralph Lauren catalog, he mused, lips quirking.

He glanced at one of the two pieces of printed paper in his hand; a class schedule. "Dad will be pleased," he muttered under his breath.

On the surface his face was blank, a mask of outward calmness. Underneath the skin it was a different matter, the wheels and cogs were steadily churning in his brain.

His father, the owner of Bowen Publishing, was very territorial about the company, always preferring that one of the family have a hand in each aspect of it. As good as the theory was, it simply wasn't practical.

The industry had grown swiftly in the past century, it was difficult to personally keep up with all the changing technology, let alone place one of his offspring at the helm of everything. There were only three sons.

At the moment one of them was in imminent danger.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" A male voice shouted.

Jumping backward to keep from being side-swiped by a passing cyclist -- flying down the sidewalk -- David almost fell on the concrete. He managed to right himself by catching hold of the side of the building's brick exterior. Fingers clutched the rough surface with a death grip.

"Hey watch it, man!" he retorted, grimacing. The mask slipped in accordance with his footing.

"Sorry dude," called the cyclist over his shoulder, already halfway to the front of the campus by now.

David stepped forward and brushed the grit off his hand, evaluating himself as he stood. Heart racing from the close call, his fingers throbbed faintly from where he'd grabbed the brick, not that he'd been injured.

Turning, he retrieved the pieces of paper that had fallen on the ground, neither had torn. Glancing around -- he checked to see if any other menaces presented themselves on the sidewalk. Geesh, that was close, he thought.

From where he was standing he could see the back of the campus. There were a number of students milling about. About 200 yards ahead, walking away from him was a shapely brunette in jeans, uggs and a green sweatshirt.

Her face was turned away, focused on something in her hands. She had a calm air about her and beautiful, curly, long brown hair that flowed halfway across the length of her backpack which appeared to be heavy with books.

Seeing it reminded him that he needed to go by the bookstore. According to the campus map, which was the other piece of paper in his hand, it was a few buildings back that way.

He started to walk after the girl.

"Mr. Bowen... Mr. Bowen... Oh good... You haven't left yet," called the young coed who had helped him register. She was standing by the door of the building he had exited or rather, leaning against it. The weight of her tall thin body held it open.

"Is something wrong?" David asked, looking back at her.

He was positive that he'd brought all of the required documents. Had he missed something? Doubt suddenly entered his thoughts.

"I'm glad I caught you... Will you come back inside for a moment? There's a question about your transcript."

He glanced in the direction that the girl in the green sweatshirt had taken, she was gone. She must have entered into one of the buildings, he concluded abstractedly.

David decided that he'd have to get the book later and idly wondered how late the bookstore was open. Let's take care of this first, whatever this is? he mused.

Turning around, he followed the coed back inside.

* * * * * *

In another building on campus, the third floor of the 200 building to be exact, the sole domain of the English department -- Emily Wren was entering her adviser's office.

He was seated at a desk, his hand moved the mouse to his computer slightly, clicking the right button several times, index finger tapping it quite insistently. From the way his eyes darted from the computer screen to her face, it was clear that he'd been expecting her.

She glanced down at her phone, noting the time, she wasn't late, punctual as usual. Lifting the bottom edge of her green sweatshirt out of the way, she slipped the device into the pocket of her jeans.

"Hi Emily, have a seat..." her adviser nodded to the empty chair.

Plopping down, she dropped her backpack on the floor beside the chair's right wooden leg with a solid thud and grabbed a notebook out of the open flap.

"I had a chance to check your records earlier..." he began, one hand abandoning the mouse, moving in unison with the other to fiddle with the computer keyboard, typing something.

"Ah, there it is.... Your schedule is fine for next semester. But you need to think about adding another elective or two."

Emily tensed slightly.

"I've got a pretty full load," she responded, allowing a faint edge in her voice.

Her schedule was set up the way she wanted it. Why couldn't he have made that suggestion before? she thought stubbornly.

Mentally she was preparing for a good debate, if necessary. The points of which were crystallizing in her mind, her thinking turned stormy.

"It doesn't have to be this semester.... Might I suggest content publishing?" He looked at her speculatively.

"What? Are you kidding me?" she was incredulous. "I deal with content publishing every day at work... we use a C-M-S tool-- as we call it... Why would I need that? I'm an American Lit major."

Emily was very sure of herself. The meeting with her adviser was a courtesy. She was this close to finishing her degree and didn't want to risk messing up her carefully organized plans.

"It will look good on your resume to have e-content courses... Understanding e-publishing could help you self-publish your creative writing... A lot of authors are getting their start doing that... It's easier than finding a regular publisher," he explained persuasively.

"Who teaches it?" Emily asked, slightly curious, storm clouds abating.

"Let's see, e-Pub 101... it's... ah... Professor Chang," he paused, looking somewhat abashed.

Emily groaned.

Professor Lee Chang was a nice enough man. Like many of the instructors in the computer science building, English was definitely his second language.

Emily wasn't racist or mean, she also wasn't exceptionally patient either. In the few conversations she'd had with Professor Chang, quite by accident-- while she was with some of her nerdier classmates -- she'd resisted the impulse to correct his grammar when he'd used the wrong word. It had been difficult.

She was not being critical, precisely the opposite. Emily was helpful by nature.

The reason she wanted to help him speak accurately was to prevent other students from snickering behind his back -- when he messed up. Spending an entire semester listening to him trample the English language -- without correcting him -- would be torture, she mused.

"I'd go completely nuts! " she admitted candidly.

"Yes, his English is... uh, well. He's good with computers though," her adviser allowed, glancing back at the computer for other options.

"In the Fall, John Watkins is teaching the dayside sections and Sullivan Walker is teaching it at night," he offered.

"I'll think about adding it then," she compromised.

Emily had ambition, she wasn't yet sure if being a novelist was part of her creative future. The logical part of her nature wouldn't rule it out either. She liked to fantasize about what might await her in the years ahead, an endless array of possibilities jumped into her mind.

Much to her relief, her adviser didn't press for any more changes to her schedule.

"I'll sign off on this and send it to the printer," he informed her, stopping to scribble something down with a pen on a Post-it before doing so.

He rose from his seat just as a low mechanical whine filled the room, the printer hummed to life. Ink jets sprayed with the indefinite rhythm of the print job at hand.

Stepping over to the open door, he looked through it, head turning sideways to see if the next student had arrived, apparently so. He murmured something that sounded like, "I'll just be a minute," to someone Emily couldn't see.

She got up from her seat.

Standing by the window, she lifted her backpack to the chair, unzipped it and put her notebook inside. Glancing outside, her gaze fell on the good-looking guy in a gray blazer in front of the bookstore. Even from this distance she could tell that there were muscles under that button-down shirt.

He's too handsome and fit to be a student, she thought, growing curious. Maybe he was a new professor? Wouldn't it be nice if he taught e-Pub 101, she thought, fantasizing.

"Here Emily," her adviser's voice interrupted her daydream. The ever-helpful educator handed her the newly printed copy of her schedule.

She glanced at it, confirming to herself that nothing had been changed and folded it in half, "Thank you."

"Do you need anything else?" he asked before sitting back down in his chair.

"No, I'm good thanks."

Dropping the paper in her backpack, she zipped it up and put one strap on her shoulder. Eyes darting toward the bookstore again, she noticed that the handsome stranger was gone. Figures, she thought cynically.

"Bye sir, thanks again for your help," she said, strolling out of his office.

"You have a good one Emily."

The adviser's hands were already busy at the keyboard preparing for the meeting with the next student.

Emily passed the girl in the hall, not recognizing her. She gave a small, cordial smile just the same. The girl reciprocated with a cautious look in her eyes, clearly younger. She was probably a freshman.

That's one more thing off the list for today, Emily thought as she exited the building. Picking up speed she began walking across campus toward the student parking lot.

Squinting slightly against the sky's glare, she reached behind her in the side pocket of the backpack, pulled out her sunglasses and inspected them. Rubbing a smudge off one of the lens with the hem of her sweatshirt, she slid them over her eyes. Ah, that's better.

Did she really need to add another elective? Her adviser hadn't said anything about it last semester. Still, she wanted to keep her options open.

As long as it's not Chang, she thought, with a slight shudder. "Uh, no," she breathed aloud, frowning.

Allowing her mind to drift to a more pleasant subject, she thought of the guy she'd seen outside the bookstore. Maybe Mr. Gray Blazer was a recruiter. That made sense, they were always dangling those six-figure carrots in front of the computer science students before they graduated.

It was a pity language arts majors weren't so well loved.

She didn't envision any recruiters coming to the English department. There would be no growing demand for correct grammar and proper punctuation, she thought. Although considering the crap she read on some popular blogs, there certainly should be.

Emily convinced herself that she probably wouldn't see him again. After all, it had been just a fleeting glimpse through the window. Guys like that, didn't look at girls who had have thunder thighs, she mused. They went for the blonde bombshells or the barbies.

Smirking drolly, Emily shook her head faintly and felt her hair shift over the backpack. Oh well, she thought, switching subjects yet again. She'd read that almost every woman in the world had something about herself that she didn't like, unsure if that assessment was accurate.

It certainly fit Emily. She viewed herself as a work in progress.

Fishing out her phone, she answered three texts, checked her email and gave her full attention to reading -- allowing the sidewalk to lead her forward. That is until she nearly fell.

Almost stumbling on uneven concrete, she was forced to look up. Scanning behind her to see what her feet encountered, it was a hole. She'd forgotten that they were expanding the walkway all the way down to the parking lot.

The construction crew had jackhammered the concrete into chunks. Pieces were scattered all along the expanse. The recent rains had turned the exposed, underlying Georgia red clay, muddy.

Now she examined it with dismay.

Darn it, she thought, not wanting to mess up her uggs. She'd meant to cut across the grass, surveying her current surroundings with a frown, it wasn't possible in this area. Much to her annoyance, a six-foot-tall hedge ran along the inner length of the sidewalk.

It wasn't that far to the lot, she reasoned.

The slight rise flattened out at the base of the hill from where she stood. The shining sea of metal and hybrid plastics waited in neat rows at the bottom, somewhere among them was her Camry.

Choosing to walk along the edge of the curb on the pavement, she went back to reading without any thought about the danger it involved or how that decision might impact her life.

* * * * * *

Instead of taking the long way around to the parking lot where he'd left his car, David cut across the school's nicely landscaped grounds. All was peaceful save the rustling noise of the breeze through the trees. It was a beautiful day.

His footsteps took him upward as the gradient changed. Soon he was standing on a slight rise by a tree with a perfect view of State Street which ran parallel to the university.

His feet moved forward.

This section of campus was definitely not peaceful.

Traffic seems unusually heavy for this time of day, he thought, then he remembered the alert that had crossed his phone. Less than three miles away, the interstate was in chaos after a semi-truck overturned, spilling its load of roofing nails along the asphalt. All lanes were backed up in utter gridlock, cars were at a standstill.

That explains it, he thought frowning slightly. Everyone was looking for an alternate route home, it was not a good day to be a motorist in the metro area.

From his new vantage point he spotted a shiny red BMW. The driver was hunched forward fiddling with something on the dashboard.

David could just make out what looked like a large map. Must be a GPS, he mused.

"Uh oh, that's not good," he murmured, coming to a standstill. Engrossed, he carefully watched the cars.

The blond guy driving the red Bimmer was focused on the nav-unit. He obviously didn't see the lady in the black Ford Escape twenty feet in front of him.

She leaned forward quite suddenly, hand clearly grasping after her falling cellphone across the right front passenger seat. The woman ducked down below the window height.

Bet she's trying to retrieve her phone off the floor, David reasoned.

Seconds later her head popped back up, her pale face looked out of the windshield again, eyes growing wide with evident alarm.

The cars in front of her had stopped.

David heard her holler, "YIKES!" in what must have been startlement -- through the open window.

Luckily, the woman's reaction was quick. Slamming on the brakes, she avoided a collision with the car ahead. The squeal of her tires was audible where David stood.

It apparently got the attention of the previously distracted BMW driver. A jolt of alarm flashed across the blond man's fair features as his hazel eyes undoubtedly spotted the Ford's red tail lights.

David shook his head, wincing slightly in anticipation of the sound of crashing metal.

The red Bimmer was too close to brake effectively and avoid hitting the black SUV -- but seconds passed and there was no thud or the sound of twisting metal.

The driver did something much more reckless, swerving into the right lane. Apparently, he did this without looking.

A minivan with a collection of soccer mom stickers decorating the back window-- was coming behind him in that lane. The soccer mom slammed on the brakes, jolting forward then backward in her seat by the halted momentum of the vehicle, spilling what looked to be a diet Coke all over herself.

Her expression reminded David of a deer caught in the headlights in the seconds before it bolted. It was plain that her heart was now in her throat, her mouth dropped open in shock, stunned by the near collision.

Unbeknownst to the soccer mom, her brake lights were out.

The motorcyclist roaring up the street didn't seem to realize that she'd stopped until he was almost on top of her.

More evasive action came into play, David shook his head in amazement. His gaze was riveted to the scene with a mounting sense of dread. He drew in a breath, anticipating a different kind of crash this time.

To avoid striking the minivan, the Harley Softail veered off to the right, hugging the edge of the asphalt along the curb for dear life. That is -- until the front tire clipped a hunk of loose concrete, courtesy of the sidewalk enlargement project. It lodged between the top of the tire and the front fender, locking the wheel.

The unresponsive motorcycle forced its owner to fight for control. It was a battle that he was undeniably losing, the man struggled with the handlebars, trying to unlock the wheel. The Harley skidded and it was moving way too fast.

Amid the struggle, the driver saw the girl ahead of him and shouted, "GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

The Softail -- unlike its name implied -- was a heavy mass of rolling steel, chrome and gasoline. It was currently on a collision course with the girl in the green sweatshirt. 
Chapter 21: Soul Mate No. 3

"WICUS!" screeched Waxine, nearly breathless. She zoomed into the office so quickly that the flames which normally sat atop her invisible candles were about four inches behind her.

"Waxine, please... can't you see we're not finished," he scowled, grumpy that she was disturbing them. Remembering the guest present, he replaced the grimace with a poised mask.

He and Ozel were examining the subsequent candidates that would need to be retrofitted as a result of creating a new primary and secondary for Emily Wren. Every decision had its consequences and he was prepared to deal with them.

Wicus had not planned on having the guidance of his former mentor. Surprised and delighted, he welcomed Ozel warmly when the council member portaled unexpectedly into the office an hour ago.

"You have to see this," Waxine insisted.

"Not right now I don't," Wicus objected irritably.

The candelabra ignored his comments and instructed Plug to create a portal on Emily Wren. She looked back at him, displeasure now showing in her expression.

"Can't you hear the event alarm?"

"Waxine... I have faith in you to monitor any pairing happening right now," he said, struggling for patience.

He didn't bother to disguise his annoyance. Even a Paragon like Wicus with his considerable forbearance had his limits.

She snorted.

"Really, and who might that be... at this very moment Wicus? I know you keep a schedule in your head. What two soul mates are supposed to be meeting RIGHT NOW?" Her tone was becoming indignant.

He considered the options for less than a moment before anxiety set in. "None... are... scheduled," he replied slowly in a flat monotone, stunned. Wait, who had Waxine just instructed Plug to locate by portal? Part of his mind jolted to a halt.

Plug finished the hastily constructed portal.

Waxine abruptly turned to it.

Ozel got up from his seat by the desk and crossed the room with him. Both stood by the magical window.

Wicus sucked in his breath sharply as Emily's face appeared on the other side.

"That's not possible..."

Then he spotted Josh Taylor. "NO!" He shouted at the portal, "He's not ready... neither of them is."

Wicus started to climb through the portal, he wanted to protect Emily. He didn't know what might happen if she met a soul mate candidate that wasn't properly retrofitted and he didn't want to take any chances.

A calming hand clamped down on his wrist, physically restraining him.

"You can't just walk into the middle of this. You're not even cloaked," cautioned Ozel.

Everything was happening too fast. All eyes in the room were now glued to the portal.

* * * * * *

Fear propelled Emily into action as she realized that the huge motorcycle was skidding her way. First jumping back up on the curb then hopping farther back on the demolished sidewalk, she landed on a loose piece of concrete. She wobbled -- feeling unsteady on the uneven surface, heart hammering in her chest like it was going to explode.

The driver was struggling to regain limited control of the Harley, he jerked the handlebars in an obvious attempt to recover from the skid. He managed to change its direction by inches, skidding right past her and heading down the street.

It was too close for comfort.

As the bike had neared, Emily jumped back again landing on another unstable piece of concrete that sent her teetering backward, falling through a small space in the hedge. The branches scratched her face, arms and hands like dozens of tiny assailants, catching at pieces of her sweatshirt \-- pulling at the threads.

She landed on the grassy sloped embankment on the other side and rolled rather comically if somewhat ignobly. Emily managed to stop herself from crashing into the rocky embankment of the drainage ditch below by kicking her legs wildly about. Graceful it wasn't but effective it was.

Her breaths came in sharp, frightened gasps.

Phone clasped tightly against her chest, the device somehow escaped injury. Her backpack, purse, keys and sunglasses were not so lucky.

All were scattered on the rocks below.

* * * * * *

Having witnessed the series of fast-moving events which unfolded in a most Rube Goldberg fashion, David saw the girl fall through the hedge. He recognized her green sweatshirt and realized that he'd seen her earlier.

"Is she hurt?" he hissed, unable to tell from her posture. A sucker for a damsel in distress, he rushed down the slope to lend a hand.

His movement was momentarily stalled by the sight of a huge man in dark glasses across the street standing beside an oak tree. What caught his attention was the sheer size of the man.

At 6-foot-3-inches tall, David stood head and shoulders above most people. The red-haired man was easily a foot taller. There was a short Asian woman beside him.

The ginger giant was doing something odd with his hand. It was by his side but he was waving his fingers like a conductor and his lips were moving. He was too far away for David to hear what the giant was saying.

David got the distinct impression that Red wasn't speaking to the woman.

There was a heavy thud. His eyes went back to State Street.

The motorcycle flipped on its side and skidded about a block down the road. The owner held on until he managed to grab the key from the ignition-- the engine abruptly died.

When man and machine stopped sliding, the rider stood up. He seemed to teeter as if his knees had turned to jelly. The rider lurched forward a step, swaying, it looked like he might fall. He didn't.

"He's one lucky son of a gun," said David aloud, even though no one could hear him.

Glancing back across the street, he noticed that the giant and his tiny companion were gone. Briefly looking around, eyes sweeping the sidewalk in either direction -- he didn't see them anywhere. Where did they go? he wondered abstractedly before continuing carefully down the slope.

Chapter 22: Gone Girl

Josh was standing by his motorcycle, quite shaken up. Heart thundering a mile a minute in his chest, adrenaline pounding in his brain, he took off his helmet and worriedly scanned the area behind him searching for the girl.

She wasn't there.

"Where'd she go?" he mumbled, mind still frazzled by the near collision.

Scrutinizing the ground, the cars and farther down the sidewalk, she was gone. Had she walked around the corner that quickly? he pondered.

He hadn't hit her, that much he knew. Thank God for small mercies, he thought. That didn't mean she was okay -- positive that he frightened her. He wanted to apologize.

Josh began assessing his own situation. There was going to be one heck of a strawberry on his thigh, he inspected the material on what was left of his pants leg, part of the denim had been ripped away by the asphalt.

He shook the leg gently, it was bruised but not broken. Next, he flexed his shoulder, his arm was okay, it had been protected by the thick leather jacket. He'd been lucky, very lucky.

Glancing back for the girl a second time, there was no sign of her. Where had she gone? he puzzled.

A soccer mom driving a minivan pulled up beside him and hit the power button on the console, rolling down the passenger side window.

"Are you okay?" she called.

"Yes, I think so..."

He took a step closer to the van, ducking down enough to peer through the window into the dark interior and saw a sincere, apologetic expression on the pale oval staring back at him. The strong smell of diet coke hit his nose. The woman's yoga pants and shirt were obviously stained with the fizzy drink. The fabric still looked wet.

"I'm so sorry about slamming on the brakes like that... That red car pulled out right in front of me."

"Which red car? The BMW?" asked Josh. He'd spotted it earlier during the lane change.

The woman looked forward scanning the cars ahead.

Unaffected by Josh's accident they'd started moving down the roadway as soon as the traffic beacon had changed. She raised her hand pointing to the shiny red BMW about three blocks down the street.

"That one there... You see it turning left at the intersection?"

"Yes, I see it," he said, nodding grimly. Watching as the vehicle in question negotiated the corner. That driver's a moron, he thought.

Looking back at the woman, he asked, "Hey, do you know your brake lights are out?"

The woman was clearly surprised by the news.

"I didn't know that... I'll get them checked," she promised with apparent earnestness, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Josh nodded and looked back at the spot on the curb where the girl had been standing.

"Did you see what happened to the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one on the curb back there... I almost hit her."

"Are you sure? I didn't see anybody."

"I'm sure there was somebody... maybe she left," he finished vaguely, feeling confused.

A truck pulled up behind the minivan. The driver began honking the horn, evidently impatient for the soccer mom to get moving. She complied and waved at Josh as she pulled away.

Josh stepped back to his bike and inspected it.

The motorcycle appeared functional. Its paint job was scratched up pretty badly on one side. Asphalt had acted like sandpaper and was far too abrasive for the once shiny finish.

He ran his hand along the front tire examining it for any punctures until his fingers encountered the concrete chunk lodged under the front fender. It took some effort on his part before he pried it loose and tossed it back up on the sidewalk.

Glancing around one more time for the girl, his eyes stopped at the sidewalk. Why would she take off like that? he puzzled. If nothing else he was surprised that she hadn't come over and yelled like bloody murder at him for scaring the crap out of her.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a wry smirk. Maybe he'd been lucky on that front as well. Drama queens were not his thing. Shaking his head ruefully, he hoped that she was okay.

Putting on his helmet, he sat on the Harley and cranked it. The bike sprang to life immediately. He eased it forward a few feet gingerly. It seemed to be fine. Nothing was wrong with the balance, engine or tires.

Josh carefully got back into traffic and headed to the intersection where the red BMW had turned. Maybe he could catch the idiot and give him a piece of his mind. The guy was obviously long gone but it was worth a shot.

The day was still clear and bright. Patient as Josh normally was, part of him was itching for a... well not a fight exactly, more like a discussion. Definitely a discussion.

The kind that involved capital letters and four-letter-words, he thought.

* * * * * *

Emily was shaken up when she finally stopped moving. She lay there quietly taking stock of herself. There was something warm trickling down the side of her right cheek. Wiggling her arms and legs with a sense of relief, she realized that nothing felt broken.

Somewhat disoriented, it took a few moments before comprehending that she was on her stomach with her face planted in the grass. The smell of it was pungent in her nose.

She spat out the leaves and dirt in her mouth, slowly getting up on all fours, using her hands and knees. Nearby, there was the sound of something or someone... rushing forward.

"Here... let me help you," came a stranger's voice, a strong hand gently grabbed her left forearm and slowly pulled her upward.

A second hand reached around her waist and steadied her. When she was standing upright, a dazed Emily found herself facing a gray blazer which somehow seemed familiar.

Oh crap, she thought, it's the recruiter from the bookstore.

She tilted her head back and looked at him. Up close he was glorious, she felt dizzy gazing at that handsome face.

Round cyan eyes, rimmed with thick, dark lashes peered at her from beneath jet black brows. He looked down at her with apparent interest and something else she couldn't define.

His lips were broad and smooth, a dark ruddy shade next to his tan skin. There was a small cleft in his chin.

Emily was afraid of moving, fearing that she would fall while unable to stop marveling at the beauty of this man. She felt overcome by this growing sense of wonderment.

Chapter 23: Betrayal

From the other side of the portal Wicus stared in disbelief. It was like his mind couldn't process what was readily visible to his unique sight. Drawing in a deep breath and quickly expelling it, again his thoughts tried to grapple with what he saw.

That's impossible.

Yet the readings were clear -- believe it or not -- and the reason that he was furious. He'd witnessed the release of the rubescent particles rising from Emily and mingling with the Champagne-hued ones emanating from David. The magical matter swirled skyward undetected by either human as he gawked at them.

The event alarm ceased its deafening call.

The world grew perceptibly better, brighter, full of added promise -- by the dispersal of the mystical fragments.

"NO!" he roared. His skin was flushed with the anger he felt.

"It's done," responded Ozel calmly. His fiery eyes were intent on Wicus.

Waxine's flames were burning high, indicating that her anxiety level was up there with his. Confusion was etched on her face.

Wicus felt frazzled.

He'd spent so much time retrofitting Josh and Charlie, all that work now appeared to be in vain. His mind wanted to reject the notion, but he couldn't deny what he saw. Magic was released. That was a soul mate match.

"How did this happen? He's not supposed to be... he was unmated, the locks... there's no way to change his soul," Wicus' dissection halted, bewildered. It was rare that anything interfered with his plans. What just happened there off State Street didn't make sense.

"He's part immortal Wicus," said Ozel.

"I know that... What does that matter?"

"What matters is that his first soul mate's heart was still beating when they met."

"They never looked into each other's eyes... never spoke," argued Wicus stubbornly, thinking that his former mentor had lost touch with how soul mating functioned. No doubt the old Paragon had gone daft, he mused ruefully, not finding any humor in the situation.

"He held her hand."

"That's not enough!" Wicus said with a glare. For once not bothering to shield his expression, he gave Ozel a dismissive look -- showing what he thought of the elder's deduction.

"Immortals have always been tricky for us."

"But it's a recessive gene," Wicus insisted, confused.

The candelabra's face suddenly blanched, one metallic eyebrow rose in censure. A look of suspicion contorted her features.

Wicus noticed with growing concern, "What?"

"I-I... oh you... you," she sputtered, leveling a look of pure hatred at Ozel, clearly struggling to give voice to the realization that seized her. She blew out a heated breath and tried again, this time articulating her conclusions very quickly.

"You knew about this? That's why you came here. Did you do this?" An indictment was plain in Waxine's tone.

"Waxine, he would not do this," Wicus defended his former mentor.

It was bad manners to make such assertions against his old friend. They'd had their ups and downs through the years but Ozel had shown him the ropes, the old Paragon had trained him.

"Let him speak for himself," Waxine huffed, metallic eyes glaring at the room's other occupant.

When Ozel did not immediately deny the accusation on his own, Wicus stared at him in shock. Despite their differences over the centuries, he had considered the senior Paragon a valuable friend.

A knot formed in his stomach.

"You're not the only one who can alter a soul Wicus."

A number of emotions washed over Wicus; lost trust, doubt, indignation and anger -- before he marshaled himself again -- trying to contain his temper. It wouldn't sit well with anyone if he killed the elder with his bare hands right now.

He balled his fists, arms becoming rigid as he attempted to maintain control.

"Do you think I won't challenge this with the council?"

Ozel frowned at him.

"You can't un-mate soul mates Wicus," cautioned the elder Paragon but there was a look of worry on his face. Slowly, he took a step back, wary.

They stared at each other for the space of a few heartbeats. The silence was filled with tension. Wicus found it nearly intolerable.

His self-control was being tested and it felt stretched to the breaking point. He didn't understand, his thoughts were obstinate. He'd never done anything to deserve this.

"Explain yourself!" Wicus sputtered with barely suppressed fury.

Jerking his fists by his sides, furious energy was racing through him. His body was nearly shaking with choler.

"How dare you address me so! I am a member of the Council of Nine," Ozel heaved in an obvious fit of pique as though he were the injured party here.

It didn't help matters. The atmosphere was so thick with anger, Wicus wasn't sure he'd ever be able to cool off. He took a step forward.

A vague look of dread seized Ozel's expression. His red-orange gaze darted about the room. He took another step back, clearly fearful.

He should be, Wicus thought, shifting his shoulders to a more menacing stance, drawing himself up to his full height. Normally he disliked confrontations, at this moment he didn't mind so much.

There was a flash of something that startled Wicus, he jumped back from the object instinctively, temporarily blinded by the burst of bright light.

Waxine pulled back with a surprised shriek. Her eyes were shut tight against the glare.

It was some time before Wicus could see the room again. When his vision cleared Waxine was still there. The other occupant had vanished. Ozel must have portaled back to the Great Hall.

"Coward!" he bellowed, as if his criticism would echo through the magical gateway after him.

Shaking with the worst kind of rage he'd ever known, it quivered inside him like a distinct appendage. The sensation was nauseating.

Was he about to vomit?

Discomposed as he was, Wicus couldn't think straight. He felt betrayed.

What was there to do? Could he really un-mate soul mates? He puzzled. He'd never heard of such a thing being attempted let alone accomplished.

Wicus was very paternal over Emily and had embraced such high expectations about what the future held for the girl. All that was now gone, right?

David's not her true soul mate.

He was at a loss as he glanced back through the open portal to the human world, watching the pair. Doubt tinged his judgment.

* * * * * *

"Are you okay? You took a nasty fall," David asked the girl in the green sweatshirt. She looked dazed.

Narrowing his eyes, he appraised her condition. He was holding her upright, one hand on either side of her. She felt soft and warm in his arms.

"I uh, yeah, I guess... I think I need to sit down."

Concerned David eased her back down to the grass in a seated position. He placed a hand on the small of her back allowing her to lean against him.

For some reason he didn't want to let go. The physical connection between them made him feel protective.

He looked at her slightly stunned. Some part of him was conscious that she was someone to cherish. It didn't make sense to feel that way about a stranger, he thought. She made him feel... almost... whole.

Welcoming the peace of the moment that settled over him, them, the astonishment of the protectiveness he felt was succeeded by a profound comprehension of deep serenity.

He glanced at her face, there was a cut on her cheek.

"You're bleeding."

He pulled out a white monogrammed handkerchief, shook it open with one quick snap and started to wipe her face.

"Ouch, that stings."

Quickly he pulled his hand away, "Sorry... Here, you do it."

He handed the handkerchief to her, watching as she carefully pressed it against her cheek. He couldn't seem to draw his eyes away from her. She had long lashes, the bluest eyes and generous lips.

"I'm David... by the way... David Bowen," he said smiling.

Normally he avoided anything that caused feelings of insecurity, namely unusual situations with strangers like the one he was in now. Oddly, he felt completely at ease with her and this deep sense of peace.

There was something about her eyes, a fella could get lost in those eyes, he thought. Staring into the wide cobalt pools he grew silent.

"Emily... I'm Emily Wren," she reciprocated, staring back.

## Chapter 24: Deception

In the realm between reality and the tangible, scant minutes had passed since Ozel's hasty departure. Wicus' mind was still trying to wrap itself around the disloyalty of his mentor.

Ozel's double-dealing must have been going on for some time in order to achieve the required adjustments to David's soul. Wicus thought back to the moment he'd been summoned to the council member's home amid concerns about his resemblance to the human.

Had Ozel been lying to his face then too?

Had he already been retrofitting David?

On the verge of betrayal and yet how convincingly Ozel had looked him in the eye!

A sudden realization hit Wicus with the force of a sledgehammer -- when he'd spied on David during that therapy session -- David confessed to having nightmares.

"Had that been a side-effect of retrofitting and not PSTD?" he hissed, feeling like an idiot for nothing considering the possibility beforehand.

If only Wicus had known about the deception, he could have acted more quickly and finished his own candidates. He rubbed a hand across his mouth in frustration, scrubbing it up the side of his face to the temple. It didn't help.

"Gah!" he hissed.

Irate and restless with agitation, his gaze flickered to the E-N-D. Soul mate match achieved, the panel had begun to fold in on itself, closing down operations until it was needed again.

Not until he noticed its movement did it occur to Wicus that the device had consistently added David's name to the pool of candidates, even as he'd dismissed it as a glitch.

Had his own arrogance blinded him to the assistance the screen had obviously been trying to provide? Wicus shook his head, now angry at himself for showing such poor judgment.

"Help was right there, all along," he whispered, stunned.

"What about Josh and Charlie... all the suffering both have endured," Waxine remarked rather angrily. Her metallic eyes cut sideways at him.

"Obviously, I cannot change them back--"

"I wasn't suggesting that," Waxine interrupted. "If Emily isn't a soul mate to either of them... you'll have to put more humans through the rigors of retrofitting... it just isn't right."

His own taut posture echoed her resentful attitude. Eyes darting back once more to the portal trained on Emily and David, he studied them for several seconds in silence.

The way she looked at him, her cobalt gaze was riveted on his cyan one. She looked so happy.

He grimaced.

"She belongs with Josh or Charlie... not this fool," he raged, pausing for a fairly long time as he considered the options.

Beside him, the flames of his companion rose. A line formed between the candelabra's brows as she no doubt engaged in the same cognitive gymnastics.

"You know your options are limited," Waxine stated softly. Her burnished gaze was fixed on the new couple.

He nodded.

Limited indeed.

Pain filled his thoughts as he continued to spy on the pair, Wicus knew this wasn't over. Emily and David were huddled together talking quietly, heads inclined toward one another.

Frowning at them, Wicus' hated this situation. Reaching into his pocket with one hand he made sure that the chisel and mallet were nearby. His fingers stilled in the exploration of his pocket.

Could he really unmate a soul? Doubt reared its ugly head. He would let Emily have this moment and figure out what might be done -- if anything.

There was time enough to decide, neither of his candidates was finished. As he outlined the plan in his mind, part of him wondered; could he take away a person's happiness?

"Could I really separate them?" he muttered to himself, voice barely audible.

The idea went against everything he'd ever known, every rule he'd ever learned and yet, he didn't dismiss it.

"I am a vigilant Paragon... but not an unforgiving one. I would gladly disrupt Ozel's treachery and will do all I can to make him pay... but I don't want to hurt the girl."

He paused for a moment before looking at Waxine. "It is her life... is it not?"

* * * * * *

On the other side of the skimmed portal, Emily gazed at David, dazed, slightly intoxicated by the sensation she felt at the presence of this man. Headier than any wine she cooked with or otherwise consumed, she couldn't fathom where it came from.

Feeling weird and at the same time completely at home with him, all her walls were down. That unusual sense of wonderment was still there. How odd, she thought, that something as ridiculous as a fall could lead to this. Whatever this is.

She felt wave after wave of emotion wash over her as if she were floating on the ocean. It wasn't the agitation of a relentless surf inasmuch as the gentle caress of the clearest, bluest water.

Her spirit felt buoyant, heart thudding in double time with this unnamed joy. A tiny bubble of euphoria bounced inside her chest -- with each internal impact her smile grew.

Emily would normally be red faced with embarrassment after falling in front of someone. She wasn't. It felt like her life was really beginning, finally. All she felt was safe, completely safe.

Here on the grass under the endless canopy of sky-blue, the birds seemed to be singing just for them. Was that real? Giddy, she didn't trust her thoughts. Her mind drifted for some time with a comforting yet muddled sense of self-absorption.

Light from the sun was glinting off them both.

They sat together, side-by-side, bodies touching as she leaned against the hand that supported her back. She didn't understand what this sentiment was, or what caused it. For now, it was enough to be here with him in this moment.

Our moment, she mused Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Emily stared as David looked down at her, feeling her face glowing with warmth. The good kind.

His cyan gaze seemed to be shining with a responding glow.

She felt another twinge in her chest, different from before as if the cadence of her heart had shifted its tempo. The organ was erasing the former pattern that she had thus far lived life with, replacing it with a new one, where her heartbeat chimed in tune with the rhythm of its new-found mate.

###
Preview: Beacon

The second book of the Luminary Saga

Emily Wren's thoughts went round and round, even as she tried to get her mind to focus for the hundredth time. She needed to update this story so they could push it out on the website. The fact that City Council had moved to impose a rate hike on parking fees in downtown Marietta -- didn't interest her at the moment.

She tried again-- unsuccessfully to forget her brief encounter with a certain former soldier, David Bowen.

"Concentrate," she said between clenched teeth. Her mind kept replaying the meeting over and over on some never-ending loop. It had started out simple enough.

She'd been heading back to her car after a meeting with her adviser for next semester. It was her last year at Millstone University. Now a senior, she was nearly finished with her American Lit degree.

This maniac lost control of his Harley Davidson motorcycle and almost hit her. Granted, she had been walking on the edge of the road and now that she thought about it, probably shouldn't have been. She'd managed to jump out of the way, only to fall through a hedge by a drainage ditch.

David had swooped in like some gallant hero, coming to the rescue. It didn't hurt that he actually looked the part.

He picked her up, dusted her off and propped her on the grass. There\-- she'd sat dazed but blissfully happy as he'd carefully navigated the rocky terrain leading down the embankment and retrieved her scattered belongings one by one.

Watching the recovery operation, she'd leaned back on her hands. Astonished by her good fortune, what else could she call it, having met this handsome, gentle, sweet man?

Her fingers encountered a hard, square object on the ground behind her. Twisting to look at it, she'd found a textbook for an e-publishing class. It had to be David's, she thought, it wasn't hers.

There were two pieces of paper sticking out from under the front cover.

She looked up and saw that David was still down in the ravine. He had her book bag slung over his shoulder as he bent over to pick up her purse.

Emily pressed her lips together for a moment, unsure if she should snoop, her curiosity winning out. She looked back at the book and pulled out the two items, the first was a receipt from the bookstore.

From the date and time stamp -- it was obvious that he'd just bought the book. The second item was a folded piece of paper which she flipped open and read:

Class/ Section: e-Pub 101 -A

Units :6

Component: Lecture

Day(s)/ Time: Monday/ Wednesday 6:45 pm - 9:00pm

Building/Room: 300/106

Instructor: L. Chang

OH NO! That's the same class her adviser had tried to get her to take next semester, she thought. Emily looked back at David, he had what was left of her sunglasses in one hand and was heading over to pick up her keys-- about a yard away from them.

She wondered if she should warn him about Professor Chang's difficulties with English. It was not his native tongue.

"Mm-mm, maybe not," she murmured, wrinkling her nose in thought, deciding against it.

They'd just met. She didn't know if he'd appreciate the fact that she'd been poking around in his stuff.

Folding the schedule, she carefully put both items back inside the front cover of the book and returned it to its spot on the ground.

Her gaze returned to her raven-haired knight in, well, not shining armor, she smirked, more like denim and dark gray wool. David seemed sure-footed and deliberate in his movements as if he gave each step great care.

Emily was thankful that she had held on to her cellphone and that it had only been her possessions that had tumbled as far as the rocks. Looking at the hard, sharp, uneven surface of the embankment below, she shuddered lightly. Falling on that would have been painful -- not to mention dangerous, she thought. Not a place for anything fragile like bones or cellphones.

Several minutes later, he slowly trudged up the stony landscape, muscular arms full. Her eyes were on him. He said nothing to intrude upon her inspection.

She found it rather difficult to look at him with an open mind. He'd come to her rescue after all.

He was tall... well over six feet, she guessed, big and heavily built with broad shoulders over a tapered waist. Dark, wavy hair with thick brows over the kindest, bluest, round eyes -- a hint of something childlike and trustworthy rested in those eyes.

David had a slight hole in his chin. Rubbing her index finger and thumb together in a little circular motion unconsciously, she wondered if the tip of it would fit there. Emily was not yet bold enough to find out.

He was handsome. Not like McDreamy handsome, she thought, comparing him to a Grey's Anatomy character from TV. No, he was more like the prince from the storybook handsome.

She shook her head ruefully.

Wow, that knock to the noggin must have done some damage, Emily mused. Ever practical, she wasn't one to easily get swept off her feet. Off them -- she certainly was.

The lowering sun was suddenly too bright on his face. His cyan eyes squinted against it. Grunting with good humor, a corner of his mouth rose as he noticed that her eyes were still on him.

Within seconds those eyes watered with unshed tears.

Reaching her spot, he'd given all of her possessions back, everything that he'd retrieved from the rocks.

"Oh crap!" she'd said, getting upset when she saw her key chain.

It had one of those mini electronic digital photo frames attached to it. Despite its protective case the glass cover was demolished. It wasn't expensive. Seeing it smashed up had made her sentimental.

"The pictures of my grandparents, my mom and dad... my friends from home are on it," she said, turning it over in her hand.

Sniffing mightily, she'd struggled not to cry and managed to regain her composure.

He'd stood there silently, supportive. It was then that she noticed his phenomenal ability for tranquility. It radiated from him like a physical force, reassuring.

Pressing fingers over her top lip, she sniffed one last time. Blinking at him thoughtfully, her tear ducts were under control.

After that, he'd insisted on walking with her to her car. He'd even carried her book bag.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?"

"Yes, I'm fine. My pride's a little bruised... but I'll get over it... it's not like I've never fallen down in public before," she'd admitted candidly.

His big cyan eyes were staring into hers. How weird? she thought, only then realizing that he was not her normal type. Emily had always been attracted to guys with brown eyes.

She had stood beside her car longer than needed, just looking into that cyan gaze, waiting on him to say something. Somehow it hadn't felt awkward or anything.

Her gaze melted into his as she noticed that his lashes were long and dark like his hair -- except for two in the outer corner of his right eye, they were lighter than the others. What caused it? she wondered. An imperfection? Nah, she thought, a unique trait in an otherwise perfect face.

It had been okay just being quiet with him.

Finally, his phone buzzed and broke the spell. He'd fished it out of his pocket to read a text.

She knew it wasn't hers because she didn't hear a ring tone, chime or a bicycle bell, she had different prompts set up to alert her whether it was a call, email or text coming in. Emily was insanely organized.

"I have to go," he'd said earnestly.

Still, he'd stood there looking at her. It was clear that David had not wanted to leave. And truthfully, she had not wanted him too either.

Emily sat very still at her desk reflecting on meeting the storybook prince. Would she ever see him again? Her mind was distant with reminiscence. Eyes resting on the flashing cursor in front of her, yet it wasn't part of her thoughts.

"Emily... Emily Wren... Earth to Emily!" Her boss, Harold, was standing outside of the pony wall of her cubicle. He was the managing editor of the Marietta Gazette.

Emily looked up from her computer screen surprised to see him there. "Yes sir?" She blinked, coming back from her daydream.

"You act like that's some pretty riveting material... you 'bout done with the rate hike story?"

"Almost sir. I'm sorry... I got caught up in thinking about how I--" she paused.

She didn't want to blurt out anything to her boss about David. What was she thinking? Emily pondered, mentally chastising herself.

"I know you by now, every word is fine," said Harold. "I took the liberty of reading it over your shoulder... It's good. Not space out good, but good." He grinned.

Emily smiled.

Harold was a nice guy to work for. He treated all the staff like his extended family.

"After you push out your story... I was wondering if you'd mind doing some transcription work?" He glanced at her. His eyes tightened slightly as if he was trying to judge her reaction.

Emily knew that she didn't have a poker face. Most people told her that she was too easy to read. If she liked something or disliked something, it was right there on her face. And right now, her expression was curious. It was rare for her to be asked to do this kind of work.

"Liz is going home sick. I need someone to transcribe the latest UNESCO feed about the destruction of cultural artifacts. I need it condensed and posted on the site. You up for it? It would mean some overtime."

"Sure... I'm almost done with this anyway," pointing vaguely to the computer on her desk with an upturned hand, her face remained turned toward Harold. "Is Liz okay?"

"She's got some kind of stomach bug... something she ate. I told her that I'd try to find someone to fill-in.... I'll let her know."

He turned to go, hesitated then turned back around.

"Speaking of eating. I bought some gourmet pickles, a whole case actually. My wife and kids aren't really happy with 'em," he looked somewhat sheepish, a rosy hue came across his full face.

"There's no way I'll be able to eat them all. So I've put several jars in the refrigerator in the break room. Feel free to help yourself."

"Free pickles YAY!" Emily smirked. "I never knew that working for the gazette came with such highfalutin perks. Now if I can find some mustard packets and some saltines, I can make myself a sandwich. Wow... you take such good care of the staff," she teased.

"Nice... Miss Wisenheimer," he replied before walking away, evidently not offended in the least that she was a smarty-pants. A big smile spread across his face.

Emily appreciated the overtime especially since she had her eye on a new leash for Max, her dog. His old one was pretty worn, it was about time to replace it.

He got overly excited at times. One of these days when the terrier took off on a new and feverish, albeit never-ending campaign against squirrels -- he was going to pull the current leash apart.

Shaking her shoulders to stretch out the kinks after sitting still for so long, she glanced around the newsroom. Nearly all of the cubicles were full -- heads of every ethnicity and hairstyle were partially visible above the half walls, except for two empty ones near the back door which led to the stairs and eventually down to the employee parking lot.

There was a general murmuring of low voices as other staffers tracked down details on their stories, gathered more facts or set up meetings with sources by phone. A faint clicking noise from dozens of fingers steadily typing on keyboards throughout the space was ever present.

Emily smiled. This was her home away from home.

She'd been keeping up with the U.N. story on her on. Just because she studied American Literature, that didn't mean she wasn't also interested in world history. She was developing a journalist's noble curiosity -- a driving need to know the truth and details behind what was happening in national and international events.

Life was something these rebels didn't seem to respect at all. The United Nations special agency had been tracking the destruction of priceless artifacts and monuments in hot spots around the globe by terror groups. The idea of finding out the latest on the investigation appealed to her.

After putting a couple of finishing touches on her story, Emily got up to stretch her legs again and walked over to another woman's desk, letting her know the rate hike article was ready. Katherine was the city beat copy editor.

Emily didn't know that much about her, aside from the fact that she was a stickler for details and had a fondness for giraffes and martinis. A trio of small, rubber, Giraffa Camelopardalis figurines adorned the side of her work space between the landline and her computer.

There had to be a story behind it, she assumed, without any clue as to what the specifics might be.

As far as the martinis -- Emily had never developed a taste for gin.

She stopped by the break room, grabbed a bottle of water and checked out the pickles Harold had left in the fridge. She was too sensible to spend money on something she wasn't sure she'd eat, not on her freelancer's salary.

Free samples were free samples, she thought.

Pulling a jar off the shelf and opening the lid, the sharpness of the brine assaulted her nostrils. There was a strong odor of vinegar, pepper and basil.

Wrinkling her nose faintly, she pulled one pickle out with her fingers. Shook off the excess juice over the jar and brought it up for a whiff. It smelled like a pickle alright, she smirked.

Taking a bite, she was pleased by the satisfying crunch. Was that mustard seed in the brine? she mused, glancing back at the label.

The pickle tasted good, not the regular bread and butter variety that she normally bought to layer on sandwiches -- of which she was a connoisseur. They were certainly better than tolerable. Crunching happily, she took another bite, she had no complaints.

Her thoughts strayed back to David, wondering idly if he liked pickles? It was inane and she knew it. How could she have met someone like that, felt what she had and he suddenly be unavailable?

* * * * * *

When Emily got back to her desk, there was a new email from Liz containing a link to the digital news feed. She clicked on it, watching as the images from the feed populated the screen. She hoped that Liz would recover quickly.

The gazette's transcriptionist was a mom with grown kids, she was nice. They didn't work together. Emily often ran into Liz in the break room. They'd bonded over cooking.

The older woman was always bringing in some new recipe that she'd made. She used the guys in the office as guinea pigs which was fine with everyone. Liz was an excellent cook. She and Emily repeatedly chatted about the best culinary sites to check out for new menu ideas.

Emily shifted slightly, settling back more comfortably in her chair.

Transcription of digital feeds was not taxing, in fact it required less concentration than virtually everything else she did. She grabbed her headset, plugged it into the computer and began listening to the long-winded wonky-speak that frequently characterized the press conferences held by the intergovernmental organization. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out each word.

It didn't take long for her mind to wander back to her meeting with David, or rather, how it had ended.

He had not asked for her phone number or if she was on Facebook or Twitter -- not that she was big on social media. That bothered her. Isn't that what a guy did if he was interested?

Her dating skills were essentially non-existent so his inaction made Emily question herself, which was something she usually didn't do. Hadn't he felt what she had? Emily was not frivolous by nature, nor was she the hopeless romantic type.

Caught up in her own thoughts, her fingers stilled over the keyboard. She was at a loss to explain why she had felt so connected to this man.

She wanted to see him again. Did he feel the same? It was driving her nuts. Why was this happening? She finally met a really great guy, shared a moment, that somehow felt like something more than anything she'd ever felt before.

Now he was M-I-A.

She shook her head ruefully, rewinding the feed and picking up where she'd left off. Her fingers resumed their rhythm over the keys.

Her practical grounded brain was yelling, LET IT GO! She knew she should. Yet that bond or attachment, she didn't know how to describe it -- it had been so real. She didn't want to give that up.

Emily had never had someone of her own. The moment that she met David, it felt like she had.

There was always the possibility of running into him on campus when classes started next week, she thought. The odds seemed unlikely. There were twenty-five thousand students at Millstone University and if that schedule was correct, he was only taking the one class and it was at night.

Then it hit her. The solution was so obvious that she glanced upward to see if there was a proverbial light bulb above her head. Nope, nothing there.

Her fingers froze over the keyboard more from excitement than an abrupt ending of the digital feed. The speaker was still droning on. She grabbed her mouse and clicked the pause button.

SHE KNEW HIS SCHEDULE.

Emily could feel her heart beating deeply in her chest. The strumming increased when she thought about what she was really contemplating. Would she have the guts to do it? Knowing that he would be there? Would he think she was stalking him?

"Am I a stalker?" she whispered, dismissing the notion.

As she saw it, two possibilities now presented themselves; find out if he felt anything or drive herself crazy waiting with false hope. Tenacity she had in spades, self-restraint however wasn't her strong suit.

The computers at the Marietta Gazette were linked by a local area network ensuring that all editorial personal could interact with each other. As a result, every workstation was both secure and independent and more importantly-- had access to Google which made it easy to locate follow up information about any story she was working on, including checking company websites.

It also meant she could access the university's online registration portal, if she needed to check her class schedule or in this case, change it.

Logging in, her fingers diligently typed out the needed prompts. She was really doing this? A shiver ran down her spine. Seats were still available in Professor Chang's class.

"That's not surprising," Emily muttered sarcastically.

He was a nice enough man, his command of the English language sucked, not that she was throwing shade. It was just the truth. Thinking about that gave her pause, she wasn't patient with stuff like that.

Feeling guilty, she looked up from her screen and glanced around the office to see if anyone was heading to her cubicle. No witnesses were in route. Did she dare do this? she asked herself. Heart rate accelerating in response to the mere idea of seeing David a second time.

Checking off all of the appropriate boxes, the only thing that she needed to do was hit enter. Her index finger hovered over the key.

The cursor was blinking like some persistent exclamation point without a dot at the bottom, chanting DO IT, DO IT, DO IT, waiting on her to make a decision. Temples pounding, too much blood was rushing into her brain, she felt a little lightheaded.

"Maybe I should lay down on the floor for a moment," she murmured, battling dizziness.

Her adviser had wanted her to do this, she coaxed herself. David wouldn't know why she was in the class, her mind reasoned. He'd think it was a coincidence.

Emily was muttering under her breath, while trying to catch it. Suddenly she felt winded. Was she having a panic attack?

"Oh, what's wrong with me? Am I a big fat coward?" The words were barely audible.

Part of her almost abandoned the scheme.

Almost.

A tap on the shoulder made Emily gasp and jump at the same time, she nearly fell to the floor. She'd been caught.

To continue reading purchase Beacon

## About the author:

P.S. Meraux calls Wren's Nest in Atlanta, Georgia home. Many animals, dozens of rose bushes and three computers share the residence. The USC grad is an accomplished writer and editor. This is Meraux's first novel in the Luminary Saga. Please feel free to submit comments and questions. Reviews are always welcome.

Follow P.S. Meraux on social media:

On twitter: @psmeraux

PSMeraux on Instagram

Blog: psmeraux.blogspot.com

