War In Heaven

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Metatron

Metatron

Fulton stands at the edge of my desk, clenching a clipboard to occupy his fingers and tenaciously eyeing its documents, disregarding its contents as he waits patiently for me. He manipulates his weighty Lumpus wings to bury into his back, however, in his anxiousness the tip of the silk feathers tap against an armrest. They are bulky creatures and the chair is immaterial in comparison. The chair wobbles with each slight touch.

I reread the newly given statement in my fingers. The rocking chair humors me despite the dire situation I’ve managed to put myself in. “It’s alright, Fulton. The fault is my own.” I set down the paper, adding the obtrusive red symbol of the Merci with the multiple others piling on my desk.

“Again I apologize, your majesty. I’ve explained to them how busy you are.”

“No, you are doing fine.”

In my top drawer, I have my own stamped documents to impress its significance. It isn’t flashy but I like it well enough. Ariel created the design for me and every time I see it, I’m reminded of her. The fierce lion head roars in a gold blooming motif. My thumb roams across it, feeling the ripples of its mane.

I grasp a pen set to write a friendly and reposed response full of adoration and esteem for the devoted and dedicated Merci.

I crumble up my first draft and draw out another clean sheet.

The Merci has a right to be upset; I’m not implying they don’t. They have proven that Lucius intends to harm the Earth. With the death of Tymician, it is a perfect time to attack. And here I am with the ability to aid the human race and I sulk.

If Hell opens up, it would all be my fault.

“Your majesty?” Fulton coaxes.

I hastily finish the final sentence, jot my signature at the end of the document, and fold it up, placing it in an imprinted envelope with my seal upon its front. With a grin, I hold it out. “This will nullify the Merci’s ambitious state.”

He gleefully accepts it. “Thank you, sire. They make me a bit tense.” Fulton clips it to his board, running his fingers over it. “There is one more thing, your majesty. The Arch Family wishes to conduct a meeting. Many notice the Imperial Army has increased its number. Rumors are spreading of war. They fear Earth might become dangerous and there are nearly forty-five thousand Angels residing on the planet.”

I sit back, the chair squeaking but following my movements with heed.

When I was born an Angel there were twenty of us. Now, forty-five thousand is the amount only on Earth. There are over a million in Heaven. It is breathtaking how far we’ve come from Atlantis.

Gloom depresses my lips. “I will meet with the Family. I do not want the Angels upset because of rumors. This supposed war has little possibility of transpiring.” I wave a disregarding hand, “If there is nothing else, I have some private matters to take care of.” I jump to my feet, “If there is any urgency, contact Arch Gabriel. She has immaculate speed and impeccable tracing abilities.”

“You…” He stutters, fluttering his wings. “You’re leaving Heaven?”

As I unbutton the dull brown robes, I inquire. “Is that alright?”

Fulton fumbles with his clipboard and scurries to my aid. He tugs on the sleeves and maneuvers the fabric around my lengthy wings. I step out of the discarded tunic and adjust the sleeves of my white suit. The cuff links shine with the symbol of my station. A gold lining travels up the arms and down the center of the jacket. It continues on, stitching down each leg. My black shoes, polished and glossy are uncomfortable, much like my ensemble.

I am a captain of a sea vessel, which is what I say to my tailor. He doesn’t laugh finding it only an insult to his hard work.

“If Dane Monte will not see me, I will see him.”

“But your majesty, you’ve not gone to Earth in--”

“Since Lysander. Over two thousand years ago. I’m well aware how long it’s been. Tell me, what language do they speak in New York?”

“English, your majesty.”

I flap my wings, stepping in the center of the room. “What does this generation call the language we are speaking now?”

“I believe they still call it Latin, sire.”

“Will these English reciters understand me?”

Fulton smiles as my ignorance amuses him, “Sadly, no. Please assure me, you plan to have someone to safeguard you, your majesty?”

I straighten out each wing to the full length of their capacity. So thin and lanky, they are only a foot wide. It is in their span that dominates the room. My right one curls against the doorway. I believe Lucius was the only one with a more extensive set than mine.

He prided himself over such foolish things.

I will the Source to take them and obediently, it flows into the room like invisible hands stretching from the wall and with tenderness in its fingers, they pull away a third of my Light and instantly my wings disappear as if they never were.

I look over my shoulder, eagerly yearning for their retrieval. They were weightless in their entity, as heavy to me as an arm or a leg but without them, I feel lacking.

“I thought Transcended Angels couldn’t go to Earth, your majesty.”

“It’s not wise, I admit.” I roll my shoulders adapting to movement without aid. “But as long as I take proper precautions, the Earth stays out of danger.” I can tell he still has questions but is reluctant to ask them. “I must dilute my Light as much as possible.”

In a wooden cabinet, beaten, torn, and partially rotted, I pull out each drawer with cautious hands, careful not to break the dying oak. As it’s easy to see, replacing the old with the new is not really my style. I prefer the worn and weathered. I chuckle as pieces of wood flake off and gather on the floor.

“Doesn’t that put you at risk?”

“As long as I arrive on Earth in secret, no one will seek me.”

In the third drawl, I find exactly what I need: Amplified hollows. The gold chains clink together as I pull them out of their confines and hold them up. They shine and twirl and I catch sight of the old Arabic markings on their backsides. Dust depletes their natural brightness and I rub at their faceplates with my thumb.

“A hollow, sire?”

“One of Tymician’s inventions that I require.”

“But,” In his distraught, he loses control of his wings and they flap and fluff, rustling papers on my desk. “Don’t you know how they were made, your majesty? He used Light. Souls!”

“Donated Light.”

“And you believe that? From a Fallen?”

I put them on, adjusting them as they hang over my heart. I feel the separation of my Soul as the orbs contract and rip my Light into pieces, gathering it at the center of the ruby. It doesn’t hurt but nausea rebounds in my stomach and I lean against the cabinet to ease the dizziness.

Sensations filter through my body and I raise my hands, gawking. Each digit tingles and burns. As I flex them, I feel the taut skin, the calluses on my palms, and the sharpness of my nails. It’s these little fragments of being human I hadn’t realized I’d lost.

Distracted, I reply, “I am grateful for their sacrifice.”

I dismiss Fulton with the hope he will not begrudge me for such tidings. I may be the Supreme Chancellor of Heaven but it does not mean I lack weakness or fault. I forgive too easily and I love too fully. In Fulton’s eyes, it’s foolish and reckless. But it is not his gaze I hope to favor.

With a single step, I arrive in an antique nook made of cobblestone and brick. I rest my hand along a moth eaten wing-backed chair, stained by dust. Slouches of red wine stain its floral material from private affairs. There are multiple blemishes on the armrest cushion and the seat exposes that this chair has seen many years and rousing dealings.

I am envious. I wonder what legends it could reveal about the glorious Dane Monte.

A fire flickers in a small, brick fireplace. In my enchantment, I watch it gyrate focusing on the multiple hues of color. To witness such a magical energy is purely an Earth extravagance that I haven’t had the pleasure in too long. I fasten to it, holding my palm above it and though I’ve learned long ago the penalty, I touch it. The flames lick at my skin in desire, folding around my fingers and encasing my palm.

It takes a minute, perhaps two for the heat to penetrate but I finally feel it and amazement dawns on my features. It reminds me of the day I felt the sun for the first time laying in Atlas’ Hall. The golden rays stretched toward me and became a new friend.

I step back touching my smooth skin. I press it to my cheek, laughing at its warmth.

Looking around, I understand the reason Dane Monte does not come to Heaven. Why leave a place as grand and comforting as this? He has his own Heaven right here in this miniature alcove.

My fingertips slide across the numerous bindings of books along the wall. Dust bursts from my haste. I read the titles in a rush finding some in Latin, Dutch, Hebrew, while others are written in languages unknown to me.

So many rare volumes I wonder what Dane Monte was searching for in this varied collection.

I try once more to locate the mysterious Erelim, concentrating solely on his Light and his face. The Source struggles to aid me, pulling at my Light and then settling me back upon my feet. It was this place he had been last. Wherever he is now, he is protected so well even God cannot find him.

I pick up a book resting on the side stand, the last one he was reading before he left.

“God in Nature.”

I search for an author but find none. Why would Dane Monte feed his mind with falsified words? If he desired truth, all he had to do was ask me. I know all there is to know of our existence and though I may not be the only one, I am certainly certified to tell it truthfully.

I drop the book beside his thin-rimmed glasses. He must have left in a hurry. It makes me uneasy and now I dart my eyes around probing for any foul mischief.

I entered his domain effortlessly. Shrouds and Ruins do manage to keep Light and Darkness out but there are usually weak spots, placed there on purpose for beings like God and myself to guide through in case of a needed conversation.

If a powerful Void figured out how to navigate through Dane Monte’s sanctuary, there would be signs of a struggle.

I do not dare think of the Sins approaching him.

In dire need for understanding, I abandon his loft and use the Source to direct me toward Isis. Bypassing time and space takes no amount of strength out of me. I have direct connection to the Source and along with an ample amount of mental guidance; I require no assistance from the Dust. I travel as God travels and I will say it’s a much easier and smoother transition.

A single step has me before Isis’ menacing hotel. The large white letters of the Sofitel glow in the night and the lights beam out onto the sidewalk and into the busy street, engulfing cars as they pass by.

It’s the boulevard in front of me that distracts from the immense building and my heads snaps with each zooming vehicle. They flit about with carelessness, speeding up to come to hasty stops, blaring boisterous horns. People decorate the sidewalks on both sides of this tiny, three lane, one-way street. They are so close to these hazardous contraptions but they disregard their speed as they trudge along. Their interest is only in the tiny devices in their hands.

I’ve recently learned of these things: Cell phones.

It’s an endless parade of noise and movement. Lights and towering buildings block any view of the sky. How does one enjoy the stars and the moon? How can they appreciate Mother Nature if they cannot even see the clouds above their heads?

I look across the street at Isis’ home, wondering how I’m to weave my way through the barrage of traffic to enter her doors. It’s a rarity that I find myself overwhelmed but in the heart of her city, I realize how much the world has changed.

My last time on this soil, I was in Jerusalem. Buildings were no taller than what a man could build with his own two hands. They were made of sludge and stone blocks. Hand stitched sheets hung as curtains and billowed as the wind swept through, pulling in sand and smoke. Freshly killed lamp hung on lines behind the dwelling where a mother and her children would cook by a whirling fire. The men plowed their fields or shepherded their flocks.

On this particular day however, all of us gathered around the hill of Golgotha. The sun’s rays blistered and burnt and in the distance treacherous dark clouds loomed, flashing of lightning. I stood off far from humankind, too ashamed to hear their words of hate. Instead, I joined the Angels and the Fallen mixed together for the first time in their grief as we listened to the sounds of Lysander’s cries. Even from the distance, Eve carried her son’s moans across miles so all of the Undead could hear him.

There is no comparison from that world to this. They are two different entities entirely.

After witnessing a crowd at an intersection, I follow their lead and wait for the light. I mingle amongst them indifferent to their conversations. Humans and Angels are alike in many ways. They wear the same clothes and act with similar qualities as they have done for thousands of years. My interest instead lies in the structures and the architecture.

Atlantis grew fast and strong twelve thousand years ago because God taught my ancestors all that He knew. They built towers and spires to reach the sky if only in a desperate attempt to reach God and join his Angel family.

As I stare up at these immaculate buildings, I wonder if this populace is trying to do the same.

It sets a shiver in my spine. Atlantis was a single island with only four thousand people. If Eve decides to come and toss them down from their conceited cloud, what kind of destruction will she cause?

As I step through the glass doors, the world outside shrinks away and grows quiet. Calm air surrounds me and I take in a deep breath and release it with a beaming smile. From a chaotic storm to a slow moving stream, I admire the essence and the grandeur of Isis’ home. The floors are a green mesh of color, shining in the light of a chandelier. It’s awe-inspiring and though I could embrace the beauty and the dedication that went into this extravagance, I’d much rather express my esteems to the creator.

A woman greets me cheerfully at the front desk but my attention falls on a round gold object. I flatten my palm on it and the ring sings across the desk. The sound is spectacular and if only to hear the lovely splash of music again I do it one more time.

“Sir?” A female nips with a tight smile, “I’m right here, what can I do for you?”

I smile warmly. I haven’t any idea what she is saying.

I place my hands on the desk, “Heus! Quid agis?”

She looks toward her friends, “Um… You speak…Spanish?”

I can feel in the grains of the marble beneath my fingertips the enchantments flowing through this place. If I attempt to search for Isis with the Source, the building will crumble in an effort to destroy me.

“Sir?”

I do not need a translator for the single most important word for my objective. “Isis.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She clicks on a box in front of her. I lean over attempting to make it out but she moves it from my sight.

“Isis.”

“She doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. The next available won’t be until next Tuesday, at one o’clock.”

I shake my head, saddened by her lack of understanding and my inability to understand her.

“That doesn’t work for you?”

Blowing air from my lips, I raise a hand, “Gratias.” She attempts to call me back but I will unearth Isis on my own. Once she sees me, she will deny me nothing.

I manage to get only to the front parlor.

Dressed in black and white suits, security guards hustle down the marble steps and weave through leather chairs. Humans grow tense in concern, muting idle conversations to watch from their seats in the dining hall. Each guard unclips their holstered gun but keeps their hand at their waist, eyeing me with a good amount of fear.

The abundance of defense does not rattle me. I am pleased Isis protects her Soul so well. The fact that I arrived on the outskirts of her hotel is a prime example of superior fortification. She cherishes her Light and does God proud.

I hold up my hands, unthreatening, searching the Souls of her sentinels. Two of them are Angels but young and Earth Patrons. They wouldn’t know me except by name. I’d much rather keep my visit discreet. Isis wouldn’t enjoy the company of thousands of Angels flocking to greet me.

I point up, “Isis.”

They aren’t any more compliant about my situation than the stewardess at the desk. On one of the Angels, I spot a pendant hanging from his neck. It is an Egyptian symbol: the Eye of Horus and I willingly speak his native tongue in an attempt to gain his friendship. “Da. Gof’tay Mn Isis?”

Confusion weighs heavy on his brow. Perhaps I went too far back in dialect. From the time Isis was born to the day Lysander began his crusade, the Nile transformed and shifted. Its languages floated down river and renewed with the flood each summer. The Angel’s age will tell me little to which dynasty he lived and in what village he was born. I can speak each one with clarity but finding his correct speech would take too much of my valuable time.

I chastise myself. English, the most dominating language for the last two thousand years and I am clueless to its words. Why did I stop learning? Why did I stop caring?

Yet even as I question it, I know the reason. The coincidences are too great. I ceased my ventures to Earth after the humans judged and crucified Lysander. Apparently, I even have a limited supply of forgiveness and love.

The guards, weary of my protests, push me toward the door. They are good soldiers. Isis will be pleased to know they work well.

“Get your hands off him.”

Though the sentinels retract in panic, relief floods over me and I happily turn to greet her.

Isis speedily struts toward us down an elongated hallway. Her hips dance from one foot to the next as each heel slaps against the marble with a brutality in a harsh clipping clap. The purple fabric of her dress sways elegantly down by her ankles but on each side reveals enough of her thigh to expose the muscle and tone of her skin.

“Step back. All of you.” She orders as she approaches. Her shadowy green eyes look me over, confirming my condition. Taking a final sip of her wine, she hands it to one of her guards, “Report this to no one. He was never here. Do you understand? Now go.”

Abruptly she marches up the steps, her painted fingernails tracing the handrail displaying the expensive jewelry glittering against her tanned pigment. Diamonds surely look lovely against the dark bronze of her Egyptian heritage. I cannot stop myself from telling her so. “Kei doi lakso.” I murmur is her native tongue Nargi’si as I follow close behind.

“Tsk.”

I chuckle in spite of myself. Isis is never one to give into flattery and coming from me, it is as meaningless as snow in the arctic.

The Nargi’si language only has ninety words in its dialect. In order to have a conversation with her, I must revert to Latin and I do so with reprieve. Being unable to communicate, even if it was for a few moments was crippling.

“How did you learn to manipulate the human shell to take on your Soul form? You look exactly as you do in Heaven. You must teach others how to do this.”

She remains silent, a quality in Isis I’ve learned to be weary of. It’s been too long since I’ve spoken with her, I fear she might not see me as the friend and father I feel like. Time moves too swiftly for me but my personal connections to family do not alter. It does not mean, however, that she will still feel the same.

In order to judge this encounter I do what I rarely enjoy. I reach out mentally to press into the frontal lobe of her emotions, scouring for information. It lays right on the front, unbidden and unprotected. I barely grace a fraction of her cortex and find the reason for her quietness.

With my hands behind my back, I hustle along to keep up with her long legs, “Forgive me for not allowing you to prepare. I had no intention to come. I seek Dane Monte.”

She stops short. “Is that all?

Her terseness surprises me. “Yes.”

Isis scoffs and nips, “Why do I only become important when others desire to use me?” She spins away, her long dark curls nearly brushing across my face and stomps down the hallway, stopping only at a door and shoving inside.

Nothing Isis does shocks me anymore. She is a volcano, calm and docile one moment with a boiling center. There isn’t a way to stop her from erupting or to know when exactly it will happen but when it does, is it intense and breathtaking and impossible to run from.

Tentatively I follow, shutting the door behind me. She then decides to greet me properly. Isis drops to her knees with her knuckles folded and pressed to the carpet. “Your Majesty. I am honored by your visit.” She bites.

Laughing, I grasp her hand and help her to her feet. “I’ve missed you so.”

Isis brushes away my love with little care, rushing to her desk as if there is something more important than the Supreme Chancellor arriving at her estate. She fiddles with the jewelry around her wrist, undoing the clasp and dropping it on the white oak. Next are her rings and lastly the dangling earrings, heavy and ornate.

“Did I interrupt something?”

She removes one heel at a time. “A simple wedding. Nothing important to you.”

“It was important to you. I’m sorry.”

“I was glad to leave. My feet hurt.” She rubs her toes, spreading them out and curling them. I’m surprised she still feels pain. I wonder if she lies to me if only to make herself more human.

“Sit with me.” I pull out a chair at her dining table, gesturing.

She tosses her heavy hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to change. Feel free to talk.”

She disappears into her bedroom, leaving the door open. I sit down, sullen by her disregard. I would read her mind again but she bears everything and hides nothing. I feel it would be an invasion of privacy and I do not dare breach her trust.

I glimpse around the room. The walls are barren and dry. Only meaningless art propped up upon her walls. This is her private home, where she has rested her Soul. There should be something for her to cling to and yet it is an empty crate, nothing more than a box. She holds so much inside herself and doesn’t dare to release it.

“How is the clan?”

Her fake laughter comes through the door. “I know you aren’t here to chat.”

“You do not come to Heaven anymore.”

“Earth is much more entertaining.”

“So then fill an old man’s curiosity. Are you well?”

She shuffles around the bedroom a bit longer before darting out. Dressed in dark silk pants and a white blouse she looks just as amazing as before. She holds another pair of heels in her hands and settles them by the chair before resting down herself. Isis wrestles with her hair, twisting it and tying a tie around her thick curls. Several strands drape downward, only to add allure to her sleek cheekbones.

“Are you curious because the clan used to be Ariel’s or because it is now mine?”

“I am curious because of you, Isis.”

“Right.”

“Ariel and Dane Monte are not your siblings yet you seek acceptance as any younger sister lying in their shadow. You are who you are.”

“Yet I am nothing compared to such greatness. I was given this clan by Ariel. She thought I could manage it and look at it now. It’s not even half of what it was, it’s a third.”

“You saw a much different time than Ariel.”

“I did.” She nods profoundly, staring at her painted toes. “I did. She left and she didn’t warn me about anything. I was a Heaven Patron. I didn’t know how to run a clan or how to deal with Fallen. She just left. It isn’t my fault.”

“No one blames you.”

“Oh,” She giggles, “You are wrong about that.”

I reach across the table and rub her hand, “If anyone questions your merit, you send them to me, Isis.”

Her eyes soften. It’s a rare moment she shows an ounce of love in her heart.

She blinks and pulls away, reaching for her shoe. “Ask me your question.”

I lean back in my seat unsure if now is a good time. But as time is not on my side, I must inquire. “Do you have the location to Dane Monte? It is imperative that I speak with him.”

“Is it war? There is a rumor.”

“Rumor, there is.”

“You mean to recruit? Now that Tymician is dead?”

It opens a fresh wound and I struggle with private mourning. Isis will have little sympathy for Fallen and will only resent me if I bare it. I manage to swallow any grief from my voice. “Can you tell me what you know of Tymician?”

“The Merci had its reports, I’m sure.”

“The Merci tells me only what it wants me to know. I learned that years ago when it became too late to save Lysander.”

Isis cackles before making a smug reply, “As if you would have saved him.”

The silence weighs over us. She finishes packing her feet in the tall, pointed black heels and leans back against her chair, silent, unwilling to look at me. I watch every twitch of her hair and notice the regret looming in her distant gaze, “Intervening--”

“I know laws, Metatron. I am not some silly little girl. I do not blame you. I shouldn’t have said that.” Isis’s fingers tap the wood of the table. She alters the subject, “Tymician did not do all that he could have. He chose to lose to the Sins. He chose to die. Perhaps he knew of this imposing threat. I hear rumor that Lucius has armies building in Sheol. Do you think Tymician would have gone against a man he called a brother?”

“Yes.”

“You are foolish. You think they are the same men that Fell? Lucius is a walking disease! Tymician was a dictator. They aren’t your little nephews that used to rally the Angels in Heaven. These are Fallen that employ Demons to their urges! Why won’t you see that?”

“What is wrong with seeing the best in which they are?”

“Because it is not true, Metatron!”

Warmth spreads across my lips, “I’ve missed you dearly.”

“Oh stop it.”

“Do you remember--”

Isis fastens to her feet, “I will not play that game. I am so sick of remembering.”

I observe her as she fiddles with the jewelry at her desk. Though her back is to me, I imagine the grief on her face and the hair dangling down her jaw. “Is that why you have no pictures? It is healthy to remember, Isis. It is all that has happened to you that has made you who you are. If you forget, you will lose the important parts of you.”

“Yet all I seem to remember are screams. How can that be healthy?”

“You grieve. It is natural.”

So swiftly, the volcano erupts and even I am not ready for what spews out.

Isis swirls and pins her green gaze upon me. “Grief, Metatron, do you still remember it? Rage? Happiness? Can you still grasp such understanding? Or do you float up there with God now oblivious to our pains? I need not another God. And I certainly don’t need a father. Every father I had gave me away for less than 2 Foules. Do you know how much that is in this age? Fifty cents. Why are you here? You belong in the Light of God, not in the bowels of Earth.”

Isis drops in the leather chair at her desk focusing on the papers spread out on the white mahogany. She snatches a pen from a black cylinder and hastily signs her name at the bottom, tossing the document into a stack to the left. Each movement is poised and precise. She is an extravagant art piece, woven from strength and heartache. I admire her even when she uses her well-trained knives to break apart my chest plate and carve out my beating heart.

“Isn’t it late?” I wonder after I gain my composure. “Isn’t sleeping a requirement?”

Continuing her reading, she replies, “For Newborns perhaps. I’ve not slept since the Second Flood.”

Unwittingly she reveals a lie. If it’s been so long since she’s slept, then she must have lied about the pain in her feet. The fact that she stuffed them back into heels is a relevant fact. She pretends to feel because she plays the role of human superbly.

She is a wondrous woman.

I fiddle with the three necklaces hanging around my neck, untwining their chains as I rise. “I will not burden you further. The location of Dane Monte is all I require.”

Her chair rolls as she too gets to her feet and approaches. A manila folder slaps on the table and I question her with the knit of my brow. She tabs its lining with a long fingernail, “Answer my question and I will answer yours. Do you know this girl?”

The boldness to negotiate borders on the edge of disrespect but I know she wouldn’t do it unless she has a motive.

I nip the edge and bring it closer before flipping it open.

Isis explains as I look over the images. “Her name is Kyla. The only name I’ve achieved from a sandwich shop in Bear Valley. There is no record of her in the Animation Corporation. There isn’t a file on her at the Ruling. And so far the Fallen Circle, cannot seem to find her profile in their archives. The only information that I’ve managed to gather is that she entered Tymician’s house ten years ago.”

“Our last Fallen hasn’t been for twenty-five years. Gregory Patrick, I believe his name was.”

“You don’t know her?”

“There have been over two hundred thousand Angels that have left us for Lucius. Twenty-five thousand live today on Earth. I cannot name them all.”

“But most.”

I concede begrudgingly.

“You cannot name her.” Her eyes dance along the photograph with brilliant color reflecting her thrill.

“Who is she? What does it matter?”

She shuts the folder harshly and spins for the door as if heading for war. She seems to remember at the last moment our compromise and looks to me with a suppressed smile. “Dane will not want to see you now. I will send a message of urgency and he will visit you as soon as he is able.”

Concern creases my brow, “What’s happened?”

The smirk upon her face is anything but delightful. “His Soul Mate was attacked, so she says. Gula heals the damage but I doubt there is anything to be done about the added scar upon her Soul.” She opens the door, “I tried to warn you. The woman is Nature’s kin. She will be the death of us all if we let her.”

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