Devin paused, and his voice softened, flowing into her mind like a gentle shower, smooth, yet dripping with malevolence. “But you can still save your boyfriend and yourself if you’re willing to make a deal.”
Bonnie’s light flashed again and sparked. “I don’t make deals with the devil!”
Devin took a step back, but his voice remained calm. “Fair enough. I know you don’t trust me, but you heard your father’s unguarded words for yourself. It might help if I explain why he’s correct. Males don’t translate well. Rather than adapt to their transluminated state, their bodies fight against it. It isn’t an act of the will; it’s just the way they’re built. I can see it in their light patterns when they come in; they’re all twisted and shaky. They don’t have enough time in here to settle down. When the system tries to restore them, it can’t translate the agitated state of their minds, and their brains aren’t reconstructed properly. A few have even died.”
“So what about you? Won’t you lose brain function if you leave?”
“I’ve adapted. I felt my brain fighting it at first, but over time I’ve gotten it under control. It took a few weeks, but now my light patterns are smooth and even, so I’m not in an agitated state. Your mongrel friend, however, will be fully agitated. I wager that he’ll come in here ready for a fight. His heart is full of rage.”
He paused again, and his light began swirling like a pinwheel in a soft breeze. A thin stream of light oozed from Bonnie’s glow as if pulled by Devin’s bright whirlpool. His soft voice continued, rising slightly with the victorious tone of discovery. “And you know that, don’t you? Perhaps better than I?”
Bonnie edged away. Devin knew. Somehow her thoughts had spilled into the open, and the truth was out. She redoubled the guard on her mind. “So what kind of deal were you thinking about?”
Devin returned to his human form and grinned, the expression of a riverboat gambler gathering his winnings. “I figured out that I can’t get close to you because of all that infernal singing you do. I can’t attach unless you let your defenses down, so for your part, you’ll have to stop singing. And for my part, I’ll show Billy the secret to leaving with his brain intact.”
He waited for a moment, his flashing lips stretching out into a thin line. “You’re a smart girl,” he added. “That’s why I’ve never been able to defeat you. I’m sure you’ll figure out that you have to trust me on this one.”
Bonnie’s light sparked and sputtered. Trust him? Ha! Now that’s a laugh! She glared at him, watchful of his mind reading trick. What was he up to? Obviously he wanted to get out, and the key was through attachment. But couldn’t he just try to attach to Billy like he had said? Why did he want to attach to her? No, she didn’t trust him, but she wanted to know his secret, the way to protect Billy’s brain from damage. She couldn’t just ask him to tell her. That would be silly. If he really had a secret, he wouldn’t hand it over free of charge. He wouldn’t have anything left to bargain with. So what could she do to discover it? Let him attach? The thought sent bursts of shivering light across her body. Here she was, a glittering pebble in a twisting black kaleidoscope, confused in a surreal existence and having to deal with a silky-tongued liar. Maybe there was another way. Maybe she could find that friendly light again and ask him. He had helped her before.
“I’ll think about it.” She turned and hurried away.
Billy leaned over the neat, flowing script, the shadow of his head dimming the page. He heaved a deep sigh, mentally preparing himself for the words in his lap. He knew Bonnie was a gifted writer, possessing a dragon-inspired talent far beyond that of a normal girl, but remembering Ashley’s manner when she gave him the journal made him think this entry might be more than he could handle.
His gaze focused on the top line. It was a prayer, and though Billy didn’t know much about praying, he guessed he should read it with reverence.
MY PRAYER FOR BILLY
Dearest Heavenly Father, my heart longs for your presence, for you to sit by my side and whisper in my ear. Grant me counsel, the deep wisdom that listens to my heart and understands my pain in the midst of my groanings.
I have a friend who stands as close as a brother, a brave soul. Yet, you know him better than I. He is Billy Bannister, the son of Clefspeare, a dragon. I have seen in him the heart of a warrior, a knight’s squire who follows the code, ready to die if need be to slay the forces of evil and rescue vulnerable maidens, brokenhearted widows, and grieving orphans. He is gallant, loyal, and true, sacrificing his esteem, forfeiting his comfort, even spilling his blood. But, what color is his soul?
Tell me, Father, holy and true, I have borne in my heart this ache for so long! My dear friend has a desperate need, and I have seen it. How can I be his accuser, condemning the one who has gladly poured out his blood in my stead? But shall I deny my witness? There is a darkness, a gnawing void behind those eyes of steel. And even in those placid pools, I see turmoil, uncertainty, even pride. Oh, how can love and vexation so violently mix, a brew of man and beast stirred in a cauldron of scales and flesh?
Yes, there is violence, a rage that does not rest, for he battles in the fields of his mind, resolutely standing his ground, his faith in the old ways, the ways of the code, the ways of the dragon, the ways of his father. Yet, his father has left him an orphan, a squire without a knight, and the cruelty of his passing has never ceased to consume his standing as he guzzles from the old wineskins on which he relies.
It is not a slayer who haunts his thoughts and dreams. Dare I ask it? Shall I be so bold? Is it you, my father, the pursuer of men’s hearts, who brings war to his battlefield? Are you the fire that will purge his pride, his reliance on things of this world, honorable deeds, yet filthy rags in your sight? Will you teach him what pleases you? Will you tell him about weapons from above, the sword of truth and the shield of faith? Will you give him new wineskins, pouring into his heart the wine from above, the blood of the sacred covenant? Will you make him a knight, dressed in holy raiment, fit to take a seat at your table?
I fear the battle, Lord, lest you slay him with penetrating light, driving your two-edged sword deep into his fragile bosom, and searching out the dark recesses of his heart. For who can stand when your word declares judgment? How will he survive unless someone takes him to wash in the river, the wellspring of eternal life?
Who am I? How can I take him to your fountain? You know him far better than I, yet I feel I know his heart as well as my own. From dragon to dragon, I feel when he is near, as though his heart pounds in my own breast. When he touches me, the heat of his passion and the fire of his breath spread warming flames all around this cold orphan’s crying soul. Yet I am not his counselor, nor his judge. I stand as one who bears a gift but knows not how to give it, for though I am emboldened in my closet, in his presence I melt like wax.
Dear Father, I confess. I confess that I love him. Yet how little I understand these words. We are bound by prophecy, destined for oneness, and this virgin’s heart quakes at the thought. My heart longs for his, yet I know we cannot be one until the sun chases away his shadows, for light and darkness can have no fellowship.
Oh, Father! Whisper now in my ear. Shall I tell him of your saving grace? If I do, will he respond to you or to his passions? Would my feminine voice distract him from hearing yours? Would my face be his vision, or would he see the face of Christ? Oh, Father! Should such a maiden take this duty, to tell a heroic soldier that his scarlet soul needs to be made white?
And now, Heavenly Father, I ask you to take my entreaty and use it as you will. Whether in a whisper, a shout, or a song, let my voice be yours. Let my words be your balm. Use them to soften his heart, that you may inscribe your name there with indelible blood. Enlighten his mind, that truth may reside there forever. Cleanse his soul with fire and water, burning away the old and washing away the scarlet stain, that your spirit may indwell, empower, and preserve. Whatever must be done, whatever pain you must bring to make red into white, I pray that you wi
ll make the mortal squire into a holy knight.
Billy closed the notebook and hugged it close to his chest. His body trembled, ten thousand pounds of pressure building up inside and ready to burst out.
First one tear made its way to his eyes, then another. He looked up and sniffed, trying to blink away the tears and focus on the blank wall across the corridor— focus on anything but all his failures. Through the blur, a vision of Bonnie coalesced on the wall, her wings spread in full flight. She begged him to take something from her hands, but her gift was fuzzy, unfocused. He leaned closer until the object sharpened into a magnificent sword, the one and only Excalibur. The image was the portrait he had worked on in his studio, now complete and brought to life, and Excalibur’s shining blade pierced his heart.
What were the professor’s words that day? “It was bestowed to you as a gift from above. It was meant for you to wield in battle.”
Billy had refused the sword. He had rejected a precious gift, a weapon of righteousness.
And now look at the mess everyone is in.
His inner rage was real, and Bonnie knew it well. Even Palin with his sneering accusation could see his private darkness. “You’re just like me, boy.” Billy had killed his accuser. He had scrapped his training, the professor’s words of wisdom he was supposed to keep locked tightly in his heart. He refused to oppose his enemy face-to-face. Cries of “murderer” came from all around, like a lynch mob demanding his death, and Billy tried to swat them away. Oh, how he longed for freedom, for innocence, the purity he had always seen in Bonnie! But she couldn’t bestow her integrity; she couldn’t let him borrow her virtue, not even a slice of her righteousness that had always kept her in lasting peace.
The vision of Bonnie’s eyes pierced Billy’s own, and from her lips he heard what the professor had said not so long ago, “Nor can I lend you my faith.”
Billy laid his head on Bonnie’s journal and cried. Rage, hate, fear, loneliness, all dissolved into his tears and splashed onto the precious book. His body trembled, and lifting his head, he gasped for breath. “I . . . I don’t know how! Help . . . help me believe in you!” As his tears subsided, he turned his eyes upward.
Above the ceiling lay countless tons of earth and rock, unseen, yet waiting to fall on him and crush his body. He’d always imagined God as that crushing rock. But Bonnie had painted God with majestic words of love, more like the sun and sky—beautiful, limitless, and forever giving light and warmth.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly, a few unbidden fiery sparks flying out. He tried to fashion a prayer in his mind, but all the thee’s and thou’s just wouldn’t come together. Would God even listen to a dragon boy? Did he really care as much as Bonnie thought he did?
Billy lifted his head, looking straight up with unblinking eyes. “I don’t have much faith,” he said softly. “Maybe you can lend me a little of yours.”
How will we know her?” Walter asked as the Jeep sped down the road through the heavily falling snowflakes.
The professor pulled his coat closed and zipped it up. “Karen told me she has red hair and that she would keep her hood down so we could see it. She also has three younger girls with her. They should be easy to spot.”
Mrs. Bannister pointed ahead. “That must be it.” She slowed the Jeep, careful to avoid sliding on the thin sheet of white, and parked behind another SUV just beyond the farmhouse driveway. A plowed drift blocked the entrance, preventing them from getting any closer to the house.
Walter jumped from the Jeep and hurdled the drift, while Mrs. Bannister helped the professor through the snow on his crutches. When Walter came within fifty feet of the doorstep, he spotted Karen on the wooden porch passing by a big barrel stuffed with firewood. Three smaller girls crowded close to the redhead, and a man walked beside her, gripping her shoulder and herding the girls toward the snow-covered road. Except for a rumbling tractor pulling a snowplow toward a distant barn, the place seemed deserted.
“Wait!” Walter called, holding up his hand and sprinting toward them.
The man stopped, tilting his head and squinting. Walter skidded to a stop. Bonnie’s father!
Dr. Conner faced Walter, giving him an uneasy smile. “Well, if it isn’t Walter Foley! It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
Walter glowered at him. “Too small, I think.” He planted his hands on his hips and turned toward the redhead. “Are you Karen?”
Karen tightened her lips and nodded.
Dr. Conner pulled the girl closer. “And how could you possibly know Karen?”
Walter folded his arms across his chest. “Like you said, Dr. Conner. It’s a small world.”
Pounding his crutches through the snow, the professor drew within earshot, Mrs. Bannister at his side. “Unhand that girl!” he shouted.
Dr. Conner jerked his head toward the approaching adults, and his arm dropped from Karen’s shoulders and grasped her forearm. Walter leaned over and whispered to Karen, “Do you want to get away from him?” Her frightened eyes sparkled with welling tears, and she nodded ever so slightly.
The professor hobbled up beside Walter and grabbed Dr. Conner’s wrist. “I shall tell you one more time, sir, before I become perturbed. Unhand this girl.”
Dr. Conner jerked his arm away. “Why should I? This is my daughter!” He waved toward the other three shivering girls. “They’re all my daughters.”
Mrs. Bannister wiped snow off the shortest one’s head and knelt to rebutton her coat. “And they’re all freezing!”
Thick puffs of white billowed through the falling snow as the professor spoke. “Whether or not they are really your daughters, Dr. Conner, is immaterial to me. The eldest called me with an urgent message, and I believe you are the cause of her distress.”
“Ridiculous!” He pulled Karen’s hood up over her soaked hair. “They were out playing in the snow and went too far. I just found them, and I’m taking them home.”
The professor lifted his brow, his eyelids drooping just a shade. “Indeed! And you told us we could visit Bonnie anytime we wished. Your card, however, carried the address of some rather unsavory characters. They did not greet us well, so we decided to pay you a visit here to recommend that you correct your business cards, lest other visitors find the same rude greeting.” He gestured toward their Jeep. “Shall we drive to your home and complete our visit? I’m certain Bonnie will be glad to see us.”
Walter loved the professor’s smooth sarcasm. It was biting, yet sprinkled with gentlemanly charm. He knew there was no way Dr. Conner could refuse.
Dr. Conner put his hands on his hips, and he nodded, letting out a long sigh. “Okay, okay.”
Mrs. Bannister hurried toward the Jeep. “I’ll drive as close as I can and pick everyone up.”
The professor smiled down at the trembling redhead. “Karen, I am at your service. You may speak freely.” He gestured with his head toward Dr. Conner. “You need not fear this man. I assure you that I will keep you from harm.”
Karen cast a doubtful eye at the professor’s crutches and smiled uneasily.
Dr. Conner’s voice shook with anger. “How dare you talk to my daughter that way? I’m her protector; not you, old man!” He grabbed Karen’s hand. “Forget what I said. They’re coming with me, and you can just—”
“Dr. Conner!” The professor interrupted, his eyes blazing. “I suggest you reconsider.” Mrs. Bannister pulled the Jeep up close, and the professor turned to Walter. “Walter, please fetch the flower box.”
Walter grinned. “Sure, Prof!” He hustled back to the Jeep.
The professor shifted on his crutches and faced Dr. Conner. “A father certainly has protection rights, as you suggest. All rights, however, are forfeited if a child is abused.”
“Abused?” Dr. Conner replied, his voice rising again. “I’ve never abused her, and she knows it!”
Walter returned, carrying the flower box, and the professor handed one of his crutches to him. While leaning on the other crutch, the prof
essor opened the box and withdrew Excalibur. At the moment he touched the hilt, the great sword began to glow. The professor dropped the other crutch and steadied himself on his good leg, holding Excalibur in ready stance with both hands. Dr. Conner took a step backward, his eyes wide and mouth agape.
“Now,” the professor said softly as the sword glowed brighter and brighter, “I will ask her myself.” He lowered his gaze to meet Karen’s and spoke tenderly. “Young lady, what is troubling you, and why did you call me? Do you wish to be free from this man?”
She jumped over to the professor’s side and grabbed him around the waist, shivering and crying. Dr. Conner stepped toward them, but the professor raised the sword higher. “I suggest you halt.”
Dr. Conner stopped. Excalibur’s spectacular glow reflected in the scared doctor’s eyes, and his legs shook like two autumn leaves.
The professor continued. “It seems that the maiden has spoken quite clearly, even in silence. So now, if you will acquiesce, sir, and do what I ask, I will put the sword away.”
Dr. Conner spun around and ran, slipping once and stopping his fall with his hands on the ground. With both legs churning, he dashed toward his SUV.
Mrs. Bannister hopped from behind the wheel and ushered the three younger girls toward the Jeep. Walter grabbed the professor’s crutch from the ground. “He’s getting away!” He tossed both crutches into the rear of the Jeep and hustled back to help the professor. He and Karen supported him to the front seat and then squeezed in the back with the three girls.
Karen parked herself behind the driver. “I know the way. Just stay on this road for a few minutes. I’ll let you know when to turn.” After a couple of miles of slipping and sliding, Karen pointed to the right. “Up that path. We’d better hurry. Doc may have gone in the back way.”