Parts of this story are meant to be separated, but because of this stupid editing system, I can't get it done. My apologies.

The Inner Circle

By Raine Lionheart

The concept for this story was derived from Evergrey’s 2004 album, The Inner Circle. Excerpts written by Tom S. Englund.

Note: Italics with quotes around them likely indicate future translation (mostly Finnish).

Prologue

Thomas Deacon saw the face of God on the fourteenth of April, in 1999.

Seems that this is somewhat of a moot point, considering that Deacon‘s faith in God after childhood was almost nonexistent. He’d been raised in a Catholic home and had attended a private school until his senior years. But after being put through public school, and the events that led him to become a youth counselor, he fell from the arms of faith. He had no relationship with God.

But it’s been said that he fell victim to an epiphany that night in 1999, and it stunned even him to realize that, through this ambassador, he would communicate with the Higher Good. At that moment in time, while it poured outside in the streets of Gothenburg, Sweden, God was revealing himself to Thomas Deacon, proud atheist. While outside, in that miserable rain, a homeless man was stabbed out of cold blood.

Deacon’s chance meeting with the this ambassador was not truly by chance; rather, he had been brought to the meeting by a compatriot of his, a young Swede by the name of Johan Brorsson. The once unruly teen had appeared at Deacon’s hotel room early in the morning of the fourteenth, after four years of no communication, and had shown his pseudo-mentor that he had changed his ways. And he cited this change to his finding of God. Not in the conventional means, Brorsson had said, not through prayer and religious dedication, but through a man. Deacon had responded with typical atheist derision. But Johan, who’d been a ward to Deacon for several years and knew how to twist Deacon’s strings, kept urging. Deacon relented, setting his atheistic beliefs (or disbeliefs, rather) aside for the moment. After all, looking at his former ward, perhaps there was something to this man.

And yet, it struck Deacon as odd that an ambassador to God would choose such a scummy place to meet with one of his most steadfast followers and a potential inductee. It was a dive, Americanwise. A bar, with a flickering neon light in the front window, heavy, acrid smoke hanging in the air and sawdust on the floor (not fresh, not by a long shot). By the pool table, a bald man held his cue, ready to attack a smaller man, whose beard was parted in three directions. The little bearded man was pleading in rapid Finnish, his hands up to protect him. Among the barflies sat a voluptuous woman, probably thirty, who let her jet black hair fall past her waist. She winked at Johan and Deacon as they approached. The bartender looked more Viking than anything, and was cleaning the mug in his hand with his spit. Deacon wouldn’t come here on his own, and definitely wouldn’t risk a drink.

Johan seemed oblivious to the dank milieu and the surly company, simply nodding to the crusty Viking (who nodded back, running his fat fingers through his ZZ Top-esque beard) and leading Deacon past the bar and the several drunks passed out, clenching mugs, toward the end of the room. Johan led Deacon through an unmarked, and onward into the hostel.

It was a tall room, about ten feet tall and twenty feet a side, with thin wooden columns posted every few feet. As bare as it was (the only others there were two blonds (probably Germans) playing poker by the only window in the room) Deacon didn’t feel any safer than he had in the presence of the Viking and his drunken patrons. He gave Johan a nervous frown, but the youth simply pointed across the room to a trio Deacon hadn’t noticed initially. They were huddled around an upturned crate upon which three tumblers of liquor and a dim candle were placed.

"There’s the man who has saved me," said Johan in rapid Swedish. "His name is Mackenzie."

Deacon nodded and made forward with his former ward matching his pace.

Mackenzie must have been the one against the wall. Just as Deacon came within his peripheral field the man of forty or fifty years raised his eyes to the newcomer.

Those are dangerous eyes, Deacon thought first. They’re bright, warm and accepting. They’re also calculating and deceiving. I cannot see it, but those attributes are.

The other two men looked up as well. The one on Mackenzie’s right was a large, greasy looking American – he had that expression Deacon knew so well from his home country, one of weariness and dull wit. Beefy folds of skin hid his Adam’s apple and made his head look grotesquely wide around his mouth. His eyes were squinty (Piggy), his hair thin and greasy, and with every breath the man took came a phlegmy gasp from below his baker’s dozen chins rolls.

Deacon imagined him a truck driver for some delivery service back home, with a blue hat and jacket, and black boots. This absurdly unrelated thought existed for a fraction of a second before Deacon’s mind turned to the next man.

He had an aristocratic air to him. A pair of pince-nez were balanced upon the bridge of his nose. He had a severely trimmed moustache framed above a thinly lipped mouth that was pursed pensively. His snowy hair was delicately parted to the left (his right) in the style of Adolf Hitler, and was impeccably trimmed. Just as his moustache was. And his fingernails (Manicure, Deacon noted). He wore the crisp grey suit of a banker, or accountant perhaps. He didn’t belong in this dump.

At last, Deacon let himself examine the one he assumed was Mackenzie (and it was, in fact, William Mackenzie of Oregon), allowing himself the drab satisfaction of deconstructing his young friend’s new savior. He seemed to be a jovial type – a bit of a paunch sprouting, spreading to his face; cheeks a bit rosy, perhaps lightly dabbed by the influence of the scotch in front of him. Deacon would have placed him as Irish had he not known his surname before. He bore greying red hair that curled tightly, and had a somewhat pale complextion (alcohol influence not subject to this scrutiny). His smile was broad and warm, and it was also cold, not reaching those carefully trained eyes.

Deacon could not break the hold Mackenzie’s eyes held on him.

The examination of these three men (and vice-versa, Deacon had no doubt; he knew that the chubby one was looking him up and down) took less than five seconds. Five seconds that stretched thinly across a mile of silence. It was Johan who finally broke the moment by introducing his companion to Mackenzie.

"This is Thomas Deacon, Father," the youth said in clipped English. He was grinning rather youthfully, like a young hunter presenting his father with his first kill. Deacon cracked and flashed a sheepish grin of his own to the "Father".

Mackenzie’s smile was not a grin at all. A grin is either mischievous, or embarrassed (hence, sheepish), belaying either any underlying innocence or confidence in the wearer, and Mackenzie’s expression belayed nothing, except for rumors that he was an ogre (a little joke about his Church counseling sessions back home, he told Deacon in later years). His smile was warm and inviting, as Deacon had noticed before. Only now, his smile did reach those well-trained eyes. A smile to match his eyes.

"Mr. Deacon," the Father’s warm voice greeted him – he was Westernized, with the lingering flavor of Britain on his tongue. "I am very, very glad to meet you. Young Johan here has told me much about you."

One of the blonds coughed twice.

Johan blushed mildly (a rare thing Deacon recalled) and excused himself – he retreated back through the door to the bar.

"He’s told me that you are an atheist." To Deacon, this seemed to be a mixture of inquiry, statement and accusation (only a light trace, however), and he at first felt his pride inflate, somewhat offended by this. But his pride failed him here, in light of that smile, those eyes. His words were lost before they were even formed. He decided to nod instead.

Mackenzie’s smile did not waver. Instead, he asked, "Tell me why, my son."

Your son? But this thought abandoned him as his pride had (Traitor!) and he found that his tongue had become tied somehow by this question. He quickly untied it and put it to use.

"I was raised traditional Catholic, sir (Sir? What sir is he to you?) and was raised on Catholic values and ideals. You know, the teachings of the Bible, the New Testament… Church every Sunday, scripture and Sunday School." He faltered for a moment. "Uh, more than just tradition, if you get my meaning."

Mackenzie nodded, his smile not yet leaving.

"I attended a private school until senior high, when I transferred to public school. By that time, I had given myself to sports and had little time for religion. I still prayed and went to Church on the Sundays that I had free. After that, I just sort of lost interest."

Johan returned at this moment with a bottle of whiskey – Tullamore’s Dew, Deacon noted – and handed it to the banker/accountant fellow before falling back behind Deacon.

Mackenzie nodded at Deacon, as if he, a devoted Christian church figure, understood his plight. And yet, if spite of his obvious thoughts (Deacon reckoned that if he were as any other Christian minister or reverend, he would declare Deacon a damned soul for losing faith), he tricked himself into believing that Mackenzie was showing him compassion, or sympathy. Not pity, that low and disgusting excuse for sympathy the rich exercised on the poor. No, this was compassion, understanding. Acceptance perhaps.

"Private Catholic school? Not the greatest environment for a questioning young Christian, if you ask me. Far too many rules, not enough outlets for freedom of question." He raised an eyebrow at Deacon and asked, rather frankly, "Did any of your teachers try to enforce your beliefs in a… er, positive way?"

Memories of rules and paddles flashed in his mind, and Deacon shook his head.

"I see." Mackenzie once again smiled at Deacon, and without realizing it, Deacon was suddenly under the Father’s charm. "And you were punished for questioning, let’s say, Job’s dedication to God, or Abraham’s sacrifice? Yes, of course you were, you were a free spirit. Mr. Deacon," he paused and amended, "Thomas. I’ve been through the American Catholic Schooling system myself, out in Oregon, and perhaps half a generation before you. And somehow, I forced myself to keep on through the trauma of it all, to come to where I stand today. I too questioned Job and Abraham, and was punished for my so called "impudence". And because of that, I live by a simple philosophy that I share with just about all of my colleagues and congregations. One that I think you may be able to appreciate."

He leaned forward and (this time, his smile was a grin – mischievous) said quite plainly, in the words just about no Catholic Deacon had ever met would dare utter, "Fuck Catholic school."

It was the absurdity of this statement that forced Thomas Deacon into hysterical laughter – peals of giggling that watered his eyes and clenched his gut muscles… And it wasn’t just this musical soul-singing that come – this also forced Thomas Deacon from being a proud atheist to being open minded, willing to listen to the ravings of a madman. Covertly, as he had no idea that this had happened with a simple sentence that was as vulgar as it was earnest. Had he known, he would have been disgusted.

He laughed for a long while, Johan, the fat man and Mackenzie himself eventually breaking into the giggles themselves, leaving the accountant (The Count, Deacon named him at that moment) to look upon the four of them in questioning.

"Are you serious?" Deacon asked as soon as his laughter died away.

"Quite serious," Mackenzie replied. "They really only drill the teachings of the Bible into your head, and try to transform you into a good little Catholic. I’ve had the fortune and the misfortune of seeing what these people have forced upon us and now our youth and I have learned from it. I have learned to say," and he grinned again, "‘Fuck Catholic school’.

"You see, Mr. Deacon," Mackenzie continued, "I have been on both sides of the fence that divides religious devotion from religious belief – which are truly two different things. Devotion is utter dedication. Going to church every single Sunday of your life, rain or snow, sick or dying, and trying to pass these ideals on to others. On the other hand, belief is simply a "Sorry Lord, I didn’t mean to kick my brother." and the basic belief in Jesus. I’ve been in both ends of the spectrum and I have come out believing that everyone has his or her own right to decide. For one reason or another."

"And why is that – " Deacon hesitated before adding on the once important title, "Father?"

"Because, I have seen things that your old teacher would have given their crucifixes and Bibles for."

An eyebrow raised, Deacon asked, "What exactly would that be?"

Mackenzie raised a hand and batted it at Deacon. The expression was one of a parent dismissing one of their child’s inane questions. "Oh, much more than you would ever think possible, in this state of mind (and this struck Deacon as almost condescending), more than any other I have ever met would ever think possible."

Deacon glanced to Johan, who said nothing.

"Thomas," Mackenzie said, now unsmiling, "why did you lose faith in God?"

Deacon told him, rehashing the story of a hundred other souls. He’d been injured in high school. A bad knee that took him away from the group of elite youths of his high school who were destined to gain football scholarships to Yale, or Harvard, or MIT (Deacon’s own target was the University of Alabama). A shattered kneecap that had shattered his hopes of following the path Joe Namath had set for him decades before. What sort of a God would pull that stunt on a seventeen year old who had dedicated his high school career (not to mention his career in general) to football? No God, Thomas Deacon thought.

"And this tragedy led you to believe either that God didn’t exist or that he did, but he’s just a big bully."

It was no question. Deacon told him it was the former.

"I don’t believe that Thomas."

"You don’t."

"I don’t." The Good Father sighed, and yet, his smile was pasted in its place once more. "Nobody who ever believes in God loses faith with him completely. Faith, meaning not just that he will help you in your darkest hour, but faith in his actual existence, Thomas." Mackenzie took his scotch tumbler in his hand and swirled it about in his hand. "Everybody that tells themselves that God unequivocally does not, cannot exist is lying to themselves, because a tiny part of them hopes that he does exist. Even those who were raised atheist have that grain of faith – Coward’s Faith I call it – because if they’re wrong and God does exist, then what lies ahead for them in the next stage of life? Damnation?"

He downed the shot and put the tumbler back on the table.

"You were intimidated by what God had planned for you, Thomas. You were in love with the dream of following Joe Namath’s path into glory. Perhaps you wanted to bring down the walls of Little Rock, walls that held you a bay for too long. You wanted to prove yourself and show the world that you were made of Namath material. But God had different plans."

"How’d you know I was from—"

"You were injured," Mackenzie continued, without raising his voice at all, "and it crushed your dreams. You were angry, and instead of plunging into depression, you blamed God for your loss. Not exactly a bad thing, but with all due respect, not the best thing either.

"You turned from God, citing him responsible for destroying your future, and became an atheist. You decided to focus on helping others through their problems and became a youth counselor. You decided to focus on helping others with their problems—" his smile became an example of geniality, "—and pushed yours aside."

"A youth counselor should never examine himself," Deacon remarked, grinning.

"No, of course not," Mackenzie agreed. "Thomas, that’s why you lost faith. Because you never came to terms with your injury."

Deacon shrugged. "I still limp."

"I noticed," Mackenzie said.

"It reminds me of what happened. Reminds me that God doesn’t exist."

"God exists Thomas. He is very real. Most believe blindly, other preach blindly."

"The blind leading the blind," the fat man said with a sudden air of wisdom. Mackenzie nodded.

"Yes Leonard, exactly. People believe in God without much more proof of his existence then a book that contradicts itself at every turn. Or the occasional freak occurrences in our everyday lives like a statue of the Virgin Mary that weeps in blood, or a shadow across a wall in the Holy City that resembles Jesus Christ, things that are novelty and sometimes blasphemous. They believe in God because they were told that he existed by their parents, and their pastor, and their neighbors and so on. These people are blindly following God."

He gazed at Deacon, as if waiting for the comment that had formed in Deacon’s mind to be made. It was a predictable one. Deacon figured that he had heard it countless times before

So he humored him. "You believe in God, Father."

Mackenzie laughed modestly. "I do, don’t I? Mr. Deacon," and now, his tone was almost conspiratorial, "I believe in God because I have seen the very face of God."

"But everyone says—"

"Everyone lies," Mackenzie spat.

The eyes were now icy, twisted. The smile had vanished into a hard line, and Mackenzie now looked angry. It was a horrifying thing to see, something that made Deacon’s pulse rise.

Mackenzie recovered within seconds, his eyes warming and his smile returning to his face. "What I mean to say is that everybody thinks that, because they pray to him, and attend services, and have felt his touch on their lives at least once, they have seen the face of God. Be that as it may, I have seen God with my own two eyes!"

Doubt, disbelief – whatever the feeling was, it passed through Deacon, for a moment dispelling the power Mackenzie held over him. His face gave him away, and Mackenzie smiled, perhaps sadly. Perhaps proudly even.

"Let me show you."

"How?" asked an awed Deacon.

And again, that smile, that warm smile that matched the calculating and well-trained eyes, lit Father William Mackenzie’s face.

He showed Thomas Deacon the face of God.

Just as Johan Brorsson and Thomas Deacon entered the Copperpiece pub for their meeting with William Mackenzie, INTERPOL agent Nils Salow moved from his position just in the lip of the alley beside the pub down deeper into the darkness to the window of the hostel. He was careful to not attract the attention of the twin German guards, posing as hostel patrons, who were seated by the window. Even if they did spot him, they would likely assume he was just a tramp seeking refuge from the rain.

Nils kept to the left side of the window, peering in toward the trio of men by the back wall. He knew that William Mackenzie was there, against the wall. The fat one was Lenny Wood, one of Mackenzie’s followers and chief source of American news. The elderly German across from Wood was Andre Hermann, Mackenzie’s accountant, one of the few not dedicated to Mackenzie’s faith. He looked absolutely sullen sitting in such a drab dive and was hitting his schnapps heavily. Nils also noted the two Germans, Franz and Lars Heinrich, whose eyes were never really on their poker cards. They were both tense, ready for anything.

Nils flattened himself against the wall for a few moments, then risked another look inside. Deacon and Brorsson were now speaking to Mackenzie (Nils would’ve given his disguise to hear what they were saying) and he found himself standing a little higher than recommended in this postion. He crouched, keeping Brorsson and Deacon’s heads in view, and mentally chided himself.

Brorsson suddenly turned away and left the hostel, leaving Deacon to speak to Mackenzie alone (save Wood and Hermann). Nils paid that no mind and concentrated on what Deacon was saying. As best he could, body language was not the most precise form of communication and failed espionage agents frequently.

He hadn’t the time to think this through. A sharp pain flared in the left side of his back. Nils nearly cried out, but the bald man clamped a hand over Nils’ mouth and drove the knife that he had kept concealed in his boot furthur into the INTERPOL agent’s heart.

Nils struggled for a minute, but as the blood failed to pump through his body, he lost his strength. And his life.

The bald man tossed the body down into the street, letting the rainwater spread the blood that had flowed from the wound. He looked into the window and nodded at nobody in particular.

Franz Heinrich noted it and put down a straight flush.

Chapter One

A Touch Of Blessing

.1.

Six years later, Kai Mäkelä’s life came crashing down upon him in a shower of glass.

He’d thrown the brick upwards to that pane of glass above his head. Why he had done it was beyond him – he didn’t even remember doing it. How it was even possible for that pane to exist as it did, without a frame or any stability, didn’t even enter his mind. He simply stared as the stone met the shining pane and fractured it at that one point. The fracture had spread like a spiderweb, ever-so-slowly and so constant – and all the while, the brick merely hovered where it had impacted the glass.

People around Kai ignored his act. They brushed by him, oblivious to the glass that was now slowly plummeting downwards, oblivious to his sudden scream of terror. He screamed upwards and he screamed outwards. And nobody heard him. And he screamed again.

The first shard hit the pavement by his left foot and exploded with a tiny ting. Kai looked down to this first drop of crystalline rain and felt his head pound quite suddenly and violently. His stomach lurched at the same moment.

His leg was bleeding.

Well, not bleeding. He wished it were that simple. A drop or two, two drops of scarlet that flowed down his leg, tickling as they left a trail behind, eventually merging until they finally rolled down his ankle and heel to the ground.

No such simplicity.

His leg was a veritable leaky tube. Blood was gushing out of countless wounds at a startling rate. Had there been four walls around him, a foot each side, he could be standing ankle deep in his own cooling blood.

The second shard of glass struck him directly this time. He didn’t feel it in his shoulder or his neck, where crystal debris lodged itself. He definitely didn’t feel it in his arm. That trusty limb was falling to the ground, separated from him at the shoulder. He heard the wet thump it made upon impact with the blood-sodden pavement.

No, he felt only the pain in his head, which was growing stronger and duller. And the queasiness in his stomach that threatened to make him wretch. Ralph. Puke. Vomit. Toilet Tango. Technicolor Yawn. Make Scrambled eggs a’la gut.

He didn’t, thank God. What it would’ve looked like to the people streaming by – but they still didn’t notice him, nor the blood that was drenching their briefcases, skirts, ice cream cone (vanilla no less). They merely walked on.

He didn’t wretch, but his stomach clenched nonetheless. He hitched forward, forced to look down at the mess he was making – blood, glass, skin, dirty pavement. It was a grisly sight to him – a medical student. He screamed again, his throat raw.

He was cut short. The scream died in his throat just as the largest shards of glass impaled him. Right through his back, through his spine, through his ribs, his stomach. One snatched his heard and tore it out of him. Blood erupted from his mouth (a few teeth too, he noted blearily) and he found himself staring down at his own heart, pumping furiously, gushing blood out of each ventricle. It was dying.

But he wasn’t. And unlike the first two shards that had hit him, Kai felt these three behemoths pierce him, one shattering inside of him, launching a thousand microscopic spears outwards, into every organ in his midsection. He could have named them all by the pain he felt, but he was more concerned with the heart that lay, now motionless upon the bloodied sidewalk.

The glass stopped falling now.

Crunch.

A leg Kai knew came into his view. An Italian loafer with a noticable scuff. A red-wine sock. Brown slacks that were an inch too short. The leg’s foot came down on a large chunk of shattered glass.

Crunch.

"You have failed, Mr. Mäkelä," said Professor Stilton’s leg (it seemed this way because Kai could not stand straight and address the face of his professor). "Because of your naivete and your carelessness, your patient is dead."

Kai coughed up yet another mouthful of blood trying to respond. He felt hands on his shoulders, heard a voice call, "Get up!"

He did. He shot straight up, nearly smashing heads with his roommate, Arthur Davenport. Kai looked around him, not believing that he was in his bed. He felt his arms (both were there) and his chest (not a scratch upon it), then groaned as his headache returned in full force. He flopped back against his pillow and grabbed his head.

"You’re bleeding Kai, are you all right?"

Kai could taste the coppery liquid and grimaced.

"I’m fine," he lied. "Just bit my tongue." That wasn’t a lie. It hurt a lot. But at least blood wasn’t flooding up from his internal organs.

He wasn’t fine. His head throbbed, his tongue throbbed, his disposition throbbed. What a nightmare! Something out of a King novel maybe.

What an omen, maybe?

"What’s the time?" he asked as he wiped a bit of blood from his lip and chin.

"A quarter past ten or so," Arthur said. He leaned over his friend and grinned. "The rest of your life begins in two hours and forty seven minutes."

Kai wanted to punch him.

He settled for beating the stuffing out of his pillow.

Oxford University was the ambition of medical students far and wide within the free world (or Europe at least). It was a pinnacle of excellence among the scientific institutes of Britain, the second oldest English University, one of the most famous in all the world. Alma mater of James Bond, Kai had noted when he had been accepted. The gate to his own future, Oxford.

That had been four years ago.

Today, Oxford posed as a genial institute of knowledge whose hands were outstretched to greet any who may want to learn within its famed walls. Beneath this, Kai knew now, lay a hideous beast awaiting a feast of young lives and their futures. Like an enormous Venus fly-trap genetically programmed to devour humans and let the flies have the laughs. Kai loathed it now, despised the way it made him...

Made him what? This thought pricked at him as he made his way up the campus path to the medical district. Not a winding path, but quite long – it took Kai nearly fifteen minutes to get to Professor Stilton's lair every day he had classes. He had a nice, long walk to think this thought over.

Well, the place made him many things. It made him feel things, and it made him appear to be many things. It also made him do things.

Those first two were quite important, especially the latter, if he wished to show his instructors that he was doctor material. More important than his feelings. By far more important. His feelings did nothing to guarantee his success in the field.

The young Finn had appeared to be many things to his instructors. Naïve to two of his instructors (neither of them Professor Stilton however). Mediocre to another (that had been Professor Hodges, usually a jovial character and easy to impress). Marginally competent was how the recently retired (or perhaps fired) Professor Edwards had described him. Edwards had been the Head of the medical program at Oxford since before Kai’s tenure had begun, until his affiliations with several students of the fairer sex had come to light. Served him right, Kai thought, giving a mental high-five to karma for that dish.

Oddly enough, it had been the word naïve that had struck Kai as the most embarrassing, the most standoffish of the three. Mediocre was such a drab word, even though it had come from one of the easiest men to please. Marginally competent was hurtful, but Kai had been suspicious of himself as a student of Oxford - suspicious of his true intelligence and place within the medical field. But naïve was something new to him. He hadn’t expected to hear it at any point in his career at Oxford, and now that two (two!) professors had expressed this as their initial opinions of him, Kai felt somewhat bemused.

That was one of the things that Oxford made him feel. Preoccupied, somewhat self-absorbed (in the sense that he was analyzing himself, trying to find his flaws) and always worried that he was about to foul up – that’s what Oxford made him feel.

Tell that to him just before sending off his submission all those years ago and maybe he wouldn’t be having dreams of glass raining down upon him.

Kai pushed his internal abuse aside at the memory of that terrible dream, pushed that too aside and tried to focus on the examination he was about to have administered upon him. Like some horrible, torturous mind fuck that would leave him bleeding from the ears and reeling while his eyes rolled in his head. He felt queasy again (and it was always queasy to him, not nauseous, nor was it ever ill, always the "q" word), and this time he was sure that he’d cook up some scrambled eggs a’la gut for Professor Stilton and his damnable exam.

He stopped and breathed deep. Pushed his mind away from his roiling stomach and already reeling mind.

Fuck me, I’m not ready for this one.

Not surprisingly, he served up a stinking breakfast dish in the bushes just outside of Professor Stilton’s office. Wiped his brow, unloaded again a moment later, then wiped his mouth. Went inside and to the W.C. to fix himself up.

Now Kai’s head was pounding. Drums thundered, beating on the thin membrane between his professional life and his personal life – a black metal hangover threatened to overtake him and he forced himself down to the sink to take even more water. Spat out foul tasting water, took in oh-so-sweet English tap (2006 was a good year, his brain bubbled) and swallowed. Cooled his skin with a damp paper towel, then re-evaluated himself in the john’s mirror.

Now, Kai was Scandinavian – Finnish to those who really forced the issue – and thus he was normally pale. Being in England for the past four years (during it’s moderately warm summers and chilling winters) had added a bit of color to his complextion. That color was now swirling down the drain with his breakfast – he looked like the lead singer of Belial Incumbent, Vraken Skor, beneath his layers of white corpse paint. There was a touch of discoloration beneath his eyes as well – lack of sleep – that didn’t really, but closely resembled the black metal motif.

He ran a hand through his hair – dirty blond it was called – and retied the ponytail that he’d pulled loose minutes ago. Wiped the wasted tears from his eyes – cobalt blue – and took several more breaths. At last, his thin frame began to calm, and the shakes began to fade.

Good, he told his reflection – what Olaf Mortensen had once called a blond Tuomas Holopainen or a Finnish Kurt Cobain – very good, you’re calming down. You’ll be fine, if you just relax and don’t think too hard on it.

Kai grinned into the mirror, carefully crafting a mask of confidence that would win Professor Stilton over. He took another deep breath and said aloud, "This is going to be the easiest exam of my life."

"Congratulations, Mr. Mäkelä. Because of your carelessness, your patient is dead. Your practice is now accountable for the loss of Mister Smith and you’re record is tarnished."

Kai bombed the practical.

"The incision you made in the duodenum was completely unnecessary and contributed to Mister Smith’s death. You fell for the trick question Kai."

Professor Stilton sighed and removed his glasses. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. Replaced his glasses.

"What in the name of Hippocrates is going on Kai?" He pointed to the door behind his student and said, "What happened in there is inexcusable. Had Mister Smith been a real life patient, you would have been thrown out of this place fast enough to snap your duodenum. Your mistake, a juvenile one at best, hasn’t been made in over forty years. This is something you learned on your first day of bowel resections. Doctors do not make that mistake Kai."

Kai winced, although Professor Stilton never raised his voice, merely emphasized the last statement.

"I don’t know what’s going on inside your brain," Professor Stilton continued, "I don’t know if maybe your cat died, or your mother’s sick, or vice versa, but you have to remember that this is a medical school. We train professionals here Kai, and for the past year, you’ve been slipping."

"I know," Kai said quietly. He wanted to collapse in on himself.

"It’s unacceptable."

"I realize—"

"This is life and death, Mäkelä," Professor Stilton said in an icy tone that was so very uncharacteristic of himself that he stopped. Thought for a moment.

Kai was looking away now, ashamed at the judgement call he had made. Such a simple procedure, first week material, and he’d fouled it up! And now Professor Stilton was disappointed enough to call him by his surname.

"I’m sorry, Kai, but this is the end. You’re finished."

Kai’s head snapped up (Whiplash!). "What are—"

"You knew that this could happen, we discussed this last month. I told you that this was your last chance to prove your worth."

Now Professor Stilton looked saddened by the prospect of having to expel Kai. What he lacked in the talent and common sense department he more than made up for in personality. Vic Stilton liked Kai, a rare thing for him when students were concerned. He’d come to the professor two years ago, when things were getting difficult, and had pretty much handed Stilton his future, a mound of clay in this suddenly abstract world, and asked him to teach him how to sculpt it. And now, here he was, handing the kid his future back, worked through and deconstructed, on the verge of hardening forever.

"You know that I’d try to talk the Dean into giving you another shot. But you also know about Oxford’s tolerance for low marks. And something like this…" He gestured to the door again. "It doesn’t win you anything."

Kai nodded, numb now from the shock his emotional system was experiencing.

"I’m sorry Kai, I truly am. But maybe your potential lies elsewhere." Stilton sighed again, then said, "I’ll have to forward the results to the Dean. He’ll give you a week to tie up and loose ends, and then you’re out of housing."

"I understand."

"Have anywhere to stay?"

Kai shook his head but assured, "I’ll find something."

Stilton frowned and shook his head. "I can let you leave Oxford without a steady place Kai, I can’t." He hesitated, wondering if he should even offer his couch to the kid. It wouldn’t be a hardship if Kai had a job, and besides, it would be a temporary thing, until Kai could afford to get back to Kitee, or whichever city it was he was from.

"I’ve got a flat in London, and I wouldn’t mind taking you in for a few weeks or however long you need to make a few pounds. I wouldn’t charge you much—"

But Kai was shaking his head. "No, I’ll be fine, Professor. My parents won’t like it much, but they’ll pay for the flight back to Finland. I know they will."

"All right then," Stilton said. He wasn’t convinced though. "I guess that that’s all."

The two of them stood at the same moment and Stilton put a hand out to Kai. They shook.

"It was a pleasure Kai. I just hope you find a better calling soon."

"Thank you, Professor Stilton," Kai mumbled.

"I’m not your instructor anymore, you can call me Vic."

Kai had to smile at that. "All right Vic. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me."

Too bad it wasn’t enough, Vic Stilton thought a year later, when it was all going wrong.

.2.

Kai got back to housing the next morning, hungover and depressed. Arthur, more a friend than just a roommate, had shaken his head, laughing silently before asking Kai what had happened.

Kai told him. After bombing the practical, and the talk with Professor Stilton, he’d caught a train into London and went pub-hopping until about five AM when he couldn’t take another pint (nor could his bank card). So he caught the train back.

"You look like shit," Arthur said, stating the obvious. "I don’t think even Olaf’s even looked so railed. You’ve set a new record."

"Please. Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Yell! Uhh…" Kai clutched his head. His poor, thundering head. Under ballistic attack.

"That’s why I don’t drink," Arthur remarked, rather smugly. "Get some sleep pal, you’re in dire need."

"You jerk," Kai muttered in Finnish, but didn’t mean it. He collapsed into his bed where twenty-four hours ago, he had awoken from a nightmare slash omen.

But this sleep was dreamless and lasted more than five hours. In fact, when he did rise, it was morning—again. Arthur was gone (classes probably), so Kai lounged in front of the tele all AM. At noon, he fixed up a quick lunch, then fixed himself up (aspirin and Pepto-Bismol, shower, dressed) and prepared himself for the call to his parents.

They wouldn’t be angry with him, they never were. No, they’d likely be more somber than anything, saddened that it hadn’t worked out for him at Oxford, that he’d spent his own money for nothing. That was one of the things he liked about his parents, they were always supportive of him, and kept their own experiences in mind. They wouldn’t mind paying a few hundred Euros to have him back home, would they? He could chip in himself – he had a small wealth in pounds here in England, and an even larger Euro fund back in Kitee.

So really, there wasn’t a whole lot of preparation for Kai to do before calling his parents. Maybe he just didn’t want them to feel so disheartened by his failure.

How bitter that felt to think of. Failure was not uncommon for Kai Mäkelä, nor was it common. But this was a grander scale than football finals or a science fair. His future was now on the cutter’s block, and Kai knew it. Medicine had been a dream of his since he was a boy of nine. He’d watched all those gory medical movies, watched the American shows like ER or Medical Investigations, even the antique MASH. He was a great fan of Robin Cook, had even met the man one time when he was fourteen. He’d lived and breathed biology and chemistry in high school and the day he had received his admissions package from Oxford, he didn’t hesitate to put down the tuition cost he’d been saving for since he had plowed the sidewalks on his block for the first time when he was ten. And now that he had proven to be a failure – such an ugly, apt word – he had no idea what was to come next.

Perhaps his parents would have an idea or two. They usually did.

He took up the phone and ringed his parents.

His mother answered after a third ring with a pleasant, "Hello, Mäkelä residence."

"Mother, it’s Kai. How are you?"

He smiled at her squeal of excitement, in spite of himself.

"Kai, how are you? And how was your big examination?"

"I’m all right Mother, although I didn’t do well on the exam… in fact, I failed it horribly. And now, I’m being forced out of Oxford."

"Oh Kai. Oh my little pacemaker, I’m so sorry to hear. That’s absolutely terrible. Terrible."

"I’ll be fine," he told her, knowing that it was a lie. "I’ve got a few days to get my things together before they kick me out." The way he was putting it made it sound worse and worse. "I’m coming home, all right?"

"Oh, of course! You know that you always have a room here! What day do would you like to be home? I will arrange the ticket."

"Oh, no, I have the pounds for it." But he knew that meant nothing.

"Nonsense, little one, I’ll purchase the ticket for you, you can pick it up at the airport."

"Mother…"

"I mean it Kai," and he knew she did. He supposed that he should treat it as a blessing, but it was his nature to feel bad for taking unnecessary charity.

"All right Ma, but I’m paying you back."

She chuckled, a sign to Kai that she was taking his news better than he was. He just wondered how his father would, although Kai knew quite well that his father’s disposition matched his mother’s.

"Will you be telling pappie or should I?" his mother asked, as if she were Nosferatu. It unnerved him to know how predictable his thought patterns were.

"You might as well, he’ll be asking why I’m coming home anyway."

"Yes, you’re right I suppose. Now, what day dear?"

Thursday, he told her. She told him that she’d speak to his father and arrange the ticket, told him that she loved him and couldn’t wait to see him next week. Hung up.

Arthur wasn’t very surprised by the reaction Kai’s mother had offered. He thought that Mrs. Mäkelä sounded like a damned good lady with a heart of gold, and a lady who understood this strange generation better than his own parents (his father owned a law firm in Bristol, his mother was a pharmacist, and neither had time for Gen-2000 mentality). Nevertheless, he had his own way of handling the upcoming departure Kai faced.

"London. Tonight and Tuesday night. There’s the Belial Incumbent show at the Astoria, remember?"

"Yeah," Kai said, now remembering the tickets he’d bought only three weeks before. What with the worry of his upcoming exam and his endless nights of cramming, the show had slipped his mind. He was excited now. A way to take his mind off of his failure (that burned to think about) and see his favorite black metal band live.

"Maybe Vraken will remember you."

"Yeah, it’s hard to forget a guy whose friend writes "I Wanna Score With Skorr" on their chest," Kai remarked.

"He told me he would," Arthur said, giggling through his dejected look.

"Sounds great Art," Kai said, sitting down. "I need to relax, thrash out a bit. Suffer the all time biggest black metal hangover ever."

"I hear that," Arthur grinned. He raised his right hand in a metal salute. "Bee-ly-al In-cum-boont!" he growled, black metal.

"And Tuesday?" Kai asked.

"Hit the Trough," said his roommate. "Olaf, Richard and Jo want to get railed with you one last time. Afraid they’ll never see you again."

"How touching."

"I know. Getting hammered with your buddies, projectile vomiting on statues and singing "God Save The Queen (For Me)" all night must be every Finn’s idea of the perfect send off."

"I’m sure of it."

Arthur snorted and starting phoning around, making arrangements.

.3.

They were in London by nightfall. They made it to the Astoria just before the door opened, and had to wait in the line for fifteen minutes before getting inside.

Arthur and his boyfriend Patric strayed off to the bar while Kai and Richard (a fellow black metal fan from his housing complex) mingled in the assembling crowd. Kai struck up a conversation with a pair of freshman girls who were at Cambridge studying physics. The ravenette, Felicia, kept turning her eye toward Richard, who kept turning his eye to Emma, the redhead whose attention was focused on Kai. Inside, he was cackling at this display of sexual mismatching.

Arthur and Patric joined the four (Richard had finally noticed Felicia), and just in time. The music playing over the PA cut out and the lights dimmed. The crowd cheered, waiting for the band to make an entrance.

"They better play ‘Consuming My Dark Half’," Patric said to Kai.

"Hope they cover Filosofem."

"What, cover Burzum you mean?" Richard snickered. "That’s all Filosofem is, a lousy Burzum rip-off."

"Listen to "Ruin Upon The Baltic Sea" and tell me they’re a Burzum rip-off," Kai retorted.

"Nah. I’ll call them an Immortal rip," Richard said. Arthur and Patric grinned.

"I happen to like Filosofem," Emma said. Richard blushed.

"Originality is rare these days anyway," Patric said. "It’s all been done—"

He was cut off by a deep, brooding vibe that played over the PA. An intro. Kai turned back to the stage and cheered with the rest of the audience as Brakgath, the drummer for Belial Incumbent, came out and raised his arms, heavy with leather and spikes, over his head and shouted something imperceptible to the audience. Then came Morghent, the bassist, wielding his wicked looking four string. The keyboardist, Ras-tel’tor (as was printed in liner notes and online, pronounced with a rolling R) lumbered out, not even noticing the audience, and stationed himself behind his rig. Next came the lead guitarist Shogun Zyh (the only Japanese in a band of Norweigens) and finally, Vraken Skorr, the mouth of the group and rhythm guitarist.

Kai felt his throat constrict when he saw that Vraken was not wearing corpse paint, something very peculiar. The face that greeted the audience stunned Kai. For a second, he wondered if that was Vraken Skorr onstage at all, or if he was some replacement singer.

"Greetings London!" confirmed that it was Skorr up there. There was no mimicking that voice. "I stand before you a new man. A man made new from—" Brakgath tapped his stick in the air, "—‘Demon’s Flesh’!"

They launched into the song from their last album (‘Great Oak Coffins Burn As Well’) and all questioning of Skorr’s odd appearance was drowned out by the intense drumming, riffing and wailing of Pagan black metal. Kai lost himself in the crowd.

There was a pause after the next two songs (‘Consuming My Dark Half’ and ‘Jesu’ Krieg’). Skorr, already sweating from his performance, addressed the crowd, who stood, rapt and hypnotized.

"Demons! Greetings upon all of you. It is an honor to return to you here in London!" He waited through a long stretch of fanatical cheering, then continued. "You see me without my mask for the first time, and for good reason. I come to you tonight, no longer Vraken Skorr. Vraken Skorr is dead."

Murmurs spread about the venue. Kvlt kids (those who lived black metal) wept, literally, while those like Kai, who were merely fans of the band, raised eyebrows, drinks or questions amongst themselves.

"You see before you Kristian Norberg, reborn in the faith of the Terrestrial Church Of God!"

.4.

Kai’s head was a war-zone the next morning. He couldn’t open his eyes as his mind submerged from its thick pool of drunken hibernation. Light from his window played down on his lids, and with a grunt, a moan and a deep breathe, he turned himself over onto his other side.

Something’s in my head, he thought despairingly. Something alive, with claws and teeth and a battle cry to match.

, he thought despairingly.

"Art," he mumbled, nearly dead.

"Eh?" came a reply, just as necrose.

"Are we alive?"

There was a hesitation before Arthur responded, "I hope not. I never want to feel this bad while I’m alive."

Kai eventually forced his eyes open. Focusing was another matter. Everything seemed distorted.

He blinked several times, then willed his arms to lift him, slowly, from his wrecked bed.

"Don’t move, Kai," Arthur muttered from his bed on the other side of the room.

"Why not?"

"It’s killing my head."

Kai ignored Arthur and stood. Fell back onto his bed from the dizziness that threatened to overtake him, then tried again. He staggered across the wooden floor, each step he took reverberating through his broken body, drilling his defenseless ears.

Black metal hangover.

He got himself some water and a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. Forced a pack of breakfast tarts down his throat, drank some more water, then sat on the couch, picking through the rubble of his battered brain.

The concert had ended somewhere around one, a fantastic performance played by Belial Incumbent. Most of the audience had been confused by Vraken Skorr – no, now he was Kristian Norberg – and his sudden proclamation that he was a reborn Catholic.

Not Catholic, Kai’s brain told him in a raspy voice. The Terrestrial Church of God, whatever that is.

In any case, this had left fans curious (some outraged – a few had stormed out of the Astoria in a Kvlt tantrum, one even threw his beer mug at the black metal singer, even though he sounded just as amazing as ever) and had raised questions. Kai was curious about it himself, but after the last song (‘Battle Upon Plains Of Bone’) he had little time to think about it – Richard, Arthur and Patric had started to drag him out of the venue. The four of them hit the pubs hard that night, harder than Kai’s solo exploratory the night before. Kai guessed that they had gotten back to campus around nine AM Sunday morning. Judging by the clock on the other wall, it was Monday morning.

Another twenty-four hour sleeping period.

Arthur, apparently, hadn’t enough sleep, and was now snoring.

As soon as he felt his hangover lighten a little, Kai showered and dressed, then headed out into the bright pre-summer day.

Professor Stilton had told him that the library and similar facilities were still accessible to him, until he left campus next week. That in mind, Kai decided to check Belial Incumbent’s web site to see if they had any word on Skorr’s – Norberg’s – sudden conversion. And he wanted to find out more about the Terrestrial Church of God.

He logged in at a computer near the washroom – wanted to be prepared if his hangover suddenly took a turn – and went to Belial Incumbent’s web page. There was nothing new there, the page was still black and "satanic", as far as web sites went. No Kristian Norberg mentioned, no Terrestrial Church mentioned. Only the most recent tour dates and an interview with Shogun Zyh, dated a day before the concert. Kai clicked the link and began reading.

Not much was of interest to him. The interview had been with Sonic Boom magazine, an indy mag that was printed out of Newcastle, distributed throughout the UK. The interviewer asked the same questions Metal Maniacs, Rock Sound and Terrorizer all asked: how’s the tour going? Any word from PETA on that hoax goat sacrifice? Plans for a live DVD release? Things that must piss the guitarist off after hearing countless times.

Two things caught Kai’s eye, however. Zyh was referring to Vraken Skorr as Kristian Norberg, something that Zyh nor any of the other band members had done before. He gave no explanation for it, although he was pretty sure that the interviewer had probably asked, only to be censored by the guitarist. Zyh also mentioned Norberg’s new faith and how it bothered him and Ras-tel’tor a bit (he explained that Morghent had fallen in with Norberg, and Brakgath just didn’t care – he was apolitical, and was just a touring drummer anyway). But he stated that Belial Incumbent was still strong, if not stronger, and thus Norberg’s religion was not a concern.

That was the only mention of the church on the site, and an indirect one at that. Kai felt disappointed, but supposed that there probably wasn’t a whole lot of news on the subject yet. He would hear more about it as things unfolded, he had no doubt about that.

He left a brief message in the band’s forum, asking anyone, either band member or diehard fan if they could explain the conversion to him, then began scouring the web for information on the Terrestrial Church of God.

He found what he wanted at terrestrialchurch-dot-org. A few clicks brought him to the mission statement and an introduction from a man named William Mackenzie:

"Dear reader,

I welcome you to the Terrestrial Church of God. My name is Father William Mackenzie, formerly of the Protestant Church of Oregon. I am the founder of this church, and I welcome you to join us in our search for truth enlightenment.

I founded the Terrestrial Church of God in 1994, after receiving a vision from the heavens that forced me to break away from the conventional facilities of the Protestant Church. I’ve established a center in Gothenburg, Sweden, and plan on spreading out toward the British Isles and North America once my message has reached those places.

My goal in life is to help people find the truth behind God’s creations and the puzzles he has set before us. With my help, hundreds of people have already found God’s love in places they did not know could harbor it. I have helped people to find meaning in their lives again, and to return them to the path of faith, from which a good number have strayed.

Over the years, I have been faced with skepticism and, in some cases, anger. I understand these feelings because I too have been in that position and I have learned from my experiences. I know what is taught through the Church, in all of its forms, and I respect them, if not disagree with them. I do not expect to be met with dedication straight away. All I ask of you is a chance to show you what I have learned from my first vision, and the ones which followed. I believe that I can change the world, given the chance.

Our next great congregation and convention shall take place in Gothenburg, Sweden in August. The Convention page (it was linked to said page) will have all the information you’ll need to make plans, if you wish to attend. I hope to see new faces there, eager to learn and enrich themselves.

I ask that you join me – us – in a world of greater learning.

God loves you all,

Father William Mackenzie

Kai reread the message, his mind now bubbling with questions. He felt his own skepticism rise at the idea of visions coming to this man, but realized how he was merely playing into the words before him. Besides, he knew nothing about this man. He couldn’t just assume that he was a lunatic, or a liar.

Kai explored the web site a bit longer, trying to figure out what the big deal with this church was. So the leader claimed to have seen visions. There was nothing here to explain what, exactly, the man had seen, and what he planned to teach with it.

What’s so special about it then? What made a proud Pagan like Vraken Skorr suddenly convert? As far as I can see, there’s no reason to. This sounds just like any other faith, or Christian denomination.

Kai was about to give up when he came across a photo of William Mackenzie.

It was a recent one – the date was marked on the bottom of the image (02/18/05). In it were two men and a woman. The larger man, on the right side of the picture, was tanned, tall and handsome, about thirty or so. His dirty blond hair was combed back, almost slicked and oddly, went well with the gray suit he wore. Kai could tell that he was a once active man gone to seed – he was a bit wide around the gut. He was a head taller than the other man in the photo.

The woman was absolutely gorgeous, and well aged. She must have been in her thirties, maybe her forties, without a graying hair in her lustrous black mane, which fell past her wait. Her smile was coy, inviting and most of all, alluring. The dark business skirt she wore was tasteful, cut just below her knees, and was topped off by a satiny white blouse. This woman was short, at least a foot shorter than the suit.

The second man, who stood between the others, appeared to be older than both of them were. Fifty perhaps, although he too had aged well. A bit of a belly, but aside from that, he had a full head of silver-gray hair, wide and bright eyes, and a kind face barely touched by wrinkles. He wore a white robe that made Kai think of a Catholic priest until he noticed an insignia upon the left breast:

(NOTE: Image was unavailable due to FP's editing. Sorry.)

Kai didn’t know what to make of it. He could guess that Mackenzie was the one in the center of the picture, the one with the eyes.

He found himself staring into the blue pools of Mackenzie’s eyes. As false as they were, merely an imitation of the real thing, those eyes bored into Kai’s mind. He saw trust and warmth in them.

He can’t be a bad person. Nobody with eyes like that can be crazy, or evil.

Before he knew what his hand was doing, the printer had spat out a copy of the photo. Kai picked it up and stared down at it.

It was curious. Somehow, he felt that meeting Mackenzie in person would help him understand. Maybe he’d be able to explain how his denomination was different from other, how it was not as conventional as the Protestant Church. And why Kristian Norberg was now praying to a God that he had refused to believe in only ten months ago.

Kai took down contact information for UK and Finnish residents. He also took down a few notes about the convention in Sweden, then logged off of the computer.

His hangover was nearly gone now, and he felt pretty good, which meant that it was time for a nice, hard workout. His mind still on the information he had dug up, Kai took the picture he’d printed and left the library.

Of course he told Arthur what he’d found – he felt that it was an obligation, what with Arthur being a fan of Belial Incumbent himself. He showed his roommate the picture and told him that he wanted to find out more.

"Kai, honey, I don’t mean to sound too blunt," Arthur said, "but you’re not exactly the most religious guy in the world."

"So?" Kai shrugged. "What about Skorr?"

"Well, he’s always been a fruit basket, you know that. But you Kai," Arthur grinned, "you’re a black and death metal enthusiast who gave up church when he was eleven to study science. Science that included evolution."

"That doesn’t mean that I don’t still believe in God," Kai replied. "In fact, I still read the Bible on occasion. Just because I don’t attend mass doesn’t mean I’m not a good Lutheran."

"But how will this guy, this Macdonald—"

"Mackenzie."

"Marconi, whatever. How will he take to all of that?"

Again, Kai shrugged.

"He probably wouldn’t let you join anyway."

"Who said I was going to join?" Kai shot back. "I just want some more information on it, and I want to get it from the man who runs the place."

"You really want to waste, what, two hundred Euro just to ask a twit about his cult? With the possibility of him either busting a nut laughing, or crucifying you? You really should get your noggin checked out pal."

Arthur sat down, across from Kai, not looking at his friend, but out the window.

"Seriously Kai, I don’t know about it. Visions? Higher learning? This sounds awfully shady."

Kai kept silent, growing irritated by Arthur’s assumptions. What did he know about Mackenzie? No more than Kai did, and Kai was willing to find out more about the man.

This silence was uncomfortable. Kai wanted to get up and leave, but he knew that it would just cause more problems, so he conceded and stayed where he was.

"I shouldn’t be trying to ward you away from this," Arthur said at last. "I mean, yeah, I don’t think that it’s a smart idea, but then again, I’m a cynic, an atheist and not exactly friendly with militant zealots who want to burn me at the stake for buggering men." He grinned sheepishly and faced Kai. "Maybe it’d do you some good to find your faith again. Even if it isn’t exactly conventional."

Kai laughed.

"Just," Arthur sobered now, "please, be careful Kai. If this does turn out to be one of those fanatical cults that are obsessed with aliens or cyanide, don’t get caught up."

A smile, warm and accepting, lit Kai’s face, and he promised, "I won’t Art."

---

All right, that's just a taste of it. Not even finished with chapter one yet.

Keep in mind that this is extremely beta. I have a lot of research to do and a lot of mistakes to fix, but I wanted to show what I had so far. I'm liking it right now. Let me know what you think, but please don't try to correct my grammar or spelling. Chances are I have it in there for a reason, or I haven't spotted it yet.

And let it be known that I now HATE FP's editing system. Ack.