“Who are you?” the boy asked dully, mesmerized by the miraculous flame, which appeared to be taking on the shape of something else entirely.

The stranger looked upon him with eyes black and glistening, his expression void of any emotion. Eric could see himself reflected in their inky surface.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked pathetically.

The stranger cocked his head oddly. Eric could feel the heat of the flame upon his upturned face.

“What was it the monkey apostle Matthew scribbled about us in one of his silly little books?” the man asked no one in particular. “ ‘The Son of Man shall send them forth, and they shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and those who do evil, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire.’ Or something to that effect,” he added with a horrible grin.

Eric had never seen anything more unnatural. It was as if the stranger’s face lacked the proper musculature to complete the most common of human expressions.

“I don’t understand,” he said in a voice nearly a whisper.

The man moved the flaming object from one hand to the other, and Eric followed it with his eyes. The fire had become a sword.

A flaming sword.

“It is better that you do not,” the man said, raising the burning blade above his head.

The boy watched the weapon of fire descend, his face upturned as if to seek the rays of the rising sun. And then all that he was, and all that he might have become, was consumed in fire.

Aaron Corbet was having the dream again.

Yet it was so much more than that.

Since they began, over three months before, the visions of sleep had grown more and more intense—more vivid. Almost real.

He is making his way through the primitive city, an ancient place constructed of brown brick, mud, and hay. The people here are in a panic, for something attacks their homes. They run about frenzied, their frightened cries echoing throughout the cool night. Sounds of violence fill the air, blades clanging together in battle, the moans of the wounded—and something else he can’t quite place, a strange sound in the distance, but moving closer.

Other nights he has tried to stop the frightened citizens, to catch their attention, to ask them what is happening, but they do not see or hear him. He is a ghost to their turmoil.

Husbands and wives, shielding small children between them, scramble across sand-covered streets desperately searching for shelter. Again he listens to their fear-filled voices. He does not understand their language, but the meaning is quite clear. Their lives and the lives of their children are in danger.

For nights too numerous to count he has come to this place, to this sad village and witnessed the panic of its people. But not once has he seen the source of their terror.

He moves through the winding streets of the dream place, feeling the roughness of desert sand beneath his bare feet. Every night this city under siege becomes more real to him, and tonight he feels its fear as if it were his own. And again he asks himself, fear of what? Who are they who can bring such terror to these simple people?

In the marketplace a boy dressed in rags, no older than he, darts out from beneath a tarp covering a large pile of yellow, gourdlike fruit. He watches the boy stealthily travel across the deserted market, sticking close to the shadows. The boy nervously watches the sky as he runs.

Odd that the boy would be so concerned with the sky overhead.

The boy stops at the edge of the market and crouches within a thick pool of night. He stares longingly across the expanse of open ground at another area of darkness on the other side.

There is unrelenting fear on the dark-skinned youth’s face; his eyes are wide and white. What is he so afraid of? Aaron looks up himself and sees only the night, like velvet adorned with twinkling jewels. There is nothing to fear there, only beauty to admire.

The boy darts from his hiding place and scrambles across the open area. He is halfway there when the winds begin. Sudden, powerful gusts that come out of nowhere, hurling sand, dirt, and dust.

The boy stops short and shields his face from the scouring particles. He is blinded, unsure of his direction. Aaron wants to call to him, to help the boy escape the mysterious sandstorm, but knows that his attempts would be futile, that he is only an observer.

And there is the sound. He can’t place it exactly, but knows it is familiar. There is something in the sky above—something that beats at the air, stirring the winds, creating the sudden storm.

The boy is screaming. His sweat-dampened body is powdered almost white in a sheen of fine dust and desert sand.

The sounds are louder now, closer.

What is that? The answer is right at the edge of his knowing. He again looks up into the sky. The sand still flies about, tossed by the winds. It stings his face and eyes, but he has to see—he has to know what makes these strange pounding sounds, what creates gusts of wind powerful enough to propel sand and rock. He has to know the source of such unbridled horror in these people of the dream-city—in this boy.

And through the clouds of fine debris, he sees them. For the first time he sees them.

They are wearing armor. Golden armor that glistens in the dancing light thrown from the flames of their weapons.

The boy runs toward him. It seems that Aaron is suddenly visible. The boy reaches out, pleading to be saved in the language of his people.

This time, he understands every word. He tries to answer, but earsplitting shrieks fill the night, the excited cries of predators that have discovered their prey.

The boy tries to run, but there are too many.

Aaron can do nothing but watch as the birdlike creatures descend from the sky, falling upon the boy, his plaintive screams of terror drowned out by the beating of powerful wings.

Angels’ wings.

LYNN, MASSACHUSETTS

It was Gabriel’s powerful, bed-shaking sneeze that pulled Aaron from the dream and back to the waking world.

Aaron’s eyes snapped open as another explosion of moisture dappled his face. For the moment, the dream was forgotten and all that occupied his mind was the attentions of an eighty-pound Labrador retriever named Gabriel.

“Unnngh,” he moaned as he pulled his arm up from the warmth beneath the covers to wipe away the newest spattering of dog spittle.

“Thanks, Gabe,” he said, his voice husky from sleep. “What time is it anyway? Time to get up?” he asked the dog lying beside him.

The yellow retriever leaned its blocky head forward to lick the back of his exposed hand, his muscular bulk blocking Aaron’s view of the alarm clock.

“Okay, okay,” Aaron said as he pulled his other hand out to ruffle the dog’s velvety soft, golden-brown ears, and wiggled himself into an upright position to check the time.

Craving more attention, Gabriel flipped over onto his back and swatted at Aaron with his front paws. He chuckled and rubbed the dog’s exposed belly before training his eyes on the clock on the nightstand beside his bed.

Aaron watched the red digital readout change from 7:28 to 7:29.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Sensing alarm in his master, Gabriel rolled from his back to his stomach with a rumbling bark.

Aaron struggled from the bed, whipped into a frenzy by the lateness of the hour.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,” he repeated as he pulled off his Dave Matthews concert T-shirt and threw it onto a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room. He pulled down his sweatpants and kicked them into the same general vicinity. He was late. Very late.