Grace felt the tension ease out of her. That smile… it had been as much to reassure her as himself. This was not a man to fear.

The service ended with Brother Robert's plea:

"Give us a sign, Lord. Reveal the Antichrist to us so that we may confront him with Your holy power."

Then all twenty or so of the gathered Chosen stood and said the Apostles' Creed and a Hail Mary while they held hands. The newcomer neither stood nor prayed. As before, Grace kept her hands to herself while she prayed with them.

Suddenly she felt a tingling in her face. She turned toward the stranger and began to speak to him. To her horror the words were not her own. The language was alien to her.

The stranger started in his seat, his eyes wide as he stared at her. She tried to stop herself, but her voice went on, uttering those strange, incomprehensible syllables.

"Stop that!" he said. "You don't know what you're saying!"

Members of the Chosen were turning to look at her. Brother Robert hurried up, beaming.

"The Spirit is with you, Grace! Don't fight it! Give praise to the Lord!"

"She's not praising anything!" the stranger said.

"You understand the tongue she's speaking?" Brother Robert said, his eyes wide.

Before he could answer, the words stopped and Grace's voice was once more her own. The stranger remained seated as the worshipers drifted out, staring at him as they passed. Soon only Grace, Brother Robert, Martin, and the newcomer remained in the room. Brother Robert approached his chair and stood over him.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Veilleur," said the gray-haired man. "And you?"

"Brother Robert from the Monastery at Aiguebelle." Neither offered to shake hands. "You understand the tongue? What was she saying?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Don't be so sure of that," Brother Robert said.

Martin stepped forward. "Why did you come here? Why have you been lurking outside, watching us?"

Veilleur's face was troubled. "I don't know. I sense something here. I seemed to be drawn to this group."

Grace tried to place his faint accent. It sounded vaguely British, and yet not like any she had ever heard.

"You are not one of us," Martin said with a certainty that brooked no argument.

"Quite true. But who is this 'us' you refer to? Why do you come together here?"

Brother Robert said, "We come to praise the Lord and to prepare ourselves to do battle with His enemy. The Antichrist is among us. We await a sign."

"The Antichrist?"

"Yes. The Evil One has taken on flesh."

Mr. Veilleur stared at Brother Robert, then at Grace, who felt the weight of his gaze like a blow.

"So… you know."

Brother Robert nodded. "Satan has come to try to claim this world for his own."

"I don't know about Satan. But something is coming. What I don't understand is why you people have been touched."

Martin stiffened. "What do you mean, 'touched'? We are as sane as anyone else—saner, in fact!"

"I meant sensitized, alerted, made aware. Why you people in particular?"

"Why not?"

"Because you make a pitiful defense force."

"And I suppose you think you should lead us?" Martin said.

Mr. Veilleur's smile was sour as he shook his head. "No, I want no part of this. I'm out of it. In fact, I thought it was all over."

"It's never over," said Brother Robert.

"Perhaps you're right. I suppose I should have known that. But I'd hoped it might be."

"What are you talking about?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Brother Robert's eyes narrowed as he spoke in a low voice. "I have traveled far. I have looked into places good men were never meant to see. I have read the forbidden books—"

"Is that proper for a man of the cloth?" Veilleur said.

" 'Know thine enemy' is a wise saying. God may work in the world in many guises, but so does the devil. I have exposed myself to hideous evils and have turned away from them, never having the slightest temptation to release myself to what they offered."

Veilleur appeared to be studying Brother Robert. He nodded respectfully. "But one cannot tread those coals and emerge unscorched."

"True. The experiences have left me… sensitized, as you say. It is as if I've developed an extra sense, something like a sense of smell for the devil's work. And the stench of him is heavy here."

"Not here, exactly," Mr. Veilleur said. "Farther to the east."

Brother Robert stared at him. "You too?"

"As your friend here said"—he nodded toward Martin—"I am not one of you."

"I know that," Brother Robert said. "And yet… you are."

"Was. I was, but no longer."

As Mr. Veilleur stood, Grace stepped back. He seemed to tower over the three of them.

"Please tell me," Grace said. "What language was I speaking?"

"The Old Tongue."

"I've never heard of such a thing," Martin said.

"No one has spoken it for thousands of years."

"I don't believe you!" Martin said.

"Hush, Martin," Brother Robert said gently. "I believe him."

Grace looked into Brother Robert's eyes and for the first time sensed the enormity of the events taking shape around her. It made her weak. She turned to Mr. Veilleur. His eyes had a faraway look. He spoke, more to himself than to them.

"I don't know where he's been hiding these years, but now it seems he's found a way back."

"Satan has never been away," Brother Robert said. "But now he has taken human form for an all-out assault on humanity."

"Satan?" the man said. "Did I mention Satan?" He shrugged. "Never mind. The fact remains that you're going to need help."

"What kind of help?" Grace said.

"I don't know. Once there was someone, but he's gone. Now…"He paused and looked from Grace to Brother Robert to Martin. "Perhaps someone in your group is the key."

"Who?" Brother Robert said. "How can we tell?"

Mr. Veilleur turned and headed for the door. "I haven't the foggiest. But he'll have to be someone special. Someone very special."

And then he was gone, leaving Grace staring at Brother Robert and wondering who it might be.

Fourteen

Friday, March 8

1

"What's that song you're whistling, Father?"

Bill looked up and saw Nicky standing on the far side of his desk, all dressed and ready to spend the weekend with the Calders.

"A real oldie called 'It's a Great Day.' "

"What's so great about it?"

"Everything, Nicko. Everything. The sun's out, the work week is almost over, spring is only two weeks away. A great day from morning till night."

He felt almost giddy and had to rein in his feelings before they ran away with him. He couldn't share the details with Nicky just yet, but he had a feeling that come Sunday night they'd both have reason to celebrate.

Bill reached over his desk and straightened Nicky's tie. It was too red and too narrow to be fashionable, and it hung down below his tightly cinched belt, but it was the cleanest of the three red ties available. The collar of the white shirt was too big for his scrawny neck, and the sleeves of the blue blazer were too short for his gangly arms. The same was true of the gray slacks, which showed too much white sock below the cuffs.

All in all, a sight to give a Brooks Brothers salesman a case of the vapors, but it was the best they could do out of that motley collection of hand-me-downs and better-quality donated clothing they called the dress-up closet. But then again, Bill didn't want the kids going out on their home visits looking too well dressed. Nicky's attire screamed, Give this boy a home! And that was probably all to the good.

He was clean, that was the important thing. His dark hair had been washed and combed up in the front, which was a mixed blessing in a way—although it camouflaged some of the more misshapen aspects of his skull, it exposed more blackheads on his forehead. He had play clothes and some clean underwear in the battered canvas satchel on the floor beside him.