Who Are the Night Angels? Marek Tells His Story

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

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In Book of Angels, readers find out more about who the Night Angels really are…and their terrible histories.

Here Marek tells his story to Sera, after a lesson in sword-fighting. It isn’t a pretty tale, be prepared…. The images it brings to mind are horrific. But the stories need to be told…the truth must be revealed.

MAREK’S TALE:

Marek drew close to me, so that I saw the fine sheen of sweat on his brow, still fresh from our practice. As usual, his expression was neutral but his eyes were cold and hard, the look I had seen in Peter’s eyes so many times when he remembered his past and the humans who had inhabited it.

“One night I overheard my master’s drunken conversation with his wife. The next morning he was going to send me to the Coptic priests at Abu Gerbe to be castrated.”

I shook my head and…

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WOMEN LIKE US…..

Giving me hope. The connections that we make around the world, through the power of writing.

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I’m very happy. Extremely excited. Grateful. Joyful. Happy.
I cried when my story got rejected by Farafina. I was broken and unhappy and sad. The greater heartache was when Adichie said she was looking for writers with “hearts”. I got over it and moved on and with some kind words from friends, I sent the story to http://www.coalng.com and it was published.

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THANK YOU, MICHELLE OBAMA

Photo is of Michelle Obama and her daughters in South Africa.

Thank you Michelle Obama for drawing our attention to the historical fact that the White House was built by slaves. This is something I never considered before. It is now an incredible picture that I will  forever hold in my mind.

I cannot even begin to imagine how amazing it must feel, as Michelle said, to wake up in the White House, every day with her daughters.

Smithsonian Magazine states that “ironically, the Statue of Freedom that sits atop the Capitol dome was made with the help of Philip Reid, a man enslaved by sculptor Thomas Crawford, who was commissioned to build the statue.”

That is irony, indeed.

We don’t know a lot about these slaves because they were not considered important. It is tragic to think that all these nameless and faceless people toiled to “make America great,” and no one will ever know their stories. I think about this in relation to women, too. Half the population of the world. Repressed and enslaved down through history. I often wonder what our world would look like if the ideas and innovations of women had been respected and encouraged. As an African American and a woman, with two daughters, Michelle Obama inspires me.

We constantly hear from naysayers that anyone still addressing the significance of slavery in the present day should just “get over it.”

That is shameful.

Fact is, the United States was built on not just slavery, but genocide. Having taught creative writing to youth in juvenile hall for years, I venture to say that slavery and genocide are still practiced in the United States. Every American with a desire to be honest has only to look at our prison system and see this to be true.

Germans and Jews talk about Hitler and the genocide. This is healthy. The death camps are open to the public. Monuments have been built so that it will NEVER BE FORGOTEN.

NEVER FORGET. That should be our firm resolve. As a child of ten, I walked through Dachau and will always be grateful to my parents for giving me such a profound experience. That hell is ineradicably fixed in my brain. I will never forget.

The stories of slavery, the stories of genocide…these are the stories we should tell our children so that they, in turn, can pass them down to their children, keeping the truth alive.

Having this history drawn to my attention by Michelle Obama gives me a new and more inspired perspective of an African American family waking up every day in the White House.

It is a story that should not be discussed with controversy. It should be celebrated and never be forgotten.

 

 

BOOK OF ANGELS COVER DETAIL

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

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Sharing this beautiful cover detail from Book of Angels. As an artist myself, I have great respect and awe for the artist, Jay Aheer. She puts her soul into her work! She definitely has captures my vision for Key of Mystery and Book of Angels.

Book of Angels for sale at Evernight Teen

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WHO ARE THE NIGHT ANGELS? Marianne tells her Story

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

In Book of Angels, readers get more insight into who the Night Angels are, from learning about their past lives. I thought I would do five posts, in the words of each of the Night Angels, telling their stories. The first is Marianne. After Sera’s Turning, in Strejan’s castle overlooking Lake Roza, Marianne sits with Sera in her room, at the top of a tower in the castle, and recounts her past….

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“I was twenty-six years old when I was turned into a vampire. On the edge of old age for those times. Before my Turning, I lived in a village by the sea, in the wild lands of Northern Ireland. My family were Druids. I was married to the gods and no man had ever touched me. We worshiped many gods and practiced human sacrifice. For you, in these days, it’s hard to understand. But for us, it…

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WHAT SAVES ME IN THESE TROUBLED TIMES

A BEAUTIFUL WORLD…AND A VIOLENT, FEARFUL HUMAN RACE

Here I am in this little Pueblo in Costa Rica, overlooking Lake Arenal. Book of Angels was just released, volume two in the Night Angels Chronicles, and I’m doing publicity. I have jumped into the infinity pool. Like Sera in the River Styx.

The cries of the suffering rise to heaven and I’m doing publicity.

Even as a child, I heard those cries. At night, I used to run to my dad’s study and plead with him to tell me why there was so much suffering in the world. But he could never give me a satisfying answer.

THE WORLD HASN’T GONE MAD, HUMANS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN MAD

The world isn’t mad. The world is just fine. Humans are mad and we always have been. Why is anyone surprised by what is happening in the world right now? Look at history! Look at the history of the human race FOREVER. It has been one act of madness after another.

The majority of people in the world! They suffer horribly and constantly, with little relief. If one child is blown up by a bomb; if one child is raped; if one child is told mercilessly, over and over for their entire childhood by a disturbed adult who also suffered horribly as a child, that they are worthless…that is one child too many and it can never be corrected.

We can’t make it better. There is no justice, only compensation.

BUT HOW ABOUT ALL THE INSPIRING STORIES OF SELFLESS ACTS OF COURAGE?

We love to hear inspiring stories of acts of courage. The problem is, in order for an act of courage to occur, something terrible needs to have happened. first We exalt people who perform courageous acts in war. But this is what I want to know: Why does a war have to happen, why does hell have to open on earth for us to start acting courageous? Why does someone have to be drowning so that someone else can save them?

Why does it have to be this way? Is it some kind of perverse spiritual law? Good and Evil, yin and yang must be balanced?

Action and reaction.

Something bad happens, therefor something good happens.

Lazarus died. Jesus took compassion and brought him back to life. How wonderful. But Lazarus died again, didn’t he? In fact, he had to go through the experience twice. Did he suffer again the second time? What was his second death like in comparison to the first?

I am most interested in how Lazarus felt about dying again. Was his fear of death worse or had it taken his fear away?

Because that’s what this is all about. The fear of death. The fear of the unknown.

FEAR OF THE APOCALYPSE

Christians talk about the apocalypse. It was a big topic in our family and in our church, one that struck hear into my heart. The elders claimed to be authorities on the apocalypse. Elaborate charts were made, based on in-depth studies of Revelations. The conclusions they reached came right from the mouth of God.

I have news for you. For the majority of people down through history, and for most people right now, they experience the apocalypse in their everyday lives.

Imagine telling someone in Dachau, “hey, no worries, the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet!”

Oh yes, it happened. It happened for the people in concentration camps; it happened in the trenches of WWI; it happened for those killed by Stalin.

It is happening in Syria, in Turkey, in Nigeria, in Lebanon.

For every police officer and every black man killed in the United States; for every child that is shot up in a school…they and their families have experienced the apocalypse.

It’s happening right now as I write. In Munich, shooters killing in a McDonald’s, and they say it’s happening in other locations in the city. If they turn out to be Terrorists, they are not afraid of death. I would like to learn more about this attitude towards death. Because, we are all going to die. They obviously have a different outlook towards what that means.

I’m trying to make sense of it. But really, how can I?

“Experts” analyze the “facts” and draw conclusions, even though they are just as disturbed as everyone else and just as influenced by their personal agendas. How quickly they are called upon and they gather around like vultures, feeding off the carcasses, because this their chance to make a splash in our media-driven society. Who wouldn’t want to rise above the masses, to make their life have a little more meaning by becoming the new pundit. Put a new spin on an old thought, so that people go, wow, this must be true. Get yourself on the hottest late night talk show and expound.

It’s the Hunger Games.

It’s the Roman Colosseum.

It’s American Football.

It’s the Nightly News.

SHADOW PUPPETS

Has anyone seen the movie, The Year of Living Dangerously? I watched those shadow puppets, mesmerized. It powerfully illustrates how blind we are, how we only understand the world through a “glass darkly.”

What then must we do? 

Life is suffering.

This modern-day obsession that we were born to be happy is a joke. What is that based on? Where is the proof? Show me. To believe this is an insult to every person who has grown up in pain and suffereing. It is an insult to every person who has grown up oppressed. I don’t think there are any children who when asked what they want to be when they grow up responds with: I want to be a murderer; I want to be a drug addict; I want to live in a ghetto and fear for my life; I want to be raped and tortured to death…. Every child wants the same things: a safe home; a family that loves them; food on the table; maybe even a story read to them at night. But most never know what any of that means.

I’m sorry, is that depressing?

TRAVELING INTO MOMENTS OF HAPPINESS

I don’t find it depressing. I find it to be liberating. It allows me to be honest. It means I’m not trying to fool myself out of desperation, or justify my elitist and separatists ideology.

If I can sit for a moment in peace.

If I can watch a sunset without distraction.

If I can find stillness  in the storm.

That moment is everything. It lives forever when I let it be. 

But the moment I start to think of that moment…it is gone. Another moment has taken its place. And then another. I can never capture a moment in time. I can only look back on it. But looking back is also another moment in my life.

MARTIAL ARTS TRAINING

I learned this in marital arts. I train to stay focused. To discipline my body and mind and to uplift my spirit. I train to feel, in each moment, that I am connected to the energy of the universe. It is my way of being. Everyone can find their own way.

TRAVELING

I travel for the same reason. To connect with life. I am free of possessions. I live simply and without constraints. In this, I have been fortunate. Most people don’t have such an opportunity.

MOMENTS PASS LIKE CLOUDS IN THE SKY

Each moment of pain or pleasure, joy or sadness, comes and then it is gone. They cannot be brought back. If I experience one moment of peace and joy, I am fortunate. I am blessed.

POWER CORRUPTS

Trump? Clinton? Do you really think anyone can reach that pinnacle of power without selling their souls to the highest bidder?

Imagine if we all shrugged and turned our backs on power. Imagine if everyone found beauty in small things.

When we pursue that path to the top, we are either destroyed by the journey or we slowly but surely compromise every bit of integrity we’ve ever had.

Of course, we tell ourselves that we haven’t. Humans are very good at telling ourselves stories and believing them with desperation.

At the end of the day. all the wealth and power won’t mean anything. We come into this world naked and we go out the same.

THE SECRETS TO THE ORIGINS OF LIFE

It is a mystery that I explore in the Night Angels Chronicles.

What if we could discover the Secrets to the Origins of Life? What if, by opening a book, we could gain the knowledge of God? What if we could answer the questions to the basic mysteries of life that, with all our supposed advancement, we are no closer to answering?

How Did We Get Here?

What Happens When We Die?

What IS Life??????

We see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face.

Should humans, in our present state, know the answers to these questions?

How dangerous would that be?

But perhaps, knowing the answers, we would then rise to the highest level of consciousness. So, what is keeping this knowledge from us and why?

Isn’t this lack of knowledge and our obsession with knowing the root of all our fears?

What saves me in these troubled times?

Nothing, absolutely nothing, except my accpetance that I don’t have the answers.

Right now, I am going to sit on my balcony and watch the sunset. And let it be…..

INTERVIEW AND GIVE-AWAY!

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

Reviews by Crystal, KH Mezek Interview

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An Illuminated Manuscript; an ancient city beneath Los Angeles, built 5,000 years ago by the Lizard People; a Queen imprisoned in the Life Box in St. Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai Desert; a castle in Slovenia; a medieval church hiding a dangerous mystery. Find out what happens to Sera in BOOK OF ANGELS, volume two of the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, as she continues her quest to find the tablet upon which is written the SECRETS TO THE ORIGINS OF LIFE.

Buy Book of Angels at Evernight Teen

Buy Book of Angels on Amazon

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Introducing Author Christine Potter!

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

This is the first time I am hosting an author of my website. I’m very excited to introduce to you Christine Potter, author of Time Runs Away With Her and the soon-to-be published sequel, In Her Own Time.

Christine and I found out we had something in common: a love of travel. Christine carries that love into her time travel trilogy. Bean, a 1790’s folk singer, gets to time travel and it’s pretty awesome to follow her adventures. I’m intrigued by Christine’s traveling life as well and wonder what her husband does for a living and I would sure like to find out more about that haunted house! Below is a little peek into the wonderful world of author, Christine Potter. 

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SEQUELS, TIME TRAVEL, AND WRITING ON THE ROAD

I am a former homebody married to a man who lives and breathes travel. I’m also a writer of YA Paranormal fiction–and…

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My Guest Post for Author Christine Potter!

My Guest Post for Author Christine Potter!

I want to thank Christine for hosting me. This is my first experience writing a post in an exchange with another author and it was fun! Here is my post about how my traveling experiences inspired Book of Angels and the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, with photos and everything! The photo featured here is the seventh century Swiss castle I lived in as a child.

Book of Angels Released Today!

Book of Angels $4.99 @Evernight Teen

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All Sera ever wanted to do was to solve the mystery of her dad’s death and find out if the Night Angel, Peter, really loved her. Now, there are bigger issues at stake. After being saved from death by the Night Angels, Sera returns to Oak Haven to find her brother, Salem, has been saved by her nemesis, the sinister Los Angeles mayor-to-be, Fabian Gore. Sera and Salem meet again, in their hometown, as powerful denizens. And as enemies. Someone is channeling power to the Queen, imprisoned in St. Catherine’s Monastery. If she escapes, the Ancient Ones will rise up from their sarcophagi beneath churches throughout the word and wreak vengeance on denizens and humans alike.

To thwart the Queen, Sera has no choice but to form an uneasy alliance with Gore. Meanwhile, Sera’s power and her connection to the Key of Mystery is growing. Only she can open the Book of Angels. But whoever does that will become something that Sera never wants to be: the Seventh Angel. How can Sera solve her own problems when everyone else wants her to solve their problems as well?

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Book of Angels in an Editor’s Pick.

Excerpt:

The next thing I knew, I had leaped into the air, my mind on St. Catherine’s Monastery, and I found myself hurtling through the Passage, horribly aware of every atom in my body and the indomitable forces of the universe that were trying to pull me apart.

As if it were a part of my very being, I held myself together, “remembered myself,” and traveled through the Passage.

Within seconds I was floating down from the sky, surrounded by the immense, desolate beauty of what looked like a moonscape. Except that the moon shone brighter and bigger than I had ever seen. Behind me, sand stretched, wave upon wave of it, with not a hint of grass or trees, while in front rose a sheer cliff, taller than a skyscraper. The monastery seemed to grow out of the rock, so closely was it pressed against the cliff.

“All looks peaceful,” observed Peter.

“Maybe too peaceful,” said Blanca.

Together, we jumped over the fortress walls, landing in the empty courtyard. We entered the sixth century basilica. We walked from the vestibule into the ornate nave and down the aisle, toward the sanctuary. I gazed in awe at the ancient artifacts and the icons shining with gold.  Hundreds of lamps hung from the ceiling like glittering galaxies, bathing the vast room in an eerie light. Out of the shadows the figure of the Abbot appeared, wearing a long gray robe and a cylindrical, flat-topped hat. His long black hair was tied in a knot at the nape of his head, a frizzy beard spreading out from his face ling tangled wire. His large, hooked nose resembled a bird’s beak and his dark eyes burned uncannily from deep sockets.

He greeted us with a humble bow and wordlessly led us through a dark and narrow arched doorway, and into a small circular, windowless chamber, padding silently on bare feet. The chamber was empty except for one plain wooden table. On the table sat the black lacquered Life Box, looking just as insignificant as the Object Holder had when I had first seen it and fought over it with Salem. This box, though, was about twice the size of the one that had held the key. And whereas the Object Holder had a gold lock and a tiny gold key to open it, the Life Box had no key and no visible way to open it.

On either side of the table stood two impressive Bedouin warriors. Each had one hand resting on a curved scimitar and the other hold the hilt of a knife, tucked into a belt. Their faces were lined and weather-beaten and expressionless, as if carved from the rocks of the mountain. The desert surrounding the monastery was home to many Bedouin. They were devout Muslims with a long history of guarding the monastery. They had made a vow to guard the Life Box with their lives.

The Abbot motioned for the Bedouin to stand at ease.

Bowing low to us, the guards said in unison, “Assalamu Alaikum.” It meant, “peace be upon you.”

Along with Peter and Blanca, I responded, “Alaikum Assalamu.” This meant, “upon you be peace.”

Like everything else in my crazy life these days, I had no idea how I knew to say that, but I did.

The Abbot didn’t speak, just gestured for us to gather around the box.

“He has taken a vow of silence and hasn’t spoken in thirty years,” said Peter.

My attention was drawn to the box. I realized it vibrated and hummed in an almost undetectable manner. Only when I remained completely still and stared fixedly did I notice it.

“This is does without stopping, and just today it gained in force,” said one of the Bedouin.

Sure enough, as we watched, the box jumped slightly, shuddered, and jumped again before falling back into its continual vibration. It hummed a little louder now.

As I watched in fascination, I slowly became aware that the key around my neck was growing heavier and beginning to burn.

The box vibrated more violently and hummed louder. As it did, it rose into the air and hovered about two feet above the table. The vibrating and humming grew so loud, I thought the box might split apart.

The key was searing my skin and I yelled in pain. I tried to tear it off but it was stuck to my chest and my hand burned when I touched it. I felt the Queen’s presence, reaching out to me. It was pure evil and I felt attracted to it. I wanted to bow down and worship the Queen, give her the key. I became brutally aware of her perfections and my own failings. I loved the Queen! I despised and hated myself! Horrible thoughts rose in my mind, the impulse to do horrible things.

Blood was pouring from my eyes. Tears or something worse, I didn’t know.

“Take me away!” I cried out to the others. “She’s grabbing at me. Take me away. Please!”

The Bedouin had drawn their swords and whipped out their daggers, but there was nothing they could do except stand there, at the ready. Blanca and Peter had drawn their swords, too. They’d placed themselves as a shield between me and the box. The Abbot ran in front of us all and pushed Blanca and Peter back.

He turned to face the box, as if bracing himself against a great wind, and raised his hands to heaven to pray.

Peter and Blanca were then able to pull me out of the chamber. I don’t think I could have moved before the Abbot faced the box. As soon as we were back in the nave, I collapsed onto the ground, gasping great gulps of air, thankful to find the heat of the key subsiding. With a great cry, I tried to take it off, but it was stuck. Completely stuck now. To my skin.

“Fuck this key! Why am I cursed with it?”

My entire body was bathed in read sweat. I looked down at myself in horror. What had I become? What nightmare had I entered? I pushed back my hair and swallowed, my throat dry and constricted. I breathed in and out deeply.

“She’s getting stronger all the time. She’ll get out. Maybe soon. And I was going to help her!” I shuddered.

“But you didn’t,” said Peter.

“At least now we are sure she is still inside,” said Blanca.

“She won’t stay there.” I could see my fate as I had already seen it in my Turning, and it was clearer than ever. One day I would face the Queen.

And I would fail! How could I not when she was so easily able to deceive and confuse me?

One of the Bedouin exited the chamber. “The Abbot wants you to know he is now sure someone is channeling power to the Queen, but he cannot see who.”

“It’s just not possible,” said Blanca.

The Bedouin bowed respectfully. “I only tell you what the Abbot believes.”

“Thank you,” said Peter.

He bowed again and returned to the nave.

“He’s right,” I said, as we walked out of the sanctuary and into the vestibule. “She and her sons will kill me and take the key.”

“Coward!” Blanca kicked the church door open with her foot. “We might as well be protecting a pile of trash. If it weren’t for the key around your neck, I’d kill you myself.”

For the first time, Blanca’s words didn’t bother me. “You can call me what you want, I don’t care. But you better listen because she will escape and we won’t be able to stop her. We need to figure out what to do instead of arguing all the time.”

“Well said,” said Peter. “Let’s get back to the castle and tell the others.”

We were outside of the basilica now and we stood for a moment, surveying the courtyard, the full moon casting eerie shadows across the ground. I looked more carefully and saw that some of the shadows moved like living things.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Peter and Blanca looked up at the sky and I did the same. A gathering storm of wispy black tendrils snaked across the sky, mirroring the moving shadows on the ground.

“What the hell…” I said.

“Wind demons,” said Blanca.

I looked at Peter inquiringly. “Seventy-two demons were captured by King Solomon and then released by mistake. Up there you see maybe twenty of them.”

The Abbot and the Bedouin had joined us in the courtyard.

“We have never seen them here before,” said one of the Bedouin.

“And so many,” said Peter. He sighed. “I hate wind demons.”

The Abbot was motioning us to follow him. We hurried across the courtyard, which was now filled with a howling wind, the shadows of the wind demons slithering back and forth across the stones like snakes. A group of monks appeared, running in the opposite direction, heading for the church.

“They will pray,” yelled one of the Bedouin above the din.

This was not making me any happier. I had just escaped the clutches of the Queen and now I had to contend with wind demons? Was there no end to the problems I had to face in one day?

The Abbot led us into the Fatimid Mosque that stood across from the church. Standing on its own, opposite the gigantic bell tower was the minaret and we entered and climbed swiftly up the stairs. It was from this highest point that the muezzin sang across the desert, calling the followers of Islam to prayer, five times a day. We climbed out onto the little platform that ran around the top of the minaret, and from here, I felt the full force of the gale. The shadows screamed and I could see cavernous, greedy mouths appear and disappear as they whipped around the tower, creating a whirlpool of darkness. Only when I looked straight up could I see clear sky and stars. But that opening was growing narrower by the minute. All around was completely empty of light, as if the very sky itself had been sucked into a giant black hole of whirling mouths and tails, into which we, too, would be sucked if we tried to fly upwards.

Peter and Blanca unsheathed their swords and I did the same.

Peter pointed with his sword. “We must fly straight up. They don’t dare come to c close to the minaret.”

The Abbot nodded, making motions that we should hurry.

“Put your sword away,” Peter said.

I began to object, then obeyed. This didn’t seem like the time to argue.

He gripped my arm. “Listen carefully. Jump onto my back. Once we’ve achieved the Passage we’ll be safe. Until then, you must hold your breath–don’t breathe, understand? If you do, the shadows will enter and steal your soul.

I nodded, terrified.

I jumped onto his back and held on tightly.

The Abbot raised his arms, while the Bedouin brandished their swords at the swirling darkness. It seemed to abate a bit, and Peter and Blanca seized that moment to leap into the air. I breathed in deeply and held onto my breath.

All was chaos in the tunnel through the shadows, the terrible wind trying to push us back. down, a screaming noise, like a thousand pigs being gutted. Flying straight upwards, the two Night Angels fought the demons with their swords, slicing into the tendrils that tried to encircle them.

I was sure we had almost made it when I felt an icy tendril touch my leg. I almost opened my mouth to scream. As it was, I let go of Peter with one arm and tried to reach down to bat at the tendril. I felt myself slipping halfway down his back and scrambled to pull myself back up again.

I was falling!

The snaky thing had my ankle now. I tried to kick with my foot to shake it off, while struggling to get a better hold on Peter. I was growing weaker. I had to take a breath. My chest was exploding.

And then, the Passage was achieved and we were through. I pushed away from Peter with relief, feeling the now familiar force of my molecules trying to split apart and me holding them together as we rocketed through space and time, landing within seconds in the little garden of the castle.