by Nic Widhalm
In his reverie, Valdis failed to notice several things: the quick glare that lighted Jackie's face when Hunter laid his arm across Karen's back; the furtive glances tossed back and forth amongst the remaining members of the Order of Venus; or the zeal that blazed in Eli's eyes every time he looked on Hunter.
Valdis was lost in a memory as he looked down on the ruined street. His father, silhouetted against the light coming from the front door, his back to his bawling six-year-old son as he walked away for the last time.
As he walked away to serve them! Valdis thought, and for a moment his smile faded. Then, remembering what he had in his pocket, his grin returned, and he nodded silently to himself. Looking over he saw Hunter, pain and fatigue written in bloody lines across his face. Valdis felt a tinge of remorse for the Apkallu, knowing what was ahead of him—knowing where the priest would have to lead him.
But he won't be able to leave me now. Not if he wants his Sword. Valdis turned back to the ruined street below, trying his hardest not to laugh.
No one was leaving him again.
EPILOGUE
"My lord?" Yahriel's whisper echoed through the domed room, causing the Adonai to cringe momentarily. The heavy silence had penetrated his bones these last three hours, until Yahriel had become half certain he would never hear a sound again.
Risking a brief light, Yahriel turned on the flashlight for a moment, his eyes squinting against the sudden glare. The rough angles of rotted furniture and ancient cloth swam into view as Yahriel swung the flashlight across the chamber—a room that hadn't seen light, heard laughter, or felt the brush of a cleaning cloth in almost a hundred years.
Reassured he was alone, Yahriel sighed and turned off the light. Back to waiting. At this rate it would be another three hours before—
Yahriel shrieked as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. The thick-set Domination jumped, turning in mid-air and landing against a pile of rotted wood. He heard a sickening crunch, as whatever ancient furniture he had landed on gave way, spilling Yahriel to the dusty floor.
He thumbed the flashlight back on. In the sudden light, Yahriel saw a hand snap back and cover the eyes of a tall, incredibly thin figure.
"Off," a low, thick voice commanded. Without thought Yahriel's fingers switched off the light.
"I'm...I'm sorry, my lord. You startled—"
"The boy?"
Yahriel blinked in the sudden dark, trying to follow the tall man’s question. "I'm sorry, my lord. I don't understand."
Powerful hands seized Yahriel's shoulders, yanking him to his feet. "The boy?" The voice demanded again, the question slow and thick like a man waking from sleep.
"The Power?" Yahriel asked, thinking on something Bath had said last week. The Cherubim had been railing about the Power, Hunter Friskin. Yahriel couldn’t remember ever seeing Bath so off-kilter.
The hands released him suddenly, and a thick, syrupy cough rumbled through the dark. It took Yahriel a few seconds to realize it was laughter.
"Take me to Mika'il," the voice finally said as the strange laughter faded into the dark.
Yahriel's eyes bulged. He was suddenly grateful for the blackness that hid his expression. "My lord, do you think that’s wise? I'm not sure she would…welcome you."
Laughter again, slow and heavy. "She'll see me. She's been waiting."
Yahriel opened his mouth to ask, then thought better of it and merely nodded. It was not his place to question the will of Seraphim. Holding his arm so the thin fingers of his lord could find him, Yahriel led Gavri'el out of the dark crypt and into the sunlight.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say writing a debut novel is like giving birth for the first time. I’ve never given birth personally, but my wife has, and I feel comfortable saying she had the harder task. That said, many people helped usher my little story to publication, and without their help I would have never made it this far.
The Tenth Order actually began seventeen years ago with my father. He had this crazy idea of Earth serving as some angelic M.A.S.H unit, and kept telling me to write an outline for a story. I put him off and put him off, and finally gave in one day and wrote a truly horrendous synopsis of what I called, “Angel in Disguise.” He read it, gave me a thumbs up and never asked me to write an outline again.
Twelve years later I decided to write a book. I had no idea what I was doing. No idea what “write a book,” even meant, but I dived in head first, none-the-less. I scoured my idea folder, wrote tentative outlines for three different novels, and finally landed on my old treatment for “Angel in Disguise.” It was bad, but not without some merit. My dad was right—the idea was solid.
So I spent five years writing the damn thing, and when it was done I gave him the first draft. He smiled…and gave me a thumbs up. That’s when I knew I needed help.
This book could never have been made without my father, so he gets the monster praise. That said, there are a number of people who helped shape The Tenth Order, and I am forever in their debt.
Carol Berg, who took time out of her schedule to sit with a beginning writer and show him exactly what was wrong with his story. Carol is an incredible writer, and deserving of every bit of praise she’s earned over the years. What she taught me in that short session forever changed my writing and made me reevaluate everything I thought I knew about story craft.
Madison and John, co-workers who were the first to read a very rough draft of my story. Their encouragement kept me going when the road seemed longest.
My critique group, Kay and Steve, who cut right to the heart of Hunter Friskin and asked what made him tick.
Doug, Rob, Zach and Hahn, friends who never complained when I sent them the fifth draft of a back-jacket copy and asked for suggestions. They read every draft, didn’t pull the punches, pointed out flaws, continuity errors and character issues, and never stopped encouraging me to just publish the damn thing.
My beta-readers, Amy and Sean, who caught the final typos, even when I was sure the novel was finished.
My mother and sister, who kept smiling despite hearing me talk about the same story for seventeen years.
And finally, most importantly, my wife, Carleen and my incredible children, Alexa and Derek. I told Carleen I was a writer before I ever proposed. I warned her there would be times I would suddenly start day-dreaming or rush off to the computer with no warning. I was certain she didn’t know what she was getting into when she married me, but over the last eight years she has continuously proven me wrong. There is no way I could have written this novel without her help. No way I could have made it through the long nights, the second-guessing, the massive re-writes, plot hijinks, characters who wouldn’t behave and general insanity of holding together an entire world in my head without her support.
My children had no say in the matter, so they deserve the most thanks of all.
But of course, a writer is nothing without an audience. So I thank you, dear reader, for coming this far. For making a dream come true by taking a chance on this not-so-little novel. Stick with me and I promise—the best is yet to come.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nic Widhalm spends much of his time thinking about writing. He spends less time doing it. When he’s not thinking about thinking about writing, he thinks about a cappella music, and performs with the professional vocal ensemble, Curious Gage.
He lives in Northern Colorado with his beautiful wife and two, feisty children.
ONLINE LINKS
Nic Widhalm is Mad: www.nicwidhalm.com
Facebook: facebook.com/NicWidhalm
Twitter: twitter.com/NicWidhalm
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/NicWidhalm
100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share