Forbidden by Gina Detwiler

Author:Gina Detwiler [Detwiler, Gina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: inspirational fantasy
Publisher: vinspirepublishing
Published: 2022-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

33: Into the Fire

Grace

Hours pass. It’s cold. No sign of Noah. What if they got him? What would they do to him? The possibilities make me shiver, and not just because I’m freezing.

Adam. Evil brat. I can’t get those cold blue eyes out of my mind. He probably got Maribel in trouble too, for not reporting us in the first place. His own mother.

I ponder what to do if Noah doesn’t come back. I can’t go back to Maribel’s house. My only option is to find the station on my own. I have a vague idea where it is, south of CERN. There’s got to be a main road that leads there. If I just head in that general direction, maybe I would find it before the Peacemakers found me.

But even if I manage to get to the station, how will I get on a train?

I don’t know what to do. So, I do nothing.

Then I remember that there is something I can do. Sing. No one can hear me but God and His angels. And other Singers, maybe. My Song is my prayer. My comfort.

I sing, letting the notes linger in the air, captured in the rustling of tree branches. I sing for what seems like hours, though I have no awareness of the passage of time. My eyes grow heavy, my mind clouds…I almost miss it when the Song sings back to me.

Ariel? Is that you? I’m delirious with hope. Maybe Ariel has returned to me, after all. I sing louder, echoing the melody.

“Grace?”

I hear the crackling of crusted snow, see knees and hands and then Noah’s face.

“Hi.”

I smile, though I want to burst into tears. “Hi.”

He pulls me out from the hedge and helps me to my feet.

“You got away.”

He shrugs. “Sorry it took so long. We better go.”

A man of few words.

Rather than riding through CERN, where we might encounter more drones or Peacemakers, Noah takes a circuitous route through the countryside of barren vineyards and lonely farmsteads, barely visible in the dull gray dawn. The closer we get to Geneva, the more my lungs squeeze against my ribs. We ride through a few abandoned neighborhoods into a complex of multi-colored buildings that look like Legos piled up in random formations. Small patches of lawn and newly planted trees line the sidewalks. Cranes and trailers indicate even more are being built. I have a feeling this is one of the Grigori’s progressive housing projects.

As we ride into the city the buildings get older, many of them heavily damaged and boarded up, and graffiti covers much of the classical architecture.

The train station takes up an entire block of the center city, a massive complex of concrete and glass. Small, egg-shaped vehicles—these must be the pods Maribel was talking about—cruise up and down like motorized computer mice, jogging for space with bicycles and electric streetcars. It’s the lack of noise that strikes me—no engines rumbling or horns honking. People walk briskly in and out of the station, some with their bikes, their faces covered, heads bowed, shoulders hunched.

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