Bloomfield Hills was an older, prestigious neighborhood, and many of the mansions had been built by the auto-industry moguls of the past. As we approached the stately home, its exterior a combination of red brick and limestone, I got the sense of American nobility.
Once Brother Elijah parked, I waited until Jacob opened my door. As soon as he did, I read the panic in his eyes. He’d told me more than once that he’d never been invited to the house, and here we were, about to enter. I’d seen the back of the house and the limestone balcony from the outbuilding, but up close it was even more stunning, showcased by the landscaping and the fountain in the center of the driveway.
As we walked up the steps, the door opened. At first I wondered whether it was on a sensor, but then I saw the woman who had opened it. She stood silently beside the door, and though she was never acknowledged, the blue scarf around her neck caught my attention. Other than that small bit of color, her plainness made her invisible. She never looked up, but in a few seconds I took in her fair complexion and the way her dark hair was secured in a low bun. The way she stood statuesque wearing a knee-length white shapeless dress and soft flat slippers facilitated the illusion that she didn’t really exist.
As I entered the mansion, my senses on high alert, as if I were preparing for a story, I took in everything from the high two-story foyer with the domed ceiling and large chandelier to the mirrored set of curved staircases. With each step our shoes echoed against the opulent marble tile as Brother Elijah led us down a hallway. We came to a stop outside a set of French doors, their windows filled with thick ornate beveled glass, making it impossible to see inside.
As we stood, I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. My mouth was suddenly dry, a contrast to my palm in Jacob’s grasp, which slid against his, clammy with perspiration. Brother Elijah’s knock shattered the reverberating silence as the recurring rap of his knuckles ricocheted off the intricate woodwork and marble floors.
Without lifting my eyes, I knew who’d opened the door. The faded jeans and boots were my first clues; the way Jacob’s hand flinched, tightening his grip, was another.
“So nice of you to join us,” Dylan said condescendingly as he opened the door.
Together we stepped over the threshold onto incredibly soft carpet. It was deep red, the color of blood. I tried to push that thought away. Brother Elijah entered last and shut the door. When I glanced in his direction he was standing with his arms crossed over his large chest, blocking our only means of escape.
What the hell? Did he think we’d try to run away?
I turned away from the door in time to see Dylan sit in a chair beside Father Gabriel. They were both on the other side of Father Gabriel’s desk. From the way Dylan leaned back with his ankle resting on the opposite knee, I knew Jacob was right. Dylan and Father Gabriel were somehow connected. I’d never seen anyone appear as casual around the leader of The Light.
I waited to be told where to go before I looked up; however, we weren’t directed to do anything. Instead we were left standing while Father Gabriel remained silent. When I gazed upward and my eyes met the piercing blue of my memory, my head tilted questioningly to the side, and then I shook my head, so fast it would be almost imperceptible, and lowered my gaze.
“Brother Jacob and Sister Sara,” Father Gabriel began, “is there anything you’d like to say?”
“No, Father,” Jacob replied.
“Sister?”
My breaths became shallow, and the room spun. “No, Father.”
Dylan stood and stepped toward us. Just as quickly Jacob pulled my hand, moving me behind him as he stepped in front of me, blocking Dylan’s path. Though Jacob didn’t speak, from the way his body tensed and the closeness of their shoes, I envisioned the two men standing chest to chest. I was sure Jacob was taller than Dylan, but after what had happened yesterday, I feared that wouldn’t stop Dylan from being the aggressor. As the silence grew, I closed my eyes and bit my lip.
“Gentlemen,” Father Gabriel said, breaking the quiet. “That is not why I asked Brother Jacob and his wife here this morning.”
At the phrase his wife, Jacob’s grip loosened.
“Dylan, you’ll have plenty of time to speak with Sister Sara. First we have business.”
“Father, I’d prefer for Sara—”
“Brother Jacob,” Father Gabriel interrupted, “I told you yesterday that I had questions. Dylan”—his tone became impatient—“sit down or leave.”
I swallowed.
Why am I here? Why am I involved in this?
When Dylan sat, Jacob stepped to the side and pulled me forward. Once again we were standing side by side. Raising my eyes, I kept them locked on Father Gabriel.
“Brother Jacob,” Father Gabriel continued, “since your entry into The Light, I’ve been impressed with you and your ability to learn quickly. You’ve known that, though, haven’t you?”
“I’ve done my best to please you, Father.”
“I spoke to Brother Michael.”
Who is Brother Michael?