Well, I spent most of today thinking about it, finagling, and basically deciding that I needed to fix a couple of chapters, but I would continue on in the same vein I've been working in. So, with that in mind, I fixed, quibbled, emailed Vicki a hundred times, and ended up right where I was supposed to be.

Want an excerpt? I haven't posted one since I began this rewrite...

The first order of business after the pain dulled to a low roar was to wrap his ribs with strips from the blanket that lay crumpled under the cot. Sarah had a small pocketknife in her purse that helped tremendously; otherwise Michael would not have been able to cut the fabric into strips.

He tied a layer of padding over his bruises, wincing as the rough cloth rubbed against his wounds, and slowly stood. The stack of boxes behind him served as support until he thought his legs would hold him.
He walked to the door, testing each step before he put his full weight on his legs. His right leg did not buckle again, but it would not last for very long.

And the cross continued to glow.

He stopped in the doorway and peeked out, expecting to see a sign of his captors, but the bookstore was quiet, mundane and dusty. Sunlight streamed in the front windows, driving the shadows away from the door.
The door. Michael couldn't tear his gaze away from it. He took a step past the counter, tensing for a blow, and did not relax until he stood in the path of the sunlight.

The heat warmed his skin. He closed his eyes. For one short moment, he could imagine freedom, and the ability to open the door and walk outside. For one short moment he could dream.

"You can't escape," the voice said from behind him. "Even with that bauble, you can't escape."

Michael spoke without opening his eyes. "But I can try."

"Why do you insist on trying when you know you will fail?" the voice snapped. "Desist! You will never succeed!"

"But I have to try, don't you see?" Michael blinked and squinted into the shadows. "I have to try. If I don't; if I give up, then I'll spend the rest of eternity wondering if I could have escaped."

"You were not so foolhardy before," the voice said. "Do you need another reminder of why you will not succeed?"

Michael held up the cross. The glow strengthened. The sunlight paled in comparison.

"You cannot stop us with that."

Perhaps he could not. He tried not to let fear color his voice. "Maybe not. But I bet you can't lay a hand on me while I have this."

He felt something huge and powerful attempt to approach him and fail. Michael's hopes rose another notch. The presence tried again.

"See? I thought so." Michael turned towards the door. "And if I try to open it?"

"You will not escape," the voice growled.

Michael's fingers hovered over the doorknob. His muscles were so tense they quivered, and his right leg was on the verge of collapse. He swallowed hard. If he didn't try, he'd never know. And they already said he couldn't die.

He touched the doorknob. Nothing happened. Before he could turn it, he heard the lock engage.
Michael glanced behind him. "You don't usually lock the door?" He could not keep the mocking tone from his voice.

One of the bookshelves near the back of the store shook. Michael watched as half the books fell to the floor and something invisible stomped through them. Had his captors given up that easily?

Wary now, he turned away from the door and held the cross up in front of him. He thought about trying to break a window with one of the chairs, but he doubted he had enough strength to lift a heavy wooden chair and throw it with enough force to crack the glass.

He hadn't tried that since the first night he'd spent in the bookstore.

Another bookcase shuddered. A row of larger books toppled to the floor. Their pages fluttered in a breeze Michael could not feel. He took a step back and felt warm wood at his back. Warm wood and cool glass that felt faintly damp under his left hand.

His right leg buckled. Michael caught himself on the door and stared at the fallen books. Their pages rustled rhythmically, reminding him of mice scrabbling for food.

For food... or prey. When the first book rose into the air and flew at him, he was too frozen with shock to react. It hit him on the shoulder, numbing his entire arm.

Michael released the door and fell to his knees. Another book cracked against the glass behind him, and another one slammed into his side, right below his makeshift bandages.

And then the assault began. He couldn't dodge them, or find cover; the attack was too fast and vicious for thought. The cross would stop his captors, yes, but it wouldn't stop mere books. Heavy books. Michael bit back a scream as a dictionary smashed into his chest.

"Do you see? You will never escape."

A paperback split his lip. Blood dribble down his face from a thousand papercuts. He tried to protect his head, but he could not lift his arms.

A biography flew at him and crashed into his forehead. Michael's head bounced off the door.

Something grabbed his ankle and jerked his feet out from under him. Michael fell on his back, dazed and reeling from the blows. He could not gather his wits enough to raise the cross.

The unseen presence dragged him back into the little room, unmindful of the edge of the counter, the legs of the chairs, and the corner of a bookcase that nearly drove Michael into darkness again. It threw him against the far wall, where he lay in a slow-moving panic, struggling to gather up enough strength to defend himself.
He tried to sit up as it approached, but his arms would not support his weight.

The first blow took him by surprise even then, because it was aimed at his legs and not his head. He tried to protect them, but he still could not sit up.

The second blow sliced through skin and muscle, and an invisible blade lodged in bone. Michael screamed and tried to twist away.

The third blow never landed. Michael threw his hands up to protect his head, and the cross swung free.

Something shrieked. Michael's ears rang with the repercussions of the sound. The window above him shattered in an explosion of glass, and Michael covered his head to protect his eyes from the stinging shards.

The shrieking buzzed in his ears, but he couldn't hear it clearly. Either his hearing had been damaged by the piercing sound or he had lost too much blood to care. He tried to rise, unmindful of the glass slicing into his hands, and something invisible smashed into the wall right above his head.

Chunks of stone and concrete rained down around him in a strangely silent display.

Michael held up his hand and let the brilliant white light fill the room.

And the presence retreated. The presence retreated. If he had any tears to spare, Michael would have wept for joy.


So... what do you think? I haven't gotten any comments (other than Vicki's) on this one yet... (not that Vicki's doesn't count; they do! But still.)

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