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A small, conscious effort. The line between accidental and intentional meant everything.
Some people forget, he thought. A bad thing happens to them and their mind sweeps in and buries the bad thing deep, and all that’s left is a stretch of white in their heads, like fresh snow. Looking at it—at them—you wouldn’t even know anything was trapped beneath.
It didn’t catch fire. Nothing ever actually caught fire. No, it all simply burned.
“The son of man,” he said softly, bringing his hand to the wood, “shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all that offend.” His hand fell away from the door. “And cast them into a furnace of fire.”
“David Lane,” said the stranger. David’s blood ran cold. “How do you know my name?” “You have sinned against God.” “Who are you?” A knife appeared in the stranger’s hand. “One of his angels.”
Eli?
