"Tess, I'm sorry." She'd be devastated if her vision had been reawakened only to wound the woman who'd helped her. "What did you see? Tell me it wasn't something awful."
"No," Tess replied, calm and kind. "Not awful at all."
"You would tell me?" Mira couldn't quell the worry that still fluttered in her breast. "Because if I hurt you just now - "
Tess shook her head slowly. Her mouth curved softly behind the fingers she brought to her lips. Her eyes kindled with a secret smile. She reached out and took Mira's hands in hers. "Your gift is extraordinary, Mira. Not a curse. It may not always be kind, but sometimes . . . sometimes it's beautiful." Tess hugged her then, warm and unhurried. Her mouth close to Mira's ear, she whispered, "Thank you for showing me the incredible family my son will have one day. I only wish my gift could bring you the same kind of miracle yours has just given me."
"Me too," Mira said, hugging Tess back.
Her flawless eyesight began to blur again . . . not with blindness, but with welling tears.
GNC director Charles Benson had to fight his way through a mob of shouting protesters camped outside the gate at his house when he returned home from the early morning press conference announcing the apprehension of the rebel leader responsible for Jeremy Ackmeyer's abduction earlier that week. Bowman's swift, covert capture by the Order had been welcome, timely news, particularly coming on the very day of the peace summit.
But it was the other revelation regarding the rebel's arrest - the discovery that not only was this villain Breed, not human, but that he was a former member of the Order besides - that had taken everyone aback, Benson included.
The public's outrage had only doubled upon that news. Outside Benson's home, the protesters' signs called the summit a mockery; some proclaimed it a deal struck with the devil himself. Other, more troubling posters were aimed directly at Benson, depicting him as a puppet dancing on the end of strings held by a caricature of Lucan Thorne, long fangs bared and slavering, catlike Breed eyes wild with mad glee.
As soon as the crowd spotted Benson arriving home, the volume and animosity of their taunts went from a healthy rumble to a skull-splitting din. Didn't they realize he was on their side? Didn't these people understand he'd been willing to sacrifice anything - too much, as it turned out - in order to ensure true peace for everyone who shared this planet with him?
Benson hurried out of his car, ducking his head to avoid the jeers as he hustled quickly across the cobblestone driveway, into the house. Once inside, he heaved a long sigh. Let his spine sag against the heavy oak front door.
The picketing was a new problem. Oh, he'd been aware of the Order's constant throng of chanting malcontents at their headquarters in the District, but to have the unrest and vitriol spread to other members of the GNC - to have it come to roost on his front stoop - was trouble he didn't need. Nor did he want that kind of negative spotlight aimed at him.
Not now. Not when he felt little pieces of his once-simple world beginning to crumble all around him.
As he collected himself, he heard his wife call to him from the kitchen, asking if she could make him a late breakfast.
"I can't right now, dear," he told her, trying to adopt a casual tone and still be heard over the ruckus outside. "I have a video conference to attend in a few minutes. I'll be in my office for a while. I don't wish to be disturbed."
His obedient wife of the past forty-six years wouldn't dream of interrupting his work. He loved that about Martha. Loved that she trusted him unquestioningly to manage all of the important things in their marriage and household, the same way she trusted him to be steadfastly moral in the business of his political office, devoting his life to ensuring the stability of the free world.
To Martha, even balding, gray, and wrinkled, he was a god. Not the puppet dangling at the end of someone else's strings.
Not the man whose conscience lately was a leaden weight becoming harder and harder to bear.
Benson crossed the gleaming foyer of his home and headed for his office down the hall. Instead of entering, he closed the tall double doors to make it appear he was sequestered inside, then ducked down the stairwell to the secret second office tucked behind a false wall in the wine cellar of the grand old house.
Inside this room was a private workstation, intended for a single purpose. He opened the computer and typed in the access code, waited with unblinking eyes as the security program scanned his retinas to confirm his identification. Once it had finished, he was connected via comm feed to a prearranged meeting with his colleagues. Not the GNC, but another, more recent, group of colleagues to whom Benson reported.
This group, totaling thirteen powerful men from both the human and Breed races - heads of state, business magnates, religious leaders - were stationed in all corners of the globe. Together they formed a secret cabal who called themselves Opus Nostrum.
Although he was openly known to them, Benson wasn't privy to their names, had never seen their faces. Anonymity was key, plausible deniability a must. Their goals were too important to risk. Their methods often too severe to reconcile.
As was the most recent decision, the one that prompted his emergency call to the brotherhood.
Benson sat back anxiously in his chair as a world map filled his monitor, then, one by one, the members of Opus Nostrum linked in from their various locations. Several reported in from North and South America. Others from Europe and Asia, even one from Africa. On-screen, each member was represented by a point on the map, their voices digitally masked.
Benson, however, was displayed to the thirteen men on video camera, his identity fully exposed. He knew this was intended to remind him of his vulnerability to the cabal, and it worked. They owned him now. After what he'd done for them in recent months, Opus Nostrum owned a piece of his soul.
One of the North American members was the first to speak when all thirteen positions had turned active on-screen. His computer-altered voice was pitched unnaturally low. "A most enjoyable press conference this morning, Director Benson. We are pleased to know the GNC has their villain in custody and the public will soon have the justice they crave. So much the better that the Order finds it's dragged into the fray by one of its own." A chuckle rumbled out of the computer's sound system. "We couldn't have laid a better snare for Lucan and his warriors if we'd planned Ackmeyer's abduction and killing ourselves."
Benson hoped his shaky smile didn't betray his unease. The other piece of public knowledge was the fact that Benson had enlisted the Order's protection for his nephew in the days leading up to the kidnapping. Benson had been worried about Jeremy's safety, fearful that something untoward might happen to the scientist - perpetrated by the faceless power brokers now waiting for his reply.
Benson cleared his throat. "I am . . . relieved that the brotherhood is pleased with how things have progressed. And I share Opus Nostrum's vision for a peaceful future for the world. That's why I gave you my nephew's ultraviolet technology."
"And you were handsomely rewarded for it," replied the one who always seemed to lead the others in these assemblies. "I trust you and the missus have been enjoying your prestigious new address these past several months."
Benson didn't answer. Fact was, he had been enjoying the stately residence in the District's most exclusive neighborhood. The keys to the mansion and a cleared deed, paid for in cash, had been delivered to his office by anonymous courier the morning after he'd turned over Jeremy's prototypes and data on the unreleased Morningstar project. Accepting the house in reward for stolen intelligence was one thing; living under a roof bought with the blood of innocent lives was another.