Tess gave Mira's hand a little squeeze and started to turn away.
"How do you know?" Mira murmured, just now realizing the impact of what the Breedmate had told her. "Tess, how can you be sure that I won't lose my sight if I use my ability now?"
And then she knew.
All of the elation Mira had felt a moment ago leaked back out of her. Her heart sank with immediate regret.
"Oh, God. Tess . . . just a few minutes ago. You were looking into my eyes."
She waved off the concern and that of the other women who had now shifted their focus onto the healer. Tess had seemed oddly quiet, reflective in the moments since Mira's sight had been restored. Now Mira understood why.
"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.