AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't own the characters (Miramax does) or the fairy tales referenced in this story. I'm not making one single penny off this story. (pauses) I wouldn't mind borrowing the boys for awhile though…
1) This is rated TEEN for a reason. There are some very adult themes and situations and angst in here and some violence. It deals with rather dark issues relating to familial rifts and deaths of family members (if you saw the movie, you know to what I'm referring). Can't handle, please don't read. 2) Although there are religious references in the story, nothing is based on any real people or cults. They were completely fabricated for plot purposes and if you see similarities to any real people or cults, you are squinting way too hard, if you know what I mean. Do not try anything you see in this story, boys and girls, because it's all made up stuff. So, if anyone flames for reasons of dark themes or religious references, I'm going to ignore it because I've given fair warning. 3) The opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the opinion of this writer. See Chapter One for the rest of the notes.
11
By the time the shock of the first jolts passed, Jorn had forgotten Will entirely. Torsten had sent him to find the older Grimm brother less than an hour before, but Jorn had abandoned his search and come running back when the sounds of his own brethren screaming echoed along the mountain. He'd returned to the place where he'd parted ways with his group to find no trace of them, not even footprints, and Will Grimm there instead. Jorn's conclusion was that Grimm had pulled some trickery like his brother had on the Adalia and that Will was to blame for the screams and the disappearance of the rest of the group. He no longer cared about finding the altar or duty to the Society nor did he fear that talisman around Grimm's neck…Jorn wanted to kill both of the Grimm brothers for the headaches they'd caused, put all the horrors of the past weeks behind him, and be done with it.
When the mountain came to life and the earth began to tremble, a noise like a whimper escaped Jorn. A roar like thunder filled the air…a roar like the one that had preceded the havoc aboard the Adalia, and Jorn knew in an instant that whatever bad fortune had claimed his friends was about to befall him as well. He tried to flee, to escape this evil place, but the tremors intensified and finding his footing became impossible. He waited there with Grimm, in mortal dread, struggling just to stand, for whatever was coming.
In the same plight, Will stared at the basalt columns around them, expecting the rocks to fall like trees or the rocks pile to collapse like an avalanche and crush them both at any moment. Only now—when they became brilliant like fire---did Will notice the strange symbols carved into the stone cliffs. He'd seen those symbols in Jake's journal. They were the symbols that were supposed to be on the Altar des Feuer…
And then, staring at the columns and their markings, Will knew why Jacob's tracks ended on this spot. The altar's not hidden on the top of this cliff…this cliff is the altar. Jacob had probably climbed to the top. Of course, as it appeared he was about to die, Will's insight seemed to have come just a little too late.
As they watched, unable to keep their footing on the shaking ground in order to flee, new columns of stone erupted from the earth and stretched skyward until they towered over Will and Jorn. The columns encircled them both like a fence of stone, each stone pressed together so that not so much as a sliver of light could pass between the columns. The basalt was smooth to the touch, impossible to climb. It took only five seconds for the two of them to become trapped within the impenetrable, inescapable circle. Will gaped; his former captor screamed.
"Mother of God." Wide-eyed, Jorn crossed himself and said prayers in preparation for the death he knew was coming.
"God would have no part of this place," Will disagreed, as he searched for a way, any way out of the trap.
He saw the danger before his fellow prisoner did: The columns had formed walls, with the only opening at the top of these walls…so high up that only the sky and the top of the Willow tree were visible through the circular opening. Inscriptions, backlit by fire, glowed on the rock columns. When the columns had stopped sprouting upwards, the earth gave another violent tremble and the walls began to close in on Will and Jorn. They'd be crushed between the rocks within minutes if they didn't find a way out.
Above the column, the wind kicked up again, but the noise of the quaking earth drowned out the whistle of the gale. The wind whipped furiously at the branches of the Willow and the tree bent beneath its force…to Will's eye, it almost looked as if the tree were as distressed about his predicament as he was.
Will and Jorn backpedaled, putting as much distance between themselves and the walls as they could in an attempt to preserve their lives for a few more minutes, until finally they stood at the very center of the circle. They stood back-to-back, not quite touching for Jorn still shied away from the talisman around Will's neck. Will wracked his brain for a plan, a solution, a way out of this mess, but the only thought prevalent in his mind was that he was going to die on that spot and, somewhere on the plateau above, Jacob would soon follow.
Then there was no more time to think; the columns were almost upon them. Jorn yelped at the first contact of the stone against his body. Will closed his eyes and, in a useless gesture, held out his hands and laid them against the basalt as if he could physically hold back the advancing stone.
The wall of rock shuddered…and halted.
What the--? Will fearfully pried open one eye, and was almost blinded by brilliant light that suddenly shined within the circle of stone…light that shone not from Desdemond's inscriptions, but from the talisman Will wore. Energy rippled from the talisman, trailing down his arms without burning him, and spread across the columns like a shield between the men and the stone. It held the walls back, but only by the length of Will's outstretched arms.
Poor Jorn had to all but shrink into a ball to avoid contact with Grimm or the pendant's energy in the confined space. He peeked over Will's shoulder and gasped when he saw the boy holding the walls at bay with the talisman. Jorn gazed apprehensively at the walls, expecting them to continue their advance at any moment. Will felt the man twisting this way and that trying to see what was going on. "Is it---? Are we--?"
"Yes, yes, we're still alive. Will you stop squirming?" Will complained, as Jorn's movements were about to jostle him into losing contact with the rocks. "We have to find a way out of here. I'm perfectly willing to try, but I doubt I can stand like this forever."
Jorn had no suggestions. "We can't climb. Can you boost me up?"
Will rolled his eyes. "I'm a bit busy keeping these walls from killing us, or hadn't you noticed? And I can give you two other reasons why climbing on me won't help: First, the columns are too tall. You'll never reach that opening. Second, I'd as soon not have my back broken by you standing on my shoulders, if it's all the same to you."
"Well, you're so brilliant, what do you suggest?" Jorn snapped at him.
"Stop panicking and let me think!" Will barked right back. Bad enough to be in this situation, crushed into a space so small that he could smell the stink of the other man's breath, but the company left much to be desired. If he must be in such close quarters, he would have preferred Maybe-Gretchen for company.
Gradually, Will's attention was drawn back to the out-of-place Willow tree on the cliff. The tree still swayed in the intensifying wind. A strong gust bent the tree so that its branches brushed across the tops of the posts that imprisoned the duo and rested there for a minute.
It had to be his eyes playing tricks, but Will would swear the tree branches draped over the tops of the columns were growing longer. They must have just been swaying as the wind buffeted the tree's trunk, for it was not possible that the delicate limbs, like long locks of hair, were slowly snaking down the length of the basalt and drawing closer and closer to the trapped Will and Jorn. An illusion, yes, a delightful illusion no doubt born of desperation.
Yet, it certainly seemed like the branches were growing longer with each blink of Will's eyes. In fact, they looked to be so close to him now that he might grasp them if he dared relinquish his hold on the walls to extend his hand towards the limbs.
As he watched in amazement, the Willow branches finished their descent into the circular prison and began coiling themselves around Will's outstretched left arm. Above the columns, the wind finally abated as if it were satisfied…or waiting for something to happen.
"Mr. Jorn?" Will called over his shoulder, eyes riveted to the branches around his own arm.
"What?" Focused on trying to think his way out of the trap, Jorn wasn't in the mood to be interrupted.
"You might want to grab onto my arm," Will advised him.
"No thank you, I'd like to keep the skin on my hands…what's left of it." He frowned at the scalds on his palms from the last time he'd tried to lay hands on Grimm. Will felt the larger man trying to turn in the cramped space to face him. "Why would I do a fool thing like---" Jorn must have spied the branches that had dropped into the pit and ensnared Will now, for he didn't finish voicing his question.
The wisps of branches suddenly went taut. Reflexively, Jorn grabbed Will's unencumbered arm, biting his lip against the pain as the talisman reacted in defense of its owner and lashed with small stings of electricity at the man. Whatever was about to befall Grimm, good or bad, Jorn would go along for the ride. He lacked the courage to face the spirits---the demons---of this island on his own.
With Will's arm tightly in its grip, the Willow branches gave a mighty heave upwards and Will---with Jorn hanging on to his arm for dear life and yelling both in fear and in pain as the talisman burned him still for touching Grimm---was lifted off his feet. The movement made him lose contact with the stone columns of their prison and the protective glow of the talisman faded out. The walls once more began closing in while at the same time the two men were lifted towards the opening at the top of the columns. Will and Jorn were pulled over the top of the wall only seconds before the remaining gap narrowed to the point where they would have been crushed.
The branches whipped them upwards, and they sailed higher, past the Willow perched on the side of the mountain. The limbs swung them to the safety of the top of the cliff, and gently released them both on a grassy plateau there. As soon as the branches had disentangled themselves from Will's arm, the limbs began to shrink and retreated from the men. Will ran to the side of the cliff and gazed down to find the Willow back to its original shape, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.
"That's why," Will belatedly answered Jorn's question.
Jorn had seen a shade more than enough. The color had drained from his face and his knees would not quite support his weight. A whimper bubbled from him and he turned and fled, leaving Will alone on the plateau. Will wasn't unhappy to see him go. Let's hope Torsten's that accommodating…
The scholar in Jacob Grimm appreciated---even marveled---at the significance of this moment. He had found something lost for over a thousand years, found what no other man had even prove existed. The discovery would have earned him notoriety in historical circles around the world…if he dared ever speak of this place. More than that, standing at the Altar des Feuer was, at last, the culmination of work he'd began sitting on Father's knee with his journal so very many years ago. It was the proof, finally, of the existence of one of Jacob's 'fables and nonsense' and validation of his devotion to 'hokum and rot'.
Too bad he'd never be able to speak of this to anyone.
Much like any grand pursuit, flight of fancy, or dream, the real thing was nothing like Jacob had envisioned. He stood atop the cliffs formed of the columnar jointed basalt. Behind him was a grassy plateau that sloped downward, no doubt back to the trail that Jacob had abandoned to scale the side of the cliff. Where the grass ended, the tops of the basalt jutted, side-by-side, about a foot above the ground to form a stone dais, of sorts, so it was not unlike stepping off the grass, up one step, and onto a floor composed of a hundred or more stone tiles.
Somehow, in spite of the descriptions of this place that Jacob had read in the scrolls, he still had expected to find the area lined with statues of long-forgotten heathen gods, to find an altar like something from a church only stained in blood and carved with symbols that had meaning only to Desdemond's cult, to find candles, antiquated spears and weapons, human and animal bones, and even thunder and lightning in the sky to underscore the wickedness of the location. The altar had none of those things. A few large rocks dotted the grassy plateau, but that was all. The inscriptions were in perfectly legible Gaelic, but had been etched so subtly that they could have just as easily have been natural deformations in the basalt.
Still, this stone dais, Jacob knew, was the Altar Des Feuer. Small wonder that it had lain hidden in plain sight on this uncharted island for so long---stepping onto the altar was no more remarkable than walking onto a platform to give a lecture at the school in Heidelberg…if the stage lay at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, that is.
When he stepped onto the rocks, the Messer des Feuer clutched in Jacob's hand came to life. The inscriptions carved into its hilt began to radiate yellow light. When the light from the Messer touched the stones of the altar, the cracks between each column of basalt forming the altar began to emit heat, smoke, and the now-familiar pungent, sulfuric stench. The smoke slowly formed a cloud overhead and began to blot out the sun. The wind kicked up once more and Jacob heard what sounded like the distance rustle of tree branches in the breeze. He paid it no attention. The inscriptions, identical to the ones on the wand/blade and those Jacob had seen on the cliff below, on each of the stones upon which he walked began to glow the orange and yellow color of fire.
As he walked across the stones, the ground began to quake. A group of rock columns, a group which formed the shape of an octagon, began to rise from the center of the dais/altar. The grating of stone against stone boomed like thunder. Flame poured from the center of this octagon, giving it the appearance of a massive torch. Altar des Feuer…Altar of Fire. This fire was the heart of the Altar des Feuer, according to the scrolls, and the source of its power, a flame supposedly sent down to Desdemond by the heathen gods he worshipped so many centuries ago. Jacob noticed that a space for the Messer des Feuer had been carved into one of the columns that formed the octagon torch.
There, at least, was the sinister, ominous, unnatural visage Jacob had pictured when he imagined the altar. With it blazing fire, bathed in a red-orange glow, with smoke rising to darken the afternoon and turn it to night, standing on the altar was like standing at the gate of hell itself.
This place had known evil, and its presence lingered there. Jacob could sense it and it made the hair on his neck stand on end and gooseflesh rise on his arms. The altar had known death; Jacob sensed that as well. Not one feature of its dark basalt or fiery inscriptions bespoke the life-restoring powers which were the heart of its legend. Just being there felt sacrilegious in every way and gave him doubts---doubts that the altar could accomplish the vitally important task for which he'd sought it out and suspicions that he could as easily be taking up residence in hell before the sun set that day as staring upon Sister's living face again. Even the inscriptions on the stones promised as much: 'This is the place where life is purchased with death' was the warning on the scroll and it had been etched into the altar as well.
For the first time in his life, Jacob Grimm's faith in the power of magic and fable faltered and even he wondered if his lifelong ambitions might, indeed, have crossed the line into madness.
Father had taught Jacob to believe in the miraculous, that every fable had its origin in fact, that nothing was impossible to anyone armed with the power of faith. Jacob had chosen to believe what Father had taught him and had held on to that faith in magic. Will, on the other hand, never believed in anything that he could not see or touch and had spent his lifetime making that very clear to his brother. Jacob's obsession with mysticism and fable had earned nothing but scorn from Will until he could scarcely look upon his younger brother without that anger, scorn, disdain, humiliation, or accusation in his eyes. Will was ashamed of him, would never forgive Jacob for wagering Sister's life on the power of magic. Had that swayed Jacob away from his beliefs? No, for here he was, ready to wager his own life on magic…and to wager Sister's life a second time. Yes, a wise and sound-minded man believes mystical wands and altars can bring people back from the dead, Will had mocked him.
Maybe his brother was right. Maybe Jacob had finally gone completely stark raving mad.
Jacob ran his hands over the symbols etched into the stones and the spot where the Messer was supposed to be inserted into the rocks. Then, he reached into his shirt pocket for the small, cloth bag securely fastened inside. The lock of soft blonde hair tucked into the bag had been safely kept in Mother's locket most of her life. Mother wore that locket every day and had wanted to be buried with the necklace and the precious stands of hair inside. Jacob had defied her wishes by retrieving the locks from the pendant before he'd left home for Heidelberg, wanting---needing to have the strands of hair with him, close to his heart. He hoped, if his Mother had noticed them missing before she died, that she'd understood.
The airless locket had preserved the blonde strands of hair almost perfectly. The lock rested in Jacob's hand light as a feather. At the sight of it, Jacob's vision blurred and tears fell. He saw the face of the child to whom this lock had belonged and he saw that child's face in the angelic vision that came to him every night in place of dreams. That raw, long-familiar ache clutched at his heart---and steeled his resolve. He missed Sister, just as he missed Father and Mother---even as he missed his brother, gone from Jacob's life so completely (until a few days ago) that Will might as well have also been dead. What did Jacob have to lose by faith in the altar's powers? Either he would succeed, and finally undo the one mistake that had become the crux of his existence…
…or he would be dead, joining his beloved family in the afterlife. If it meant an end to the scorn and the whispers and the ire, to the guilt, to being alone, it was a price Jacob would gladly pay. No, it was too late for second thoughts, hesitations, and doubts, for wavering of faith. Jacob had come so very far, he had to finish what he'd started. He had to know if his faith was justified or if he'd spent a lifetime believing in nothing.
Pushing past his doubts, Jacob raised the Messer des Feuer and set it in its place on the altar.
Gerit Torsten had to finish what he'd begun.
This island---Desdemond's damned curse---would kill him, of that he no longer had doubt. But, he would not draw his last breath until he did what he'd set out to do by destroying the Altar des Feuer. If he didn't, his colleagues had spilled blood and had their blood spilled in vain, and Torsten would have failed the task to which his entire life had been dedicated. When the flame of the altar had been doused and Desdemond's power snuffed along with that fire, Torsten would no longer care which of these heathen traps dealt his deathblow.
The knowledge that he'd likely breathe his last breath that day created no fear in him. He'd meet his Creator with a soul at peace and a conscience clear, for—despite the deaths caused at his orders or by his hands—he'd done it all for the welfare of every living soul on the earth. His only regret was that he'd had to elude Desdemond's traps to accomplish his goal. He'd expected when this day arrived to be walking safely onto the altar with the Messer in one hand to ward off Desdemond's curses and spells. Jacob Grimm had confounded that plan and made Torsten's task more difficult, but Torsten would prevail. If he regretted anything else he'd done in his duties, it was letting Jacob Grimm out of those shackles on the Adalia. Who would have guessed such a nebbish boy could wreck such havoc?
Torsten finally reached the top of the cliff, and at once beheld the bizarre spectacle of Jacob Grimm---standing only a few hundred feet away atop a plateau formed of the tops of the basalt columns…the Altar des Feuer? The earth shuddered in reaction to what Jacob was doing and Torsten, by now accustomed to the quakes, managed to keep his footing. He watched, jaw dropped open, as stones rose at the center of the altar to form a torch and smoke began to blot out the sky. He saw the gaps between each basalt column glowing as if lighted by fire or lava. In Jacob's hand, the inscriptions carved into the Messer flared to life in the presence of the altar, just as the altar came alive at the arrival of the wand/blade. It was as hellish a spectacle as Torsten had ever beheld.
He'd seen enough. This had gone too far, it was time to stop that Grimm boy before he unleashed any more of Desdemond's curses---or worse---upon the world. Maybe he couldn't set foot on the altar without the protection of the Messer, but he didn't need to stand on the altar in order to stop Jacob. Torsten pulled the pistol from his belt and aimed for Jacob's skull. He squeezed the trigger at the same instant that his prey sensed his presence and turned to face him.
The shot was perfect. Torsten's aim was true. The pistol ball arched smoothly, cutting through smoke and defying the wind, which gusted to new heights of fury almost simultaneously with the firing of the gun. From Torsten's perspective, time slowed almost to a stop as he watched the ball veer straight towards Jacob's forehead. Jacob, in turn, hadn't time to react at all.
The altar itself intervened on Jacob's behalf. Tendrils of fire spurted from the massive central flame and curled around the pistol shot like fingers catching it within a fiery hand. The ball did not stop mid-air, it simply melted until not even a trace of it remained by the time it reached Jacob. This pillar of flame, fanned hotter by the screaming wind, snaked towards Torsten and struck the man like a fist. Heat seared his eyes, blinding him, and burned at his unprotected hands. Falling to his knees, Torsten screamed at the pain in his eyes and hands while, in his palm, the pistol grew white hot until any notion of reloading for another shot was abandoned. He dropped the weapon and raised his scorched palms to clutch at his singed face. Drawn in with his breath, the heat and acidic smoke poured into his lungs as if trying to burn him from the inside out.
Miserably, Torsten knew he was going to die there, only a few feet and one pistol shot short of completing his mission. Death would be a welcome relief, for the humiliation of failure was worse than any pain Desdemond's wretched traps could inflict upon him. With his last, agonized reserve of strength, Torsten pried open one eye. He may not be able to stand, but he'd at least meet his death with open eyes.
The earth between Torsten and the altar had cracked and molten rock bubbled up from that gap. The liquid rock crept towards the spot where he kneeled. Through the smoke stinging his eyes, Torsten saw Jacob Grimm staring back at him. The boy's mouth was moving, as if shouting a warning, but Torsten only heard the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The altar's power in stopping Torsten's shot was beyond anything Jacob had expected. He paused, torn between his task and the man's plight. Jacob glanced from his former captor to the small river of molten rock closing in on the injured man. He couldn't abandon Torsten to be burned alive. He didn't want any more blood spilled. Jacob took a step towards Torsten, preparing to jump while the flow of white hot rock was still narrow.
"Jacob!"
The shout had not come from Torsten. It was Will's.
Jacob turned in the direction of the cry---it had come from behind Torsten on the grassy downslope---and even Torsten weakly glanced back over his shoulder. Will emerged from the thickening fog of smoke at a dead run and almost tripped over the fallen Torsten…which turned out to be a stroke of good luck. Intent as Will had been on reaching the altar and his brother, he had failed to see the river of molten rock which lay in his path. Torsten groped blindly and snagged the tail of Will's shirt. He used it to catch the boy and tug the younger man away from the superheated stream.
In turn, sizing up the situation in an instant, Will reached down, caught the injured man beneath his arms, and pulled Torsten out of the path of the lava flow. With much exertion, for Torsten was all but deadweight and no help in any way, Will managed to haul both of them to safety atop one of the large boulders nearby. "You…and Jake…are both mad!" Will growled.
He let the injured man sprawl on the rock and Torsten curled in on himself, groaning at the pain of his burns. Considering the pain Torsten had inflicted upon Jacob and himself, Will had difficulty working up sympathy for him. He was more preoccupied with the figure that stood on the rocks…the altar?
"Jacob!" Will shouted again. "Stop!"
His brother met Will's glance and hesitation filled Jacob's eyes. Jacob stared from Will to something clasped in his own hands, and Will saw then the curl of blonde hair that Jacob was holding. Will didn't need to ask to know it was Sister's. Their Mother had cut those strands after Sister died of her fever and kept the hair in a locket from that day on. Galvanized to action by the sight of the strands of hair, the uncertainty left Jacob's eyes and his mouth set into a firm line. With a small shake of his head and a shrug in something like an apology, Jacob turned away from Will and resumed whatever rite he was performing on the altar.
"Jake, no!" Will yelled. He searched for a place where the rock flow was narrow enough that he could leap across. He had to stop Jacob before he killed himself…
Torsten weakly seized hold of Will's arm and held on with surprising strength. "Don't---altar will kill you…anyone who doesn't wield…Messer."
Will was fighting the urgent need to panic. "I can't stand here!"
"Altar's a sham…your brother will die. Nothing you…can do," Torsten gasped.
Perhaps not, but Will was sure as hell going to try. "Stop testifying to the converted and tell me something more useful---how did you intend to destroy the altar?"
Will's question stoked a small ember of hope within Torsten that he might still accomplish his mission. Perhaps Will was right, perhaps he and Torsten shared the same goal, even if their motives were quite different. Torsten reached beneath his jacket for a canteen, which hung from a strap slung over his shoulder. He passed it to Will Grimm. "Holy water…douse the flame."
Grimm stared in disbelief at the tiny canteen that Torsten had pressed into his hand. It was barely enough water to extinguish a campfire…did the man really think it would snuff a fire like the one that blazed from the altar? "There has to be more to it than that."
Torsten grinned at that. "No more…except…must believe it, Will Grimm."
Great, there's that word again. In his mind, Will heard Father and Jacob and their countless hours engrossed in books of fables and magic, heard Father promising Jacob that magic was real if he'd only believe it. Look at the mess that's gotten Jake into…gotten us both into. Will was supposed to believe that something so small and simple as a handful of water was going to save his brother? Absurd!
But, if Will didn't try something—anything—Jacob would die, and Will didn't have any better ideas. He took a tight grip on the canteen and nodded, even though Torsten could not see the gesture. He would try. For Jacob's sake, he would try.
Now that he had a plan for attacking the altar, all he had to do was figure out how to cross the stream of lava and how to douse the flame when the altar would purportedly kill anyone who set foot on its stones. There was a lot of molten rock and fire between Will and his brother. "Any suggestions for how to get to the flame?" he asked Torsten.
Torsten had lost consciousness from the pain of his wounds.
"That's helpful," Will sighed.
Jacob had turned back to the central column of fire. He gently, reverently, placed the precious blonde strands of hair onto one of the symbols and the darkened sky began to rumble with deafening peels of thunder in answer. Focused on his task, Jacob didn't so much as flinch at the boom. He was mumbling words that Will could not make out above the din of the wind and thunder. But, when Jacob reached for the Messer and removed it from its place in the stone altar, the image Sister had shown Will of his brother with the blade piercing his chest replayed in Will's memory.
It was useless to shout again---even if Jacob could hear him above the wind, he would not listen to Will any longer. Will had no choice. He glanced at the talisman around his neck. It had protected him thus far; he hoped it wouldn't fail him now. Taking a deep breath and saying a silent prayer, he ran for the spot where the flow of molten rock was narrow enough to leap across.
What happened on the altar next halted Will in his tracks.
The stands of golden hair were bathed in the same yellow glow emanating from the inscriptions. When Jacob took up the Messer and placed it so the bladeless hilt hovered only inches over his heart. The familiar white beam of light---the precursor to the blade that would deliver a killing strike---shot from the Messer and shined a round spot on his chest. As it did, the strands were caught up in the wind and floated into the air. As Jacob and Will both watched, dumbstruck, the glow---and the strands---transformed themselves into a vaporous, but distinctly human, figure. Arms and fingers, bare legs and bare feet became discernable from the mist. Large eyes and a rounded face formed next. Will's heart lodged in his throat and even Jacob paled in surprise. Ghost, angel, or hallucination, both brothers recognized the face of the form.
Their sister.