Covered in a black veil, Houston mirrored an invisible city after an aurora borealis invaded the unsuspecting skyline. Battery-powered solar lights took over where the power grid left off, but inside The Blue Star visibility remained limited. The building itself used to be a residential home. Built back in the early 1900’s, it was converted into an art-house bar some twenty years ago and grew in popularity featuring some of the most sought after artists and musicians famous for keeping low profiles. From performance artists, to poets, to musicians, The Blue Star boasted a well-known stage for the most lucrative of acts, receiving the stamp of approval from the dark artist’s society.

Professor Faraday and Limbo Diver bassist, Kendal Doucet, arrived at the Blue Star as the once-in-a-lifetime event came to a close. They crept in through the backdoor entrance and navigated through the darkness until the hallway of candle sconces illuminated their path. Observing a note taped to the last door, the professor ripped it off, stuffed it in his pocket and swung open the door.

“There’s my little sister,” Regan said, targeting Kendal with a bright light. Kendal rolled her eyes and took her spot in front of a piano against the wall.

“I hope you two were having fun while I sat here with my thoughts, alone in the dark,” Regan said, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“You have a flashlight,” the professor remarked. He called out Abbey’s name and used his own flashlight to navigate his way to the back room. His initial relief upon hearing a reply quickly dissolved into irritation.

“Get your ass down here! Is Paige with you?”

“Yes, hi Professor,” she answered, comforted by the sound of his voice.

“You okay?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” Abbey replied, “except for this lamp that keeps giving Paige the stink eye.”

Candles warmed and lit up the front room where Kendal played a jazzy tune on the piano. Regan, stretched out in the red chaise lounge, swayed to the music with her long slender legs dangling off the edge, her wine glass in arm’s reach on the floor. Abbey and Paige plopped down on a black leather sectional while the professor claimed a red sofa loveseat. After scanning the room, he clicked off his flashlight and set it down by his feet.

“Looks like the solar flare took out the electrical grid,” he said, “satellites too. I don’t even have a cell phone signal. No telling how long this will last, but if we saw it this bright this far south, could be a global catastrophe.”

Regan stretched out her arms and gulped down some wine. “Oh, I’m sure those lights will kick back on within the hour,” she said. “I say, we might as well enjoy the ambience. So, Paige, tell me, are you enjoying Billy’s course? I hear he’s all the buzz in the college dorms.”

Paige glanced at Professor Faraday who held her look, produced a long face and then rolled his eyes. Suppressing a grin, she answered, “Actually, I stay at home with my parents, it’s just cheaper that way, so I don’t know what they say in the dorms, but yes, I do enjoy his course.”

“Thank you,” the professor replied. “I’ll bet it’s quieter too, at home, that is.” Disdain oozed from Regan’s eyes. A door slammed and two male voices conversed down the hall interrupting her cold war stare. One of them sounded all too familiar to Paige.

“No, I won’t calm down! My phone won’t work, I can’t get a hold of anyone, your psycho family is in town and now all the lights are out!”

“I know, but I’m telling you, everything’s fine. Stop worrying, I’m sure they’re all in the back. See look, it’s all lit up….”

“What up, fools?” Illuminated by candles, Michael Doucet entered the room with the dashing and distraught, Ashley Brava, by his side.

Michael’s beauty transcended gender. His long thick lashes and amber green eyes gleamed against his light mocha skin. Dreadlocks draped over his shoulders and his tight black clothing revealed a toned and slender build all the way down to his green army boots. Ashley dressed in the same designer suit he sported earlier and together stood a mixed-matched pair. The room transformed the instant they arrived as if pure energy spilled through the air and ignited it. Their auras combined into a single pulsating light casting a red glow onto their surroundings, the candles’ flames revived, steadied and doubled in size.

Unable to look away from the two men, Paige zeroed in on Michael, drawn to him and excited by his presence. The dizziness returned and her head buzzed with static, deafening her ears until an abrupt silence took over. A male voice penetrated her thoughts, clear and decipherable as if spoken aloud—you’re being deceived, Paige. She stiffened and scanned the room but no one else existed, only she and Michael and the red blaze that shrouded him. The voice spoke to her and her alone, trespassing on private thoughts and hijacking her sanity. She gazed into his amber green eyes and felt them browsing through her mind like fingers flipping through a Rolodex. Michael grinned and stepped forward as Paige heard him speak again without moving his lips, you’re right on time. Folding his arms on the back of his sister’s chaise, he rested his chin on his knuckles and winked. A clock on the back wall crashed to the floor and Paige jumped out of her chair, as did Professor Faraday, but Regan rummaged around in her purse, Ashley conversed with his son, and Kendal continued playing a soft tune on the piano. Watching Paige with keen focus, Michael tapped his wrist and flashed a quick smile before turning to speak.

“I can’t be sure,” he said, “but I think the sun just exploded. That was outstanding…where’s Alain?” he asked, looking around the room.

Regan, sounding bored, answered, “He’s not coming.”

“What do you mean he’s not coming? He’s in the band!”

Gesturing with her wine glass, she replied, “Michael, baby, look around, there won’t be a show tonight, all the lights went kaput.”

Wine sloshed onto the floor and onto Michael’s green army boots. Peering down at the mishap, he looked up and grinned before asking, “How much have you had to drink tonight? You’re actually somewhat pleasant to be around.”

Regan yawned and presented her middle finger.

Positioned on the edge of her seat, Paige tried convincing herself she was the victim of an impressive magic trick, some clever parlor act perhaps, but she knew otherwise. Michael had invaded her thoughts, but the clock, coincidence? Maybe, she thought, but how am I being deceived? She glanced at Professor Faraday who, along with Ashley, grinned with amusement at the sibling rivalry between Regan and Michael. No one acknowledged the falling clock, but Ashley’s smile didn’t go unnoticed, nor did Paige.

“Laugh it up, Mr. Artsy Fartsy,” Regan said. “You know, our son here made a new friend, little Miss Holland over there. That’s a real nice outfit too, Hun. Those your goin’ out clothes?” Abbey jumped to Paige’s defense and Ashley muted his smile after seeing the painful embarrassment sweep across his son’s face.

“Leave her alone, Mom, you’re making everyone uncomfortable,” he said, adding fuel to the intoxicated fire.

Regan held her hand to her chest and batted her long black lashes. “Oh? Am I? For now on, Precious,” she said, pointing her long red fingernail, “you can just call me Regan, mom makes me sound so old,” she slurred.

Abbey tilted his head and scowled at his mother, his dark eyes revealing the controlled anger hidden in his voice. “You are old,” he replied. “You just fail to show it.” Calm and tight-lipped, he stood to excuse himself and retreated to a small balcony outside.

“You’re quite possibly the worst mother ever,” Ashley remarked. Regan belched under her breath and leaned in closer, her long dark hair dipping into her wine glass.

“What’s that, Picasso?” she asked. “You’re judging me? Here’s an idea, why don’t you go cut off your ear, stuff it in an envelope and send it to your beloved Michael over there.” Laughing, she attempted to stand but lost her balance and fell back onto the chaise lounge. Michael laughed at the expense of his wine-friendly sister.

“Van Gogh cut off his ear Sis, not Picasso,” he said, correcting Regan’s debauchery of art history. He watched with amusement as she tried to steady her relentless wobble, but Paige kept her head down, fearful of Regan’s personal vendetta against her.

 “He can cut off his own joystick for all I care!” Regan exclaimed. “Go on then, Artsy Fartsy, go cater to that pathetic brat of yours. Should have taken him back to father years ago, let him be with his own kind, never compared to the original anyway.” Regan choked down the last of her wine and fumbled around in her purse until she located her keys. Ashley met his boiling point. Stepping forward, he pounced like a rabid cat, grabbing Regan by the throat and slamming her against the wall. He spoke in a low rumble.

“You listen to me you little whore, the only reason you’re still alive is because of Michael. If I had my way, I would have disposed of waste like you years ago.” Ashley tightened his grip and moved in closer, his lips almost touching her face, “I suggest you hitch a ride back to Louisiana tonight, and if you ever talk like that again in my presence, I swear to you, I will have my way.” Ashley released Regan from his clutch, shot Michael a look of damnation and stormed off to the balcony. Regan stood silent, too stunned to speak as she recovered from her attack. No one moved. Paige held her breath waiting for Regan to retaliate and turn the room and its remaining occupants into collateral damage, but Michael took the reins and addressed the volatile situation. Lighting a cigarette, he told his sister to sober up before getting behind the wheel, but suggested she vacate the building before Ashley returned.

“You brought this on yourself,” he said. “Shouldn’t have pushed his buttons like that. I’d say you got off pretty easy.” Glancing at the professor, Michael raised his eyebrows as if signaling him to do something. The professor threw up his hands and returned the facial gesture. No longer wobbling, Regan regained her composure and looked fierce with burning green eyes, untamed hair and a fat vein protruding down her forehead.

Her voice a low rasp, she answered, “Well, we all know whose side you’re on, Michael, and his buttons don’t need pushing for him to be a raging lunatic. You wait till father finds out about this. It’ll be all out war when he hears my life’s been threatened. He’ll be coming after all of you, especially Little Miss Holland over there.” Regan slipped on her gloves and made for the exit. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said, turning around at the door, “whose gonna clean up this little mess I’ve made?” Raising the empty wine bottle, she chunked it against the wall. Michael laughed and jumped out of the way, letting out a surprised, “Whoa!” as the bottle shattered a few feet behind him. Regan cackled and lost her balance again before steadying herself on the chair and demanding a ride back to the hotel. Kendal came through for her inebriated sister and Professor Faraday insisted on walking them to the car. Standing by the exit, he waited for Regan who managed to get in one last quip before slamming the door behind them.

“I’ll see you real soon Little Miss Fashion Queen!”

Paige had never been so happy to see another person leave. Ding-Dong the witch is, well, gone anyway, she thought, and noticed only one person remained. Michael shook his head, brushed away some chards of glass and claimed his sister’s red chaise lounge. Resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, he fidgeted with his dreadlocks and twirled them around his finger, appearing contemplative before breaking the silence.

“My family’s hard to deal with sometimes,” he said. “Kendal’s cool, I guess, and you haven’t met my brother, Alain, but I assure you, he’s no cup-a-tea. On behalf of my sister, I apologize for her rudeness. She’s my evil twin,” he smiled.

Paige clutched the arms of the sofa. “Regan’s your twin sister?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered, “but I’m the good one. Alain and Kendal are also twins. Ken’s the good twin out of those two, if there is one.”

Paige giggled and broke eye contact as she peered down at her black canvas shoes, double-knotted and ready for retreat. Michael seemed charming and rather personable, but he radiated an intense vibe that suggested otherwise. She observed an enduring quirkiness in him. One that mixed well with the undertones of dark mysticism that defined his character, non-threatening yet intimidating at the same time; a blurred line separated friend from foe. The Pied Piper of musicians, Michael lured his unsuspecting victims astray with a groovy little tune, but his subliminal lyrics often packed a double meaning. Fearful of being led astray, Paige resisted mentioning their unspoken exchange. Fearful that he might deny the entire episode and fearful of being deceived, she crossed her fingers and relied on her playful wit.

“How do you know it’s not the other way around?” she asked. “How do you know you’re not the evil twin?”

Michael’s languid eyes softened his sardonic smile. “Feisty aren’t we?” he asked.

Dancing shadows gave life to the white textured walls as a large array of burning candles warmed the room. Michael rolled up the sleeves of his thick black sweater exposing deep scars encircling both his wrists. Without thinking, Paige leaned in for a better view as he crushed out his cigarette in a guitar-shaped ashtray on the table. His languid eyes caught her gaze; sweat leaked from her pores. Burdened with the need to say something but drawing a blank, she broke eye contact and leaned back into the seat. With a well-mastered poker face, Michael held her in his sight as he rolled his sleeves back down exposing only his fingertips.

“You look thirsty,” he said.

She nodded enthusiastically.

He fetched two bottles of water from a nearby cooler and Paige clung to the bottle like a child in need of nourishment, chugging it down in large continuous gulps. Her perspiration not entirely under control, she blushed and set her water down when Michael complimented her attire. Insulting his sister’s eye for fashion, he praised Paige for her daring attempt at exhibiting a less is more approach. She waited for him to finish picking.

“Ith fabulouth darling,” he gestured. “It thays cathual but thcreams Warhol!” Impressed by his flair for the dramatics, Paige laughed and rolled up her own sleeves, her temperature rising the longer she remained in Michael’s presence.

“Hopefully Ashley doesn’t notice your shirt though,” he said. “Mr. Artsy Fartsy isn’t a huge fan of Andy Warhol.”

“You got something I can change into then?” she asked. “I don’t need another strike out with Mr. Brava.”

Michael’s spirited laughter captivated her. “Another?” he asked.

Paige relayed her story about Abbey and the army coat while scrutinizing his face for signs of aging. A patch of gray hair gleamed in one of his dreadlocks but Michael, like the others, retained his youthful appearance. None of them look older than twenty-five, she thought. Rolling up his sleeves a second time, he listened to her brief account with an attentive stare that intimidated her, as if daring her wondering eyes to look upon his scarred wrists again, but Paige resisted. Holding his gaze and finishing her story, she feared that Ashley and Abbey would soon return. She needed a transfer of topics. With a weak smile, Michael informed her that more to the story existed.

“The army coat belonged to someone Ashley loved very much,” he said, “and so did I. He doesn’t like anyone even breathing on it. I don’t know what Abbey was thinking.” He assured Paige that Ashley didn’t have it out for her, and as if reading her mind, put her other fear to rest as well. “They could stay out there for hours if they wanted to. Cold weather doesn’t affect them. I prefer warmer climates myself.” Sliding closer to the edge of the chaise, Michael stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles above his head producing a popcorn effect. “By the way,” he said, pausing for a quick drink of water, “you should really quit bleaching your hair. You’re a beautiful girl, but like my dad always says, how could you not be with genes as privileged as yours?”

Her father’s tapping foot flashed through her mind along with the stranger’s curse, “dizzy spell gonna keep comin back.” She also recalled Regan’s last minute remark, he’ll be coming after all of you, especially Little Miss Holland over there. Glancing down at her double-knotted shoes, Paige resisted the urge to flee.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Michael twirled his dreadlocks and glanced at the ceiling before his eyes locked onto her. The candles temporarily blinked out of existence and the room fell black, cloaking them in darkness before the flames returned with renewed vigor. His energy switched gears and his vibrant eyes dimmed. He spoke in a hushed voice.

“Vincent Doucet, my father, is an absolute mad scientist,” he said. “He perfected Frankenstein’s Monster. No need to tell you how that story ended.”

Paige dug her fingers into the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t understand. Who’s your father again? And what’s he got to do with me?”

Michael lit another cigarette and asked if she’d ever heard of Valley of Beauty, the skincare line he claimed his father created. Paige knew the commercials, the orgy of women in long flowing gowns frolicking in a green paradise, the sexed-up actress taunting the camera, beckoning viewers to, come, join us in The Valley of Beauty. She’d seen the commercials, but questioned what they had to do with her.

Smiling, Michael answered, “Where do you think your inheritance came from?”

Her voice fell victim to the thick air as a strong wave of déjà vu consumed her. Paige felt a deep connection to the famous singer but choked on his flagrant innuendo. His devious smile undermined his sincerity but she needed to hear him out, she needed to know why her dreams seemed more real than reality. The world around her fell out of synch and if she stopped long enough to smell the flowers, she feared they might wither before her eyes. Her déjà vu lingered as she twirled her hair around her finger and observed Michael; she felt certain they’d met before. Michael stayed in perfect tune with her train of thought and leaned in closer.

“It’s no accident you’re here tonight,” he said. “We instructed Abbey to bring you here, but Billy’s supposed to break the news, some of it anyway, we need to be careful of how much we unload. It’s a delicate situation you understand.”

Paige grasped for her voice and found it suspended in limbo somewhere between fear and enlightenment. She asked if the delicate situation included the truth about her birthparents.

“In a way,” he said, “but it’s also a test, and so far, you’ve met all the criteria.”

“A test?”

“Of course,” he said, “life’s a test. Billy’s our elected spokesdude, so we’ll have to wait for him, but you should know that truth can be dangerous.” He glanced at the sliding glass door and bit down on the side of his lip. “Billy will tell you about your birthparents,” he said, “but there’s always a bigger picture, and once you’re in the know, dat can a worms gonna come flyin’ open fasta dan a fizzerman on fire. You see, my father might be a southern fried swamp dweller, but he sho nuff knows about you, little girl.”

Paige scanned the shadows on the walls and suppressed her goose bump tears. She couldn’t move. Cemented in and vulnerable to the elements, she looked to the weatherman, the Pied Piper of musicians, the self-proclaimed son of Satan for answers.

“Why can’t you tell me?” she asked.

“It’s all about timing, right?” he said, his eyebrows lifting with his voice. “If our timing’s off, we could spend our entire lives chasing after that wascally white wabbit.”

Paige glanced at the broken clock on the floor and stopped herself from chewing her scabbed cuticles. “You and I,” she said, “we’re related?”

A small dimple appeared on his left cheek. “Yes, Paige, we’re related.”

Ripping off a small flap of skin from her finger, Paige kept her hand against her mouth as Michael described his family. Manipulative, power hungry and masters of deceit, he accused them of having a god complex, but admitted they had good reason—the Doucet bloodline enjoyed privileged genes. He added a tone of urgency to his voice as he explained that seeing a person’s true aura helped distinguish truth from trickery.

Paige kept an eye on the shadows. “I’ve seen yours,” she said. “It’s red, you and Ashley both, blood red.”

A figure on the wall collapsed into darkness as Michael held his hand above a candle. “Red is the color of our energy,” he said, slowly moving his hand up and down over the flame. “It’s a default color. It’s what we project to keep each other out, but it’s not necessarily our true aura. If you look close enough, which I know you can do, well, in the words of Cindy Lauper, you’ll see our true colors shining through.” Smiling, he reached across the table with his scarred wrists and gripped her clammy hands. Speaking without moving his lips, Michael’s voice hijacked her thoughts for a second time. Your body knows before the mind. You’re one of us, Paige.

His magnetic touch unveiled a soft yellow light that surrounded his frame, a soothing outer glow previously unnoticed by Paige, it grew in size and enveloped her, catapulting her into his mind. Flooded with visions of a life she didn’t recognize, Paige heard him speak again, you wanted to know about my wrists? Abstract images flashed through her head. A starved and beaten child lay motionless on a dirty mattress, held captive in a dark room—bruised, bloodied and bound at the wrists and ankles. A man in a white lab coat played the fiddle under an old oak tree, the twisted limbs decorated with limp bodies. A young man in a green army coat collapsed onto a sidewalk where a blonde-haired girl knelt down and stroked his dark hair.

Her eyes shot open. She jerked away from Michael and ripped her hands out of his telepathic grip. Her preview into his world or soul or mind abruptly stopped and she gazed into his eyes—the wind changed directions. Michael lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chaise. His languid eyes observed a quivering flame.

“You’re one of us,” he said, placing the cigarette in his mouth. Rubbing his arms, he rolled his sleeves down and held the ends in place with the tips of his fingers. “I’ve just let you in on a little part of me, and a little part of our family history.” A door opened and closed and Professor Faraday entered the room, appearing through the warm glow of the candles like the sun on a bitter cold morning.

“The hell happened to you?” Michael asked. “You get lost or something? You were gone for nearly an hour.”

“How near?” The professor asked. Nodding and smiling at Paige, he took a drink from the dark bottle he held in his hand. “It’s a madhouse down there, city’s gone nuts,” he said. “Boots are out in full force. Crisis Management at its best, you can be sure.”

Staring at the professor with crossed arms, Michael asked, “Where’s mine?”

The professor enjoyed another drink. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“You didn’t get me one?”

“Sorry, didn’t think about it. Ashley and Abbey still on the balcony?”

“Yeah.”

“What are they doing, building a snowplow?”

“Don’t know,” Michael said, “they’re talking. Why, is it actually sticking?”

“Yeah, it’s really piling up,” the professor replied. “That makes, what, third time this season?”

“Another record for H-Town,” Michael nodded.

Bouncing on his heels, the professor sang, “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” Michael laughed as the professor set his drink down and rubbed his hands together over a candle. He frowned and slumped his shoulders after glancing at Paige. Wiping her eyes, she glared at the professor and shot up from the couch, stricken with a head rush but intent on standing her ground. To hell with time, she thought.

“Who were my birthparents?”

Professor Faraday bulged his eyes and his mouth fell slightly agape. Michael smiled, looked at the professor and curtsied with his hand, his fingertips holding his sleeves in place. Paige waited for an answer. The sliding glass door opened and closed, and Ashley and Abbey, with windblown hair, stood in the grips of a progressively awkward moment.

“What did I miss?” Ashley asked, looking from Michael to the professor to Paige. Running his hand through his short dark hair, he shrugged and said, “She had it coming you know. I mean, come on guys, its Regan.”

Professor Faraday stroked his beard and reached for his drink, but Michael suffered a sudden laugh-attack and held his hand over his mouth to quell his amusement. Ashley zeroed in on his famous friend.

“What’d you do?” he asked.

“Hey now, Mr. Artsy Fartsy, what makes you think I did something?”

Ashley smiled and pointed his finger, “Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” the professor said, glaring at them, “we left poor Paige here alone with him.” Looking drab and all too aware of his unwanted attention, Michael peeled himself off the chaise, shrugged and commented that someone had to break the ice. He grabbed his backpack from against the wall, brushed off some chards of glass and slung it over his shoulder before excusing himself. Ashley followed his banished friend. Shrouded in a soft blue glow, he inspected Paige, looking her over from head to toe before stuffing his hands in his pockets and ducking off into the hallway. Paige stood motionless and exposed. Her face drained of animation and her mouth set in stone, she pulled away when Abbey reached for her shoulder.

“Have a seat, Paige,” the professor said, “and I’ll explain as much as I can. I don’t know what Michael told you, or showed you, but I can answer your question.” The room spun off kilter as she fought to keep her balance. She massaged her temples and glared at the professor, reluctant to obey his command but fearful of collapsing at his feet, she accepted Abbey’s hand and sat down next to him. Closing her eyes and inhaling a deep breath, she waited for the room to recover from its spasm.

“Michael didn’t do anything wrong,” she finally said, “but I get the feeling there’s a pink elephant in the room, and I’m the only one who can’t see it.” She studied the professor’s face and twirled her hair around her fingers. Her foot pounded the ground. Professor Faraday took another drink and sank into the sofa chair. Choosing his words carefully, he provided a disclaimer before answering the question and defended her parents for their dishonesty. He repeated the same sermon Michael had preached, truth is dangerous, timing is everything and some things can’t be spoken aloud. Paige repeated the question.

“Who were my birthparents?”

The professor tapped his finger against his mouth. “I’ll tell you where you came from,” he said, “but I can’t tell you the rest.”

“Why not?” she asked. “I hear you’re the elected spokesdude.”

The professor sighed and brushed his long hair behind his shoulders. “Your so-called birthparents never died in a car accident,” he said, straightening his posture. “They’re very much alive. Justin and Allison know them quite well.”

Paige gnawed her bottom lip. Her olive complexion turned three shades lighter.

“You’re part Faraday and part Doucet, Paige, part of the privileged and cursed bloodline we all enjoy.” Professor Faraday took another drink and waited for a reaction, but she remained silent, her body statuesque and her gaze fixated on his pale blue eyes.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked. “We’ve been down this road, we’ve–” he broke eye contact and lowered his head. Rubbing his neck, he looked up again and met her unyielding stare. “They have eyes and ears everywhere,” he said, “and I’ve been instructed to stretch the truth out as far as possible. I wish I could sit here with you all night. I wish I could tell you about, well, everything, but we don’t have that luxury.” Placing his hand over his mouth, the professor glanced around the room and scowled at the shadows on the walls. “This new world isn’t so brave after all, is it?” he asked, looking at the ceiling. “The lights may be out, but not everyone’s in the dark.”

“Professor?”

Flinching at the sound of her voice, Professor Faraday peeled his eyes off the ceiling and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Paige, I get sidetracked from time to time, old age, I suspect. Here’s what I can tell you, Regan donated one of her eggs, and that’s where you come from.”

Paige exploded. “Regan? But I don’t look anything like Regan! I’m nothing like her!”

“I know,” he said, his eyes darting to Abbey, “and I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Regan’s a beautiful woman despite her character flaws.”

“Then who’s my father? It’s not you is it?”

The professor smiled and shook his head, “No Paige, it’s not me, but he is a Faraday, a donor, like Regan.”

The room darkened as, one by one, the candles burned out, their flames flickering and shrinking away until only half remained. Paige shivered and rubbed her hands together, vulnerable for the first time to the cold.

“So who is it?” she asked. “Who’s my father?”

“You have more than one,” he answered, “and that’s all I can tell you.”

A black figure appeared above the professor’s head and swooped down between the couches. Paige and Abbey flew out of their seats as it crash-landed into the coffee table, spilling wax onto the floor and knocking over the professor’s drink. Slowly standing from the chair, Professor Faraday leaned in for a better view. A small bat lay motionless on the wooden table, belly up, wet and covered in wax.

“Is it dead?” Paige asked.

“It was never alive,” the professor replied.