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' How sad."With no outward signal, three of the five guards moved forward, their steps almost soundless as they sped towards us. I didn't know what weapons they held, but assumed there were no guns since they were closing the distance between our groups, probably because Anasia didn't want the report of gunfire to notify anyone.Marcus had no such constraints. The old Demon pulled out a very large hand gun from under his crimson silk jacket and quick-fired twice, taking the two who were nearest to him in the forehead with less than ten feet to spare while I shifted fully and ripped the last one's throat out. It took less than ten seconds but it was apparently long enough to distract us and let the Demon bitch slip past.Their trail was easy to follow, heading straight for the trellis arch and her torture chamber where she probably had yet another escape route. I was already running flat out, Marcus a stride ahead of me, both of us determined to end this here and now.Distantly, I could. What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:"The touch of the Master's hand."And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin, is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowdmuch like the old violin.A mess of pottage, a glass of wine, a game — and he travels on.He is going once, and going twice, He's going and almost gone.But the Master comes, and the foolish crowdnever can quite understandthe worth of a soul and the change that is wroughtby the touch of the Master's hand."The Touch of the Master's Hand" By Myra B. Brooks Welch (1877-1959)The young woman's voice echoed throughout the caverns beneath the cellars of the opera house, dwindling away into silence. She opened her eyes and found, much to her astonishment, that her angel's eyes were streaming with tears."Angel?" She asked hesitantly. "What is wrong? Was the song a poor choice? Or, was my voice too harsh on your ears from the years of neglect and disuse?" No, child," the angel smiled. "It is simply a joy.
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