Chapter 1: Red Sky In The Morning...

Jason Bryant could see that the sky was starting to pale with the coming dawn, as he jogged through the woods. The teenager had stayed out longer than he had intended. Jason would have to hurry if he was to do his chores before going to school. He hoped that his parents wouldn't be too upset over his late (or perhaps, very early) return.

The woods opened up ahead, and Jason vaulted over the rail fence that bounded the Bryants' private road. As he half-ran up the gravel road, the youth noticed that the horizon had taken on a reddish tinge. He was reminded of the old saying

Red sky in the morning shepherd take warning

Jason wasn't sure what it meant, but he figured that there was going to be a spectacular sunrise. As he continued towards home, it took Jason a moment to realize that, since he was returning home from the south, it was the northern horizon turned crimson, not the eastern one. Then, the young man smelled the smoke.

Jason sprang down the road, running full out for home. His track and field talent was going to pay for his college education, and now Jason accessed reserves of speed that no coach or college scout had ever seen. He probably broke a world speed record reaching the crest of the hill that stood between him and the Bryant house. The sight that greeted him stopped the youth as surely as a collision with a stone wall.

The house was fully enveloped in flames. Even the brick portions of the structure seemed consumed by the hungry fire. 'If anyone was inside... '

"Mom! Dad! Sean!" Jason shouted at the top of his lungs as he ran down into the hollow. He heard no answer. The only movement he saw was from the frightened cattle in the pasture nearest the blaze. Jason rushed onward, straight toward the house where he had been born. When he found his family, it wasn't by sight or sound, but by smell. Woven into the smells of combusting wood and gasoline was the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh. Jason fell to his knees and gave wordless voice to his anguish and grief. The young man screamed until he ran out of air. Then he collapsed.

David Truxtun had seen the fire glow and smoke when he went to milk his cows. It was clear to him that at least two large fires were blazing below the western horizon. Mr. Truxtun estimated the nearest one to be on the Bryant farm. Putting thought of his cows aside, Mr. Truxtun rushed back into his house, and called 911 on his kitchen phone.

The Clay County fire department arrived as quickly as was humanly possible, but there was no chance to save the house or its' occupants. A teenaged boy was huddled in fetal position in the tall grass near the fire. He was dark haired, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a flannel shirt. The youth was as pale as a sheet with shock, but he refused the fire fighters' offers of aid.

"Help my family." The young man would say in hopeless anger.

Henry McGill knew Jason Bryant. He and Henry's younger brother were on the track team together. Henry knew that Roseanne Blanchard was the Bryant family doctor (as well as being an old family friend). He asked his captain to call Doctor Blanchard, in the hopes that she could coax Jason out of his state of shock. The captain was already on the radio with the police and asked if a patrol car could be sent to fetch the doctor. When he finished, he turned to McGill.

"What's the boys condition Henry? Any improvement?"

"Not so you could tell sir." Henry answered glumly. The fire captain released a sigh that spoke of frustration, anger and bone tiredness.

"His parents and little brother murdered, it's no wonder he's tore up." The captain shook his head in disgusted disbelief. "Two fires in one night, both arsons, and six people dead."

"Two fires Cap'n? Where was the other one?" Henry was as dismayed as his superior was.

"Just down the road. The Draper place I believe."

"The Drapers?" McGill's eyes widened with renewed terror. "Ted told me that Jason Bryant was dating that Draper girl, Carla!" Henry looked over his shoulder to see if the Bryant boy had overheard what was said. The captain's eyes narrowed and he looked at the Bryant kid in a different light.

The term "wide-eyed innocence" aptly describes the worldview of infants and toddlers. Their fresh, hungry minds greet every new discovery, no matter how minor, with a gleeful desire to understand. Anything, from a colorful wallpaper pattern to an ant scurrying across a leaf, to the leaf itself, was a mystery to examine. Babies are never bored. Most people lose that quality as they grow, but Sean Bryant never did. Little Sean was always looking for the wonder in the commonplace. As a consequence, he often found and shared things that his cool older brother would overlook. Sean could find four leafed clovers with such ease that Jason had taken to calling him "Leprechaun". With his insatiable curiosity, Sean had puzzled out how a prism made colored light when he was four. Much like a rainbow, the little fellow could brighten the dreariest day.

Now, Sean was gone, as were Jason's parents. Jason knew, intellectually, that they were dead, but he couldn't bring himself to believe it. They were too smart, too careful, to be caught in a burning house. The youth was trying to puzzle out how his father's evacuation plan could have failed (and how his family could have let their home catch fire in the first place) when Detectives Brice and Jacobs jarred him out of his deep thought.

"Where were you when this happened son?" Detective Brice had asked. His thin, hawkish face wore an expression of harsh impatience. Jason was vaguely aware that the policeman had already asked that question at least three times. It just hadn't quite registered. Jason felt bad about inadvertently ignoring the detectives, so he didn't mention that he disliked anyone but his parents calling him "son".

"I was out taking a walk." Jason answered.

"At six in the morning?" Brice's tone (and the sneer on his thin lips) said that the ginger haired detective didn't believe Jason.

"Did you go by the Draper house last night or early this morning?" Detective Jacobs asked. The older cop stank of stale cigarettes from his wingtips to his receding salt and pepper buzz cut.

"No sir" Jason answered, puzzled. Why were the police asking about the Drapers? Why were the police there at all? "May I ask why the police are here?"

The young man seemed genuinely shocked and puzzled. Leo Jacobs' instinct told him that the kid was really in shock, but the detective also felt a... wrongness, for lack of a better word, about Jason Bryant.

"You feeling okay Mr. Bryant?" Jacobs asked. The teenager seemed remarkably pale. Grief might account for his appearance, or fear.

"I feel a little numb." Jason answered "May I see Dr. Blanchard?"

"Were you feeling bad when you went to see Dr. Blanchard last night?" Detective Jacobs asked his voice full of caring concern.

"Wha- No, I didn't see Dr. Blanchard last night. What are you talking about? What's goin' on?" Jason was confused and his anger was returning. His family was gone and these detectives had nothing better to do than ask stupid questions.

"What's going on?" Palmer Brice asked with bitter sarcasm. "That is what we would like to know Mr. Bryant. We have two houses burned to the ground. We have seven dead, and we have one person who knew all of the victims who refuses to account for his whereabouts at the time of the crime." The ginger haired detective was in Jason's face. The young man tried to step back, but the police officer continued to advance. Detective Jacobs watched a parade of emotions cross the boys expressive face. He saw confusion, sadness, anger, fear, more sadness, confusion again as he tried to get Brice out of his personal space, and renewed anger when that became impossible.

"Back off Palmer." Jacobs said calmly "give the boy some air. I'm sure he'll tell us where he was last night." The older detective turned towards Jason. "Won't you son?" Leo Jacobs felt his hair stand on end when the youth's blue-gray eyes met his. For a second, Jacobs felt like a mouse being watched by a cat, an angry cat. Then, it was gone, and he was looking at a frightened boy.

Jason swallowed his anger, forcing it down inside. He could still feel it, burning down in his chest, but it was reigned in now. Jason was back in control. He took a deep, cleansing breath. It might have had a more calming effect, if the air hadn't still smelled of smoke and gasoline. Jason had smelled the gas before, but at the time, he hadn't realized its significance.

"Gasoline? You're here because it was arson." Jason said. "My parents were murdered!"

"Not just your family Mr. Bryant. The Drapers were murdered in their sleep as well." Brice said angrily. "Now you are going to answer our questions, and you are going to answer them now!"

The thin detective was in Jason's face again, his breath stinking of coffee and tooth decay, but Jason's anger was not threatening to surface again. The young man fell to his knees poleaxed by the ever-growing tragedy.

Carla Draper was (had been) his best friend. It would have been correct to say that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, but they were more than that. Carla had meant the world to Jason (and he to her). They had been made for each other. Each could finish the other's sentences. Each knew the other better than anyone, even his or her respective family.

Jason felt as if his heart had been crushed in an iron fist. He fought to hold back his tears. Mourning was a private thing, not to be shown to strangers. He wanted to be someplace safe, a place where he could give in to his grief and rage. "Why isn't Dr. Blanchard here?" Jason thought. Suddenly, Jason was aware that the hawk-faced detective was shouting.

"Where were you last night and early this morning?" The detective loomed over Jason. Brice's neck muscles bulged. His face was red, and spit flew with each shouted word. "I don't want to hear about a stroll in the moonlight! I want to know where you were!"

Jason forced himself to his feet. At five feet, eleven inches, he was actually taller than his interrogator. The youth fought to control his emotions just a little longer. He spoke with hard won calm.

"I was out in the woods. I take a long walk at night if I can't sleep." Jason didn't bother to mention that that was every night. His sleep/wake pattern was none of their business. "If you call Dr. Blanchard, she can confirm that I take these walks regularly."

"Do you collect coins Mr. Bryant?" The ginger haired police officer asked abruptly.

Jason was taken aback. For a moment he was speechless. This detective was trying to get at something, but Jason didn't know what it was.

"No, Detective... ?"

"Brice, Palmer Brice." The harsh featured detective answered.

"No, Detective Brice, I do not collect coins."

"Really? 'Cause I thought you might have left some of your collection at Dr. Blanchard's house." Brice produced a clear plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket. Inside were a number of small, silver coins. "Dr. Blanchard was hanging from the ceiling in her home office when we found her. There was a dollar fifty in Buffalo nickels on the floor under her."

Detective Jacobs was watching the boy carefully as Brice confronted the suspect. Something passed over Bryant's face when the coins were mentioned. It wasn't grief, shock or even anger and the boy hid it as fast as he could. That one moment decided Leo Jacobs. He nodded to Palmer. Brice circled around behind the boy and threw him against the hood of a patrol car.

All of the air whooshed out of Jason's lungs when he slammed into the car. He could feel Brice searching him, and he could hear the older officer speaking.

"Jason Bryant, you are under arrest for the murder of Liam Bryant, Lucinda Bryant, Sean Bryant, Carl Draper, Amanda Draper, Carla Draper, and Roseanne Blanchard. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you before questioning. Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?"

"Yes." Jason said, his voice just a whisper. He now knew who the murderers were but he couldn't tell the police. If he told them, it would mean revealing a secret that would get an awful lot of people killed (Jason included). Jason was also certain that the killers would not be content to let him or his sister escape alive. Gwen had to be warned, Jason had to find a way out of police custody, and then he could worry about the enemy.

Gwen Bryant was just getting out of bed when her phone rang. She hated being forced to deal with people before her morning shower, but she habitually answered her phone whenever it rang.

"This had better be important." She didn't always answer nicely.

"Hello Gwen. It's Jason. "There was a pause. Jason's voice sounded strained. "You better sit down."

"What's wrong? You're scaring me Jason."

"Look Gwen, I... I don't know how to say this."

"Put Mom on the line." Mom always handled crises better than anyone else in the family did. Gwen briefly wondered why she had even let Jason make the call to tell Gwen about whatever emergency had arisen.

"Mom, Dad and little Sean are..." Jason's voice was thick with pain and unshed tears "They've been..." There was the sound of the phone receiver being fumbled with, and then a new voice was on the line.

"Hello Miss Bryant. This is Fred Tucker with the Clay County Sheriff's office. I'm afraid that your brother is under arrest for the murder of seven people, including your parents and youngest brother." Gwen suddenly felt lightheaded.

"No. No, that can't be." Gwen fell into a chair.

"Miss Bryant, your brother needs your help. He needs a lawyer and he just used his one phone call to call you." Deputy Tucker said. His voice was not unkind, but it was firm. Gwen needed to be strong for her brother.

"Please put my brother back on the phone." Gwen said, as calmly as she could. The phone switched hands again.

"Hello?" The tears sounded much closer to the surface now.

"Do not cry in front of the outsiders." Gwen said, switching to the ancient Celtic dialect that she and her brothers had been taught from birth. "Tell me what has happened."

The old language reminded Jason of his responsibilities. Before his own life, and the lives of his family, Jason was duty bound to protect the Talem Er-Yetha.

"The C.R.F. has murdered Father, Mother, Sean, the Drapers, and Dr. Blanchard. I know it was them because they hanged Dr. Blanchard, and placed thirty pieces of silver at her feet."

Such was the death of Judas Iscariot. The Circle of Righteous Fire reserved that manner of death for those they held to be traitors in the war against the forces of evil. They held the Talem Er-Yetha to be their chief enemy on Earth, and had been trying to exterminate that race since the thirteenth century.

"If the enemy knows that we are Yethan, they will come for you sister. You must seek safety."

"I will try to get bail posted for you Jason. You must leave that jail by tomorrow morning even if I can not. I'll see you when you get out of jail. Then we can make plans for how to handle this." They needed a secret place to meet, preferably somewhere far from Clay County. Gwen couldn't think of a place to suggest, but she hoped that Jason could.

"We have to stick together sis." Jason replied a little hope finding its way into his voice. "Just you and me, like that time mom got sick four years ago and she couldn't keep anything on her stomach. We had to watch after her until she got better." There was a moment's pause. "Mom sure was hungry when she got better."

"She sure was." Gwen understood the message. Four years before, the family had gone camping in the Hungry Mother State Park in Virginia. "I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye." Jason said, and then he hung up.

Gwen replaced the phone on the receiver, and quickly dressed. Then, she opened the safe in her linen closet. Gwen removed her stash of emergency money, a Charter Arms Bulldog revolver, and two sets of fake ID. She was packing some clothes and other essentials, when she heard someone walking on the stairs to her apartment.

Palmer Brice was frustrated by his inability to interrogate the Bryant punk. The murdering filth had insisted that he have council present before he would say anything. He had further insisted that his sister be given time to find him a lawyer. They had waited all day and had heard nothing from the girl. Efforts to reach her at her apartment in Charlottesville, Virginia had been fruitless. The sun was setting, taking the last of Brice's patience with it, when Deputy Tucker called.

"Detective Brice?" the deputy had asked.

"Yeah Tucker. Whattaya want."

"Jason says he wants to talk to you." Tucker answered excitedly "He says he'll only talk to you and only alone."

Palmer thought about the offer for a second. If the little bastard wanted to confess, that would make his conviction much easier. If he wanted to try to lie his way out of the hole he had dug, Palmer would let him try. After all, lies tend to trip the liar. If that worthless little shit was jerking Palmer's chain... Well, they would be alone, and the little vermin might try to escape... Palmer Brice smiled as he thought about that last possibility.

"I'm on my way." Brice hung up before the deputy could say anything else. He grabbed his jacket, and was out the door as quick as his impatient legs would carry him.

Detective Brice crossed the Town Square to the Sheriff's office and jail. Deputy Tucker still had the phone in hand as Brice stormed through the front door.

"Bring Mr. Bryant to the interview room, and then clear out." Palmer barked as he walked past. "If I need anything from you, I'll holler." With that, the detective was gone from sight. Fred Tucker didn't have much use for the detective. In his defense, Brice was honest, and he never played favorites. On the other hand, the detective was an abrasive, opinionated, stubborn, vindictive, horse's ass. Brice's negative character traits outweighed his virtues. Nonetheless, Fred obeyed the detective's order.

Palmer Brice was smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of wretched vending machine coffee when Tucker arrived with the prisoner. He was outraged to see that the punk was still dressed in his own clothes (as opposed to the blaze orange jail coveralls), and the prisoner's hands were cuffed in front, not back. "Well," Brice thought, "I'm going to want him uncuffed anyway, in case I need to make it look like he tried to escape."