Suddenly he stumbled over a word and stopped. He stood at the lectern and stared. For an awful moment Grace thought he was staring at her, then realized that his gaze was directed past her. She turned and saw a gray-haired stranger standing at the rear of the room.
Martin immediately rose from his chair near the front and approached the man.
"This is not a public meeting," he said indignantly.
The stranger seemed a bit confused, a little unsure of himself.
"I will go if you wish," he said. "But surely you would allow me to listen."
Grace suddenly recognized him. He was the man who had been standing across the street from this old brownstone last Sunday, watching them. What did he want?
She watched Martin. He seemed undecided as to what to do. They both turned and looked at Brother Robert.
Grace remembered how on Sunday the monk had inferred that the man was some sort of enemy, even though he obviously didn't know him.
"Martin," Brother Robert said, "we cannot deny someone the right to listen to the word of God. Please be seated, friend."
Grace stiffened as the man seated himself at the end of the last row, her row, just two chairs to her right. She kept her eyes straight ahead and listened to Brother Robert as he resumed his homily. But the monk was clearly distracted. He stumbled over some sentences, rushed through others, and was not nearly as effective as he had been before he was interrupted.
Grace risked a glance at the newcomer.
Close up like this, she realized how big a man he was, his large frame made even bulkier by a heavy tan double-breasted raincoat. There was the slightest hint of swarthiness in his complexion and the faintest of red highlights in his silvery hair. High cheekbones, a long straight nose, and no hint of jowls despite his years. He sat straight and tall with his big, scarred hands resting in fists on his thighs. A gold band encircled his left ring finger. And all around him, an aura of faded power.
He must have sensed her scrutiny, for he turned her way and gave her a faint smile that narrowed his blue eyes. Then he returned his attention to Brother Robert.
Grace felt the tension ease out of her. That smile… it had been as much to reassure her as himself. This was not a man to fear.
The service ended with Brother Robert's plea:
"Give us a sign, Lord. Reveal the Antichrist to us so that we may confront him with Your holy power."
Then all twenty or so of the gathered Chosen stood and said the Apostles' Creed and a Hail Mary while they held hands. The newcomer neither stood nor prayed. As before, Grace kept her hands to herself while she prayed with them.
Suddenly she felt a tingling in her face. She turned toward the stranger and began to speak to him. To her horror the words were not her own. The language was alien to her.
The stranger started in his seat, his eyes wide as he stared at her. She tried to stop herself, but her voice went on, uttering those strange, incomprehensible syllables.
"Stop that!" he said. "You don't know what you're saying!"
Members of the Chosen were turning to look at her. Brother Robert hurried up, beaming.
"The Spirit is with you, Grace! Don't fight it! Give praise to the Lord!"
"She's not praising anything!" the stranger said.
"You understand the tongue she's speaking?" Brother Robert said, his eyes wide.
Before he could answer, the words stopped and Grace's voice was once more her own. The stranger remained seated as the worshipers drifted out, staring at him as they passed. Soon only Grace, Brother Robert, Martin, and the newcomer remained in the room. Brother Robert approached his chair and stood over him.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Veilleur," said the gray-haired man. "And you?"
"Brother Robert from the Monastery at Aiguebelle." Neither offered to shake hands. "You understand the tongue? What was she saying?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Don't be so sure of that," Brother Robert said.
Martin stepped forward. "Why did you come here? Why have you been lurking outside, watching us?"
Veilleur's face was troubled. "I don't know. I sense something here. I seemed to be drawn to this group."
Grace tried to place his faint accent. It sounded vaguely British, and yet not like any she had ever heard.
"You are not one of us," Martin said with a certainty that brooked no argument.
"Quite true. But who is this 'us' you refer to? Why do you come together here?"
Brother Robert said, "We come to praise the Lord and to prepare ourselves to do battle with His enemy. The Antichrist is among us. We await a sign."
"The Antichrist?"
"Yes. The Evil One has taken on flesh."
Mr. Veilleur stared at Brother Robert, then at Grace, who felt the weight of his gaze like a blow.
"So… you know."
Brother Robert nodded. "Satan has come to try to claim this world for his own."
"I don't know about Satan. But something is coming. What I don't understand is why you people have been touched."
Martin stiffened. "What do you mean, 'touched'? We are as sane as anyone else—saner, in fact!"
"I meant sensitized, alerted, made aware. Why you people in particular?"
"Why not?"
"Because you make a pitiful defense force."
"And I suppose you think you should lead us?" Martin said.
Mr. Veilleur's smile was sour as he shook his head. "No, I want no part of this. I'm out of it. In fact, I thought it was all over."
"It's never over," said Brother Robert.
"Perhaps you're right. I suppose I should have known that. But I'd hoped it might be."
"What are you talking about?"
"You wouldn't understand."
Brother Robert's eyes narrowed as he spoke in a low voice. "I have traveled far. I have looked into places good men were never meant to see. I have read the forbidden books—"
"Is that proper for a man of the cloth?" Veilleur said.
" 'Know thine enemy' is a wise saying. God may work in the world in many guises, but so does the devil. I have exposed myself to hideous evils and have turned away from them, never having the slightest temptation to release myself to what they offered."
Veilleur appeared to be studying Brother Robert. He nodded respectfully. "But one cannot tread those coals and emerge unscorched."
"True. The experiences have left me… sensitized, as you say. It is as if I've developed an extra sense, something like a sense of smell for the devil's work. And the stench of him is heavy here."
"Not here, exactly," Mr. Veilleur said. "Farther to the east."
Brother Robert stared at him. "You too?"
"As your friend here said"—he nodded toward Martin—"I am not one of you."
"I know that," Brother Robert said. "And yet… you are."
"Was. I was, but no longer."
As Mr. Veilleur stood, Grace stepped back. He seemed to tower over the three of them.
"Please tell me," Grace said. "What language was I speaking?"
"The Old Tongue."
"I've never heard of such a thing," Martin said.
"No one has spoken it for thousands of years."
"I don't believe you!" Martin said.
"Hush, Martin," Brother Robert said gently. "I believe him."
Grace looked into Brother Robert's eyes and for the first time sensed the enormity of the events taking shape around her. It made her weak. She turned to Mr. Veilleur. His eyes had a faraway look. He spoke, more to himself than to them.