quivering voice. “I want you to know that I’m going to take care of mommy, just like you asked me to do. I will make her cakes for her birthdays, just like I promised that I would.” Her voice trailed off and she quickly looked away then turned back to the casket again. “I love you, Daddy. I want to believe the things you told me. But daddy, I’m scared. I miss you, I miss you! And there’s so much I don’t understand . . . .”
She fell silent, lowering her head in frustration then closed her eyes. Crossing her arms, she held herself as if in an embrace. No one spoke. No one moved. There was a reverence in the moment that no one dared to break.
How much time passed, no one knew, but the little girl eventually lifted her head. And when she did, something had changed. Something was very different. Her face was calm and peaceful. For the first time in months, her eyes were bright and clear.
Her mother pulled her close.
Then the little girl broke into a smile.
* * *
Behind the thick veil that separated the natural and the supernatural worlds, other souls observed the funeral scene from the shadows of the trees. They were the dark and evil spirits the mortals never saw but often felt.
As had been the case since the beginning of man, these dark ones watched and listened, they studied and they plotted, their evil wafting like a heavy stench upon the world. And their power—Satan’s power—was growing, their devastation having already brought the world to its knees.
A lean-faced spirit named Balaam stood among the unseen crowd. One of the darkest of the evil spirits, he was aggressive and mean. But despite his aggression, he was also insecure, for he had failed his master a few too many times before. Now, he only thirsted for more. More blackness. More evil. He was never satisfied.
As the group of evil spirits looked upon the little girl, seeing her courage and her smile, as they looked out on the strength of her mother and the bravery of the soldiers who stood so near, the dark and evil swarm could not hold back their pain and fear.
Together, they let out a scream of hate so clear it echoed across the wet grass into the very bowels of hell.
Balaam howled loudest among them, for he hated what the mourners represented the most.
ONE
Eighteen Years Before
Prince Abdullah al-Rahman lay slightly inebriated on a beach on the southern tip of France. Behind him, the La Villa de Ambassador II rose above the shoreline, one of the finest resorts on the Mediterranean coast. The water was clear and a perfect blue sky shone overhead. Cyprus trees swayed in rhythm with the wind and the sand was so even it looked as if it had been raked. The grass above the beach was perfectly manicured, the air was clean and the water sparkled with a million diamonds from the Mediterranean sun. Behind him, on the other side of the wrought iron security gates that surrounded the Ambassador II, the beautiful resort towns of Monte Carlo and Nice lay equidistant, one city to the east, the other to the west. It was late afternoon as Prince al-Rahman sat alone on the sand, staring out at the sea.
Prince al-Rahman and his entourage had leased the entire La Villa de Ambassador II for the week; all 225 rooms, three gourmet restaurants, spa, golf course and private beach. For the next seven days it all belonged to him and his group of 97: bodyguards, concubines, wives and friends. Al-Rahman and his family had come to France to shop and get away from the desert heat, which meant that in addition to the cost of the resort, one of his wives had transferred several million dollars into their petty cash account.
But Al-Rahman wasn’t interested in shopping. He had other things on his mind.
At twenty-five, the prince was young and trim, with a finely sculpted face and almost European features, thanks to his mother, an Italian beauty herself. He had a fine nose and strong eyes over thick lips. And unlike most Arabs, the prince didn’t consider
She fell silent, lowering her head in frustration then closed her eyes. Crossing her arms, she held herself as if in an embrace. No one spoke. No one moved. There was a reverence in the moment that no one dared to break.
How much time passed, no one knew, but the little girl eventually lifted her head. And when she did, something had changed. Something was very different. Her face was calm and peaceful. For the first time in months, her eyes were bright and clear.
Her mother pulled her close.
Then the little girl broke into a smile.
* * *
Behind the thick veil that separated the natural and the supernatural worlds, other souls observed the funeral scene from the shadows of the trees. They were the dark and evil spirits the mortals never saw but often felt.
As had been the case since the beginning of man, these dark ones watched and listened, they studied and they plotted, their evil wafting like a heavy stench upon the world. And their power—Satan’s power—was growing, their devastation having already brought the world to its knees.
A lean-faced spirit named Balaam stood among the unseen crowd. One of the darkest of the evil spirits, he was aggressive and mean. But despite his aggression, he was also insecure, for he had failed his master a few too many times before. Now, he only thirsted for more. More blackness. More evil. He was never satisfied.
As the group of evil spirits looked upon the little girl, seeing her courage and her smile, as they looked out on the strength of her mother and the bravery of the soldiers who stood so near, the dark and evil swarm could not hold back their pain and fear.
Together, they let out a scream of hate so clear it echoed across the wet grass into the very bowels of hell.
Balaam howled loudest among them, for he hated what the mourners represented the most.
ONE
Eighteen Years Before
Prince Abdullah al-Rahman lay slightly inebriated on a beach on the southern tip of France. Behind him, the La Villa de Ambassador II rose above the shoreline, one of the finest resorts on the Mediterranean coast. The water was clear and a perfect blue sky shone overhead. Cyprus trees swayed in rhythm with the wind and the sand was so even it looked as if it had been raked. The grass above the beach was perfectly manicured, the air was clean and the water sparkled with a million diamonds from the Mediterranean sun. Behind him, on the other side of the wrought iron security gates that surrounded the Ambassador II, the beautiful resort towns of Monte Carlo and Nice lay equidistant, one city to the east, the other to the west. It was late afternoon as Prince al-Rahman sat alone on the sand, staring out at the sea.
Prince al-Rahman and his entourage had leased the entire La Villa de Ambassador II for the week; all 225 rooms, three gourmet restaurants, spa, golf course and private beach. For the next seven days it all belonged to him and his group of 97: bodyguards, concubines, wives and friends. Al-Rahman and his family had come to France to shop and get away from the desert heat, which meant that in addition to the cost of the resort, one of his wives had transferred several million dollars into their petty cash account.
But Al-Rahman wasn’t interested in shopping. He had other things on his mind.
At twenty-five, the prince was young and trim, with a finely sculpted face and almost European features, thanks to his mother, an Italian beauty herself. He had a fine nose and strong eyes over thick lips. And unlike most Arabs, the prince didn’t consider
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