She rises until she hovers above the sands. The wind whips her long white robes and straight black hair. Her blue eyes glow softly, two pale points of turquoise in a gray desert landscape. Her eyes glow brighter, turning into two sharp points of searing blue light. I wince, but can’t turn away. I want to run, but my body won’t budge.

Verus slowly raises her arms, her wings expanding with the movement. The sound of her voice sets the Gray Sea rumbling.

“It is time you knew the identity of your father. I will send you visions of the past.”

I want to say ‘yes’ or ‘thank you,’ but the words won’t come. I guess my agreement to this plan isn’t necessary.

Suddenly, the circle of flame swells, transforming into a wall of white fire that towers over my head. Waves of heat sear my cheeks; my body drips with sweat. I want to run, move, duck, but all I can do is stand perfectly still. The fire crackles brighter; the flames grow larger.

Within seconds, fire surrounds my entire body. That last thing I remember is being consumed by white flame as the world dissolves into darkness.

I open my eyes, waking up not in the backyard but in my own bed. It’s early morning. My orange gown is gone and I wear standard-issue sweats and a tee. I re-fluff my pillow under my head and stare out of my window, trying to process everything that happened. The sky is calm and gray, unlike the rolling thunderheads in my dream. Verus’s words echo through my brain: ‘It is time you knew the identity of your father. I will send you visions of the past.’

My tail grips the edge of my threadbare covers. My body burns with righteous wrath. Enough is enough; I want me some answers now. Whipping off the covers, I race into the kitchen.

I find Mom at the kitchen table, hand-sewing the hem of a robe. She doesn’t look up as I enter. “Good morning, my little Myla-la. How’d you sleep?”

I freeze in place. Chilly realization washes over me, cooling my wrath. These random, annoying morning interrogations may not be so random and annoying. “That question.” I set my hands against my rib cage, feeling the cool prickle of gooseflesh under my fingertips. “Is that your way of asking me if an angel has visited me in my dreams?”

Mom looks up from her sewing, her brown eyes glistening with tears. “Yes.” Her voice cracks. “Did one visit you last night?” Desperation hangs about her like a dark cloud. “Please, say yes.”

At her words, all my frustration and anger melts away. This may be as hard for her as it is for me. “Yeah.” I plunk down into the chair across from her.

Mom pulls her thread taut. “Was it Verus?”

“Yes.”