The Music of the Mission
Waiting.
Watching.
Lilliana Skye stood in the upper branches of a tall oak
overlooking Lake Elm High and peered through the leaves. She
listened closely to the strange music of human emotions as
students shuffled through the front doors of the small Texas
high school. Some of them emitted low, plodding oboe sounds
with sad notes of doubt and aloneness. Others pulsated like
wild offbeat snare drums.
Her first mission. She'd studied and prepared for this
day her whole life. Soon, very soon, she would walk among
the humans. Her own inner music soared up, whistling
excitedly, flying out of harmony with the trees and wind.
With a deep breath Lilliana calmed herself and tucked her
training manual securely under her arm. Any minute now her
orders would arrive.
She tugged down the short, uncomfortably tight
skirt—a perfect disguise. A new dress may not solve
any problems, but it sure was fun. Lilliana had duplicated
the outfit, every last detail, from page thirty–eight
of the latest Teen Vogue. She was totally prepared. Ready.
Nothing to worry about. After all, these humans were just
teenagers, like her. Well, except, none of them had a pair
of five–foot–seven–inch wings sprouting
out of their backs. Lilliana retracted hers.
Just then a bright red cardinal burst through the thick
canopy of the old oak tree. He swooped down and dropped a
small scroll into her hands.
"Thank you, Napoleon."
The feathered messenger landed on Lilliana's shoulder as
she unrolled the parchment and read "School records altered.
Proceed." Gryndelyn's official seal glowed on the bottom. As
soon as Lilliana finished reading it, the message
disintegrated into dandelion fluff and scattered on the breeze.
Suddenly, thunder shook the air. Except there wasn't a
cloud in the sky.
Lilliana's attention snapped back to the school. The deep
rumble blotted out the noise of the students. She searched
for the source of the explosive roar. There! The loud, angry
vibrations came from a girl in army boots and a camouflage
T–shirt, the one who resembled a third world dictator
stomping up the school steps.
Lilliana drew in a quick breath. She knew that girl.
She'd memorized that profile, and she recognized the wild
unruly hair, hair the color of deep red autumn leaves. It
was Cinderella's offspring, Lilliana's C.O., the girl she
was supposed to help. It was Jessica Harrison whose soul
thundered as violent and black as a winter storm.
Yet, beneath Jess's throbbing drums of rage, Lilliana
heard the unmistakable strains of anguish—taut strings
of grief. Grief that resonated so sharply it hurt to listen.
