In an instant, Silver found himself buffeted on all sides by rain and hail.

He stood at the edge of an open field, his body battered by strong gusts of wind, the sudden tempest knocking him down to the muddy ground. He was soaking wet within seconds, his t-shirt and jeans plastered against his body, his flimsy sneakers sodden and flooded.

Silver huddled, shivering, in the mire, folding his bare arms upward, helmet-like, to protect his head from the raging elements, as his knees sank further into the muck.

A hailstone struck his left wrist and a small gash opened up, a rivulet of crimson blood trailing down from the spot of sharp pain.

Silver clasped his other hand over the wound and swung his head around, searching.

He was relieved to see Devon stooping beside him, bat-like wings curved over his own head.

“Over there!” shouted Devon over the roar of the tempest. He unfolded a finger and pointed toward the middle of the field.

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A fork of lightning lit up the charcoal sky in the direction he indicated and a peal of thunder sounded right on its heels, a musical counterpoint to the howling of the wind.

Silver turned his head and saw a young woman a dozen yards or so away from them, about Fiona’s age and with similar facial features. This woman was duskier than Fiona – in skin tone, hair, and aura.

Everything about her seemed dark.

She was clad in a black lace dress that whipped about her slender frame as she raised her arms, moving them to and fro as though conducting a symphony.

Suddenly, Silver realized the woman was conducting – she was directing the storm.

As she thrust a hand forward, lightning struck in the direction she had pointed. She flung her other arm in a wide sweep and the wind abruptly switched directions, following the dramatic gesture.

Her face was tight with the effort, but the storm was completely under her control.

“Rosza?” Silver called out. The woman ignored him.

“She can’t hear you,” yelled Devon. “This is only a vision. It is Rosza, yes, but as she was twenty-five years ago.”

“If this is a vision, it’s damned realistic,” shouted Silver in return, showing Devon his still-bleeding arm.

Devon didn’t respond. Instead, he fought against the wind, slowly turning toward Silver, and placed his finger on the human’s forehead again.

The storm disappeared, and Silver found himself indoors, in a room full of oddly dressed people.