Chapter 10
“Father,” Josiah said softly, entering the dormitory where Nephilim stayed when they were at the compound. The soft colors of the bedspread on which Lucien sat—red fading through the shades of orange and rose to gold—seemed to mean something to the half-angel. His obsidian eyes remained fixed on the windowpane as he ran his fingers over a band of delicate shell pink. Perhaps he, like his son, felt the Montana winter leeched all the color out of the world. Beyond the small, high window, snow swirled in a chill wind that could be felt even through the cinderblock walls of the compound.
“Josiah?” Lucien's expression returned to the present, to his thirteen-year-old son standing in front of him.
“Father, you don't have to live here, do you?” Josiah asked. “Can't you live anywher
