play, the snare he'd laid so carefully. Soon it would come to fruition. This one would not be the first nor the last to find the web entwined about him before he knew into what he'd walked. It served his Lord’s work and was worth it.
The ringing phone interrupted his satisfied musings. "Ms. Johnson is here, Sir," Sharon said.
"Send her right in," Soul said, rising to greet her at the door, pleasantly surprised to find such a tall, beautiful woman with the camera bag. "This is a pleasure," he said, reaching out his hand. “May I call you Christine?”
Christine nodded as she stretched out her hand to take his. Although his fingers were finally formed, long, thin and white, almost immediately she felt a chill at touching his flesh.
Her cursory examination told her Peter Soul was thin, not much taller than she, his hair a pale blond, lighter than her own. She studied his face. The handsome, finely molded features gave her no reason for the uneasiness she had instantly felt. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the gray color, but behind that what seemed to be almost a glowing fire. She swallowed hard against the urge to turn right around and leave with no photos. She'd been around many different sorts of people. Some admittedly evil. She'd never experienced the instant disquietude with which this man filled her.
"After I saw your portfolio, I knew you were the right person to record our work here. I am so glad you agreed to come. Our Lord blesses those who bless his work," Soul said, his hand now gesturing toward the stuffed chair in front of his desk.
Christine sat, managing a smile with some difficulty. “You do understand this is part of a series of young shakers and movers in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked wanting no misunderstandings or maybe a way out of doing the photos. She was unsure which.
“Of course. That’s fine.”
When Soul was seated, she again looked into his eyes. This time they seemed a simple gray. She decided her imagination had been running away with her Perhaps the light had somehow reflected oddly, explaining that strange glow. Her perturbation was less easy to explain away, but she hoped talking to him would reassure her.
"May I get you a cup of tea?" Soul asked, motioning again with his hand, this time toward a pot and two cups on a warming tray.
"Herbal would be nice if you have it."
He smiled. "We don't drink anything with poisons in it."
"Poisons?"
"Like caffeine, alcohol, additives."
"Of course."
"Peppermint?" he asked, lifting a sack for her approval. When she nodded, he dipped a silver tea holder into the bag, carefully filled it, then lowered it into the tea pot.
"Now," he said again sitting. "Where should we begin?"
"Well, I do have a few questions."
"Ask to your heart's content, fair lady."
“You are building up a sizeable membership. That has led to some being suspicious about exactly what is going on with your people.”
He smiled. “It’s human nature to doubt. Anyone who goes against the tide is suspected. Jesus Himself was crucified.”
“So you consider yourself to be a Christian church?” When he nodded, she bent to retrieve a small notebook from her bag. "I have some quotes by those who say it’s not." She knew she might have just blown the interview with that statement but she'd felt compelled to make it.
His smile broadened. "I have never asked for a vote of popularity," he said easily, sliding back in his chair and crossing one leg, so that his ankle rested on his knee. Although he was dressed in a fine gray suit, he seemed casual and at ease. She had a feeling it was deliberate. This man was excellent at his use of body language, effectively communicating whatever he chose. She wondered if he ever relaxed enough to be himself--whatever that was.
"You are quite popular. Charismatic might be a good word to describe the way people fall in your thrall."
"In God's thrall," he corrected.
“Like Jim Jones perhaps?”
“Not at all. I don’t
The ringing phone interrupted his satisfied musings. "Ms. Johnson is here, Sir," Sharon said.
"Send her right in," Soul said, rising to greet her at the door, pleasantly surprised to find such a tall, beautiful woman with the camera bag. "This is a pleasure," he said, reaching out his hand. “May I call you Christine?”
Christine nodded as she stretched out her hand to take his. Although his fingers were finally formed, long, thin and white, almost immediately she felt a chill at touching his flesh.
Her cursory examination told her Peter Soul was thin, not much taller than she, his hair a pale blond, lighter than her own. She studied his face. The handsome, finely molded features gave her no reason for the uneasiness she had instantly felt. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the gray color, but behind that what seemed to be almost a glowing fire. She swallowed hard against the urge to turn right around and leave with no photos. She'd been around many different sorts of people. Some admittedly evil. She'd never experienced the instant disquietude with which this man filled her.
"After I saw your portfolio, I knew you were the right person to record our work here. I am so glad you agreed to come. Our Lord blesses those who bless his work," Soul said, his hand now gesturing toward the stuffed chair in front of his desk.
Christine sat, managing a smile with some difficulty. “You do understand this is part of a series of young shakers and movers in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked wanting no misunderstandings or maybe a way out of doing the photos. She was unsure which.
“Of course. That’s fine.”
When Soul was seated, she again looked into his eyes. This time they seemed a simple gray. She decided her imagination had been running away with her Perhaps the light had somehow reflected oddly, explaining that strange glow. Her perturbation was less easy to explain away, but she hoped talking to him would reassure her.
"May I get you a cup of tea?" Soul asked, motioning again with his hand, this time toward a pot and two cups on a warming tray.
"Herbal would be nice if you have it."
He smiled. "We don't drink anything with poisons in it."
"Poisons?"
"Like caffeine, alcohol, additives."
"Of course."
"Peppermint?" he asked, lifting a sack for her approval. When she nodded, he dipped a silver tea holder into the bag, carefully filled it, then lowered it into the tea pot.
"Now," he said again sitting. "Where should we begin?"
"Well, I do have a few questions."
"Ask to your heart's content, fair lady."
“You are building up a sizeable membership. That has led to some being suspicious about exactly what is going on with your people.”
He smiled. “It’s human nature to doubt. Anyone who goes against the tide is suspected. Jesus Himself was crucified.”
“So you consider yourself to be a Christian church?” When he nodded, she bent to retrieve a small notebook from her bag. "I have some quotes by those who say it’s not." She knew she might have just blown the interview with that statement but she'd felt compelled to make it.
His smile broadened. "I have never asked for a vote of popularity," he said easily, sliding back in his chair and crossing one leg, so that his ankle rested on his knee. Although he was dressed in a fine gray suit, he seemed casual and at ease. She had a feeling it was deliberate. This man was excellent at his use of body language, effectively communicating whatever he chose. She wondered if he ever relaxed enough to be himself--whatever that was.
"You are quite popular. Charismatic might be a good word to describe the way people fall in your thrall."
"In God's thrall," he corrected.
“Like Jim Jones perhaps?”
“Not at all. I don’t
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