The Second Summoning

SEVEN

ANXIOUS TO GET AT WHATEVER IT WAS he was supposed to be doing, Samuel had slipped out before dawn.

Dawn. The first light of day. The rising of the sun. The sun. A relatively stable ball of burning hydrogen approximately 150 million kilometers away. Higher knowledge hadn’t mentioned anything about how early it happened.

He yawned and scratched, then walked to the road, stepped over a snowbank, and stood looking around at the world—or as much of it as he could see from the sidewalk in front of St. Patrick’s. It wasn’t what he’d expected. It was quieter for one thing, with no evidence of the constant battle between good and evil supposedly going on in every heart. He’d expected turmoil, people crying out for any help he could give. He hadn’t expected his nose hair to freeze.

Actually, until he’d traced the tight, icy feeling to its source, he hadn’t known he had nose hair.

Wondering why anyone would voluntarily live in such temperatures, he started walking down the road.

Lena Giorno had called him because she wanted to see an angel. She’d seen him. Over. Done. Ta dah. Frank Giorno had wanted him out of his daughter’s bedroom and in clothing. Both taken care of—with some unnecessary violence in Samuel’s opinion, but no one had asked him. Father Harris, a fellow servant of the light, didn’t need him, and, although he hadn’t said it out loud, had practically been screaming at him to go away.

He hadn’t gone far, but he’d gone.

So what now? He had to be here for a reason.

His sense of self had grown overnight, but he was still having a little trouble with the vague components of Lena’s initial parameters. The whole higher knowledge thing seemed a bit spotty and, so far, not very useful. He understood mobility; he only had to want to go somewhere to be there except that he didn’t know where he wanted to go. His hair was great. No argument.

And apparently, he was supposed to have come with a message. If he had, he’d misplaced it. Oh sure, he could come up with a few off the top of his head—Love thy Neighbor, Cherish the Children, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, Check Your Tire Pressure—but they were so commonplace—not to mention common sense—they seemed almost trite.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I don’t know how to rejoin the light.

And while I know where I am, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.

If higher knowledge hadn’t informed him that he was wiser and more evolved, he’d have to say the whole situation sucked. Big time.

Okay. I deliver messages. I’m some kind of nonunion, spiritual postal guy. Samuel looked around at a village of empty streets and dark houses. So everything’ll be cool as soon as I can tell someone something.

Although why anyone would want things cooler, he had no idea, and he didn’t even want to guess how a situation could draw something in by creating a partial vacuum.

Unfortunately, the only people currently awake behind the barricades of drawn curtains were young children and the parents of young children. The kids were—well, he supposed hysterical was as accurate a description as any. As for their parents, they didn’t so much need him to pass on a spiritual message as they needed another three hours of sleep and the batteries that hadn’t been included.

He was giving some serious thought to returning to Lena’s room and having her fill in a few details when he heard a vehicle approaching. Turning, he watched the 5.2 liter, 230-horsepower, V-8 SUV come closer with no clear idea of why he suddenly found engine statistics so fascinating. He was wondering how it handled on curves when the surrounding cloud of desperation captured his attention. Someone in that vehicle was about to crack.

Was he supposed to fix cracks?

So now I’m doing spiritual plastering? Which wasn’t as funny as he’d hoped it would be. He took a deep breath and dried suddenly damp palms against his thighs, wondering why he seemed to be leaking. Still, a guy’s got to start somewhere…

And so far, this seemed to be the only game in town.

The vehicle was exactly twenty feet, seven and three-eighths inches away when he stepped in front of it. When it stopped, it was exactly three-eighths of an inch away. An exhausted looking man and an equally exhausted looking woman were sitting openmouthed in the front seats. Brian and Linda Pearson. He flashed them both an enthusiastic thumbs up figuring that, hey, it couldn’t hurt.

“Are you out of your mind?” Face flushed, Brian leaned out the driver’s window. “I could have killed you!”

He seemed a bit upset. Samuel smiled reassuringly. Never let the mortals sense insecurity. He wasn’t sure if that was higher knowledge, common sense, or some kind of basic survival instinct but he figured he’d go with it regardless. “I have a message for you.”

“Get the fuck out of my way!”

“No.”

“No?” His volume rose impressively.

“No. I need to tell you that no matter how it seems, your kids aren’t deliberately trying to drive you crazy. You just need more patience.” Smile slipping slightly, he added, “And a breath mint.”

“You’re insane!”

“Am not!” He felt his jaw jut out and his weight shift forward onto the balls of his feet. Where was that coming from? Lowering his voice, he fought the urge to challenge Brian Pearson to a fight, saying only a little belligerently, “I’m an angel.”

Exhaustion warring with denial, Brian’s bloodshot eyes widened as they were met and held. “Oh my G…”

Samuel raised a hand and cut him off, glancing around to be sure no one had overheard. “Don’t even suggest that. Didn’t you hear what happened to the last guy who tried to move up?” Whistling a descending scale, he pantomimed a fall from grace. The sound of an explosion at the end was purely extemporary but impossible to resist.

Dragging Brian back into the van, her gaze never leaving Samuel’s face, Linda whispered something in her husband’s ear.

He shook his head and glanced back over his shoulder. “We can’t.”

She whispered something else.

Unfortunately, higher knowledge didn’t seem to extend to eavesdropping.

Leaning back out the window, Brian tried a wobbly smile. “Would you like a ride into London?”

Would he? London, England, seemed a bit far and he was fairly certain the Atlantic Ocean was in the way, so they probably meant London, Ontario, about an hour’s drive down highway four.

“Sure.”

“Good. Get in.”

By the time he’d walked around to the passenger side, Linda had opened the back door. Her expression a curious mix of hope and guilt, she wished him a Merry Christmas and indicated he should climb inside. The second set of seats had been removed and an identical pair of seven-year-old twins, Celeste and Selinka, had been belted into opposite corners of the three seats running across the back of the SUV. If there’d been any more room between them and their parents, they’d have been outside the vehicle completely.

“Hey,” he said as he folded himself into the middle seat and fumbled for the seat belt. “My name’s Samuel, and I’m an angel. I’m here…”

“’Cause Mommy said to Daddy you can distract us,” announced Selinka.

“So Daddy can drive more safely,” added Celeste.

“Mommy doesn’t really believe you’re an angel. She’s desperate.”

“She said she’s ready to ’cept help from the devil himself.”

“Really?”

Up front, Linda’s shoulders stiffened, lending credence to the comment.

Samuel found his own shoulders stiffening in response. “You shouldn’t, you know, repeat that.”

“Why?” Celeste demanded, eyes narrowing.

“Because if an angel can be here, then so can a devil.”

“You’re stupid,” sniffed Selinka. “And your hair looks dumb. Why do you smell like cotton candy?”

“He smells like strawberry ice cream.”

“Does not!”

“Does too!”

“Why can’t I smell like both?”

Celeste leaned around him. “You’re right,” she told her sister. “He is stupid.”

Then they started singing.

“There was a farmer had a dog…”

At first it was cute.

“Let’s all sing,” Samuel suggested, leaning forward as far as the seat belt allowed. Singing was a good thing; he had a vague idea that angels did a lot of it. “The family that sings together…uh…” Wings together? Pings together? Then he realized that no once could hear him over the high-pitched little voices filling the enclosed vehicle with sound.

“B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O…”

It went on and on and on, just below the threshold of pain.

“Make it stop,” moaned their father, beating his forehead against the steering wheel as the SUV began to pick up speed.

Short of gagging them, Samuel couldn’t figure out how to stop them. Nothing he said from well reasoned argument to childish pleas made any impression. After the fourth verse, gagging them was beginning to seem like a valid option. Finally, ears ringing in the sudden silence, he forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile and swept it over both girls. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do something that doesn’t make any noise?”

They exchanged a suspicious glance.

“Like what?” asked Selinka.

“It had better be fun,” added Celeste.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could number the hairs on both girls’ heads (three billion two hundred and twelve and three billion two hundred and fourteen) but when it came down to it, that wasn’t even remotely useful. Unless…“I don’t suppose you’d want to count each other’s hair?”

Which was about when he discovered that a nonviolent, geared to age level, designed to promote social development electronic game could raise one heck of a bump when thrown at close range.

“I’m feeling guilty about this,” Brian Pearson murmured to his wife. “Are you sure he’s going to be all right?”

“He offered to help.”

“Actually, hon, he said he had a message for us.”

“Same thing.”

“Not quite.”

“Well, it’s a moving car,” she pointed out philosophically, gnawing on her last fingernail. “He can’t get out.”

“We’re going to London to see our Granny,” announced Selinka.

“Do you have a Granny?” asked Celeste.

Good question. He ran through the order of angels above him; archangels, principalities, powers, dominions, thrones, cherubim, seraphim…“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I guess it’s because I’m an angel.”

The twin on the right narrowed her eyes and stared up at him. “Lemme see your wings.”

“What?”

“If you’re supposed to be an angel, lemme see your wings.”

Samuel spread his hands and tried an ingratiating smile. “I don’t have wings.”

“Why?”

“I’m not that kind of an angel.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the kind of angel that doesn’t have wings.”

“Why?”

“If you’re an angel, you’re supposed to have wings.” Her voice began to rise in both volume and pitch. “Big, white, fluffy wings!”

The smile slipped. “Well, I don’t.”

“Why?”

Why? He had no idea. But going back for that long talk with Lena was beginning to seem like a plan. “I have running shoes,” he offered.

Small heads bent forward to have a look.

“They’re not brand name,” said the twin who seemed to be running this part of the interrogation. “No swatches.”

“Does that matter?” Was he wearing the wrong stuff? “What’s a swatch?”

She folded her arms. “Dork.”

“Wouldn’t you girls like to have a nap?” Over the sound of their laughter, he thought he heard their mother whimper. “You know, if you were quiet, your parents would be really happy.”

“They would?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The twin on the left, taking her turn, poked him imperiously in the side. “Light up your head.”

“What?”

“Light up your head! Like on TV.”

“I don’t…”

“Then you’re not an angel.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Just barely resisting the urge to grab her and shake her, he let a little of the light show.

“Ha, ha, made you light!”

An ethnically diverse, anatomically correct baby doll swung in from the other side by one foot, the molded plastic head completing its downswing in just the wrong spot.

The light went out.

His eyes were still watering when the SUV stopped at the corner of York and Talbot Streets and he stumbled out into a snowbank. Maybe Brian Pearson did need to know his kids weren’t deliberately driving him crazy, but as the twins had survived for seven whole years, he could only conclude that both parents already had the patience of a saint. Each. He’d been with the twins for just over an hour and against all predisposition, he wanted to strangle them. He couldn’t imagine what seven years would be like. And he was no longer entirely certain that Brian Pearson wasn’t right.

The girls, not at all upset by the yelling he’d done, crowded to the window, and blew him kisses.

“Aren’t they angelic,” sighed their mother without much conviction.

“Not exactly,” Samuel told her, clinging to the door until he could get his balance. “But if it helps, I don’t think they’re actually demonic.”

She turned her head enough to meet his gaze. “You’re not sure?”

“Uh.” He took another look and heard the voice of memory say, Because if an angel can be here, then so can a devil. Or two. “No. Sorry.”

“Well, you’ve been a lot of help.”

He’d have been more reassured if she hadn’t sounded so sarcastic. Shoving his hands in his pockets as the SUV drove away, he sighed and muttered, “That could’ve gone better.”

Pushing through the narrow break in the knee-high snowbank that bracketed the street, he stumbled onto the sidewalk and took a moment to try and dig snow out of his shoes with his finger. Apparently, it was a well-known fact that angels left no footprints. Twisting around, he checked and, sure enough, he’d left no mark in the snow. Although there had to be a reason for it, he’d have happily traded footprints for dry feet. Were angels even supposed to have wet feet? At least he wasn’t cold. At least that was working.

Nothing else seemed to be.

Maybe he just needed practice.

Straightening, he looked around. So this was London. Fotown. The Forest City. The Jungle City. Georgiana on the Ditch. Apparently, the 340,000 people who lived here had the most cars per capita in Canada. So? Where was everybody? All he could see were snow-covered, empty streets.

Looking east, a sign outside the deserted Convention Center wished everyone a Merry Christmas. A gust of wind whistling down the tracks blew a fan of snow off the top of the bank that nearly hid the train station.

Behind him, a car door slammed.

He turned in time to see a taxi drive away and an elderly woman struggling to drag a brown vinyl suitcase toward the bus station. Her name was Edna Grey, she had a weak heart, and she was on her way to Windsor to spend Christmas Day with her daughter. Maybe he didn’t have a message because he was the message. Maybe he was supposed to show, not tell. Hurrying over, he lifted the suitcase easily out of the elderly woman’s grasp.

“Stop! Thief! Stop!”

“Hey! Ow! I’m just trying to help!”

Edna Grey glared out at him from under the edge of a red knit hat, the strap of her purse clutched in both mittened hands. “Help yourself to my stuff!”

“No, help you carry your stuff.” As she lifted the purse again, he dropped the suitcase and backed out of range, rubbing his elbow. “What’ve you got in that thing, bricks?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

“Could you chill, Mrs. Grey. I’m just trying to do something nice for you.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. And he had no idea why he wanted her to lower her body temperature.

“How did you know my name? You’ve been stalking me, haven’t you?”

Stalking. The following and observing of another person, usually with the intent to do harm.

“No!” He stepped forward then retreated again as the purse came up. “I can’t do harm. I’m an angel.”

“You look like a punk.” A vehement exhalation through her nose, sprayed the immediate area with a fine patina of moisture.

“I do?”

“Well, you sure don’t look like no angel.”

He didn’t? “I don’t?”

“You look,” she repeated, “like a punk.”

Frank Giorno had called him a punk as well. He couldn’t understand why since punk had pretty much ended with the ’80s. A quick check found nose and ears still free of safety pins. “I could light up my head.” That seemed to be what angels did.

“You could set your shorts on fire for all I care. Now get out of my way, I gotta catch a bus.”

“But…”

“Move!”

His feet moved before the barked command actually made it to his brain. He stood and watched as she dragged her suitcase the remaining twenty-two feet, six and three-quarter inches to the bus station door. Nothing else moved for as far as he could see and the only sound he could hear was the rasp of cheap vinyl against concrete.

At the door, she paused, and turned. “Well?” she demanded.

Higher knowledge seemed at a loss.

“Get over here and open the door.”

“But I thought…”

“And while you were thinking, did you think about how a woman of my age could manage a big heavy suitcase and a door?”

“Uh…”

“No. You didn’t. The world has gone to hell in a handcart since they canceled Bowling for Dollars.”

Propelled by her glare, he ran for the door and hauled it open. Then, a bit at a loss, he followed her inside.

She shifted her grip on her purse. “Now where are you going?”

He didn’t know. “With you?”

“Try again.” She squinted up at the board. “Only other bus leaving this morning’s going to Toronto.”

“I should go to Toronto?”

“Why should I care where you go?” Grabbing her suitcase, she began backing across the room, keeping him locked in a suspicious glare.

“Fine.” Edna Grey might not need his help, but in a city of three million, someone would. He’d go there and he’d help people and he’d finally figure out just what he was supposed to be doing, and when he’d done it he’d go back to the light and demand to know just what they thought they were doing sending him into the world without instructions. Well, maybe not demand. Ask.

Politely.

But for now…

The bus station flickered twice, then came back into focus.

Why wasn’t he in Toronto? Wanting to be in Toronto should have put him there, but something seemed to be holding him in place. It felt as though he was trying to drag an enormous weight…

And then he realized.

“Oh, come on, that’s a couple of ounces, tops!” A little embarrassed by the way his voice echoed against six different types of tile, Samuel looked up to see Edna Grey staring at him, wide-eyed, one mittened hand clutching her chest. While he watched, she toppled slowly to the ground.

“Mrs. Grey?” He landed on his knees beside her. “Mrs. Grey, what’s wrong?”

“Heart…” Her voice sounded like crinkling tissue paper.

“Hey, don’t do this, you’re not supposed to die now!” Reaching out, he spread the fingers of his right hand an inch above the apex of her bosom, spent a moment stopping his mind from repeating the word bosom over and over for no good reason, then asked himself just what exactly he thought he was doing.

I’m helping. It’s her heart.

Were hearts supposed to flutter like a gas pump straining at an empty tank?

He laid his left hand against his own chest.

Apparently not.

So?

Was this the message he was here to deliver?

A pulse of light moved from his hand to her heart and he felt an inexplicable urge to yell, “Clear!” Somehow, he resisted. Her heart stopped fluttering, paused, found a new rhythm, and began beating strongly once again.

“Mrs. Grey?” Feeling a little dizzy, Samuel leaned forward and peered into her face. “Can you hear me?”

“What? I’m old, so I’m deaf?”

“Uh, no.” Maybe he should loosen her clothing.

She smacked his hand away. “What happened?”

“You had a heart attack.”

Planting both palms against the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Well, are you surprised? You were there, then you weren’t there, then you were there again.”

“You saw that?”

“What? I’m old, so I’m blind?”

“Uh, no.”

“And why does the whole room smell of pine?”

“I think that’s the stuff they use on the floor.”

“Or some cat’s been pissing in the corner.” Spotting the startled face of the bus station attendant peering over the ticket counter, her eyes narrowed. “And just what are you looking at, Missy? Good thing I didn’t have to wait for her help,” she muttered, “I’d be lying here until New Year’s.”

“Mrs. Grey? Do you want to stand up?”

“No. I’d rather sit here in a puddle of slush.”

About to take her hand, Samuel sat back on his heels. “Uh, okay.”

Muttering under her breath, she grabbed his shoulder and hauled herself to her feet. “So, what were you doing?” she demanded as he stood. “Here you are, here you aren’t—I have a weak heart, you know.”

“Had,” he corrected helpfully. “I fixed it.”

“You fixed it all right. Now answer the question: What were you doing?”

“I was trying to go to Toronto. But nothing happened.” His shoulders slumped.

“You really are an angel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, what’s the message?”

“Well, uh, you see, it’s like this, I uh…”

One foot tapped impatiently. “Angels are the messengers of God. So, what’s the message? Is it Armageddon?”

He checked his pockets. Still no messages. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Armageddon.”

“Pretty sure?” She seemed disappointed.

“Actually, I’m beginning to think I’m, you know, not that kind of an angel.”

“Oh. Then what kind of an angel are you?”

“Just, uh, the kind that…”

“The kind that pops in and out any where they want? Giving poor, helpless grandmothers heart attacks?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. You can show a little respect for my age.”

“What? You’re old, so I should respect you?” It slipped out before he could stop it. For some weird reason his mouth seemed to have functioned without his brain being involved.

But Edna Grey only straightened her hat. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it exactly. So why couldn’t you pop?”

“It’s this form. It has…” Mouth open to explain about the genitalia, Samuel met a rheumy gaze, looked deep, and decided he didn’t want to go there. Or anywhere near there actually. “It’s not…I mean, it doesn’t…It’s sort of defining me. It’s keeping me from doing things, and I can’t get rid of it.”

“Tell me about it.”

His constant low level of confusion geared up a notch. “About what?”

“Be old, boy, if you want to be defined by your form.” She sighed, a short, sharp, angry sound. “Old bones, old blood, old body, they keep you from doing most things, and you sure as hell can’t get rid of them. But you know what’s worse?” A mittened finger poked his chest. “The way other people think you can’t do what you’ve always done ’cause you’re old—whether you can or not.” Her hand dropped back to her side. “Don’t get old, boy. And don’t let other people tell you what you can or cannot do.”

“I can’t get old,” he told her. “And I can’t get to Toronto either.”

“Oh, yeah, can’t get old, can’t get to Toronto; that’s a real similar comparison, that is.” Bending, she scooped her purse up off the floor. “Apples and oranges as my sainted mother used to say.”

“Actually she wasn’t.”

Edna Grey shot him an irritated glare as she straightened. “Wasn’t what?”

“Sainted.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“But you said…”

“Never mind what I said. And if you want to get to Toronto so badly, buy a bus ticket.”

“I need a bus ticket to go to Toronto?”

“If you’re going by bus, you do.”

A quick rummage through his pockets produced a cardboard square. “One of these?”

Her brows drew in. “Where did you get that?”

He shrugged. “Need provides.”

“Because you’re an angel?”

“I guess.”

The intercom sputtered to life and spat incomprehensible wordage into the station.

“Your bus is boarding on platform 3.” Samuel pushed her suitcase toward her, carefully, making no sudden moves. His elbow still hurt from the first assault.

“You understand that?”

He nodded again.

“Well, if I didn’t believe you were an angel before, I sure would now. Understanding the gooblety goop that comes out of those speakers would take nothing less than direct intervention from God. Just wait until I tell that Elsa I met a real angel. Her and the way she’s always talking about how she once met Don Ho.”

“Mrs. Grey, your bus!”

“Right.” Lifting the suitcase easily, she stomped off toward the buses, muttering. “Just wait till I tell my daughter I met a real angel. She’s never even met Don Ho.”

He waited until he saw her make her laborious way up the bus steps, refusing to let go of her suitcase, and sighed. “You’re welcome.”

“Look, kid, I don’t care what you think you are and how little sleep you think I’ve had and how much you think I need to drive safely, but if you don’t sit down, I’m going to kick your ass off this bus.”

“But I have a ticket.”

Barry Bryant sighed and rotated the heel of his left hand around his temple. “I don’t care. The harpy behind the ticket counter has already told me I look like hell, so I don’t need your two cents’ worth.”

Samuel leaned forward. “You don’t, you know.”

“I don’t what?”

“Look like Hell.”

“Sit. Down.”

A soldier of the light knew when to obey a direct order. Samuel sat down beside the only person on the bus. “Hi, Nedra.”

“Do I know you?”

“I’m an angel. I’m here to help.”

She stared deep into his eyes, watched the gold flecks overwhelm the brown, lighting up the immediate area in a soft luminescence, and said, “Get lost.”

“Get lost?”

“Yes.” For some strange reason, after a perfectly equitable Christmas Eve, her parents had sent her on her way feeling guilty about their lack of grandchildren. She was facing a twelve-hour shift in a hospital that could pay millions for one piece of high-tech equipment but couldn’t afford to order new bedpans, and she was in no mood to deal with someone who smelled like canned ravioli, a food her rising cholesterol level no longer allowed her to eat. “Get lost.”

“I can’t,” he admitted, glancing around at the confined space.

“Try.”

“But…”

“Now.”

He’d just settled himself as far from Nedra as possible when the driver climbed on board and glared in his direction. “What?”

Lip curled, Barry dropped into the driver’s seat. He’d got to bed at about three, got up again at six, and knew damned well he shouldn’t be driving. The last thing he needed at the beginning of a run to Toronto and back on a snow-slicked highway was some smart-ass teenager pointing that out. Of course it wasn’t safe. He knew it wasn’t safe. What did he look like, an idiot? But what was he supposed to do? Cancel the run? Call another driver in on Christmas Day? Fat chance. He had to do it, so he was going to do it, and there was nothing more to be said. Besides, it was double time and a half, and he wasn’t giving up that kind of cash.

Head pounding, he rammed the bus into gear. “And I don’t feel guilty about it either,” he growled.

“Yeah, you do.”

Barry whirled around. There was no way he could have heard the protest or been heard in turn from the back of the bus. I am not hearing things. Shoulders hunched, he eased off the brake and headed for the road. I’m fine.

The only other vehicle in the parking lot belonged to the cow behind the counter who’d probably report him and then he’d get suspended and lose as much as he was making today—so why was he even bothering?

He swung out just a little wide and the bus brushed against the fender of her car like an elephant brushing against a paper screen.

As they pulled out onto York Street, Samuel twisted in his seat and stared back at the crumpled chrome, wondering if he should do something. He knew he shouldn’t have done that, but he did it anyway. What gives? It was like nothing Samuel’d ever come in contact with before. It was…

Free will. His eyes widened, and he squirmed around to stare at the back of the driver’s head. When given a choice between good and evil, humans could freely choose to do evil, and sometimes they did. Okay, admittedly on a scale of one to ten where one was deliberately hitting a parked car and ten was committing genocide, this was closer to, well, one, but still. Free will. In action.

After that, the trip to Toronto was uneventful.

Although there did seem to be a number of off-road vehicles suddenly driving off the road.

Samuel would have enjoyed the ride had he not continued to slide down the angle forced into ancient seats by thousands of previous passengers, catching himself on his inseam. He had no idea why anyone would put such a torture device right over so much soft tissue, but by the time the bus reached Hamilton he was certain the Prince of Darkness himself had been involved.

Toronto had the turmoil he’d been expecting earlier. Samuel stepped out of the Elizabeth Street Bus Terminal and stared. Everything seemed overdone. There were just too many buildings, too much concrete, too much dirt—but not too many people given that it was nearly noon on Christmas Day.

“Hey man, you look lost.”

Samuel glanced down at his feet—he hadn’t known snow came in that color—then up at the twenty-something blond man, with the inch of dark roots, now standing beside him. “No. I’m right here.”

“Hey, that’s funny.” The smile and accompanying laugh was a lie. He wore a black trench coat, open over black jeans, black boots and a black turtleneck. It was supposed to look cool, or possibly kewl, but Samuel got the impression kewl had moved on. This guy hadn’t. “You just get to the city?”

“Yeah.”

“You got a place to stay?”

“Do I need a place to stay?” Was he staying?

“You going to try and make it on the streets?”

“I was going to stay on the sidewalks.”

“Like I said, a funny guy.” The outstretched hand ended in black fingernails. Definitely left behind by kewl. “I’m Deter.”

“Deter?” Higher knowledge finally provided information that wasn’t a fashion tip. “Isn’t your name Leslie?”

The hazel eyes widened, the hand dropped, and Leslie/Deter shot a glance back over his shoulder at two snickering men about his own age. “No, you’re wrong, man. It’s Deter.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I understand why you changed it.”

“I didn’t change it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yeah, you did. It was Leslie Frances Calhoon. Now it’s Deter Calhoon.”

“Leslie Frances?” howled one of the two laughing men.

“Shut up!” He whirled back around to shake a finger under Samuel’s nose. “And you shut up, too!”

“Okay.”

“Do I know you?”

In his existence to this point, Samuel had met eight people, not counting Nedra who he didn’t think he should count because she’d made it fairly clear she hadn’t wanted to meet him. “No.”

“So stop calling me Leslie!”

“Okay.”

“You don’t have a place to stay?”

Was he staying? “No.”

“Fine. So you’re coming with us.”

“No.”

“So you’re going to stay on the street, on the sidewalk, whatever. Fine. Here.” Breathing heavily through his nose, Leslie/Deter thrust a pamphlet into Samuel’s hand. “Greenstreet Mission. We’re doing a Christmas dinner. You can get a meal and hear the word of God.”

Samuel smiled in relief. This, finally, he understood. “Which word?”

“What?”

“Well, God’s said a lot of words, you know, and a word like it or the wouldn’t be worth hearing again but it’s always fun listening to Him try to say aluminum.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What you were talking about.”

Leslie/Deter glared over flaring nostrils. “I was talking about the word of God.”

“Which word?”

He snatched the pamphlet out of Samuel’s hand. “Forget it.”

“But…”

“No. Just stay away!” The black trench coat swirled impressively as he stomped back to his snickering friends and shoved them both into motion.

Wondering what he’d said, Samuel lifted a hand in farewell. There didn’t seem to be much point in offering to help with the pamphlets. “’Bye, Leslie.”

If Leslie/Deter had a response, it was probably just as well that the renewed howls of laughter from his companions drowned it out.

Because the hole was so small, it had taken over twelve hours to push enough substance through. Toward the end, as the light and dark in the world moved closer to balance, it should have gotten more difficult, but there was now such a vast amount of enthusiastic darkness pushing from below that care had to be taken. Tipping the balance the other way would do no good at all. Since, technically, doing no good at all was its raison d’être, the contradiction was making it feel more than a little twitchy.

It didn’t even want to get into the problem of keeping it all together without actually achieving consciousness too early. Without a physical body it was both disoriented and exhausted. It had never had such a bad day. Which was sort of a good thing. Except that good things were bad. If it’d had a head, it would’ve had one hell of a headache.

Literally.

It could feel good and evil leveling out. Balance being restored. It pulled itself together, the shadow that had lain over the frozen hollow since midnight growing darker, acquiring form.

Then, as all things were equal—or all the things it was concerned with at any rate—it closed the hole and looked around.

“I’M BAck.”

It coughed and tried again.

“I’M back. I’m back.” It just kept getting worse. “What the Hell is going on here?”

Attempting a perfect balance, it had allowed the weight on the other side of the scale to define the shape it would wear. Becoming its perfect opposite. Impossible for one to be found as long as the other existed. It would cheerfully use the light to further its own ends. Well, maybe not cheerfully. Cynically.

It seemed to be a young female. Late teens. Long dark hair. Fairly large breasts. She looked down. Everything seemed to be there.

Three things were immediately clear.

One. She appeared to be a natural blonde, which explained the uniform black of the hair. Bad dye job.

Two. Demons, like angels, were sexless. The actions of incubi and succubi were more in the order of a mind-fuck than anything sweaty. But…

…since she had a set, he had a set.

Three. Given gender, and she certainly seemed to have been given that, something had gotten significantly screwed up somewhere.

She’d have been happier about that were it not for the sudden rush of emotions. Every possible emotion. She was up, she was down, she was happy, she was sad, she was royally pissed off…

Which was the one she decided to go with.