The Second Summoning Page 16

  The priest nodded without glancing up from the clipboard. “Names?”

  “I’m Doug. This here’s Samuel. Samuel, not Sam. We’re angels.”

  “You know the rules?”

  “You betcha, Father.”

  “Go on, then. Clear the door.”

  “This is my favorite flop in the whole city,” Doug confided as he dragged Samuel across the nave and in through the big double doors. “Whadda you think?”

  The peace and beauty of the Sanctuary wrapped around the angel like a blanket. Like arms of light.

  “Did you know your eyes was glowin’, kid?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. Kind of pretty.” Arms spread wide, Doug turned on the spot, thin gray ponytail streaming out behind him, dirty gray overcoat flapping like wings. Pigeon wings. But why ruin the image. “Can you think of a better place for two angels to sleep?”

  Actually, he couldn’t.

  Byleth had merely picked at dinner, pushing the food in circles around her plate, unable to forget how huge her butt had looked in the overalls. Then Eva brought out the lemon meringue pie, a quivering three inches deep with drops of liquid sugar glistening in the valleys of the meringue. Suddenly remembering that gluttony was one of the big seven, she had three pieces. An hour later, when the sugar high suddenly wore off, she’d found herself blinking stupidly at White Christmas—a movie too woogie for words—and had allowed Eva to steer her unprotesting up to bed.

  She made an explicitly salacious invitation—more because she felt she should than through any desire to corrupt—which Eva didn’t even begin to understand. Without the energy to explain the unfamiliar terms, she merely took the offered nightgown and staggered off to bed.

  The sheets in the spare room smelled of fabric softener. The mattress was soft. The blankets warm. She had nothing against comfort; a lot of very nasty things had been done for comfort’s sake.

  “She’s certainly rude.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Rolling over on her stomach, she peered off the edge of the bed at the hot air grate set into the old linoleum floor.

  “She left the bathroom in a mess and borrowed my makeup without asking.”

  “I saw that.”

  Eva’s and Harry’s voices drifted up through the grate from the living room below.

  “Her table manners are atrocious. You’d think she’d never held a fork before.”

  “And the hysterics in the bathroom later…”

  Well, how was she to know that was supposed to happen?

  At least she seemed to be having a negative effect on the Porters. As long as they were complaining about her, the evening hadn’t been a total waste.

  “Did you see her go through that pie?”

  “I know; isn’t it nice to have a teenager in the house again?”

  “I am not a teenager!” Both palms hit the floor as she threw herself off the bed toward the voices. “I am a demon!”

  The house was silent for a moment.

  Then…

  “Did you put Byleth in the front bedroom?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Eva’s voice grew suddenly louder, as though she now stood directly under the grate. “Sorry, dear. We forgot you could hear us.”

  Teenager.

  That apology, she’d accept.

  Claire closed her new laptop with a snap. The machine and the e-mail account had been another Christmas present from her parents. While she appreciated the difficulties the Apothecary’d overcome setting the system up, she couldn’t help thinking that socks and underwear would have been more useful. “According to Diana, Father Harris has no idea where the angel went. Didn’t even realize it—he—was an angel.”

  “So what are we after doing?”

  “We keep answering the Summons…” She frowned, searching for a plural. “…s I get. Nothing else we can do.”

  Unconvinced, Dean sat beside her on the bed. “Shouldn’t we tell someone, then?”

  “Who?”

  “Other Keepers?”

  “Actually, they know.”

  “They know?”

  “Not exactly about the angel, but they know we, uh, consummated our relationship. Apparently it echoed through the possibilities.” He looked so appalled, she managed what she hoped was an encouraging smile in spite of her own pique. “Everyone was very impressed. Keepers who’ve never used anything more complicated than a ballpoint pen suddenly felt obliged to send me an e-mail about it. Isn’t technology wonderful. But,” she added emphatically, the smile slipping, “since the world’s in no danger, I’m not telling them about the angel until we absolutely have to. There’s no point giving them more to discuss, is there? They’ll all start telling me we should have used precautions.”

  “We did.”

  “Metaphysical precautions.”

  “Oh.” Cleaning already spotless glasses on the edge of his T-shirt gave him a moment to find the right words. “Claire, I’m not happy with our…with what we do, being discussed, you know, electronically.”

  “I’m not happy about it either,” she admitted, tossing the laptop to one side. “But all they know that the Earth moved. Nothing specific. Without details, they won’t discuss it for long.”

  “The Earth moved?”

  “Well, only around the Pacific Rim…” Rising up onto her knees, she took the edge of his earlobe between her teeth. “…so you needn’t get too impressed with yourself.”

  He twisted, caught her around the waist, and they fell back on the bed locked together.

  “Hey! Watch the tail!”

  “Oops, sorry, Austin.” As Dean sat up, Claire rolled off the bed, grabbing a pillow in one hand, scooping Austin up with the other. “And thanks for reminding me that you’ll be starting out in the bathroom tonight.”

  “Oh, please. I have no interest in watching the two of you do whatever it is the two of you are intending to do.”

  “I’m not so much concerned about the watching,” she told him, adjusting her hold, “as I am about the commenting and the criticizing.”

  “Look, if you can’t take a little criticism…”

  “Good night, Austin.”

  He glared at her as she set the pillow down just inside the bathroom door and then set him on it. “This is cat abuse. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  “Would a salmon treat forestall litigation?”

  “No. But a salmon might.”

  “Dream on.” Handing over the treat, she pulled the door closed. “Feel free to join us after we go to sleep.”

  “Uh, Claire…” Dean nodded toward the door. “How can he join us if that’s closed?”

  “A closed door has never stopped a determined cat.”

  “Uh-huh.” His T-shirt stopped halfway up his torso. “So you’re saying he can come out any time, then?”

  “No.” Smiling, she reached into the possibilities and laid them against the latch plate. “He can come out when that wears off.”

  Austin’s indignant, “Cheater!” was muffled but distinct.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. This has never happened before.”

  “You’ve only done it once before.”

  “And this didn’t happen!”

  Rising up on one elbow, she bent forward and kissed him softly. “Just relax.” Kissed him a little harder. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Kissed him with more enthusiasm. Stopped kissing him. Leaned back. “Or maybe not. You’re so tense I could bounce quarters off you…well, off most of you.…What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it me?”

  “You?” Her question had been delivered with a total absence of emotion. Without his glasses, he couldn’t tell for sure if she looked hurt or angry. “It’s not you. It’s nothing.”

  “And I know when you’re lying, remember?”

  Dean sighed and surrendered. “Okay.” He stared up at the tiny red dot on the hotel room’s smoke detector and thanked all the gods who might be
listening that Austin was in the bathroom. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened the last time, and it’s got me some caudled up, I can tell you.”

  “Shouldn’t those be happy thoughts?” Deep burgundy fingernails tapped against his skin in a way that should have been enough to raise a reaction all on its own. It wasn’t.

  His cheeks flamed. “Not those thoughts. I keep thinking about how we made an angel.”

  “And you’re worried it’ll happen again?”

  “No…”

  “You’re worried it won’t?” His silence was all the answer she needed. “But we don’t want it to happen again.”

  “But you want it to be that good.”

  “Well…”

  “Good enough to make an angel.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “That’s some good.”

  All at once, she understood. “You’re afraid you won’t be that good again!”

  A faint “I heard that,” sounded from the bathroom.

  Dean closed his eyes. That was all he needed to finish the night off right.

  Resting her chin on his sternum, Claire considered the situation. She supposed she could see how ripping a hole through the fabric of the universe big enough to slip an angel through the very first time he had sex might cause Dean some performance anxiety. She didn’t know what to do about it though. “Dean, you can’t expect to make an angel every time.”

  “I know.”

  Now she was really confused. “Well, then…”

  “It’s not about knowing. It’s about knowing.” He waved his outside arm for emphasis, hoping that its shadow movement through the dark would add clarity.

  It didn’t.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  NINE

  VAGUELY AWARE HE WAS BEING PULLED FROM SLEEP, Dean sighed deeply and arched his back. He could feel the sheet sliding away, warm air currents brushing against him, and…His eyes snapped open. “Claire, what are you doing?”

  She smiled up at him. “Solving the angel prob…” Glancing down, she sighed. “Okay, should have worded that differently.”

  “Claire!”

  “I just thought that if you got going without thinking about things, momentum would keep you going. And it was working.” In the dim winter light seeping around the edges of the hotel curtains, she looked distinctly miffed. “I should never have said the ‘a’ word.”

  He fumbled for his glasses. “Claire, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re both pathetic.”

  Ears burning, Dean dragged a blanket around his waist and slid out of bed. “I’ve, uh…you know…bathroom.”

  “Try a verb,” Austin snorted from a pile of Claire’s clothes on the unused bed.

  As the bathroom door closed behind Dean—and then opened again as he pulled the blanket inside—Austin leaped carefully to Claire’s side. “Do you want me to talk to him, mano a mano?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, to begin with, you had your mano removed.”

  “Not my idea.”

  “Still.” She stroked the velvet fur between his ears with her thumb. “I think this is something Dean and I have to work out on our own.”

  “You mean something Dean has to work out on his own. It’s not actually about you.”

  Claire shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  “Of course, I’m wrong.” Austin sat down and curled his tail around his front toes. “This has nothing to do with a young man who desperately wants to make you happy and, because of an inadvertent angelic evocation, is afraid he’ll never be able to make you that happy again. Oh, no, this has to do with you being older and more experienced so that he’s intimidated. Or it has to do with you being a Keeper because he wouldn’t have caused an angel if you weren’t. Or it has to do with you being a Keeper and therefore responsible for everything under the sun.”

  “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

  The cat sighed. “Duh.”

  “So what should I do? No, wait.” A raised hand cut off his reply. “Don’t tell me. I should feed the cat.”

  “Good choice.” Jumping from the bed to the dresser, he sat down again by his food dish. “You see how much easier life becomes when you concentrate on the essentials?”

  The hair Diana had found in Father Harris’ house was very dark at the bottom and very blond at the tip. The style was popular with the male trendies at her school, but she’d never considered it an especially angelic look. Apparently, Lena did.

  Technically, the angel—Samuel—was none of her business. Technically, he wasn’t Keeper business at all.

  “Mom? Do you have any clear packing tape?”

  Attention on breakfast preparations, Martha pointed across the kitchen with the spatula. “It’s in the junk drawer.”

  Junk accumulates. Even those with very little, those chased from their homes by war or natural disaster, those for whom home is no more than a rough shack or a circle of barely roofed thatch, even they find themselves accumulating odds and ends for which they have no immediate need. In North American kitchens, the junk drawer can be found two drawers below the cutlery, just above the drawer holding the clean dish towels.

  “It’s jammed.”

  “Jiggle it.”

  Even in houses with no more metaphysical content than could be found in a frozen, microwavable dinner—which at that, has more metaphysical content than actual food content—these drawers contain far more than is physically possible.

  “Dart of Abaris, elf shot, scissors, string, Philosopher’s Stone, half a dozen ponytail elastics…” Diana’s eyes widened as she dumped the cloth-covered elastics into a small golden chalice. “Do you even care we could get big bucks for this thing on eBay?” she demanded, brandishing a tiny beanbag polar bear with a maple leaf on his chest.

  Her mother glanced up from the toaster. “E what?”

  “Gack. Am I the only person in this family who pays attention to this century?”

  “Yes.”

  “Explains a lot,” she muttered, shoving three plastic forks and a discolored envelope of dried mugwort aside to finally pull out the packing tape. “I’ll be heading into the closet later, so don’t worry if you can’t find me.”

  “Diana, we talked about this…”

  She sighed and grabbed a piece of toast on her way out of the kitchen. “I’m not going to consciously impose my will on the Otherworld.”

  “Again.”

  Continuing down the hall, she raised her voice without turning. “It was an accident, Mother.”

  “It’s always an accident, Diana, but no one likes replacing all their closet doors.”

  “It’s not like I didn’t apologize,” she muttered, shoving the last of the toast in her mouth and grabbing her coat and boots from the front hall. “And, hey, not my bad the tabloids got involved; if you don’t want people to know you have skeletons in your closet, don’t keep skeletons in your closet.” It had been sheer bad luck for that British Keeper that the force of the explosion had blown the tibia out the window and onto the street.

  Back in her bedroom with the door securely closed and warded behind her, Diana threw her coat on the bed, pulled off a piece of tape about twenty centimeters long, picked up the angel hair with it, and wrapped it around her wrist. While she hadn’t exactly lied to her mother—she was going into the closet—she’d neglected to mention that she planned on going out the other side, a maneuver generally considered too dangerous to attempt.

  The only reason Keepers exited at the same place they entered was plain old lack of imagination as far as Diana was concerned. So what if there were no other geographical references to the real world—she had that covered.

  And all she had to do was make a phone call.

  “Isn’titabeautifulmorning!Lookatthewaythesnowsparkles!”

  Doug sucked muffin out of his teeth. “First cup of coffee, kid?”

  �
�Ican’tbelieveI’vebeenherefortwodaysandIonlyjustdiscoveredthis.” Grinning broadly, Samuel raced down the front steps of St. Mike’s and back up again.

  “You have to remember to breathe, kid.”

  “I do?” Well, now he did. Sucking in a huge lungful of cold air, he started to cough.

  “Cough into your cupped hands,” Doug told him. “Then you breathe in the warmed air.”

  It took Samuel a minute to catch on, then another minutes for his lungs to get the idea. Finally, eyes watering, nose running, he looked up and gasped, “Ow.”

  Doug nodded agreeably. “Life’s a bitch.”

  “A female dog?” Samuel asked, wiping various bodily fluids off his face before they froze.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  And things were just starting to make sense.…Trying to work out this new worldview, Samuel turned, stiffened, and raced down to the sidewalk. “Are you crazy?” he demanded, yanking the cigarette out from between cracked lips and throwing it on the ground. “You’re destroying your body! You only get one, you know.”

  Craig Russel, who’d been smoking since he was twelve and in better economic times had maintained a two-pack-a-day habit, peered out at Samuel from between the tattered ear flaps of his deerstalker, then down at his cigarette lying propped almost on end by a bit of dirty snow. Not entirely certain what had just happened, he squatted and extended fingers stained yellow-brown with nicotine.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Samuel ground the cigarette into pieces and the pieces into the snow. “Those things are bad for you!”

  Grizzled brows drew in. “You smashed my smoke.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s poison.”

  “You smashed my smoke.” Craig stood, slowly, and leaned forward to stare into Samuel’s face. “My last smoke.”

  Eyes beginning to water again, Samuel leaned back. “Do you have any idea how bad those things made your breath sm…” His mouth opened and closed a few more times, but no sound emerged. Up on his toes, back arched, he pushed at the air with stiff fingers.

  “Let him go, Craig.”

  “He smashed my smoke. My last smoke.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you keep hold of his balls any longer and people’ll start to talk.”