Michaela floated, bodiless once more. In the near distance she felt the Presence, a balm that erased Belle’s pain of dissolution. It touched on the pain of losing the ones she loved and calmed it but did not quench it entirely. She shrank in on herself, wishing she could have stopped Belle permanently before her physical form was destroyed.

She had been destroyed. She wasn’t a Creation, to return to the Creator. She wasn’t a Child, to be welcomed into his arms. She was something else, flotsam on the sea outside of time. She would float here, losing herself moment by moment, until nothing remained. Her love for Matt, her memories of their brief time together, would be lost forever.

Something hovered nearby. In the shock of dissolution, she didn’t understand the first time it tried to communicate with her. The second time, it prodded her with the tip of a spear, twin to her own. A voice of trumpets and swords and jangling tack roused her from her stupor.

Get up, Angel! The Host has been summoned!

Without uncoiling, she pushed the voice away. Whoever it was persisted.

One of the Fallen threatens to consume a being of Power. If it should do so, it will be able to destroy millions of the Children at a stroke!

She wasn’t an angel any longer. She didn’t know what she was, only that her fate was slow dissolution. Knowing that, she couldn’t stand it. She uncoiled from herself, intent on asking whatever Captain of the Host badgered her to unmake her. She would still end, but she would be spared the endless drifting dissolution.

As she opened herself to the unknown angel’s strike a shock of recognition blew through her. Michael hovered there before her, geared for battle. His armor and spear gleamed in the endless timeless nothing. It seemed right, somehow, that he would be the one to end her. She was still steeling herself to make her request when the voice of the Presence echoed through the void.

Hold.

Michael’s spear stopped in mid stroke. He returned instantly to a position of watchfulness. For a timeless moment, the Presence focused on the Captain of His Host.

Two choices remain.

The Presence focused on her. Had she eyes, she would have wept with joy and shame.

You have returned. I have seen what you are.

Her first reaction was terror mixed with relief. Terror that He had seen her with Matt; and relief that she wouldn’t have to ask Him to unmake her. He would do it out of disgust. She focused her mind on Matt. Let her last moments be spent thinking of him.

Memories of Matt barely held self-loathing at bay when she felt the touch of the Presence, feather light upon her. It washed away guilt, washed away pain, washed away everything except her image of Matt. Had she lips, she would have smiled.

I will commend A Sculptor. I have looked on what you are, and it is good.

Endless moments of contemplative bliss passed before His words really registered. Frank’s sense of purpose, his kindness, his humor all played across her inner eye. Then the Words of the Presence struck her fully and had she breath she would have gasped. She was good. She was not too impure for His Presence. She wouldn’t drift endlessly; she would be taken in and sheltered and loved for all eternity. Had she eyes she would have wept with joy. She reached out, trying to close with the Presence, yearning for that eternal rest.

When the Presence stopped her, her whole being rang out with a shocked cry. “Why?”

A Choice has been made. You are Summoned.

The Presence nudged her about, showed her. Somewhere behind and below her, a tiny spark of infinite brightness burned within a suffocating corona of darkness. From that spark, she heard a voice, tiny with distance, trumpet the same mantra over and over.

“Truth… and Justice… and Michaela.”

The voice of the Presence sounded from behind her. Her attention was riveted on Matt.

You will fill the shape he Summons you to as well as you are able to, and you will bear the blessing and burden of Free Will.

She quailed at the thought of that, but her course was set. She was needed. He needed her. Knowing that she could go, she could not stay away and remain herself.

The second Choice has been made. Take this.

Knowledge filled her to bursting. She tasted the edges of it and froze in awe at what she had been given. Almost, she gave it back, but the Voice of the Presence had been clear. Wordless gratitude filled her, topped around the edges with confusion.

My Children have traditions. Grandchildren are to be spoilt with gifts. Go.

She went.

***

Micah looked around the room. Deep inside he railed against his Words, but he was helpless against them. He had to find a way to complete the play. If someone else stopped it he could leave, but so long as an audience remained and Phil played her part, her magic bolstered his own, driving him to suicidal madness.

The bomb was gone, stolen by Michaela. He looked for a replacement. Teresa Gelt was pinned in a hole in the floor by his godson Matthew. Neither of them was a weapon sufficient to end him. The armor and weapons display had many swords and maces, but none sturdy enough to break him. The room stank of burning steel and sugar. Both grew stronger by the second, leaving him staring through a haze of rust and caramel. He was still looking for some way to destroy himself when the air above center stage glimmered. Wind rushed in from the side stages, first a breeze, then a gale.

***

Michaela drifted in a timeless haze. The knowledge of how to become hovered in her mind, frightening in its implications. Outside the place where she hovered, she sensed her beloved Matt, calling to her. She had to go to him. She pulled at the knowledge in her head, joy from the Presence filling her.

Truth.

She wove the fabric of reality: knit one, purl two. A notional sphere formed, hovering where she held it. Knit one, purl two, and again, and again. She reveled in the feeling of making something, of being an agent of creation rather than retribution. Long curving swathes of spheres packed tight against one another for sturdiness. After an eternity in timeless space, an eye blink in reality, she finished. She looked on her Truth, on her armor, and it pleased her. She reached to place it on Earth but saw what it would do. She nudged bends of reality around the armor, folding a few billion miles of space around it as a cushion. When she finished, it hovered in the place where she would appear.

***

The glimmer warped, bending light. Micah saw within that bend a smallish suit of armor. It hovered a few inches above center stage, but at the same time it floated impossibly far away. It was all at once black and white and gray, beautiful and terrible as it fluoresced death.

***

Michaela could not rest. Armor was not enough. She needed a weapon. It would take forever again, but now that she had the rhythm, on Earth no more than a flickering instant would pass.

Justice.

Knit one, purl two, she wove her weapon of a single layer of spheres. They formed a long, thin blade, a sword rather than a spear. The hilt ornate and fanciful, when her Justice moved it would not be stayed by any of the arts martial. She hung the blade in the air before her armor, and wind rushed into the fantastic distance she bent around its edges.

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***

A blade appeared before the armor, the same color as the armor, the color of tortured light and space, but its edge gleamed red and smoked blue when errant air currents washed across it. Distant thunder filled the air.

***

Only one thing remained, the hardest of all. It would take a third eternity, but she was so close to him she could feel him calling to her. One more eternity was no time at all if he waited at the end of it. She knit reality once more, but now to a new, infinitely more complex pattern.

Knit two, purl one, and a sphere appeared, glowing where the other had been gray. A spark of light, summoned by the sphere, spun in lazy circles around it. Michaela watched the unburned Water, fascinated for an endless second, but she had more work to do.

Glowing sphere, gray sphere, repeat six times, and a flat black dot surrounded by six sparks formed. The essence of Earth lay in her metaphoric palm. She stared in awe at the potential for life within it, but her work hadn’t even begun.

Glowing sphere, gray sphere, repeat seven times, and the bulk of Air floated beside the other two, seven sparks slowly flashing about it in an endless gavotte. She wondered why it was so important, meditated on it, and realized how much of life’s power came from this. Carefully she set it aside and continued working.

Glowing sphere, gray sphere, repeat eight times, and the spirit of Fire roared in her palm, eight sparks leaping for the other three elements, grabbing at them, pulling them greedily. She had to work quickly now, because Fire was hunger, and she could feel the hunger for life sucking her back into the mortal realm where Time held sway.

With the power of Fire, she burned Water, wove Earth into sweet rings, bent Earth and Fire and Water into chains of stored power, and twisted Air into the barbules of living strength. Finally, without thinking, she wove Hell’s Fire from Fire and Air, transmuted Fire to Heaven’s Light, and with them formed the strands of living memory.

Spirals and globs and endless flexible walls formed under the influence of her will. Walls encompassed floating factories and libraries and warehouses. Cells formed, clumped into tissues. Tissues congregated themselves into organs. Bones solidified, muscles wrapped around them, and skin grafted itself over the top. As Michaela spun out a long, spiraling cascade of hair, she thought of the implications of what she was doing, and she formed herself with a wicked grin.

Still between moments, she felt the ghost of an itch between her shoulder blades. The eyes she had so recently formed wanted to twitch wide, but she wasn’t in her body yet. Before she stepped into it, she took another eternity and wove two more appendages, coated in feathers with barbules so fine they warped space as they moved.

For one final eternity she stared at her newly created body. She hadn’t been a big fan of mirrors before, so she wasn’t certain whether it really looked like her. She hoped he would like it. Steeling herself, she dove back into the flow of Time.

***

Micah saw a face of surpassing beauty appear within the visored helm, a spill of hair framing it. The armored figure reached out, every movement accompanied by distant thunder and a shimmer in the air. His godson’s lover spoke, her voice ringing from the walls.

“I’ve got this, Frank.”

***

When Michaela’s voice rang through the room, Matt nearly dropped Belle down the hole. Belle’s eyes locked on something behind him, and he saw terror there. The Words in his head muted their endless scream, and he turned, lifting Belle clear of her hole.

Michaela stood on center stage. Armor that hurt the eyes to look at covered her from head to toe, and a sword that glowed red and smoked blue at the edges dangled from one hand. Behind and above her, the air glittered as two barely seen wings churned through it. Michaela spared a smile for him, and then turned a frown on his captive. Her voice rang out, echoing through the room.

“Belle Isle. Will you surrender to me now, release possession of that body to its rightful owner, and return to the realm to which you were banished?”

Belle’s voice fell flat, killing the small sounds of the hole she had carved settling into the floor.

“Why should I?”

“If you do not, I will destroy you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Michaela still hadn’t moved anything but her mouth. “I would, Belle. Honestly?” Her brows drew down, and righteous anger colored her features. “I almost hope you come at me right now.”

“Get your thug to release me, and you’ll get what you want.”

Michaela turned back to him, her smile returning instantly. “Put her down, Frank. I’ll take it from here.”

He didn’t ask if she was sure, but it was hard for him to let Belle go. “Can she get away?”

“Not anymore.”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He was sure of only three things in this world, and Michaela was one of them. He dropped his hold on Belle and stepped away.

***

The moment Matt dropped the woman Belle inhabited, the demon lunged at him, arm extended. Thunder rolled when she destroyed the air she touched. Michaela didn’t need to think, but she stepped outside of Time and watched herself move. She’d always thought she was moving herself from one place to another, but with her new knowledge she saw that was impossible. Instead she, her armor, and her sword stayed still, and space warped around her. The space where she stood arrived where she wanted to be. Space twisted so her sword extended to parry Belle’s lunge, and she fell back into the stream of Time.

Belle’s hand hit the flat of Michaela’s blade, and thunder rolled through the room. Belle flew backwards, and the flat of the blade smoked for a moment, pulling itself back together. Michaela moved again, staying in Time when she did. Stepping out was exhausting, and she needed all her attention on Belle.

Michaela looked at the demon with her new knowledge. She saw it as a twist in space, hovering over and around the soul of the elf woman she possessed. Belle stood staring at Michaela’s blade; horror etched onto her features. When she spoke, terror made the demon’s voice quake.

“He gave you… No! I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. He wouldn’t give you Raphael’s sword. The mortals would find Eden in a generation.”

Even with the glow of the Presence lending her peace, she couldn’t keep the taunting notes from her voice. “It’s okay, Belle. It’s a replica.”

Belle lunged again, and Michaela moved her sword into a parry. Belle was blown backward once more, landing in a crumpled heap. She lay there, staring at the sword. “It’s a real good replica.”

She looked at the blade herself, then. It was sharp enough that errant gusts of air that made it past the warped space shredded their atoms against the edge. Only the warped space around the blade kept it from cooking every living thing in the room. It was sharp enough to cut atoms. It was solid enough to resist Belle’s corrosive touch. It was swift enough…

“Last chance, Belle. Give up?”

“Fuck you, you sanctimonious bitch!”

Her sword was terrible swift. Swift enough to sever a demon from the soul it clung to. Michaela’s blade moved, thunder rolled, and Belle hung in the air over the now weeping blonde woman. It moved again, and again, and again, sweeping back and forth through the rapidly dispersing twist in space time that had been a demon.

When the demon was no more, two tiny men, one in a dress, appeared above the collapsed blonde woman. The dark one whispered in her ear, urging her to move. The one in the dress hovered between the Angel and the Sidhe and curtsied. “Baron X and I will see that this one, she is dealt with.” Michaela acquiesced with a nod.

It was done. Belle was gone, forever. With a thought, Michaela sent her armor and sword away. With another, she moved into Frank’s arms, her wings holding her up until he realized she was more than a hallucination. He caught her, pulling her to him. His murmur into her hair was concerned but muffled by his joy in her return.

“What about Uncle Micah and Aunt Phil?”

She looked over. Micah still looked lost. Phil lay on the stage, feigning death. Michaela moved to them, towing Matt with her, holding him by the hand when she arrived. A thin studded collar dangled from her other hand. Fingers quick and sure, she wrapped it around Phil’s neck. Phil coughed, sat up, and the scent of old forests receded from the room. The stump in the corner of the stage was a stool again. Micah shook his head, looked around at the empty seats, and coughed to cover his embarrassment. His voice betrayed how shaken he still was.

“Sorry about that. I get really into my role.”

Phil’s voice was a little strained, like the collar was a touch too tight, but the singsong notes of madness were gone entirely.

“Yeah. I’ve got to get some new studs.” She gestured, and a section of air shimmered into a mirror. “But y’know, this looks pretty good! Thanks!”

Michaela flexed her wings, lifting herself back into Frank’s waiting arms. He looked at her, eyes wide, as she settled her embrace around his neck. She whispered into his ear.

“Frank, we really ought to go back to your place.”

His answering rumble was equally soft, but still set her whole body to vibrating. “My aunt and uncle aren’t doing too well, and they might need some help cleaning up.”

“Frank, they’re adults. More than that, they’re husband and wife and they’re here for each other right now. Some private time to talk this out is what they need. The police will be here soon to take care of the kids and the gangsters downstairs. On the physical mess, I’m sure they can handle it. Heck, we can come back tomorrow and I’ll pitch in. But right now, we really need to get back to your place.”

Michaela saw understanding of his aunt’s and uncle’s needs wash through him. She knew he wanted to be here for them, but he realized that all he could do would be to interfere, and their needs trumped his in this. By the look on his face, he still wasn’t quite convinced. When he arched an eyebrow over an eye of sapphire blue, the other drawing down over an eye of emerald green, she realized his question was about her choice of destination. “Why is this so urgent suddenly?”

She considered being serious, but she remained giddy with her return and victory. She leaned over, whispering for his ears only, “Because a living human girl is nearly as flexible as Jello.”

He looked up at her, a grin filled with wonder etched onto his face. Holding her with one arm, he reached a hand up to touch her face. For the first time in her long life, she felt the warmth of her own blush, the moisture as tears of joy filled the corners of her eyes. When the ends of the rosaries tickled her jaw, her eyes flew wide with sudden realization. Words she never thought she’d hear herself say tumbled freely from her lips.

“George Matthew Franklin, would you pay a visit to church with me first?”

Joy had joined the wonder in his answering smile. “I’d love to, Michaela Miles.”