Michaela stood on the sidewalk in front of City Hall. She looked up at Matt. He ought to tower over her, make her feel intimidated, but he didn’t. When she looked up into his mismatched eyes, she felt his lips against hers again, felt his hand setting the skin of her back aflame. Ruthlessly, she stomped down on all of that and smiled for him.
“Inspector Franklin, you’re welcome to assist with any case I have.”
He looked down at her and his mouth quirked up in a wry grin.
“Detective Miles, I would be happy to work with you.”
He flicked his fingers, and a card appeared between his index finger and thumb. Stage magic, but impressive for the skill it required. She reached out and took the card, tucking it carefully into the pocket of her trench coat. He stared at her hands. She had no idea why, but he seemed fascinated by them. Struck by sudden innocent whimsy, she held them up and waggled them in front of him.
“See? Just hands.”
His grin expanded into a full-fledged smile. She enjoyed seeing that smile. Pits, Mike, Pits! Even without the electric thrill that raced through her body, she liked seeing him smile. He reached down, brought one of her hands to his lips in a gentlemanly gesture. She stiffened, but not enough to stop him from brushing his lips across her knuckles, sending fire through her once more.
“So strange. I researched you, you realize.”
“Again with the non-sequiturs. Apple pies are best made with Granny Smith apples.”
“What does that have to do with your hands, or my research?”
She smirked. “Nothing, but I wanted to show you I could do non-sequiturs, too.”
He shook his head, but continued to smile. “You’ve nearly been removed from the force multiple times. Each time for excessive violence. You’re marked by most local organized crime; they’re supposed to go quietly when you arrest them and trust their lawyers to take care of things.”
She couldn’t help but feel a thrill of accomplishment at that. Her voice rang with it. “Really?”
“Yeah. Apparently killing you is too much effort, too much risk, for nearly no return. You hardly ever make a dent in their serious money making operations.”
Her euphoria dissipated instantly. “Oh, lovely.”
“You aren’t what I expected. Your hands aren’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
He thought carefully a moment before answering. “Scars.”
Now it was her turn to smile wryly. “Maybe you just haven’t seen them yet.”
“I’d like to.”
Four hundred years, and she only now did she find out she could blush. Pits! Matt continued talking; she focused on his words to avoid thinking about the warmth of the blush covering her face.
“I think I already know the answer, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t ask. Would you like to get dinner with me?”
Michaela opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her mouth worked, but the words fled from her. Matt waited patiently. He would make a great partner. Pits! When Michaela realized how little her desire to have him as a partner had to do with her desire for him, she finally found her voice.
“Frank, I’d love to, but it would be a really bad idea.”
The wistful look in his eyes was almost more than she could take. She suspected he’d tried to hide it from her, tried to hide it for her, and that made it even worse. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, Frank, it would be a really bad idea.”
He nodded, taking her at her word, having no idea how appealing she found that. Matt turned her hand in his and shook it carefully. “If that’s the case, I must be going. I need my sleep.”
She smiled at him. By his expression, not all her regrets stayed hidden, but he respected her decision. He nodded, turned, and walked away. She stood there, wanting to call out to him, wishing she could trust herself if she did. Eventually he turned a corner and disappeared behind one of the Center City high rises.
About the only thing that can hide him.
She turned and walked away. It was just as well they hadn’t had dinner. He might want to go back to her place. It would shock him more than a little if he realized the truth. She didn’t have a place. All her other clothes hung in her locker at the precinct. When she needed to freshen up after a case, she showered there. A little dry cleaners’ shop about three blocks away did all of her laundry.
Michaela didn’t have an apartment. She didn’t need to eat. She couldn’t sleep. She walked through the crowds rushing through the street, but she wasn’t part of them. She was an agent of the Lord of Hosts, created to do His Will. A void in her chest ached at that thought. His Will. Michaela had no idea what His Will was. It had been so long since she felt His Presence. She was cursed, unclean, unworthy to stand in His Presence.
As she walked, phantom tears leaked from her eyes. Men could do nothing to stop their grief, but she wasn’t a mortal. She lifted one hand in front of her face and focused her attention on it. Her feet carried her where they would while her world narrowed to the palm of her hand. She smelled cotton candy as her power burned through the illusion surrounding her. With aching slowness, a spot at the center of her hand wavered, and then bleached to the blue-veined white of fine marble. A few moments later her whole hand showed through the same way.
It was still perfectly formed, of course. Michelangelo had been a brilliant sculptor. She grinned at the thought, remembering the contract for the Sistine Chapel. That bit of humor snapped her concentration, and faster than she could perceive the change, her skin became flesh marked with the dusky olive undertones of the Mediterranean.
Michaela tried to focus her will once more, to banish the urges that had torn at her since she met Matt. Her feet had taken her somewhere. She stood in front of a large building. People passed by her, but not frequently enough for her to care. She concentrated, focused…
A great clamor of bells came from the building beside her, shattering her will to fragments. A passing kid clutched at her mother and piped, “Mommy, I smell candy! I want candy! Get me candy!” Michaela looked up at the offending bells.
She stared at the front of the cathedral. Shame from her long avoidance of Him mixed with self-deprecating humor. “Okay, okay. I can take a hint.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. He would still hear, “when you hammer it into my skull like a railroad spike.”
***
Matt walked along the crowded Center City streets, his mind miles away from his trip home. He had only met Detective Miles… Michaela… today, but she already dominated his thoughts. Father trained him to be alert to interpersonal attraction, especially sublimated or repressed attraction, but Matt had never felt it before. Now he understood.
Kissing Michaela in the elevator hadn’t been rational. It had been exceptionally dangerous. It was a professional risk, because despite the fact that they worked for different employers, they worked together. It was a personal risk, because despite the size difference between them, Michaela had a reputation for being one of the most dangerous hand to hand fighters in the city.
Matt smiled as he thought of her possible reactions to hearing that. He felt quite certain she would be offended by how easily he saw through her camouflage and knew how dangerous she really was. She would also be flattered, because he could already tell how much of her self-image was based on her ability to handle herself in a fight. The way she deflated when Belle used hostages to force her to surrender told him that.
As he passed near Jeweler’s Row, he stopped to buy a sandwich from a street vendor. He’d seen the cart before, but not tried its food. Dinner taken care of, he continued on to his shabby one-room apartment. That would be a problem, should his attempt to woo the detective meet with success. He would have to suggest they retire to her place. For a time, he lost himself to speculating on what her boudoir might look like. Would it mirror her public appearance, with manly accoutrements in her diminutive scale? Or would it perhaps be the complete opposite, filled with frills and lace, colored in pink and white? He picked up a pretzel from another street vendor, trying to hide a furious blush as he did so. It had just occurred to him that a passionate woman like Michaela might very well have a bedroom outfitted with passion in mind.
As he finally rounded the corner to South Street, he realized that he’d wasted his case preparation time woolgathering. Instead of a prepared report, he had a head full of speculations regarding Detective Miles’ sleeping habits. Any other habits she had in the bedroom overflowed from his head and rushed elsewhere in his frame. He startled a street musician with a huge bark of laughter. He tossed the change from his dinner into the man’s guitar case in compensation.
Finally, he returned home. He unlocked the door, checked the tiny mailbox set into the wall of the landing, and headed up the steps. His landlord took care of the utilities, which left him with no expenses but rent and food. The stipend he received for doing forensics field research paid for far more than that, and he had accumulated a tidy sum. Perhaps he could take Michaela to a nice restaurant if she agreed to dinner.
Matt looked around the room, confirming his earlier thought. Any liaison with Michaela would need to be at her place. Simple swaths of fabric on the walls provided color, soundproofing, and insulation. A similar swath separated the toilet and shower from the rest of the room. A length of pipe hanging parallel to the ceiling served as his wardrobe. His desk was built of cinder block and unfinished boards. Atop it sat a military radio, twin to the one in his father’s office. Finally, his bed of pillows and blankets took up half the room. It looked terribly sybaritic but was just an accommodation to his frame. No normal bed was big enough, so Matt slept with a pile of stiff pillows for padding and blankets for warmth.
He checked his watch. His father would expect his report in an hour or so. With practiced efficiency, he fired up the radio, set the frequency, and connected the headset. While he did all that, he polished off the pretzel and half the sandwich. The other half went in one of the cinder block nooks for the morning. Dinner eaten, he stripped down and showered, rinsing the stresses of the day away with the pounding heat of the water. It didn’t relax him as much as it normally did. A few moments introspection told him why.
Michaela.
They would sort things out in the morning. Matt smiled, secure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t seduce the detective using his own knowledge, his aunt would no doubt advise him. He toweled off, pulling on a pair of boxers from a neat stack under his wardrobe. His clothes from the day went into his ‘hamper,’ a duffel bag hanging from a nail on the back of the door.
Matt turned to the radio and froze. Next to the radio, staring at the controls, sat a tiny winged woman.
***
Michaela stood staring at the cathedral. It wasn’t a terribly imposing one, just another of the many Catholic churches that dotted most of Philadelphia. At first glance, she couldn’t even tell for sure from the architecture that it was a Catholic church. Some of the Protestant denominations had gotten pretty baroque lately. A glance at the sign showed that it was indeed Catholic. With a sudden start she realized it was the same one she’d visited earlier with Matt.
A cold chill washed up her itching spine, and the bells rang once more.
“I get the message, I’m coming in.”
Slowly, like walking to her own execution, she trudged up the steps. A quick check of her watch showed nearly midnight on Sunday; most of the faithful had come and gone long ago. She reached the top of the steps and stared at the ornate handles a few moments before pulling a door open and slipping in silently.
The inside of the church was cool and comforting. Her back wasn’t the never ending torment she endured daily; instead it became a sad, gentle reminder of things lost. She wandered along the wall of the church, through the entryway, and into the sanctuary proper. The pews stood aligned in orderly rows, all facing just to the right of the pulpit at the front of the room. She studied the room in the dark, wondering why she was here.
“Child, do you need something?”
She hadn’t heard the old priest’s approach, and his quiet question startled her. Without thinking, she moved to face him, a good six foot distance between them, her body in a combat crouch. His eyes got a little wide, but after a moment he blinked and rubbed at his eyes, then took his glasses off to rub them clean. His voice was rueful when he spoke.
“I’m sorry I startled you, child. It does seem something is in the air tonight. Then again, I could just be getting old. My eyes apparently aren’t what they once were.”
Michaela sniffed, but other than the warm caramel smell of her startled movement, no scent of magic beyond the consecration of the sanctuary itself scented the room. She straightened, laughing a little at herself. The laughter remained in her voice when she spoke.
“Sorry, Father. I… God… I needed to talk to Him.”
She heard the priest gasp a little in surprise at the sound of her voice. Some faithful souls responded with awe at the voice of an angel of the Host. Pits, specially crafted for artists too good at their job! The laughter leached from her voice; she tried again.
“I didn’t mean to startle you either, Father. I think God is telling me I need to talk to Him.”
The priest froze for a half heartbeat and then went back to polishing his spectacles. When he spoke, his voice wavered between subtle worry and more open curiosity.
“It’s never a bad thing to talk to God. Prayer can help us find our way when we’re confused. It can help us find courage when we’re frightened. You don’t need to be in a church to do it, though. No matter where you go, if you pray, God is listening. He listens to all his children.”
“What about Creations?”
Michaela thought her mutter too low for the old priest to hear, but he paused in the middle of his friendly little sermon anyway. When he spoke, he had the worry fully under control, but after a millennium and a half she still heard it.
“Child, are you Catholic?”
“Not really, no.”
“Are you Jewish?”
“No. I… I guess I’m not anything, really.”
“Everyone is something, Child. It was your turn of phrase that made me think of the Children of Abraham. Perhaps you simply don’t know what you are yet.”
She smiled. The old man was sweet, trying to comfort her. Michaela didn’t get comfort much. She got a lot of offers of ‘comfort,’ but precious little of the real thing. Michaela reached out, touched him on the temple. Without stopping to think, she let herself feel him, let him feel some echo of her memories of the Presence. A silly grin spread across his face, and he slowly dropped into a pew, and then lowered himself to a kneeler. The grin never left his face.
“I still need to pray, Father. I’ll be up front if you need me.”
Michaela walked up to the communion rail at the front of the sanctuary. She knew, objectively, that He could hear her anywhere, but some spots put her in mind of Him. She gathered her courage. After all the years away from Him, one thousand years trapped in marble and four hundred spent walking the Earth alone, He might be calling Michaela home. She went to her knees in one smooth motion. Her head bowed as her knees touched the ground. The moment her butt touched her heels, the world disappeared.
***
A twelve-inch-tall woman in a tiny dress stood next to Matt’s radio. Gossamer wings spread out from her back. Her feet clicked as she sidestepped to get a better view of the frequency display. Looking closer, Matt saw a tiny pair of fashionable shoes on her feet. A tiara graced her head, and her ears and wrists glittered with Lilliputian baubles.
A glance at the window showed him the woman’s method of entry into his room. He pitched his voice low but calm, to avoid startling the intruder. “Pardon, miss, but who are you and why are you in my room?”
At first he thought he’d startled her despite his precaution. She leapt from the table, zipping into the air, slowing only after a complete circuit of the room. Matt kept himself still the entire time, and she lowered herself slowly to his desk once more, keeping her gaze locked on him. Her flit about the room had caused one of her ears to pop free of her obscuring hairdo. That long, tapering ear gave him the final confirmation that his visitor was one of the Fae. When she spoke with a voice deeper than he expected from someone of her gender and stature, she affected an obvious falsetto.
“Forgive me, George Matthew Franklin. This place, she is so Spartan, I am on edge.”
Matt tried to speak, to ask how she knew his name, but she continued speaking so fast he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“No. I lie. My edginess, she is the result of my task. Oh, damn it, the task, I am not supposed to mention. You seem a nice boy; for certain you would not begrudge a woman of quality the forgetting of what I have said?”
Matt stared at the tiny woman, waiting to be sure she’d finished talking. Once he was, he spoke slowly and carefully, hoping this time he wouldn’t set her off.
“May I have the honor of knowing to whom I speak?”
The tiny woman threw her hand to her forehead in a gesture of dismay, letting loose a high pitched squeak when she did so. A rattle of Spanish followed, the only parts of which Matt understood were “cara mia” and “mi Dios.” When she had run down, the woman faced him and curtseyed formally.
“Forgive me, Matthew. I barge into your house and do not do you the slightest courtesy. My name, she is unimportant, but I shall tell you true less the none. I am the Baroness of The Spot, Ricardo. My X, he is muy macho and defies the Sidhe to give him the no on what he may not do. I wander. My purpose in being here is to aid you, Matthew.”
Matt hadn’t told Michaela everything. His father had extensive libraries of knowledge regarding creatures generally regarded as supernatural, but not all of them came from his own research. Quite a few originated from the personal knowledge of his aunt and uncle. The most important piece of knowledge he had regarding the Fae was that they did not give gifts. They played games, they accrued favors, but they did not give gifts. It was unwise to thank them, as thanks implied a favor owed. When he spoke, it was that in mind.
“How are you able to aid me…? Ricardo?”
He said that last with more hesitation than he normally felt when speaking. The Fae could take strange names, and a Pixie named X did not surprise him. They did generally follow gender conventions on naming, however.
Ricardo responded to the unspoken question in Matt’s voice. “I know, but my parents, they were fond of España. Mí madre said, 'We have a little boy, shall we name him Richard, for the Lionheart?, and mi padre said ‘No, he shall be Ricardo!’ And so it is, I am Ricardo, your fairy godfather!”
Matt stood quietly a moment, digesting the information. “A fairy godfather?”
“Sí!” Ricardo frowned. “You are not slow in the head, are you? That will make things much harder, although,” the Pixie's frown melted back to a grin more in keeping with the tiny laugh lines next to his eyes, “if you are dim, you'll take direction better! I will be your Cyrano, and you will be my Christian!”
“I was actually wondering at your use of the word 'fairy'. You're quite obviously a Pixie.”
Ricardo flitted up, his eyelashes batting madly. His gaze darted down, then back up to meet Matt's. “Brains and that magnificent manhood? This chica must be special indeed...”
Matt sighed without meaning to. “She's an angel. An earthbound angel.”
“If you feel the feelings of the heart for her this strongly, of course we must win you for her! Come! Let us plan your wooing of the chica of fairness!”
***
Michaela. You have been away a long time.
Michaela floated free, no longer bound by marble and the illusion of life. Her awareness of self was just that; an awareness of herself without a body, without physical form. A moment later, her mind caught up with what the Creator said to her. Her mind caught up to the simple fact that she thought of herself as herself. If she had tear ducts, she would have wept.
The Presence of the Creator, even held at arm’s length as she was, was a balm to her sadness, easing it until only a hint of regret remained. Sorrow soothed, shame came to the fore. She was impure. Her time on Earth had corrupted her until she contemplated abomination. Had she a body, she would have curled into a ball to hide her face.
You have contemplated no abomination. You are not corrupted.
Confusion shattered sadness, driving it from her entirely. The Creator could not be mistaken. She had been summoned by a Child of the Creator, one of the race who called themselves ‘human’. She was bound to a chunk of marble, only to be freed by Michelangelo. She spent near a half millennium walking the Earth. On her last day on Earth, she contemplated physical intimacy with a Child of the Creator. The Creations had been prohibited from sexual congress with a Child of the Creator, for it would be an abomination in His sight.
You are not my Creation.
Shock rattled her. She had been created as an Angel of Retribution, leading the Host against the Enemy. When the Children corrupted by the Enemy threatened the See of Peter, a priest of very little faith summoned her to defend the faithful. She fought and...
...you died.
Michaela froze, stunned. A lesser soul would have shattered irrevocably. She tattered around the edges, but somehow held herself extant. Had she a throat, she would have wailed. Her sense of self shuddered again.
View your demise once more.
***
The Angel known as Michael opened its eyes to a cold, lonely world. It missed the Presence, but it had been summoned by a Child of the Creator, a priest, and needs must do as this priest bid. The Angel wore the form of a towering female carved from marble and sheathed in steel. Other summoned entities stood nearby. Two hailed from the pantheon of Rome and Greece: Athena and Minerva. With its inner eye, the Angel perceived them as one being split in two, with each having half of her power. The fourth body in the room contained the lioness headed spirit of Menchit, an old foe of Michael's.
They would not try khopesh against spear today. The Child knew the secret name of Menchit, knew the ritual offerings to Athena, and was a Child of the Creator loaned the authority of Peter as well. The Child spoke, and three, perhaps four entities with only War in common listened.
“Menchit, Lioness of Egypt! I know your true name. By your Name, defend this city!”
The lioness-headed goddess sprang from the room, a roar shaking the rafters as she did.
“Athena! Minerva! The city at the center of civilization is under attack by barbarians! If they succeed, all you have founded, even your very memory, will be laid to waste! Defend us in our hour of need!”
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The goddess of wisdom, her being split between two bodies, tried to leave in a synchronized rush, but stumbled as she forgot which body she belonged in. After they departed, the priest turned to the angel. Michael saw the confusion in the mortal’s mind. Only a tiny fragment of Michael intersected with reality. That meant the priest had very little faith. Before the mortal could speak and ruin the summons, Michael anticipated him. “The Holy See is threatened. What would you have me do?”
“Defend the See. Destroy the invaders. Defend the Faithful!”
“The Child of the Lord God has spoken. His Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”
The angel sped from the tomb-like silence of the holy place, to emerge into the chaos of a city being sacked. Everywhere coarse men in ragged leather and fragments of metal swarmed over civilians in simple clothes. There was no need to find the Enemy of the Faithful, he was everywhere. With precision and speed only known to the Host, Michael struck, and struck, and struck again. His spear flashed like a shuttle in a loom, like the beak of a woodpecker.
The screams of women being raped and children being slaughtered changed in an instant to the deep screams of men suddenly faced with a Captain of the Host. In instants, the square was clear of foes. Three streets ran from the square, two carpeted with the corpses of barbarians, showing which directions the other defenders had advanced. One filled with more barbarians, forming up to destroy the new threat that faced them.
The priest had little faith, so Michael had only a little of his power, but only a little power was needed to destroy a horde of undisciplined barbarians. Before they formed up, the angel slashed through them like lightning, spear stabbing and slashing, fists slamming like battering rams. It took from the height of the sun until the evening, but in the end, the four defenders stood reunited at the fallen gate. The invading horde stood outside, the remnants drawn up and ready to fight.
Menchit, ever aggressive, went first, leaping into the fray, assaulting the formations of the enemy. They did not try to stand against her, but parted to reveal a single foe equal in stature to any of the towering Defenders of the Holy See. Horns decorated his helmet, and a shock of fiery red hair stuck out from his chin. The giant roared something in the language of the Norse. When the words hit her, Menchit froze. A moment later, the meaning of the words reached Michael from the minds of the Norse barbarians.
“Menchit! By your Name I bind you! Destroy this festering boil of a city!” The giant’s words reached out and gripped the Egyptian goddess with bonds stronger than steel.
Torn between the two commands, each of them given the weight of her True Name, the Lion Goddess froze. A horrible mewling whine escaped her motionless mouth. Smoke poured from her mouth, her nose, even from her eyes. She shivered once, stepped forward. She raised her khopesh, roared her defiance, and exploded into a thousand, thousand fragments of shattered stone.
The Norse giant’s laughter was coarse, cruel. He turned to the twin goddesses Athena and Minerva, an oily smile on his face. Both immediately slid into guard positions. Their movements were clumsy and slow, but between the two of them they still possessed a good fragment of the power of Athena, who was also Minerva. The giant Norseman turned to Athena, his voice as greasy as his smile when he spoke.
“Your siblings were wrong. Paris was wrong. You, beloved Athena, are the most beautiful of your sisters.”
Athena, goddess of wisdom, goddess of logic, was not taken in by the simple ruse.
“Come with me, Athena. You will ride with me to Valhalla, we will tear down its walls, and I will feast you daily on the golden apples of Erdun. Your beauty and wisdom will be trumpeted to the skies, to every branch of Yggdrasil.”
The giant did something with his voice. Michael felt the pull, even though the giant did not direct it at him. The angel moved into position to strike. He awaited the proper moment when a tiny word whispered through his mind.
“Stop.”
Michael froze. The Commands of Children could not destroy him the way they had Menchit, but they could be used against them other ways. He pushed against the command, but the faith of his summoner was weak. The faith of his opponent was strong, holding him in place with bedrock certainty. He watched in helpless horror as the Norseman moved toward the twins, his head swiveling to the twin he had so far not addressed. As it did, his face underwent a sea change. A disdainful, angry scowl replaced his greasy smile.
“Not you, pig. You can go to Hel.”
Michael realized the trap, but was powerless to warn his ally. The goddess of logic already quaked when a wizened man in furs stepped into Michael’s field of view. He hobbled to the center of Michael’s vision, whereupon he turned to face Michael. The man’s arms and legs twisted, his back withered, but he still breathed, and his eyes were huge. The ancient sorcerer’s voice was old reeds, and he was wayward, but he remained a Child of the Creator.
“What is your name, Angel?”
Though he struggled, Michael could not even think of disobeying. His summoner had only pulled a fragment of him to the mortal plane, and that fragment could not resist the steel will of the ancient sorcerer that stood before him. His name echoed from lips of marble.
“Michael.”
“This is a stupid, weak land, where the warrior men have breasts, and the whining women have none to speak of. Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Die.”
Creations could not die. Only Children could die. Creations could cease to be if they were no longer required by the Creator, although he had not done that for a long time. They could be destroyed if assaulted by enough force, like the might of a Norse god. In either case, the Creator could remake them at his need. Creations could not die.
Obedient to the Will of his Creator, and therefore obedient to the wayward yet faith-filled Child of that same Creator, the fragment of Michael that extended into the mortal realm died.
***
Had she a body, she would have stared in shock. Had she tears, she would have wept while she stared. Had she a voice, she would have screamed. Instead, she existed in a frozen, shocked state. The Presence increased, as if a distant fire drifted closer. The warmth and peace soothed her, but she did not return to the mind of her Creator, as broken Creations did.
You are not my Creation.
Her entire being focused into a single wailed question, and she heard its whispering echo through the Presence.
“What am I?”
Show me what you are.
And the world returned.
***
Matt listened intently to his tiny mentor, each word filed away in his mind for future reference.
“First with flowers, then with food. The romance, she is the most important thing, you see?”
Obediently, Matt nodded his head. His Fairy godfather had spoken non-stop for the better part of an hour. So far they’d covered his clothing, which Ricardo found drab, his hairstyle, which Ricardo thought too conservative, his food choices, which appalled Ricardo so badly he refused to talk about them, and his romantic instincts, which Ricardo judged surprisingly good. For the past few minutes his mentor had fine-tuned him, talking about details like whether to give flowers or candy first.
Matt hadn’t tired, but the light jury-rigged to his old military radio blinked. That meant someone trying to get in touch with him. Since the only person able to do so was his father, he had to cut the conversation short. He yawned hugely, and then tried his best to look embarrassed.
“Matthew, are you tired?”
“I have had a long day. I was about to be off to bed when you arrived.”
The Pixie looked at him, concern plain on his features. His voice remained that of a near hysterical señorita. “I have kept you up. Care I should be taking of you! Ricardo, he shall not be keeping you away from the embrace of Morpheus longer than he has! I shall return in the morning.”
Ricardo curtseyed, turned, and flitted out the window. Matt heaved a huge sigh. He was certain by now that the Pixie meant well, but he was still remarkably exhausting to listen to. With the impending conversation with his father, he couldn’t be exhausted. Rather, he could, but each bit of exhaustion would be carefully noted and analyzed. Father could be hyper-analytical.
With a shrug, he closed the window part way, walked back to the desk, and flipped the radio on. After waiting patiently a few minutes, he was rewarded by the sound of his father’s voice. Abraham had aged, but no hint of uncertainty touched his words, even when he asked a question.
“Matthew. This is Abraham speaking. Are you available?”
Matt was struck by the difference between his father’s soft baritone and his own deep bass. “Abraham, this is Matthew. I had an unexpected visitor. It is good to hear you, Father.”
“You allowed a visitor into your home? That is remarkable.”
“Father, I’m not antisocial. I simply have few opportunities for socializing.”
“You must tell me about her once we’ve discussed the details of the case.”
Matt hesitated; trepidation clear in his voice when he spoke. “The visitor was not female, Father. In addition, he wasn’t human. You are correct, though, we ought to discuss the case first.”
Abraham shocked Matt when he did not reply immediately. After a few seconds, his voice came through the speakers, but it was more tentative than Matt had ever heard it. “You are correct, Matthew. Let us discuss the details of your first case with Detective Miles.”
Matt proceeded to relay the details of his day, from his first introduction to Michaela, to his investigation of the old row house, to the confrontation with the thing known as Belle. He lingered longest over his description of the scene of the crime, as he knew that was the area of greatest interest to his father. When he finished, his father asked him to wait a few moments while composing his notes, then he spoke again.
“Matthew, it appears you are already emotionally involved with your partner, Detective Miles. Don’t you believe this to be quite sudden?”
Matt forgot what he’d been about to say. His father always asked about the techniques. He only spoke of other people when one of them had an interest in forensics. Detective Miles was many things, but a forensic specialist she was not. He realized how long he had been silent when his father spoke again.
“Matthew? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Abraham.”
“Am I incorrect in my assessment that you have become infatuated with Detective Miles?”
Matt didn’t understand the sudden sense of exposure and resentment he felt. He did his best to force them from his voice when he replied. “Yes, Abraham. It appears I have. That would, in fact, be what my visitor and I were talking about.”
“Ah, yes! Your conversational companion this evening, who was he?”
Moving the conversation from Michaela to Ricardo should have calmed him, but it didn’t. If anything, he felt more annoyed than before. Still, he never felt even the slightest impulse to lie to his father. “My guest was a Pixie by the name of Ricardo. He has apparently decided he is my fairy godfather, and wishes to assist me with Detective Miles.”
His father’s response was immediate and crisp. Now that he was aware of the situation, he no doubt had a plan, although he might or might not vouchsafe the details of that plan to Matt. “Your visitor wishes to assist you how?”
“If you must know, Abraham, my fairy godfather has decided he will be assisting me in the seduction of Michaela Miles.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Matt regretted them. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had included the preface of ‘if you must know.’ Part of it came from the frustration at not knowing exactly how Michaela would respond. Most of it, however, was nothing Matt understood. Matt waited through an agonizing pause while waiting for Abraham to reply. When he did, his voice became brisk and professional, which was a relief.
“That would be in keeping with the role of fairy godfather, although there aren’t any records I can think of that describe Pixies taking on that role. It sounds as if you are tired. That’s quite likely after your bout with a major demon lord. You should get some sleep.”
“I will, Father.”
The slightest tones of affection colored Abraham’s voice when he spoke again, although they might have been a figment of Matt’s imagination.
“Be well, Son. I’ll be starting the audio tape player now.”
A brief crackle of static accompanied Abraham’s sign off. A heroic voice followed that, one he knew as well as his own. He recited along as he nestled down into his pillows.
“Faster than a speeding bullet…”
In minutes he dropped off to sleep, muttering each and every word of the episode as he did.
***
For once, something bothered her more than her itching back. Her ankles ached. She’d rested her butt on her Achilles tendons for so long that when she tried to stand, they nearly gave out. She winced, shook her head, and a gasp came from somewhere above her head.
Blinking, she opened her eyes. She had no idea where she was. In front of her was a dais. To one side of the dais was a pulpit with a priest. She reached for her wallet, caught a whiff of burning sugar, and a fold of leather dangled from her hand. A badge shone faintly from within it. She looked at the identification inside.
Michaela Miles. Michaela. Feminized form of Michael. Miles. Soldier, from the Latin.
In a flash everything came back to her. Suddenly she realized how cold she was, how alone. She bowed her head once again. She didn’t have tears, but the need to weep overwhelmed her. From in front of her on the dais she heard the old priest moving to her. When he reached her, she tried to pull herself together. It was hard. She couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Miss? Where did you come from?” The priest wasn’t suspicious, just worried about a crying woman in his church. “Wait. You’re the young lady from earlier. Have you been here the whole time?”
He got close enough to see the dry sobs shaking her whole frame. Slowly and painfully, he went to one knee beside her. She thought he might have avoided kneeling on both for fear he might not get up again. He put one hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. His voice was soft, full of concern for another human being.
I’m not a human being!
“Young lady, are you all right?”
“No. I’m not.” The words were there, waiting, wanting to be said, but they wouldn’t fit out of her mouth. They clogged her up, keeping her from speaking. The old priest continued.
“Are you hurt? Physically injured?”
“No. Not really. A little stiff. Some old injuries.” The pressure built. She couldn’t tell if she was going to explode, or scream, or break down completely.
“What’s the problem then? I know it can be hard, but sometimes just talking about things can make them seem less daunting.”
“I talked to Him.” The words were there. They choked her, making her want to scream and vomit. The old priest’s voice was soft and warm.
“That can help, child, I know. Sometimes, though, talking to another person can help as well. If you don’t want to. If you’re not ready to, that’s fine.”
She didn’t eat. She couldn’t vomit. The words spewed forth instead. “I’m not a person! I’m a thing!”
Sobs rocked her body back and forth, and the old priest, careless of his safety or propriety, put a gentle arm around her to steady her. He wound up rocking with her, patting her tormented back gently. He made soothing sounds, trying to help her, but there were more words, and they splattered on the carpet in place of tears.
“He said I’m not His thing! I don’t know what I am!”
He spoke again, and she clung to his quiet confidence like a life preserver.
“We all have moments like the one you’re having now, little one. You’re not alone. There isn’t a single one of us who doesn’t fear being abandoned in our secret hearts. The truth is, though, that He will never abandon us.”
Her grip on his words slipped, the words themselves coated with the slime of her despair by the time she really heard them. Her words spilled out again, she couldn’t help them, no matter how they terrified her.
“He sent me away. He told me…” sobs overtook her, great heaving sobs without tears or snot. The priest pulled a worn handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it upon her. He seemed nonplussed when, after she stopped sobbing, it came back neither wet nor sticky. He took refuge in comforting her once more.
“What did He tell you, little one?”
His question spurred her memory, reminded her of the new Commandment that had been given her. “He told me to show Him what I am.” She hated the way her voice quavered.
“So, what are you?”
She started sobbing again, held up her hands in a gesture of agonized frustration. She had no idea what she was. The Presence had taken so much of her pain, she’d almost forgotten who she was, let alone what she was. Return to Earth, to the cold, to the loneliness, to the agony of separate existence was almost too much to bear. The old priest gently took the wallet from her unresisting hand. After a moment’s examination, he smiled softly and turned it around. The silver of her badge glinted quietly at her as he spoke.
“Are you Michaela?”
She couldn’t speak to respond. She sniffled and nodded.
“Then we have the same mission in life, after a fashion. You serve and protect in the physical realm, and I do the same for my flock, only in the spiritual realm.”
Something about his remark set Michaela off. The first hysterical giggle came out as a single squeak, but it was followed quickly by a storm of squawks, snorts, and hiccoughs. The thought that this nice old man could stand up to Belle was preposterous on the face of it. Yet in the end, it had been the mortal who had bested Belle, not the immortal who had been tasked to do so. Her thoughts repeated the scenario of this old man facing off against Belle once more, and the results she expected set her to weeping once more.
“There, there, dear. I’m sure you have family and friends who care about you.”
Still snuffling, Michaela shook her head.
“You’ve no family at all?”
“They’re all with Him now.” A moment later, inherent honesty pulled a caveat from her. “Except the ones who aren’t going to be.”
The old priest’s voice remained calm, soothing, yet there was something deep under the surface, something as unyielding as bedrock. “We all might be, eventually, child. All it takes is repentance. You can’t go to the ones that are still alive, I take it?”
“No.” Her returning sobs made her stutter. The old man’s soothing voice, his soft hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his presence kept her from breaking down entirely. It eased her into the horrible, horrible cold and loneliness of Earth. For that alone she was grateful to him.
“Do you have any friends?”
She started to shake her head, but froze before the motion was done. She had a friend. She had someone who wanted to be more than just a friend. Something in her stomach flip flopped like she was stooping, and a crackling line of electric fire ran along her spine. A shudder ripped through her. This wasn’t something she’d grown used to. In ten thousand years she hadn’t experienced anything like this. The shock of novelty was nearly enough to unmake her.
She blinked and saw the old priest’s face looking at her. Concern mixed with knowing understanding showed clearly on his face. When he knew she was aware of him, he spoke once more.
“You’ve thought of someone, I take it?”
When she spoke, she almost didn’t recognize her own voice. It came out deeper, huskier, the sounds of want etched into it with the depth of new emotion.
“Yes, Fa… Yes, Father, I have. He… I…”
The priest’s face grew stern. “You aren’t considering doing something of which God would disapprove, are you?”
Michaela felt the tingle that meant she was blushing. Her words were equally damning.
“He… I… I didn’t… But he…”
The stern face went from the light, mock severity of mild disapproval to the serious pending wrath of a man set on defending an innocent.
“This ‘friend’ didn’t force you, did he?”
The image of what she had almost done in the elevator, of what she had done in the elevator before Matt stopped her, flashed before her eyes. She realized she was whimpering when she tried to speak, and forced the words out before the kindly old priest started a crusade against an innocent man.
“No! No, no, no, no! He… I… I almost… I sort of…” She stuttered to a stop, embarrassment taking her voice once more. The priest’s frown stayed for a moment, then transmuted in an instant to disbelief as understanding hit. He looked down at her. He was kneeling with hams on heels, and he still was taller than she was when she knelt upright.
“Are you trying to tell me you tried to take advantage of him? That you tried to force him?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. She closed her eyes and nodded, the tiniest of ‘mmm hmm’ noises coming out as she did. With that, words spilled out of her again. “But I didn’t. I wanted to, and I tried to, but he thought I might not want to, and I did want to, but I couldn’t, because I didn’t know what He would say.” With a nod, she indicated which ‘He’ she meant.
The priest took a moment to digest what she had said. After he had, he spoke once more, and this time his voice slipped back to his original soothing near singsong.
“You were right to. Children of God are not to lie with one another lightly.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I think the sons of Abraham might have had it right historically, that the wedding ceremony ought come after, but I didn’t tell you that.”
The old priest gave her a grin and a wink. With a start, she realized he was still operating under the assumption she was Jewish. It really didn’t matter. Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, Children of God weren’t to fornicate. She wasn’t a Child of God. Matt was, which made it…
The Word returned to her like a hammer, shattering her doubt along with her assumptions.
You have contemplated no abomination.
The Word, by its nature, could neither lie nor be wrong.
You have contemplated no abomination.
She stared at the old priest in stunned shock as the implications of the His Word raced through her. She had most certainly contemplated lying with Matt. She hadn’t contemplated abomination. She hadn’t been contemplating doing anything the Presence said was wrong.
There were more implications than that, but her conscious mind was overruled, overrun, and generally carried away by the sudden flow of lava running from the base of her skull to the split of her legs. What she contemplated wasn’t forbidden. The only reason she had stopped was that she thought it was forbidden. She had to go.
Now.
The satisfaction in the old priest’s voice showed he recognized the change in her. “See, child? There is someone who cares about you. The Lord wouldn’t force any of us to walk this cold, lonely world entirely alone.”
The old man was too kind to just leave, but she had to go. She scrambled for a way out, but thinking was not her strong suit normally, and right now it was hard to think of anything but hands powerful enough to bind a Lord of Hell, yet gentle enough to slide beneath her shirt without ripping it.
“See, child? You just have to have faith in Him.”
Her unthinking reply stopped her in her tracks when she heard it. “I’ve never needed faith before.”
The old priest seemed just as surprised by her words as she was. “No faith? But you speak as if you believe.”
“I do. I don’t need faith for that. I’ve spent too much time with Him to ever doubt Him.”
She reached inside herself, expecting to find the dregs of power she’d survived on for years. Her spear sprang into her hand. The spearhead, the physical manifestation of her power, illuminated the entire church with a light that should have been blinding, but comforted instead. Ecstasy filled the old priest’s face. With one hand, she touched his temple, willing some of the power that filled her into him. She knew he deserved it. She wasn’t sure about herself at the moment.
Much as before, he smiled, turned, and knelt. She banished her spear with a thought. A moment later, she was out the door and running, her trench coat trailing out behind her like a banner. The streets clear of everyone except the occasional street person, she sprinted, hating every moment away from Matt.
Halfway to South Street she stopped, looked at her watch, and started the least sacrilegious bout of vehement swearing Chinatown had ever heard.
***
Ricardo flitted in the window, a tiny notebook clutched in his hand. He had a list of notes for his new protégé. Matthew slept now, but Ricardo would leave them scribed in Matthew’s notebook, and the boy would win his lady in record time.
He smiled as he heard the tail end of the old radio show. The smile dropped from his face when another voice sounded from the speakers. The words were in a language he didn’t understand, but he recognized them anyhow. They were harsh, coated slightly with phlegm, and Ricardo had heard them before. Years before he had heard the ancient Hebrew Words of the incantation that animated his friend Micah. Now he heard them again.
After a few moments, the ancient incantation gave way to the slight static of a radio broadcast. An announcer opened the old show, his voice calling out the familiar words. Faintly Ricardo heard Matthew whisper those same words.
He had to talk to X. X would know what to do.
***
X was a hunter. Nothing was closer to the soul of the hunter than a long, patient wait for the prey to move. He stood in the upper branches of a tree. He swayed with the tree, and anyone watching would see him as a squirrel’s nest. The focus of his hunt stood, for the moment, within the cathedral across the way. Michaela entered hours ago, but she hadn’t come out. Dawn would come soon, and he wasn’t up to camouflaging himself in the daylight.
A figure stumbled down the street, looking and acting drunk. Suddenly the doors burst open and the object of his hunt flew down the street, trench coat flapping behind her like great wings. He swore and dove after her. For long minutes he fell behind, only gaining ground when she had to go around an obstacle he could go over. Finally, for no apparent reason, she stopped in the middle of an abandoned block, looked at her watch, and started swearing.
He flitted down to eye level, careful to stay out of reach. When she wound down, he spoke.
“Hey, girl, you got a problem? Maybe somethin’ I can help you wit?”
He didn’t even see her move. One moment she stared at her watch and swore, the next she held him, one petite hand clamped around his waist like a vise. This would be harder than he thought.
***
Johnny stumbled down the street, driven by a compulsion he didn’t understand. The crazy chick was dead. He’d seen her die with his own eyes. She was going to kill him the same way if he didn’t show up to the meet.
He was out on bail. The lawyer got him off quick after hearing about the crazy chick dying in the next cell. He ought to get back and talk to the guys, to check in with Sal Six Fingers, but if he didn’t get to this Sammie’s place, he would die. He would melt into nothing. Demons would eat his guts like sausage.
He shook his head to clear the unwanted images that kept popping in. She said to go to church, then head south a block. He got to the church. He thought about going in, but then some chick…
The bitch cop!
The bitch cop burst out of his church, blew past him too fast for him to grab her. He wasn’t going in there. She probably told the padre about his criminal actions. Padre always got upset about those. He’d go after he was done with the crazy chick.
He stumbled south a block, then ducked into the alley. Two turns later, he found the end of a line of club goers. They were dressed up like peacocks and pimps. He wavered. Part of him thought he ought to get in line. Part of him wanted to walk away. Eventually, he found himself dragged forward by the mental image of the crazy chick’s face dissolving away.
A girl with a clipboard stood by the door. She was pretty well put together. Any other time, he might try to make time with her, but tonight every time he looked at a woman he saw her brains leak out her empty eye sockets. With that image in mind he staggered up to the woman, who froze him in place with a glance.
Something about her reminded him of Belle. He couldn’t say what it was. Maybe it was just not being afraid of him. He wasn’t used to women who weren’t afraid of him. He tried to get himself moving again, to push past the girl at the door, but she pointed her pen at him and raised her voice.
“Stop! You’re not dressed to be in here. I’m not in the mood to hear any excuses, either. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Johnny felt himself tearing inside. He had to get into the club, had to meet with Belle. The name rang through his skull and echoed out of his mouth.
“Belle.”
If the girl was impressed, she didn’t show it.
“Call me that again and I’ll turn your privates into a newt and fuse a snake to your ass. As I said earlier, I am not in the mood to play. Begone, now.”
He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t stay. His voice broke when he spoke.
“I’m here to serve Belle.”
The girl’s mouth worked, like she wanted to curse, holding it in, but not quite able to keep her mouth shut. A moment later she realized what she was doing, and a poker face slid down over her expressions.
“Miss Isle must learn to send her dinner deliveries around to the service entrance. You will tell her that when you reach her. For now…”
The girl waved her pen at him. His clothes writhed, reforming themselves around him. He didn’t care about that, he had to get inside. The moment she waved him past, he was staggering through the portal. He didn’t even hear her last words.
“May you find what you seek in Sammie’s demesnes.”
***
Michaela stared at the little black manikin on her desk. The precinct offices were dim, lit only by a few desk lamps. The other detectives had gone home; no cases required burning the midnight oil just now. It was just her and… X. Baron X. She snorted at how ridiculous the situation was.
“Man, knew this was a bad idea, but Herself wasn’t listenin’.”
The comment hadn’t been meant for her, but she’d been a cop so long her instincts forced her to pounce on it.
“Herself? You’re working for someone?”
The little Pixie avoided her eyes. She hadn’t known him long enough to tell if it was habit or if he was hiding something. Still, he responded quickly, without any of the hesitation that would tell her he was lying.
“Yeah. You got a anonymous benefactor. She all about you gettin’ wit that big guy you been droolin’ over.”
“You think I’m still going to go rushing off to him if some ‘anonymous benefactor’ wants me to? Maybe she’s got my best interests at heart, but somehow I doubt it.”
“You prolly right. Don’t mean she’s out to get you.”
Michaela leaned back in her chair. The Pixie slouched around her desk, poking at the various implements of paperwork. While they talked, he picked up erasers and paper clips and started tinkering with them.
“Look, I’m not in a good mood right now, Pixie. When you caught up with me, I just realized a bunch of stuff. None of it made me happy. You popping up in my ear was just the icing.”
The Pixie sighed and settled down on the impromptu chair he’d knocked together from the erasers. When he spoke, she could tell he clung to his own patience as much as she did to hers.
“Look, lady. Last time me and Ricky did this, we took the job ‘cause a friend was involved. Now, I’m not sayin’ we got no connection here, but I swore off this kinda work for just this reason. It goes wrong, we get the blame, it goes right and that fat flying Greek gets the credit.”
It took her a moment to puzzle all that out. When she had, some of the tension leaked out of her.
“Does she tell you why she sends you on missions?”
“She don’t tell me shit. She think I a damn mushroom.”
“I’d take you out for a beer, but I don’t drink and they wouldn’t have glasses your size.”
She watched as the Pixie relaxed noticeably. “Sammie’s does. Not too many other places. Your boss got you doing something right now?”
With a start, Michaela realized she was on a mission. In her rush to get back to Matt, she’d nearly forgotten.
“Yeah, sort of.”
“It gonna interfere wit you getting it on wit the big guy?”
Michaela’s cheeks tingled with a blush. She hated that. She was finally back in the office, finally away from Matt, and he still made her blush. Pits, Mike! The thought wasn’t as vehement as it used to be. It had only been a day, and already Matt was growing on her. Her attention focused back on the tiny black man on the desk when he repeated himself.
“Look, my sex life is none of your business.”
“You got that wrong. My business is to get all up in your business and make sure his business is making your business busy.”
“Look, X. I get that you’re here on a mission, but I don’t think you’re going to be much help.”
One tiny eyebrow arched.
“You don’t know what I got, lady. I might got love potion number nine in my bag of tricks. I might got all the stuff you need to make him fall for you.”
Michaela’s heart sank further. Pits! When she rushed out of the church, she’d assumed that all she had to do was run to Matt, jump on him, and they’d live happily ever after. Halfway there, she’d realized that mortals were asleep at three AM, she had a mission, and worst of all, he’d been the one to stop the kiss in the elevator. Maybe she needed all that stuff to get him.
Why am I worrying about all this? I’m supposed to show Him what I am!
“Look, I have bad guys to catch. If you can swing it so he’ll give me a chance, then maybe I’ll think about it. Right now, though, there’s too much going on for me to start thinking with my nether regions.”
“So I get you a chance, you gonna take it?”
At the thought, her back itched like fire. She wanted to lie to the little imp, but it just wasn’t in her.
“Yeah, I think I might.”
“I can work with that.”