The Second Summoning

EIGHT

FROM THE BUS TERMINAL, Samuel walked over to Yonge Street and up two blocks to Gerrard, staring in amazement at the amount of stuff on display in the windows of the closed stores. The stereo system dominating a small electronics shop drew him close to the glass—five disk CD changer, digital tuner with forty presets, six-mode preset equalizer, dual full-logic cassette decks, extra bass—and he found himself wondering covetously about sub-woofers and wattage. From deep within came the knowledge that if it came to it, he’d buy that stereo before he bought groceries.

Then he noticed the leather shop next door. Stereo forgotten, he took two long side steps and stared wide-eyed at the mannequin barely dressed in a red leather corset, black leather panties, and stiletto-heeled thigh boots.

Which was when the unexpected happened.

He backed up so quickly he slammed into a newspaper box.

His genitalia were functioning without him!

It was like, like they had a mind of their own.

Well, not they exactly…

Beginning to panic, he stared down at the tent in his pants and wondered what he was supposed to do.

Fortunately, the panic seemed to be taking care of the problem.

A few minutes later, heart pounding, gaze directed carefully at the sidewalk, he started walking again, faith in his physical integrity shaken. What would have happened had it not been a holiday? Had he actually been able to go into the store and…

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Brakes squealed. A door panel brushed his knee. The deep red 1986 Horizon stopped. Backed up. The window opened.

“You’ve got the red, asshole!” the driver screamed, then gunned the motor and roared away.

Samuel had no idea they came in other colors. Or, for that matter, what color they usually were. And how had the driver known? Were any other bits of his body likely to surprise him?

Eleven seconds later, the first pigeon settled on his head, claws digging through his hair and into his scalp. When it finally lost the fight to keep its perch, it slid off to land with a thud on his right shoulder. It was mostly white with a few gray markings and the distinct attitude that it had arrived where it was supposed to be.

The second pigeon went directly to his other shoulder.

The rest fought for less prime locations and, for the most part, had to content themselves with huddling close around his feet.

He spoke fluent pigeon—which wasn’t really difficult as the entire pigeon vocabulary pretty much consisted of: “Food!” “Danger!” and “Betcha I can hit that guy in the Armani suit.”—but nothing he said made any difference. They were where they felt they ought to be. Case closed. When he started walking again, they lifted off with an indignant flapping of wings. When he stopped, they landed. He kept walking.

At College Street, he flipped a mental coin and turned right.

The sedan traveling southbound missed him by seven centimeters. The pickup traveling north missed him by three. The driver of the pickup taught him a number of new words. The pigeons knew them already.

The east side of Yonge—where College Street became Carlton Street—seemed to lead into a more residential area. That had to be good. People equaled problems and sooner or later, if he was right about being the message not merely the medium, he’d have to fix the problem that would let him go home.

By the time he reached the park across from Homewood Avenue, he was traveling in a shifting cloud of fat bodies and feathers. Visibility was bad, the footing was getting a little tricky, and the surrounding air had begun to smell strongly of motor oil and old French fries. He clearly had to get rid of his escort.

He flailed his arms.

He used the new words, rearranging them into a number of different patterns.

Nothing worked.

Climbing up and over a snowbank, he brushed off the end of a bench and flopped down onto the cleared spot.

The pigeons settled happily.

His vision slightly impaired by a fan of tail feathers, Samuel watched a police car make a tight U-turn across Carlton Street and pull up more or less in front of him. The driver’s name was Police Constable Jack Brooks, his partner, Police Constable Marri Margaret Patton. They sat and stared for a full minute. He could feel their mood lightening as they studied him, and he knew he should be glad he’d added a little joy to their day but, preoccupied by the sudden warmth dribbling down behind his left ear, he found he didn’t much care.

Finally, they got out of the car and waded through the snow toward him, valiantly but unsuccessfully attempting to suppress snickers.

“Are you, uh, all right under there?”

Samuel sighed and spat out a feather. “Sure,” he answered shortly.

“Have you tried standing up?”

He stood. Wings flapped. He could see PC Patton’s lips move, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying above the noise. He sat down again. The pigeons settled.

After a moment of near hysterical laughter, the police settled as well.

Fighting to catch his breath, PC Brooks managed to gasp, “Are you feeding them?”

“As if.” If he was feeding them, he could stop. And they’d leave. “They want to be with me ’cause I’m an angel.”

“An angel?”

“Yeah; I guess it’s that dove thing.”

“These are pigeons.”

“Same old.”

As three birds squabbled over position, PC Brooks got his first unobstructed look at facial features and knocked five years off his original estimate of the young man’s age. “What’s your name, son?”

“Samuel.”

“Samuel what?”

“Just Samuel.”

“And you’re an angel?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re an angel, where are your wings?” Beside him, he heard his partner smother a snort.

Samuel sighed and spit out another feather. “I’m not that kind of angel.” Without much enthusiasm, he added, “But I can make my head light up.”

“Maybe next time.” Frowning slightly, PC Brooks took a closer look, found his gaze met and held, found himself watching the gold flecks in the brown eyes swirl into soft luminescence. He blinked and forced himself to look away. “What are you on, Samuel?”

“Concrete and fiberglass.”

“Uh-huh. Look, son, it’s Christmas Day, why don’t you go home.”

“I can’t!”

The pigeons took flight, circled once, and settled again.

PC Patton took her partner by the sleeve and dragged him a few steps away. “It’s not against the law to be covered in pigeons,” she reminded him, grinning broadly.

“I know.”

“Neither is it against the law to impersonate an angel.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Whatever he’s on…”

“Concrete and fiberglass.”

“…he’s not a danger to himself or society, and he’s probably fairly warm under there.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

So it was. She sighed, watched her breath blossom in the frosty air, and turned back toward the bench. “Why don’t you get in the car and we’ll take you somewhere you can get some Christmas dinner.”

“Can the pigeons come?”

“No.”

That was the best news he’d heard in a while.

The pigeons, who recognized the police as Nice Dark Targets, refused to cooperate.

Samuel finally backed up about twenty feet, raced forward, and flung himself into the back of the squad car, giving PC Patton about six seconds to slam the door before the birds caught up. When the first bird hit the window, she almost peed herself, she was laughing so hard.

Darkness had emerged just outside Waverton for a reason. The tiny town was not only far enough off the beaten track that a Keeper wouldn’t stumble on it by accident, it was fairly close to the bloated population base along the Canada/U.S. border—there was a limited amount of trouble that could be caused without active human participation and darkness didn’t like to waste time. Parts of central Russia, Africa, and Nevada also fit the geographic criteria, but appearing in any of those areas would have been redundant at best.

She found a pair of denim overalls, black canvas sneakers, and a nylon jacket in what had been the office of J. Henry and Sons Auto Repair. While appreciative of the chaos she could cause walking around naked, keeping a lower profile seemed the smarter move. The outfit wasn’t stylish, but it was serviceable.

Although to her surprise, she was a little concerned that the overalls made her look fat.

Which soon became a minor problem.

Once in the world, she should have been able to move instantaneously from place to place, but something seemed to be stopping her. It didn’t take long to figure out what. While walking the four and half kilometers into town, she decided that staying as far away from the light as possible was no longer an option; her new plan involved finding him and kicking his holier than thou butt around the block a few times. What had he been thinking?

Actually, given which set he’d gotten, she had a pretty good idea of what he’d been thinking.

“Men,” she’d snarled at a hydro pole, left forearm tucked under her breasts to stop the painful bouncing. “They’re all alike.”

The power went off in half the county.

Which made her feel only half better.

She’d planned on finding a ride south as soon as she got to Waverton, twisting the weak and pitiful will of some poor mortal to her bidding. Unfortunately, there was no one around; the only thing moving on Main Street was the random blinking of a string of Christmas lights hung in the window of one of the closed businesses. She could have shot a cannon off in any direction and not hit a soul. And if she’d had a cannon, she would have shot it off.

As she didn’t…

The bank on the corner burst into black-tipped flame.

Rummaging about in her pocket, she pulled out a marshmallow.

Need provides.

Twenty minutes later, the scene seethed with people—volunteer firefighters, both constables from the local OPP detachment, and most of the remaining population.

Now that’s more like it. Bonus points for pulling a Keeper up into the middle of nowhere to close this hole opened by arson, leaving more populated areas unprotected. Jostled by the crowd, she snarled and drove her heel as hard as she could down on the nearest toe.

“Ouch. Excuse me.”

Confused, she turned and glared into soft brown eyes bracketed between a dark pink hat and a pale pink scarf. “Why are you apologizing? You’re the victim.”

“No one has to be a victim, dear.” The older woman frowned slightly, her gaze sliding from dyed hair to running shoes and back up again. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Strangers were universally suspect when something went wrong. Settling her weight on one hip, she folded her arms. “No, I’m not.”

“Are you alone?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the tendril of darkness seeping out of the hole, watched one of the firefighters “accidentally” turn the hose on another, and she smiled. “Mostly.” Once accused of setting the fire, she’d be able to cause all sorts of havoc. She’d be able to turn their anger at her onto other targets, counter-accusing once she had the attention of the crowd. Maybe the good townspeople would like to know about Mr. Tannison, the bank manager.

“A stranger,” the woman repeated thoughtfully, the flames reflecting in both halves of her bifocals. “And all alone.”

Here it comes, she thought.

“How did you get here? We’re not exactly in the center of things.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve run away, haven’t you?”

“No, I…”

“All alone. In a strange place. And on Christmas, too.” Pink-mittened hands clasped over a formidable bosom. “Where were you running away to?”

“The city…”

“Of course, the city.” Her sigh plumed out silver-white. “But for right now, you have nowhere to go for Christmas dinner, do you?”

“I don’t eat.”

“That’s what I thought.”

And the strange thing was, that was what she thought. Which made less than no sense.

“My name is Eva Porter, and you’re going to join my husband and I for turkey and all the trimmings. I won’t take no for an answer.” A pink wave toward the burning bank. “That’s my husband by the tanker truck.”

“You want me to join you for dinner?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You don’t know me.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Eva Porter was way outside her experience. “Are you going to torture me?” That would at least explain the invitation.

“Goodness, no.”

“You only want to feed me?”

“That’s right.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m a demon? Darkness given human form?”

Eva’s smile slipped.

Before she could enjoy the expected reaction, wool-covered fingers gently lifted her chin and looked her right in the eye.

“I don’t know who told you such a thing…”

“No one had to tell me.”

“…but you are a beautiful young woman.”

“I am?” She caught herself feeling good about that and hurriedly squashed the feeling.

“Yes, you are. What’s your name?”

“Uh…” She pulled one at random from the possibilities. “Byleth.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“It is?” It wasn’t supposed to be. This had gone quite far enough. “Listen, lady, I don’t know what you think I am, but I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“That. What you think.” The pale gray of her eyes began darkening like tarnished silver. “I set that fire! I desired flames—and there they were.”

Eva frowned. “What are you on, Byleth?”

She glanced down, totally confused. “Packed snow and concrete.”

“And those shoes are just canvas, aren’t they? Your poor toes must be frozen.”

They hadn’t been. But now…

“And a nylon jacket isn’t enough for this weather. It’s below zero out here. Just look at the ice forming on those hoses.”

She looked. Her teeth began to chatter. “Okay, but I’m just going with you to get warm.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“That’s right. I don’t.” Hugging herself in a valiant effort to contain body heat, Byleth followed the confusing mortal down Main Street. Ignite the bank. Open a hole. Allow a little darkness into the world. All that had gone by the book. But reassured, warmed, and fed? Not to mention apologized to?

She wasn’t supposed to like people being nice to her. Well, so far only person not people, but still…

It wasn’t right.

Or more to the point, it wasn’t wrong.

“No shit, man! I’m an angel, too!”

Samuel studied Doug’s slightly furry, gap-toothed smile and bloodshot eyes and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.” Carefully placing his fork beside his half empty plate, Doug leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m undercover. That’s why, you know, no wings.”

“Can you make your head light up?”

“Fuck, yeah.” He glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers. Satisfied that no one else in the crowded room was paying any attention, he elaborated. “It’s usually pretty lit by now, but they don’t allow that stuff in here.”

“But shouldn’t I know it if you’re an angel?”

“I didn’t know till you told me. Why should you know till I told you?”

That made sense. Not a lot of sense but, under the circumstances, enough. And Doug wasn’t lying. Samuel could tell when people were lying and Doug believed every breathy, fermentation-redolent thing he’d said. Feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders, Samuel leaned forward as well. “Do you get covered in pigeons?”

“Nope. Butterflies. Hundreds of ’em, movin’ their little feet all over my body.” Eyes widening, he glanced down at this chest and began smacking himself with alternating palms. “All. Over. My. Body.”

Samuel grabbed his wrists. “What are you doing?”

“Swattin’ butterflies.”

Ignoring for the moment the absence of butterflies to swat, Samuel looked sternly across the narrow table. “Angels can’t enact violence on a living creature.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“We don’t swat!”

“You never wanted to swat them pigeons?”

“Well…yeah.” Which wasn’t something he wanted to discover about himself—even justifiable urges to commit violence on a flock of flying rats was just anti-angel. Releasing Doug’s wrists, he buried his head in his hands. “I’m very confused.”

Doug nodded sagely. “Happens.”

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I do.”

That was more than he’d dared to hope for. “You do?”

“You’re here to eat.”

And hope died.

About to point out that angels didn’t eat, Samuel watched Doug lift a forkful of mashed potatoes and gravy. Doug was eating. Most of it was even going into his mouth. Wrapping his fist around his own fork, he mirrored the motions of the undercover angel sitting across from him. After a few moments, he got the hang of not chewing his tongue with the food. Then he swallowed.

All of a sudden, he was ravenous.

When a bit of stuffing came back up through his nose, he slowed down enough to breathe. He drank juice until it was gone, then he switched to water. He had seconds. And, although what food remained had become a little difficult to identify by then, he even had thirds.

This was the best thing that had happened to him in this body. He couldn’t believe what he’d been missing. He wanted to thank Doug for the gift he’d been given, for new information shared, and all he could think to do was to share information in turn.

“I have genitalia.”

“They’re called giblets, kid.”

She’d poison the gravy. Given who—or rather what—she was, it was the only logical thing to do under the circumstances. The box of rat poison tucked neatly onto the shelf of gardening supplies had called out to her as Eva Porter led her through the enclosed porch and into the house. At least she thought it was the rat poison, her teeth were chattering too loudly to be sure.

“Now, then, let’s get you out of those wet shoes and socks, eh.”

“I don’t have socks.”

“Then I’ll get you some.” Unwrapped, Eva wore a dove-gray sweat suit over a white turtleneck. Given her proportions…

“You look like a pigeon,” Byleth muttered sullenly.

“I do, don’t I.” Her eyes widened as she took in the overalls. “Good heavens, child, you’re hardly wearing anything at all. Well, I can do something about that, can’t I?”

“Can you?” She’d intended the question to be sharp edged, mocking, but it emerged sounding rather pathetic. Holding the freezing length of the overalls’ zipper away from her body, she followed Eva into the living room and watched wide-eyed as she pulled several brightly wrapped packages out from under the tree.

“These are for my granddaughter, Nancy; she’ll be coming up to spend New Year’s with us. Fortunately, you’re about the same size.”

“You’re giving me your granddaughter’s presents?” She’d have refused the kindness except she’d caught sight of her reflection in the living room window. The overalls were gross. And they did make her look fat. Still: Granny gives Nancy’s presents away. Nancy gets angry. Big family fight. Byleth could live with that. Of course if Nancy was as whacked as Granny, she might not mind. Don’t ruin things, she told herself sternly, following Eva upstairs. Believe anything that’ll get you out of these overalls.

As instructed, she had a nice hot shower, staying in until she’d emptied the tank. She left the soap sitting in water in the soap dish and the towels in a crumpled heap on the floor. It wasn’t much, but it felt good to be proactive again.

Black jeans. Black, ribbed turtleneck; tight enough to offer some support to the breasts which were rapidly becoming a colossal nuisance. Thick red sweater. Red fuzzy socks.

Pivoting in front of the mirror, toes working against the thick fleece, she realized she looked good. The black, the red, the hair—it was working. Back in the bathroom, she went through Eva’s makeup bag, pulled out the reddest lipstick she could find and applied it liberally. She liked the effect so much, she completely forgot about her intention to infect the lipstick with a particularly virulent STD.

Harry Porter was standing in the living room when she came downstairs. He smiled and introduced himself. “Just between you and me,” he added, leaning toward her slightly, “that outfit looks much better on you than it would have on Nancy.”

Had there been anything remotely sexual in the comment, she’d have known how to react. But there wasn’t.

Why were her ears so hot?

She tried a provocative smile anyway.

Harry deflected it with amused indulgence.

Her ears grew hotter. So did her cheeks. What the hell was going on?

“I’llgohelpwithdinner.” The words came out weirdly strung together. Hurrying into the kitchen, she held on tightly to the thought of the rat poison and getting her world back on track.

It took only a little more momentum to bounce into Eva and spill cranberry juice all over her.

“Oops, sorry, dear.”

Byleth closed her eyes and counted to three. “Why,” she demanded when she opened them, “are you apologizing? I bumped you.”

“True enough. I spoke to Harry and he says if you still want to go to the city in the morning, he’ll drive you to the bus station in Huntsville.”

The bus? There was just no way she was taking the bus. Smelly people took the bus. Poor people took the bus. People being environmentally aware and not driving their cars took the bus. Demons did not take the bus. Unless they took it somewhere really, really nasty and left it there. If Harry wanted to play taxi, he could drive her all the way to the city. He’d be easy enough to coerce.

“Byleth? Would you mind stirring the gravy?”

Since Harry had just become useful and she couldn’t poison Eva without killing him, there could be only one answer. “Yes.”

“Thanks, dear.”

Staring at the spoon in her hand, the other end circling around in the pan of gravy, she wondered how that had gone wrong.

519 Church Street served food but couldn’t provide shelter for the night. Unwilling to lose the company of the only other angel he’d ever met, Samuel followed Doug out the door and fell into step beside him.

They walked for a while in silence. Higher knowledge informed him that pigeons roosted after dark so, until sunrise, life was good. Or it would have been except…

“What’s the matter, kid?”

He shook his head, he wasn’t sure. “There’s pressure.” A quick glance down showed a small wet spot on the front of his trousers. “And I’m leaking! Again. First my hands and now this. Am I supposed to be leaking?”

“Must be time to take a piss.” Grabbing for the front of his own trousers, Doug crossed the sidewalk and stood facing the wall of Harris’ Auto Body.

“We can’t take something that doesn’t belong to us.” In a world of uncertainties, this he remained sure of.

Doug rolled his eyes as a stream of liquid hit the bricks with enough force to knock off a few peeling paint chips and wash them down to float in the streaming puddle on the concrete. “Urinate, kid. Your. En. Eight.”

Discharge urine. A pale-yellow fluid secreted as waste by the kidneys, stored in the bladder, discharged through the urethra.

“Oh.” Opening the zipper turned out to be more difficult than it looked. Closing it when he finished…

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Hardly anyone keeps their foreskin these days.”

Still unable to completely straighten, Samuel found that of little actual comfort. Moving awkwardly, he followed Doug up a set of broad steps and was astonished to discover they were entering a cathedral. When he paused, Doug grabbed his arm and pulled him ahead.

“St. Mike’s only got room for fifty, kid. He who hesitates sleeps outside. Merry Christmas, Father.”

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?”