Diana frowned. “It’s a documentary on lions.”
“What are they doing?”
She adjusted the contrast, but they were still doing it. “They’re having sex.”
“Kewl.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Vaguely proud of himself, although uncertain of why he should be, he belched again.
Byleth hadn’t expected to have so much fun. With a sense of Keepers too close for comfort, she’d planned on a low profile and a road trip in the morning. She’d listened to the praying, she’d eaten the meal, and she hadn’t been able to stop a snort of amusement during the preaching.
So they’d asked her if she had a question.
Surrounded by teenagers pulled from the streets, Byleth stood—hands jammed into the pockets of her black jeans, weight resting on one hip, expression sullen—and asked, “If Lloyd leaves London at 6:00 p.m. on a train heading east going 90 kilometers an hour and Tom leaves Toronto at 6:15 p.m. on a train heading west at 110 kilometers an hour, when will they die in a fiery explosion?”
Eyes dark from lid to lid compelled the truth.
“I don’t know.”
“Why?” She threw the word onto the end of his sentence so quickly momentum kept the ball rolling.
“I never paid attention in math.”
“Why?”
“I was fixated on Miss Miller’s breasts.”
“Why?”
“They were perky. What does this have to do with the text?” Leslie/Deter demanded, fingers white on the edge of the lectern.
“Nothing.” The last thing she wanted to do was test the man’s faith. That was the sort of inane probing the good guys got up to. “Boxers or briefs?”
“Egyptian leather thong.”
Things went downhill from there.
Staring up at the exit sign, Claire listened to Dean breathe and waited for morning. Diana had gone too far this time. She hadn’t been Summoned to the angel, or she’d have mentioned it—Summoned Keepers had the final say on any situation. Diana without a Summons meant Diana should be at home studying or whatever it was teenagers did these days. Piercing something maybe.
Claire hadn’t been Summoned either, but as an active Keeper that only meant that she was already doing what she was supposed to be doing. The angel’s physical form blocked any attempt to find the demon. Therefore, she had to return the angel to the light. QED—essentially, Latin for “so there.”
Diana’s personal opinions on the matter were irrelevant. Even more so than usual.
If functional genitalia defined personhood, then Dean…
She chopped off the thought before it could crawl out any further. Functional genitalia didn’t define love either, and she loved Dean. In a relatively short time he’d become as essential to her life as breathing. She loved being with him, talking, laughing, traveling, cuddling, touching, kissing, caressing; turning her head, she pressed her face against the warm skin of his shoulder. He smelled so good, she wanted to…
Okay, that’s it. Get up. Which wasn’t, perhaps, the best chastisement under the circumstances. Sliding out from under the covers, she grabbed her robe off the other bed.
“Hey! I was asleep on that!”
“Sorry.”
“I should hope so.” Disdaining the jump, Austin stalked over the bedside table and curled up between Dean’s legs muttering, “Angels, demons, impotence; I see no reason why the cat should suffer.”
She woke Dean at five, and they were on the road by six-thirty. They would have been on the road an hour earlier, but when they went to check out, Dean discovered that the sleepy middle-aged woman behind the desk had once lived in St. John’s right next door to a guy he’d played hockey with. The permutations took a while to work through.
Although the plows had been busy all night, it was still snowing lightly and the driving was treacherous. When it became apparent that Dean needed to concentrate on the road…
You’ll find out what Diana’s up to when we get there.
Could we deal with what happens after the angel’s gone, after the angel’s gone, then.
Claire, please shut up.
…she amused herself by watching a pair of frost fairies skating along the hydro lines. Matched double axles, a star lift, and a thrown triple salkow later, she popped in a tape of The Nutcracker.
“This is different.” Austin climbed out from behind the seat and settled in her lap. “You don’t usually like classical music.”
“I know, but somehow it seemed to fit.”
They stopped for breakfast in Huntsville.
“I should get gas,” Dean observed as they pulled out of the diner’s parking lot.
“I got gas,” Austin moaned, head and both front paws draped over the edge of the seat. “I should never have eaten those sausages.”
Claire folded her arms. “What sausages?”
“Did I say sausages? I meant, uh…” The windows rattled as his stomach made a sound between a gurgle and plate tectonics. “All right. I meant sausages; three plump juicy sausages. Slightly overcooked and containing bits of two items I couldn’t identify. The kid in the next booth dropped them on the floor, and I ate them.”
“When?”
“When Dean was explaining to the waitress how running the dishwasher at a higher temperature would keep the cutlery from streaking.”
“Right. Then.”
“Yeah, then. When you were studying the menu with such intense concentration.”
Pulling up in front of the gas pumps, Dean shot her a quick look. “You were embarrassed?” When she nodded, he grinned. “Why? The waitress didn’t mind.”
The waitress didn’t mind because he’d been smiling up at her and the combination of Dean’s smile and accent and shoulders made most women and a goodly number of men between the ages of thirteen and death temporarily lose cognitive functions. He could have told the waitress how to get black heel marks off the floor, tomato sauce stains out of her apron, and greasy thumbprints off the napkin dispenser—all of which he’d done in the past—and she wouldn’t have minded. In the past he’d never noticed the reactions he provoked, but something in the way he grinned as he got out of the truck suggested that had changed.
“So he’s noticing people are noticing.” Austin twisted his head around until he could spear Claire with a pale green gaze. “So what?”
She watched Dean clean the windshield, carefully lifting each wiper blade and setting it just as carefully back in place. “So I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“About him noticing that waitress noticed him?” When she nodded, he snorted. “Don’t worry about it. She made him French toast. You made him a man.”
“But he really liked the French toast.”
“And once you’ve dealt with the angel…”
“And the demon.”
“And the demon—he’ll really like locking me in the bathroom again.”
“You think?”
“No. I’m just talking to hear myself.” Belly sagging, he heaved himself up onto his feet. “Now open the door. There’s a trio of sausages I have to introduce to a snowbank.”
“I’d have thought that angels were more the early to bed, early to rise types.”
Samuel heaved himself up into something close to a sitting position, blinked at the room in general for a few moments, and then reluctantly swung his legs out of bed. “Why?”
“I dunno. The whole sentiment is just so sanctimonious I figured it had to be one of…oh, man!” Diana clapped her hands over her eyes and rocked back in the chair. “Like I needed to see that first thing in the morning. I thought you were going to sleep in your underwear.”
“This is what was under what I was wearing when you said that.”
“Pardon me for not assuming angels would head out commando style.” A quick look elicited a low whistle. “You ought to send Mr. Giorno a nice thank you letter.”