His eyes widened. “It’s doing it again!”
“Well, don’t wave it at me!”
Ears burning, Samuel grabbed a pillow off the bed and held it protectively in front of him. “I’m not doing anything. It just…” He started to gesture, thought better of it, and resecured the pillow. “It just does that,” he finished miserably. “I hate this body.”
“Are angels allowed to hate?”
“Are we allowed to walk around with one of these?”
“You have a point.”
He sank down onto the edge of the bed, pillow on his lap. “Like I need you to remind me.”
Diana could feel the laughter rising. When she tried to hold it back behind her teeth, it escaped out her nose. Any chance she might have had at stopping it after that got blown away by Samuel’s affronted glare. Nothing to do but ride it out. After a few minutes, she wiped her eyes, drew in a shaky breath, and managed a fairly coherent, “Sorry.”
“Sure. Whatever.” He glanced under the pillow. “Anyway, you’ve taken care of the…Would you stop that!”
This time the apology came out in separate syllables as Diana slid off the chair.
Samuel sat and watched her flop about, indignation wrapped around him like a cloak. Finally, he stood and walked into the bathroom, every movement radiating injured dignity. “I’ll figure out the shower on my own,” he informed her reproachfully, reaching back for the door.
Wondering who he could possibly be reminding her of, Diana waved a weak hand in his general direction and fought to pull herself together. With the door closed, with her anatomically correct angel safely behind it, she staggered to her feet and dropped back into the chair. Her stomach hurt. She hadn’t laughed so hard since the time Claire’d coughed half a cheese sandwich through her nose listening to one of Dad’s old George Carlin albums.
Claire.
Suddenly it wasn’t so funny.
Claire was on her way to Toronto believing she had to send an angel back to the light for the greater good. But, logically, emotionally, rationally, and every other ally Diana could think of, destroying a life couldn’t be a part of the greater good.
There had to be another way to find the demon.
“All right…” She stood and walked purposefully over to the big mirror on the wall. Hands flat on the dresser, she leaned forward and glared at her reflection. “Let’s do something radical for a Keeper. Let’s actually think about the situation instead of just reacting to it.”
Her reflection looked skeptical.
“Problem: there’s a demon in the world, a big ol’ walking around piece of darkness. And that’s bad. We can’t find it because there’s also an angel in the world. Which would be good if it wasn’t bad. We can’t find the demon because of the angel. Because the big chunk of light that’s Samuel balances the dark.” She glanced over at the bathroom, then back at the mirror. “Except that the dark hasn’t really been very dark, has it?”
Her reflection frowned in thoughtful agreement.
“You’d think that a demon would cause more havoc, wouldn’t you? All the active Keepers should be scrambling to repair the damage it’s caused, and I should have been Summoned to help. But that hasn’t happened. Why? Why hasn’t the demon caused more havoc?” She was close. She could feel it. “The demon is balancing Samuel. It hasn’t caused more havoc because balancing means it’s an exact opposite of Samuel.”
Following the cord, she dove under the bed for the phone.
In the mirror, her reflection performed a truncated version of Deion Sanders’ touchdown dance.
“All right. The demon’s a fully functional teenage girl. We still can’t find it while your angel is in the world. Yes, that narrows the search but not enough. Diana, I’m sor…” Claire let her head fall back against the seat as she powered down her phone. “She hung up on me.”
“She’s some set on saving that angel,” Dean noted, carefully easing the truck around a blind curve.
“I know.”
“Is there any chance she could be right?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Claire sighed. “I’m a Keeper, it’s my job to be sure.”
Austin stretched out a paw, his claws sinking into Claire’s jeans. “Far be it from me to point this out, but you seem to be forgetting something.”
“I fed you. Although I don’t see why, when you tried to kill yourself with sausages.”
The claws sank a little deeper. “You’re forgetting that Diana is also a Keeper.”
“So?”
“It’s as much her job to be sure as it is yours.”
“All right, fine. So Claire can’t find her, big whoop. That doesn’t mean I can’t.” Euphoria having been shot down, Diana sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, reached into the possibilities, and jabbed seven numbers into the phone. “Local call,” she muttered after the first ring. “I’ll just deal with the demon before Claire clears Barrie, and she can stuff her…”
“Greenstreet Mission. Drop by and hear the word of God.”
Diana opened her mouth and closed it again. Finally she managed a strangled, “The what?”
“The word of God.” The young man on the other end of the phone sighed deeply. “And, no, it isn’t aluminum.”
“Okay.”
“Can we help?”
“No. That is, sorry, I’ve got the wrong number.” Hanging up considerably more gently than she had the last time, Diana stared across the room at her reflection. Her reflection stared back, equally appalled.
Higher Knowledge had told him that showers were both the cubicle or bath in which one stands under a spray of water and the act of bathing in same. It offered no help at getting the water the right temperature, but after a few false starts—and he would not give Diana the pleasure of hearing him scream—he worked it out.
Soaping up gave him the first chance to really examine the body he found himself in. Was he supposed to have hair in so many weird places? Why were his feet so big? If he hadn’t actually been born, which he hadn’t, why did he have a belly button? And nipples—sure they added visual interest to the male chest but what were they actually for?
“These things really ought to come with owner’s manuals,” he sighed, reaching down to turn off the water.
The tiny room didn’t seem significantly drier.
Shaking drips off the ends of his hair, he stepped out of the tub, slipped on the wet tiles, and suddenly found himself airborne.
Seventy-eight percent of all accidents happen in the bathroom, Higher Knowledge informed him as he landed.
“Samuel? Samuel, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Why?”
“I have no idea, but it’s what they always do in the movies when someone knocks themselves out.”
“I’m not out.” He blinked and tried to focus on what looked like three fat pink sausages. “I’m in the bathroom.”
“No, you’re not. I moved you to one of the beds.”
“You carried me?”
“As if. I just, you know, poof.”
“Oh. Poof. Was that the burst of light?”
The sausages disappeared and the edge of the bed dipped as Diana sat down. “No. I think that was when your head hit the edge of the tub.”
“My head…” Movement brought smaller bursts of light. Pain. He remembered pain. On the up side, it didn’t hurt as much as catching himself in the zipper.
“There’s a bump, but angels seem to be pretty tough.”
“Yeah, well, soldiers in the army of the Lord and all that.” He could feel her concern—her pain for his pain—and he kind of thought he ought to do something about it but he just couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm.
“Samuel, I don’t want to rush you or anything, but could you get over this a little faster. Checkout time is at noon, and I don’t have enough money for another day—which clearly means we’re not supposed to stay.”