McArthur Residence, Tempest, Massachusetts, December 18, 2004, 2:45 A.M.

It was a bitterly cold night, but that was fine. Rumisiel had seen far worse, far colder nights in his life. The wind battered the house’s windows and siding, and the lights were off. The white-haired angel, easily mistakable for any teenager without his halo or wings, was staring at the television screen; it wasn’t muted, but turned way, way down. His boosted hearing could perceive it just fine, though.

The cable box was set to channel 52: The History Channel.

Normally, he wouldn’t ever watch the ‘Hitler Channel’ as Ash called it, but he’d been channel surfing and had spied a familiar sight that brought up long-ago memories of long-ago times. It was a program on the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. As there was a history test coming up sometime after the break, it seemed worth the watching, or so he rationalized. He put his head on a pillow on the arm of the chair, closed his eyes, and listened to the program…

McArthur Residence, 3:51 A.M.

Under normal circumstances, the sound would not have roused Rumisiel from his slumber, deep sleeper that he was. But, given the disturbed nature of his dreams and the fact that he had gone to sleep with his angelically boosted hearing active, the soft clonk outside was as loud as an artillery shell.

“Wha!” Rumi groaned as he tumbled off the couch, thrashing inside the tight sleeping bag that Emily had lent him. Winding up facedown on the floor with his arms over his head, it was a few moments before he realized that the yell of “Incoming!” had in fact been a nightmare, and the sound, loud as it was, was the sound of somebody blundering into an object, not a shell exploding.

“Bah. I knew I should’ve hoofed it back to Ash’s house and gotten a beer before bed.” Not that he had—not that he ever had. God alone, in Rumi’s estimation, knew why he obeyed Ash as he did, but he did, and that was that. Even despite the midnight craving for a brew. The alcohol, after all, had always made his dreams more peaceful.

Standing up, Rumi clicked the ‘Mute’ button on the remote, and crept to the door’s window to peek out. Boosting his vision with angelic power, the darkest night was thrown into the brightest day; although he could do nothing about the storm, he could clearly identify the figure outside. It was the last person he wanted to see; he’d honestly have rather had his Father, Terrael, or Fillaniel—or all three—over for a heart-to-heart talk than deal with her.

“Cassiel. Why can’t you just leave me alone?! ” He mentally fumed at her, for she had blundered into the parked car at the curb: Ash’s car. “If she recognizes the Monster XR… Fuck, she’s going to see Ash and Emily in the same bed and start making trouble, call them lesbians at school or something…”

He pulled at his white hair. Ash would be pissed if he left. But she’d be even more pissed if Cassiel made their lives hell by trying to ‘out’ them as lesbians. It would infinitely complicate his life, too; if the rumor gained traction, Doctor Upton might think it was true and then question why he and his brother were still being allowed to live with him. That would be a Bad Thing. “Hasn’t my life been Interesting enough already, Cassiel? Why do you have to make it miserable, after all these years?”

He scowled and grabbed his coat from the back of the couch. Creeping to the kitchen, he looked around. Finding the notepad that Emily’s mother had used, he tore out a page and started to write.

“I saw Cassiel poking around the streets last night. She had to have seen the car, since she practically stumbled into it last night. Going to head her off and chase her away. Don’t know how long this will take… 4 AM.”

He left the note on the kitchen table, and snuck to the back door. A quick burst of angelic power and it unlocked itself and swung open without any sound at all—literally none. As he slipped out of the house, the door reversed its procedure, locking him in Emily’s backyard, with the pool where he’d once pulled off a girl’s bikini top after she’d pants’d his brother.

“That was unfair. What’s good for the goose oughta be good for the gander…” He rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the memory of the almighty kick Ash had delivered when he did that.

If he hadn’t known where the pool was, he might’ve fallen in. As it was, he knew the way perfectly; his memory was crystal-clear as an angel. When he was sober, anyway. He snuck around the fence, trying to think of how to deal with Cassiel. The direct approach was usually best; she’d probably back off if he confronted her directly and told her to scram.

He had been right—she was brushing off the Monster XR, its distinctive wing giving her the

unfortunately correct conclusion that Ash was here. She started creeping up to the house, her wings unfurling—in the snowstorm, nobody would see them. Even Rumisiel had a hard time.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He stalked towards her, quickly, while she spun to locate the source of his voice.

Their eyes met, and she bared her teeth at him. “What are you doing here?”

“The heat’s out at Ash’s house. Emily’s letting us crash in her living room.” Rumisiel shrugged his shoulders. “What the Hell is your problem, Cassiel?” It was a rare thing for Rumisiel to use that kind of language—fuck, or any other secular swear word, he had little trouble using, but he generally avoided celestial language. “Why can’t you just leave us alone? You’re not exiled! Go home! Go back to the job you dated me to get, go back, and leave us be!”

She laughed at him, cruelly. “Now, why would I do that, when I can take my little vacation here?

I’m going to make your job of getting back into Heaven go by about as swiftly, and as pleasantly, as the Hundred Years’ War! If, indeed, you get back at all.”

Rumisiel clenched his fist. “You weren’t born then.”

“Neither were you, so what?”

Rumi shook his head. “Just go, Cassiel. Just go!”

“Why should I?” she smirked.

Rumisiel clenched his teeth. “What’s your problem?! Are you such a bitch that your only goal in existence involves making mine miserable?!”

“No, of course not. That’s just one of my goals, after what you did to me.”

His eye twitched. “I did nothing to you. You reported on me, remember?”

“You were blowing my chances of getting the job I wanted,” she retorted back.

“You got the job!”

“No thanks to you! It took me another decade and a half before I got it! I was fast-tracked, but you had to go and ruin everything.”

“Get! Lost!” Rumisiel’s wings and halo erupted in a burst, and he stalked towards her. “I won’t tell you again!”

She took a step back; he saw the quiver in her lip. The perpetual question in her head, whether, if pushed far enough, he might snap and prove to be just as violent as his brother and his father. She took another step back, and grinned. “You know what? Good idea! I think I will go home, where it’s warm, where all my friends are, where all the fun stuff is. I think I’ll spend the weekend where I like it. See you in school on Monday,” she taunted, and vanished with a snap of her fingers.

Rumisiel clenched his fist and fought the urge to punch Ash’s car as hard as he could—with his seals undone, that could have sent the car flying for blocks or into someone’s house—and let out a sound of frustration. He lashed out, grabbing a fistful of snow from the top of the Monster and dashing it into his face to cool off.

He couldn’t go back into Emily’s house as pissed off as he was; Ash and Em deserved a good

night’s sleep. So he went home to Ash’s house. The door popped open for him, he went inside, flopped down on the couch, and held his head in his hands. With his wings wrapped around him, he was warm enough. Still, sleep wouldn’t come to him. His mind was locked on Cassiel.

“Damn he—whoa, shouldn’t even think that.” He trembled at how close he’d come to thinking something Wrathful and terribly so, and sighed. “I wish I’d never met that treacherous viper.” He picked up the remote and hit power for the TV, intending to play some more volleyball game—he had finally managed to unlock and save the boobies level. The TV, however, didn’t come on. He pressed the button a few more times, and then groaned. “Right; power’s out. Crap in a bucket, what am I gonna do now?” The siren song of the booze in Dr. Upton’s stash called, but he shook his head; Ash would, after all, kill him.

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered to himself, switching from internal monologue to talking to himself. “But where?” He could not go home, of course. He honestly didn’t know where his brother was, so he couldn’t go to him.

“Son of a bitch, I’m hanging around Ash too long.” He snapped his fingers. “I can go anywhere on this great big blue world I want to. I’m a big Angel; I don’t need Ash’s permission. But where can I go? Hmm…”

He stood up, sighed heavily to himself, and thought. And thought. “Mmmh… Why not, this is just an all-around crap-tastic day. I may as well get all melancholy, too. Visit some old friends.”

Rumisiel’s eyes closed, and he focused. Focused. Snapped his fingers. Then opened his eyes again.

American Military Cemetery, Neuville-en-Condroz, Belgium, 10:35 A.M.

It was still cold, but now it was daylight. He was standing in a long, long field of white; it was snowy here but not snowing. He looked around, his ultra-sharp eyes casing the field of knee-high, marble markers he was in; he was alone. His eyes crossed the arch over the gates, reading ‘Ardennes American Cemetery and Memorial’.

Rumisiel sighed; of course, he was still invisible to mortal eyes, but he could relax, knowing he was alone with the ghosts of the past—at least here was somewhere she would never think to find him.

He started to walk, slowly, boots sinking in the snow. It took him a while, though he wasn’t too interested in hurrying in all honesty.

Finally, he came to a marker; a cross, which bore an inscription he knew was incorrect. He brushed the face off to read it.

HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY

A COMRADE IN ARMS

KNOWN BUT TO GOD

“God’s not the only one who knows you,” he murmured, kneeling down to face the headstone. He placed his hand on the marble arm, and closed his eyes, for a few moments. “Jack.”

“It’s been a goddamned long time, Rumisiel.” The thick accent of a Brooklyn native hit Rumi like a literal blast from the past; his eyes snapped open, even as his heart sank to new lows. He looked up—standing before him was a soldier, dressed in thick green winter uniform, wearing a pot-like helmet and heavy boots. “You finally decided to show up after sixty years?”

Rumisiel blinked a few times, then he stood up. “Wha… What are you doing here? Why haven’t you moved on?”

“Why d’ya think, Rumi?” The apparition—at least, thankfully, not a Hungry one as Angelica had been—sneered, waited a beat. “You still haven’t delivered that blasted ring, dumblefuck!”

Rumisiel winced, closing his eyes briefly. “Oh, God, that?”

“Yeah. That. You know how I felt about her, Rumi.”

“Yeah, Jack. I remember. Jeez, I…” He sighed. “Look, I didn’t… Well, come on, man, the shell landed right in our foxhole. I was blown to bits, same as you!”

“Yeah, but unlike me, you re-formed, safe an’ sound. I saw you, you know. Was an incredible out-of-body experience, lemme tell you. One minute I’m rocking on the thirty, yellin’ at you, why ain’t you shootin’ Jerry, and then I look up. I see the tank aimin’, yell ‘incomin’’, and then BOOM! I’m standin’ on a log thirty feet back, lookin’ down at my own severed head.”

Rumisiel sighed silently, as his long-time-ago friend continued ranting.

“I knew what’d happened, of course. Got real scared that, yanno, bein’ an atheist an’ all, I might be goin’ to the hot place. But I didn’t. I saw you, floatin’ upwards towards the sky—with wings and halo and all. I tell you, that scared me at first. I’m not in any trouble for bein’ an atheist, am I?”

Rumi snorted and shook his head. “Please. The idea that Almighty God cares about the prayers of humans—or lack thereof—is one of the biggest pyramid schemes in human history. You’re fine, you just need to let go.”

“Ah, good. So I was sorta right, then. Anyway… I figured it out, yanno. I saw the ring—when I was looking around, after the fight, walkin’ through people. It’s still in that foxhole, Rumi. Embedded in the wall, right enough, but it’s there, and my tags, too. I reckon that’s why they couldn’t identify me.”

“It’s still there?”

“How the hell should I know? I can’t really go more than a couple of miles past my body.” He thumped the ground, beneath the gravestone. “Hey, look. Are you gonna go back there, or just leave me hangin’ round?”

Rumisiel sighed. “Jack… Look, I didn’t go back, because… There were rules, and I followed them when I had to.”

“Do you still have to?”

“Fuck the rules. I learned that a couple of decades ago.”

Jack’s ghostly face twisted into a smile. “It took you long enough to figure that out. I coulda told you that in ’forty-four.”

“You did.”

“Oh yeah… right. Anyway, do what you said you would in the event I got killed, and take Alice my ring. Even if all you can do is leave it on her grave.”

Rumisiel nodded, sighing. “Yeah. My life’s been a fuck-up, but I should’ve done that, even if it was against the rules. I’ll do it, man.”

“Good. And, hey, if it’s at all possible, try an’ convince ’em who I am and get a stone with my own name put up above me?”

Rumisiel nodded. “Will do, bro.”

“Good. And, thanks for coming back, man. It took you long enough, but you did show up.”

Rumisiel nodded to his friend and turned to look. “It’s… that way, right?”

“Yep, only about a bazillion or so miles. But then, I guess you can fly and all.”

“I’ll find it.”

Rumisiel’s wings spread wide, and he took flight, swiftly—and invisibly—flying overland, his eyes picking out terrain features from so many years ago. He had, after all, flown here before, though that time to get an overview of what was going on. He eventually landed in the woods and looked around.

There was a long, shallow depression in the woods, the terrain definitely familiar.

“Can it still be here?” He turned and trudged up the embankment, his mind’s eye sharply inserting missing features. He tested a section of ground with his foot—it sank in to the mid-shin. “I guess the holes are still here.”

A short wing-jump had him landing on a log, and he turned. “This must be about where Jack wound up after he got killed… so…” His eyes fixed, and he jumped again, landing on the ground. He held his hand out and snow started to scoop itself away, pitching itself out of the hidden foxhole. He jumped into the pit and looked out over the embankment…

Outside Foy, Belgium, December 18, 1944, 8:45 A.M.

“This could be it, Rumi. You ready?”

In truth he was not, but Rumisiel nodded all the same.

“I heard they pushed the line back, and the five-oh-six is getting ready to hold the bastards at Noville.”

Rumisiel, Observationist of the Fourth Depot of the Celestial Filing Depository, incognito as

‘Private Gabrielson’, nodded again. “I don’t think they’ll be able to last very long.”

“What makes you say that?”

Rumi shrugged. “They said the whole Third Reich was comin’ down the woods.”

Jack snorted at him. “That’s retarded. Can’t be more’n half. We can take ’em. You, me, and her makes three.”

Jack patted the .30 caliber machine gun on its bipod in front of the trench. Their unit, having come into possession of extras when retreating outliers had been ordered to hand them over, had posted them. With a commanding field of fire, they should—in theory—be able to mow down any infantry who were forced to traverse the wide, open snowy trench ahead.

“Are you so eager to kill, Jack?”

His friend rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t go getting all high-and-mighty moralistic on me. ’Sides, you know what the bastards have been doing.”

Indeed he had; more than once since his ‘enlistment’, Rumisiel had been tasked with cleaning up the mess that the Nazi forces had left behind, usually at his own volunteering. Now he was in a foxhole, holding an M1 Garand rifle that he wasn’t allowed—by order of higher authority—to use in the defense of himself or others, hoping fervently that the expected attack didn’t happen; he knew full well that prayer was a wasted effort; God didn’t care, even if an Angel was the one praying.

“Can you really say, Rumisiel, that the bastards don’t deserve it?”

Rumi shrugged. “They’re all human.”

Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe that. Maybe it’s ’cause I’m not all full of the religiosity-spirituality like you are, but… Hell, you talked me into volunteering to help you clean up after them more than a few times. I can’t believe that someone who’d do such a thing is any kind of human.”

“Hate’s bad for you, Jack.”

“Yeah, but… come on, don’t you? Hate ’em for all the stuff we’ve seen?”

“I try not to. There may be monsters, you know, but… not all of them can be. I bet a lot of them are just as scared of all of this as I am, they just want to go home too.”

Jack shrugged. “Okay, maybe. That’s as may be, I’ll grant you that. But that still doesn’t mean I don’t hate Jerry, and anyone wearin’ his uniform’s fair game. Maybe it’s bad of me to say, but I just can’t forgive some things I’ve seen. How can you?”

“I dunno,” Rumisiel answered, while flicking out his lighter and lighting the cigarette his friend automatically pulled from his pocket when he saw Rumisiel pulling out the Zippo.

“Heh, see, I guess that’s what makes you a better man than me, Rumisiel. You can forgive, even after you’ve helped roll the bodies of women an’ children an’ old men an’ everything in between into a ditch. I know it tears you up inside, I can see it, but you can still forgive. But I can’t, you know.”

Rumisiel nodded, closing his eyes and leaning on the inside wall of the foxhole, staring out at the opposing woods. “Jack?” he asked, quietly. “Are you ever… afraid of dying?”

“Afraid?”

“Yeah. Afraid. Afraid that you might have unfinished business?”

“Well… Yeah, I am. I kinda-sorta said I’d make her my wife, you know, just as soon as I got the money to get a ring.”

“Alice.”

“Yeah, that’s her. I want to get old with her, man; I tell you, she’s the one. I just… Mmmf, I know it. Hell, I showed you the ring three days ago.”

He had—he’d bought it from a Belgian woman who had managed to keep a supply of jewelry somehow, a silver ring with a single large diamond set.

“Hey, Rumi, man. Look, you gotta promise me something, okay?”

“What’s that?”

“Look, I don’t wanna think about it, but if I do buy it out here, you take that ring, okay? It’s in my back pocket. Take that ring and get it to her, come Hell or high water, okay?”

Rumisiel nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it, Jack. Promise.”

“Good. Hey, you need me to do anything, take any message to your folks back in Montana?”

Rumisiel shook his head. “No, no… I haven’t got any.”

“Haven’t got any?”

“Yeah.”

“What, don’t tell me you’re an orphan.”

“No, it’s not like that… just… Look, they don’t know where I am, and I’d appreciate if they never did, you know? So don’t go looking for them.”

“Huh. Funny attitude, that.”

Rumisiel shrugged. “Eh, well… it doesn’t matter, okay? Everything looks peaceful.”

“Mmm. You can say that again.”

Rumisiel hoped things would stay that way; from his invisible midnight flight, he had a strong feeling they would not.

He was right, as it turned out. No sooner had he gotten done thinking that than what seemed to be all Hell broke loose. An explosion to the right shook the very ground that was under him, and Jack screamed, “Aww shit, they’re here!” as he leveled the machine gun into position.

The world around him erupted with rifle fire. Soldiers in their foxholes leveled rifles in the general direction of the other forest, sometimes taking a sharp shot, most often firing randomly. Rumi unslung his own rifle, but didn’t shoot of course—it was forbidden for him to harm a mortal, let alone violently murder one with a weapon, and since he couldn’t tell where the advancing Nazis were, he couldn’t fire.

A wall of machine gun fire then erupted—the .30 cals opened up, spraying the opposite woods with fire right and left, while Rumisiel simply stared, a sinking, sad feeling in his guts. He knew what they were facing, after all.

A half-track spilled from the woods, the machine gunner on top of it spraying fire at them. He half-ducked, but needn’t have bothered—a bazooka round struck it firmly in the driver’s compartment, the explosion killing the gunner more or less instantly, and sending burning men in uniforms scrambling from the rear of the half-track. Even as the roar of the guns surrounded him, he looked to his side—Jack, grim-faced and teeth bared, was pouring lead at the burning Nazis. Was it malice, or mercy? Rumisiel honestly could not say.

His friend’s gun jammed, loudly. “Cover me!” Jack yelled at Rumisiel as he worked to unjam it. A round hit the dirt, a mere few inches from Jack’s head, and he shouted, “Take that sharpshooter out!”

Rumisiel glanced around—with his enhanced vision, he could easily see the sharpshooter, the dull metal of his rifle’s barrel poking out from the bushes. Rumi could have killed him, he knew. The man was taking a bead on Jack’s head, and in spite of the rules, Rumi wanted to. But he didn’t. Luck was with him, however—a stray bazooka round impacted the dirt near the sniper, and he was either killed, wounded, or shaken enough to displace.

Another explosion rocked the foxhole-covered slope, and Rumisiel looked to the source—a Panzer had rolled through the tree line, unloading its main gun about twenty yards to Rumi’s right. “Shit! Shit! Shit! WORK!” Jack was cursing his machine gun, and he finally leveled it back into position, spraying at the tank, at the advancing infantry, everywhere. “Why the hell aren’t you firing, Rumisiel?”

The tank’s gun fired again—it impacted to their right, but nearer. “Oh shit,” Jack swore; the tank began to back up, as a bazooka round met its front armor. It was undeterred; getting a higher vantage than their foxhole, its turret rotated, and Rumisiel gulped. Jack let go of his gun, shouting “Incoming!”

The explosion of the shell was a mercifully swift way to die—Rumisiel’s body, and that of his friend’s, was more or less obliterated, and his head swam as he vanished towards Heaven. It felt like both an eternity and an infinitely short interval, and he was re-formed again in his office in Heaven, wearing not the soldier’s uniform he had just died in, but the uniform of an Angelic Watcher, a member of the Fourth Depot’s branch of information-gatherers who gathered the information that Fourth compared to the extrapolations gleaned from the analysis of the Files.

“Back? Good.”

The voice came from behind him, and Rumisiel spun around in his chair. Cassiel was standing with her back to a cabinet, grinning at him, wearing a very revealing, low-cut robe. “Cass? What’re you doing in my office?”

“I had to pull some files you filed last night.” She grinned. “That said…” She leaned down, close to him, taking a fistful of his military-short white hair. “Why don’t we get re-acquainted before you tell the boss what happened, mmmm? No doubt something dreadful, since you insisted on observing from the very front. But forget it.”

He grinned, and reached up, pulling her down by the scooped neck of her robe, the horrors of war and death pushed to the back of his mind…

Outside Foy, Belgium, December 18, 2004, 11:20 A.M.

Rumisiel cut off his memories when they drifted to Cassiel, shaking his head violently. He turned to the back of the foxhole, looking, carefully raising his glove and biting his lip. There was disturbance in the soil that he sensed, and he plunged his hand in, gripping, pulling out. He came out with a fistful of dog tags, rusted. Brushing them off, he frowned; they were his own: ‘Pvt. Rumisiel Gabrielson’. “Why did I have to come out here? Why did I have to get reminded of all that?” Nevertheless, he slipped the tags into his jacket pocket, and dug through the earth again. In short order, he retrieved another set of dog tags, reading ‘Pvt. Jack Nicholson’, and that ring—the ring his friend had saved his whole salary to buy, silver, but with a very impressive diamond. The ring was dirty, tarnished, but it was easily made clean with a quick polish-job via angelic power, once again as bright as the day it was set.

“Well… here’s that ring.” Rumisiel sighed, staring down at it, and packing the ring into the pocket of his coat, hiding his wings and halo again. “Now what?” He didn’t know, so he sat down, closing his eyes briefly, hanging his head in his hands. “Maybe I should just consider what I know.” He knew the name of Jack’s fiancée—Alice Jacobson. He knew where she resided—in the year 1944. “Can’t exactly travel back in time, though. On the other hand, at least it’s a place to start looking.”

Rumisiel licked his lips. He wasn’t that good at teleportation—at least, not good enough to go someplace he’d only seen in pictures, like most Angels, or even only heard a good description of, like some of the best teleporters.

“How am I going to get to New York?” Rumisiel queried the empty forest, which unsurprisingly didn’t answer. He scowled, thinking to himself. “Stow away on an airliner? Too risky. Try a picture-teleport? I might pull it off, but I’ll need a picture.”

Snapping his fingers, Rumisiel felt the world whoosh by, landing him back in Ash’s house. The storm outside had died entirely, for which he was grateful; even the clouds had blown on through and let more light in. “Now, a picture…” He tried to turn on the lights, and cursed himself for being an idiot. Even on the darkest night, there was ambient light being reflected—from the sun to the moon, off the snow on the ground against the inside walls of the house. To normal vision, it would be useless, but Rumisiel’s vision was anything but normal.

Letting his wings and halo appear, Rumisiel boosted his sensitivity to light far above and beyond the best night vision available to man or beast, and cast around the room, looking for something he knew to be present. His eyes alit over it after a moment of searching: a thick, heavy book left discarded mostly under the couch, and he lifted it up, setting it down on Doctor Upton’s table.

“Now, I know I’ve seen this image before.” Leaning over the marble-topped table, he started to flip through pages in the history textbook, being treated to magnificent, full-color photographs of such places as Trafalgar Square, London; Tiananmen, Beijing; the Sydney Opera House in Sydney, Australia… but nothing he was looking for. “Why, oh why, didn’t I pay attention?” Angelic memory was perfect—but only if you were actually paying attention when you experienced it the first time. He shut the book in disgust, closing it by the right.

Then it hit him. “Oh! Doh!” The picture on the back of the book was a full half of the cover, a bright, more-vivid-than-real-life photograph of Times Square. Rumisiel grinned; he thought he could use this.

Trying to recall memories of sometime when he hadn’t paid a lot of attention, Rumisiel took a deep breath. The voice of one of his educators came back to him. “Transpositioning oneself to a place one is intimately familiar with is child’s play—no doubt you have all done this already, even if you were told not to do so. Likewise, Transpositioning to someplace within your field of vision is easy. Getting to a place you only know of by having seen a painting or drawing thereof, however, is much more difficult. You must have the acuity of mind, the vividness in you, to take the image, conceptualize it, actualize it, and then be there. This is even harder to do with a scene you have only a description of in words.”

Rumisiel nodded to himself, in the empty house. “Right. Conceptualize. Actualize… I can do this. Right.” Staring down at the picture, he tried to imagine himself there: walking next to the cute girl in the denim jacket, the smell of the city, the sharp honk of horns, the screeching of brakes. It had become a lot simpler for most Angels to Transposition since the advent of full-color photography. But he’d still never really gotten it; then again, he’d never had to. It was simpler to just go to places he’d seen personally, and if he needed to go somewhere else, he’d get someone else to take him there so he’d have a mental recall point.

“Conceptualize. Actualize. Conceptualize. Actualize.” The winged stoner held his hands together, clasped, his thumbs together and stretched out, as were his first fingers—he put his thumbs under his chin, his fingers upon his nose. Staring at the image. “Right. Conceptual. Actual. Actual! I am there! Times Square, New York, New York!”

Snapping one’s fingers wasn’t, strictly speaking, something Angels actually had to do to get anything done. But it suited Rumisiel’s flair for the dramatic, and it served as a somatic focus for his powers, over which he had relatively poor control in most cases. Still, even he didn’t always need to, especially if he had taken time psyching himself up.

For him, the world streaked, whooshed. It was going to work, he thought, triumphantly. The whooshing and swirling made his stomach lurch. “Sweet! I managed it! I… I managed a photo-teleport!” Joy grew, but he realized that this was taking time—too much time. Teleportation was normally instantaneous, even teleporting three people and a car. It had been several pregnant seconds, and the feeling inside him was growing.

“It’s gone wrong! Arrrrrgh!” Agony began to hit him as he lost control of the transportation. It fed the cycle, making him dizzy and nauseous, a feeling like fire running up and down his body and through his wings. Even being immortal, having one’s giblets splattered all over was not something he wanted to experience—especially since he’d have to re-form in Heaven, and they might get pissed at him for violating his exile.

Rumisiel’s mind latched onto somewhere he felt safe, at ease. He latched onto home and, like ten tons of bricks, the swirling and whooshing all hit him at once. He let out a blood-curdling scream of pain… but the world was steady. Just spinning in his head.

“Oo-oooogh.” Rumisiel groaned, rubbing his head—reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around his halo, plucking it from above the crown of his head and bringing it up, staring at the golden, glowing toroid. “You’re almost worse than useless,” he groaned, letting it go to snap back above his head.

Looking around—once the world had stopped spinning—he realized he was on his back on the floor in front of the couch in Doctor Upton’s living room. “Is it bad I’ve come to think of this as home?” he mused to the empty house. He slowly crawled his way up to his feet and walked back over to the book on the table. “What did I do wrong? Urgh… This is stupid. I can go to anything I can see, no matter the distance. I could see it from space, but only about a hundred miles is too damn much?!”

Walking out into the yard, Rumisiel kicked at the snow on the drive, grumbling, angry with himself for fucking up something that was so simple with an actual life-like image instead of a painting. He felt quite, quite worthless, kicking a clod of snow at the closed garage door, and looking up towards the sky, bitter at himself.

“How am I gonna get to New York?” Rumisiel shook his head, shivering, his wings wrapped around himself. “It might as well be the moon.” Then he looked at the cloudy, overcast sky, and laughed, aloud. “Heh. I could go to the moon…” His eyes scanned the skies, but though he looked left and right, he couldn’t see the moon anywhere. “If I could see it… Oh, right. It’s…” He sighed; the moon had fallen below the horizon, of course. He thought that he could probably form a clear enough mental picture to teleport to the moon, though, for all the good—none at all—it would do him.

Something drifted across Rumisiel’s vision, a pinprick of light. At first he ignored it, thinking it was just light glinting off a snowflake, as a gust of wind hit him, howling through the street. Then he saw it wasn’t; it was just… floating, a satellite or something. “Humph. Bet it can see New York.”

Rumisiel, dejectedly, sighed, turning to tread back into the house. He didn’t want to give up on Jack, but… There was just no way for him to get to New York right now. He was mostly in the door when it hit him like a bolt of the obvious and he turned around, walked back outside, and let the door shut behind him.

“Of course! If I can see it, I can go to it!” He scanned the skies again, looking for one of those pinpricks of light… “Ah-hah!” With a grin at his own resourcefulness, Rumisiel licked his lips and took several deep breaths. “Rumisiel, you are a genius! ” If he could see it, it was automatically ‘real’ enough to him for him to teleport to it, all other considerations notwithstanding. The little dot would serve as frame of reference enough for him to go there.

“Ooo-yeah, goin’ ta the Big Apple!” Rumisiel grinned to himself, and snapped his fingers.

Closely Relative To The International Space Station, Low-Earth Orbit, 10:48 Hours

Although Rumisiel didn’t understand it, the fact he had been too fast moving to hold his breath before he leaped saved him from a lot of agony. Instead, he was hit with an incredible feeling of suckiness, queasiness, and nausea at once. Disoriented and dizzy, the air rushed from his lungs in less than a tenth of a second, followed by the contents of his stomach in the rest of the second.

Clutching his stomach, Rumisiel squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t hear… anything. He wrapped his wings around himself; bizarrely, he didn’t feel any colder than when he snapped his fingers. “I’m a dead man,” he thought to himself. Yet, he was not; very much still alive, after several tense seconds, he opened his eyes and stared.

“Oh, God…” His mouth moved, too; of course he didn’t hear anything, but he was so stunned by the view he didn’t notice. The planet Earth stretched out below him majestically, radiant in the nighttime, artificially illuminated splendor of the east coast of North America. He tried to turn to look around, but found he couldn’t do more than twist his head. He tried to flap his wings; they worked just fine, of course, being more than mere feather and bone, and let him wheel around.

“Whoa.” He was floating alongside a massive space station, its hull bright white and panels glittering black in the night sky. It seemed to hang in the air, only a couple of wingspans from him; fortunately, he couldn’t see any windows, which meant that nobody could see him.

Rumisiel tried to laugh, giddily. It didn’t work. “Oh, yeah… no air. Not that I need to breathe, thankfully.” Not with his wings out, at least. He spun around again, full of a thrilled high. “I bet not even my bro has done this!” Beholding the glory of Earth stretched out below him, he admired the handiwork that went into creating it—and all the cities upon its surface.

“I better get down from here before I get myself into trouble,” Rumisiel thought, staring down, eyes scanning the horizon. He was backwards, the angle entirely unlike the views he was used to seeing on the globe or map.

“Shit, where am I?” He looked for a familiar shape of land; he held up his thumb and forefinger to try and get a bead. Then he realized. “Hey, it’s moving under me!” Turning back to look, he realized with a mental groan that his teleportation stunt had put him into the frame of reference of the station; he was moving with it.

“Better make this snappy.” It was a good idea, he imagined, to simply go towards the brightest light point. Cupping his wings, Rumisiel snapped his fingers and teleported closer. This jump had put him in the atmosphere of Earth, some hundred miles or so closer to the surface; so close he could definitely feel the siren song of gravity and momentum urging him to plummet through the skies, but he held himself in check with his wings.

The lights were brighter now, and he could make out detail; looking to his left, he could see the sharp hook shape of Cape Cod, and below, a very long island, close to the brightest source of lights.

“Close enough.” Rumisiel grinned to himself; he knew he was invisible to mortal eyes, so he let gravity begin to take him towards the planet and guided himself with his wings, diving and twisting as he went, keeping that spinning bright light in his view. It unfurled from a homogeneous blob to a massive field of bright lights. Eventually, he started to hear a very faint whistling sound, and realized he must be entering Earth’s atmosphere.

“Waitaminute, don’t space shuttles and shit catch fire when they do this?” He didn’t feel any hotter, so he ignored it, simply having too much fun watching the planet swim up from below him. “This is too damn cool. Wish I had a camera.”

Eventually the field of lights became more recognizable as a city—one massive city, sprawling all over the place. Aiming more or less for the center of the heaviest blanket of light, Rumisiel looked for a place to land. He considered landing heavily atop a tower as Superman would have, but then his eyes picked out a conspicuous darkened area. “That must be Central Park.” He angled himself for the park, intending to land in the wooded area inside it.

Central Park, New York, New York, 6:01 A.M.

“Where am I?”

Rumisiel was in a significant amount of pain—but that was nothing new, really. The confusion and disorientation he could do without, though. Slowly picking himself up from the frigid, snow covered ground, Rumisiel shook himself and shivered, becoming aware of the inadequacy of his clothes for winter travel. Surveying his surroundings in the light given off from his halo, he determined that he had crashed through a wooded area of thick trees, snapping several branches on his way down.

“Oh yeah… I fell from orbit.” Rumisiel grinned as sense flowed back into his head. “If I aimed right, I’m in Central Park. Knowing my luck, I’m in Philly or worse.” Stretching his arms and his wings, Rumisiel re-did the partial seals on his powers, hiding his Halo and his wings. Then he shifted some power back into hearing.

Hooonk! Screeech! Chirp-chirp!

“City sounds. Those are cars—not far. A hundred yards at most? Those are birds, though. What kind of bird sings just before dawn? Fuck if I know. I better direct that question to the nearest ornithologist.”

Rumisiel started to walk towards the car sounds; with his enhanced vision, he could pretty easily see in the dim pre-dawn light. It wasn’t long before he found a road; but there was no traffic on it, and it was small for what he supposed a city street would look like.

“Hmmm. This road must take me through the park.” He started to walk along it at random, over an overpass. Looking down from the empty greenery boxes, he could see a road below—one with yellow lines instead of white. “Must be a main road passing through the park.” He briefly toyed with the idea of just jumping down, but there might be someone down there, so he continued walking north along the road. A footpath curved off to his left, and seemed likely to double back, so he grinned, in the hopes that it would take him back to the main road, from where he could get onto the sidewalk and the city streets.

“And then what, Rumisiel? I know where she lived—in the year 1944… Meh, better’n nothing. At least it’s a start.” Rumisiel continued walking on, absentmindedly letting his thoughts wander back to Jack and his other friends from those days. He found himself passing under a tunnel; his eyes could easily see, even with the dim light from the single working lamp in the ceiling. There were a couple of figures talking to one another quietly.

“Morning’,” he waved to them, absentmindedly, walking past on the other side of the tunnel. Then he winced to himself as he caught the motion out of the corner of his eyes.

“What? Who the fuck are you?”

He looked over. “What? Hi. Just passin’ through,” he said, getting a sinking feeling, waving.

“Jimmy, you dumb-fuck, I told you not to bring anybody.”

“I didn’t,” the smaller of the men, a rat-like, scrawny runt complained, holding his hands up plaintively.

“Glue yourself to the pavement, Jimmy,” the larger said, as he started to approach Rumisiel. “You, motherfucker, got a problem?”

Rumisiel blinked. “What? I don’t gotta problem.”

“Then what are you still doin’ here, dumb-fuck?!” The figure stepped into the light—he was fair of complexion, with ice-blue eyes not unlike Rumisiel’s own, and greasy black hair poking out from under a thick, woolen hat which, in the frigid air, Rumisiel envied. He was wearing a thick, lumpy coat, and menacingly squared his shoulders. “You talk like some kind of fuckin’ bumpkin. What are you?”

“Uhh… Canadian?”

“Yeah? Then what the hell are you still doing here, shuffle on, you mother-fucker.” He raised a fist, cracking it into his palm.

Rumisiel turned. “Okay, okay! I’m shuffling, chill out.” He didn’t want to provoke a fight.

Then the sound of a ziiiiiiip! echoed in the tunnel, and Rumisiel suddenly had that really sinking feeling. The scrawny man had opened a duffel bag left on the ground, was taking a bag packed thickly with a white powder Rumisiel was certain was cocaine.

“Oh, no you don’t, Jimmy. You rat!” The big man pulled something from his pocket—a long handle, from which a relatively short curved knife blade that Rumisiel was certain was not more than one centimeter under the legal limit of length springing from the top. “You’re dead meat, rat!”

The rat-like ‘Jimmy’ turned to run, his swift jerk away from the bag tugging out a black parka and several pieces of miscellaneous paraphernalia—some of which Rumisiel recognized, some of which he didn’t—and the larger, unnamed man started to chase him. Rumisiel was certain that the big man would catch ‘Jimmy,’ and he had a strong feeling that murder was going to happen if he didn’t take action.

“I… I’m not gonna let that happen!” Rumisiel dashed forward, enhancing the speed and power his muscles would exert. Even so, the criminal was fast—even his supernatural speed barely got him to the larger man before the dealer got to ‘Jimmy’, grabbing his knife-arm and wrenching it backwards.

The thug let out a growl of pain as Rumisiel’s yank pulled him around. Whokk! Rumisiel reeled from the blow of the left-handed thug’s right fist striking his forehead, but he had the knife arm firmly in his grip, and wasn’t going to let it go. “You want some, Canada? Welcome to the United States of Motherfuckers!”

Rumisiel caught the next right hook with his other hand, locking himself into a struggle with the thug—he wanted to disable him without crippling him, but it was looking less and less likely he’d manage it. Then the thug headbutted him.

Rumisiel was sent sprawling back by the blow, releasing the grip on the thug’s forearms. The thug pushed his initiative, forcing Rumisiel back across the tunnel and slicing across his jacket, but Rumisiel thankfully didn’t feel more than a scratch or two across his chest from the slices.

“Time to die, Frans-wah,” the thug teased at him, making Rumisiel set his teeth. He slid in, under the next swing of the thug’s knife, blocking the swing and launching an open-palmed jab, much like had seen on TV a few times into the thug’s chest, knocking the wind from him. Clatter. The knife fell to the ground, and Rumisiel pushed his own initiative—wrapping both of his arms around the thug’s former-knife-arm, he spun, intending to toss the thug to the ground. It didn’t quite work, as the thug smacked spread-eagled into the back tunnel with more force than Rumisiel had meant him to hit with, slumping almost instantly.

“Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit!”

Rumisiel knelt down beside the thug, putting his hand to the pusher’s neck. “I can feel his pulse.”

Relief welled up instantly inside Rumisiel. “Probably knocked fucking senseless, though.” He looked around—Jimmy, the ‘rat’, and the duffel bag were long-gone. “Fuck.”

Heaving a sigh, Rumisiel picked the thug up, putting him over his shoulder. As he stood, though, he heard the sound of a soft thump. Looking down, it was a wad of green cash, fallen from the drug dealer’s pocket. Holding his hand out, it lifted itself into his grasp. “I need a new coat anyway, now.”

He pocketed the wad, and, after a moment’s mulling-over, the thug’s knife, then continued down the way he had come, enacting another shroud of ‘you don’t see me’.

He emerged onto the street he had seen from the overpass above, noted a sign that said ‘West 86th’ as he exited the tunnel on the area below, his shoes crunching into the snow. He followed it until the edge of the park, where the large stone walls surrounding the road turned again, letting him gaze up upon the true majesty of New York City surrounding him.

“Wow.” He didn’t quite know which was more impressive—golden-clad Heaven, or this city erected by mortal hands using only mortal means. Still, it wouldn’t do to just walk around the city carrying the thug’s body. He’d either have to personally deliver him to a hospital, or…

“Ah, got it.” Rumisiel slid the thug slowly to the ground, into the snow by the corner. He looked for the street sign—the corner of West 86th and Central Park West. “Got it. Not gonna screw this one up.”

It wasn’t difficult to find a pay phone up the road; he dialed 9-1-1, telling the operator that he’d seen a man, beaten to a pulp, lying on the ground at the corner of those two streets. “They’ll probably wonder if I did it, but… Time to beat it.”

Surely enough, he got no further than a couple dozen yards up the street before a patrol car pulled up, lights on but siren off. Fortunately for Rumisiel, it was almost dawn, and the streets were starting to get packed; with his shroud of obscurity up, they didn’t peg him as a suspicious character, and one of the officers who got out of the car started walking back towards where he’d left the dealer.

“I hope that dealer has a couple of guns and pounds of crack on him. He deserves a nice, long stay in a warm jail cell…” Rumisiel shook his head, and then shivered as a gust of wind buffeted him. “Speaking of warm…” His jacket and clothes hadn’t really been suitable for extended periods outdoors to begin with, being the sort of thing he typically wore to school with Ash. And with the knife slashes…

“Holy shit, I must look like a bum.” Kind of appropriate, he thought, given how Ash had dragged him literally out of a gutter waaay back in March. But now? “I need new clothes, or nobody’s going to respect me at all—or listen to what I have to say.”

Rumisiel, annoyed, cast around his vision to see from whom he might obtain assistance. A hot dog vendor was setting up shop, and Rumisiel’s stomach growled. “May as well.” He then slipped into the stairs leading down to somebody’s basement to count his money in relative privacy, checking the wad of bills he’d found on that dealer that had attacked him.

“Oh shit! You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” Every single bill was a Benjamin. He felt, faint; he was carrying a thick wad of twenty-five bills—two and a half grand in cash.

A few moments after the realization hit him, he quickly stuffed the wad of money back into his jacket’s inside pocket. “I really shouldn’t want or need money—I’m an Angel, for cryin’ out loud… On the other hand, Christmas is coming up, and I oughta get something for Ash and Emily and Doctor Upton and my bro, too…”

Rumisiel ventured back up to the streets—the dog vendor’s wares smelled really good. “Crap,” Rumisiel thought to himself. “He’s not gonna have change for a hundred, and he wouldn’t want such a large bill, anyway.”

“What kinda city is it when a guy can’t get a hot dog on the streets of New York City while carrying a small fortune?” Rumisiel lamented to himself, and sighed, thrusting his hand into his jeans pocket, in the vague hope he had some small change left over from something prior, but there was no luck.

“Bah. Clothes first, and that’ll give me some small change, probably… But that brings me back to the question of where am I gonna find clothes? Maybe I should just ask someone?”

Rumisiel fell into step next to a man who looked to be about the same range of age as he could easily pass for, walking along the street in clothes that Rumisiel felt were decent enough without being too showy.

“Excuse me, can you help me? My clothes got all torn up and I need to buy new ones,” he asked.

The man ignored him. Rumisiel repeated his question, and the young man told him, “Fuck off, I’m busy,” and flipped him the bird.

Rumisiel stopped walking alongside him, coming to a halt on the sidewalk and letting out a sigh.

“Oh brother, this is gonna be a long day.”

Designer Military Clothing Store, 8:01 A.M.

Rumisiel was annoyed, by now. He’d been told haughtily, ‘we don’t serve your kind here’ at a society clothing store, thrown out of an upscale clothing store quite unceremoniously, and the trendy clothing store’s clerk had taken a look at him, assumed he was going to rob him, and panicked, running into the back office. Rumisiel had gotten out of there in a hurry, since he imagined the police were being summoned.

Really not wanting to stoop to the Salvation Army until he absolutely had to, he had been about to give up, until he looked up at the store he was in front of. It seemed worth trying, so he walked in. His heart sunk as he saw the clerk; like the one in the trendy clothing store, this one had a stereotypical fop look about him, so he maintained his cloak of obfuscation. It failed, however, to his consternation; the clerk took a look at him and exclaimed, “Oh my god!”

“That’s it. I’m just not having much luck today, am I?”

Rumisiel prepared to leave, but the clerk continued, “What a fashion disaster! What happened to you, boyfriend?”

“Uh…” Rumisiel turned to face him, staring at the clerk. “You’re not gonna call the cops on me ’cause my clothes are all torn up?”

“Oh, heavens, no! You look like you really need some help!”

Rumisiel let out a sigh of relief, and a chuckle. “Yeah. I really do.”

“I’ll say. So, what happened? Got mugged?”

“Something like that. I-I’ve got money.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. We’ve got so much good stuff that I can hardly ever move because nobody can pay for it.”

Rumisiel looked around the shop—the front was stuffed with a truly bewildering array of clothes.

“I’ve no idea where to begin.”

“Well, let’s start with what you need.”

“Uh… Everything, really?”

“Okay! Are you looking for surplus, or designer?”

“Uh… surplus? What’s that?”

“Yeah. You know, when the military realizes they’ve ordered too much—and they always do—they put the extra, or surplus, stocks on the market, always at a loss, because they’re stupid. Usually it’s sold out of hairy-man gun magazines and stuff like that, but my boss likes to keep a stock of the real McCoy on hand as well as all the designer schlock made by someone whose military experience was watching Rambo and Top Gun a few times.”

“Okay, you’ve lost me.”

“Okay, quick illustration.” The foppish man walked out from behind the counter, leading Rumisiel to his rack of trousers. “This,” he said, patting a stack of folded, thickly insulated green, brown, and tan pants, “is a pair of genuine Soviet Army camouflage trousers. It’s surplus, and yes, it was made in Russia. The guys who sell these things to us say they’ve never been worn, but I’d have it dry-cleaned before putting it on anyway. That is, if I’d be caught dead in it, which I wouldn’t, but it would fit a big, husky boy like you better.”

Rumisiel didn’t know whether to be flattered by the comment or not, but the clerk was continuing.

“This, on the other hand,” he said, picking up a pair of pants and snap-unfolding them with his hands, “is designer schlock.” Unlike the other set, which had an uneven pattern to it, this was a regular, curvy pattern somewhat like cow-spots, in black and bright, neon yellow. “Unless you’re trying to hide in a beehive, I don’t think so,” the staffer quipped, and Rumisiel laughed.

“You can tell it’s pretty much worthless because it’s not nearly as weather-resistant or as water-resistant as the real deal, it’s hideous, and it costs twice as much. I’ll sell it to someone if they really want it, but I feel obligated to point out that it’s a fashion disaster in the making, not to mention horribly impractical.”

Rumisiel laughed again; the clerk was growing on him. “I thought this store was advertising its designer stuff. Does your boss want you bad-mouthing this stuff?”

“Actually, yes. He’s trying to move more real surplus, so he wants me to push it.”

Rumisiel snickered, and nodded. “Yeah. I need something that’ll keep me warm, but, uh…

Camouflage? I dunno.”

“Well, we have all kinds of stuff. You said you needed a complete change, right? Well, we’ve got plenty of underwear of all types, and you’re definitely going to need new boots if you’re going to be out in this weather.”

The clerk pointed down, and Rumisiel shrugged; his shoes were in a sorry state from slogging through the thick-laid snow, and his feet were pretty cold.

“Here, take a look at these. I just got them in this morning, haven’t had a chance to put them on the shelf.” The clerk slipped through a door Rumisiel hadn’t even seen, and returned with a box, setting it on his counter and taking the boots out.

“Don’t you hate the designer stuff?”

“For the most part, yes, but boots tend to be an exception. They’re pricey, but they’ll hold you through all but the hardest wear. Real leather, absolutely waterproof, thick tread. A fashion nightmare in nice company, of course, but you look like you’re going to need a good pair of boots long before you need dress shoes anyway, dearie. No steel toe, though, but genuine military boots are going to cost even more.”

“Ah… I dunno, these look fine.”

“All right, let’s get you the rest of what you need, Mabel. I can even dispose of that old schlock of yours if you want.”

“You like that word, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”

An hour later, Rumisiel had a duffel bag on the counter full of stuff—a couple variations on the same themes of heavy cold-weather clothes. “Excellent,” he said to the clerk, as they put one more load on the counter—the load he intended to wear out. “Now, I just need a coat.”

“And a hat, perhaps?”

“I dunno, hats and I never really agreed.”

“You know the body loses most of its heat through the top of the head?”

“Really? Mmmh… Eh, I’ll chance it. I never really liked hats.”

“You sure I can’t talk you into at least taking a balaclava in case it gets too cold?”

Rumisiel shrugged and nodded. “Fine. Now, where are the jackets?”

“They’re through that partition, there… Oh, excuse me.” A young woman walked in.

Rumisiel nodded. “I think I can manage on my own.”

“Okay. Can I help you, ma’am?”

Leaving the clerk with the girl, Rumisiel walked back to where he had been pointed. It was a veritable clearinghouse of really thick, heavy winter-weather. The absolute prize-taker was a set of snow-white Soviet winter camouflage, a massive jacket with a mask built-in and extra outer-pants, set on a manikin that made Rumisiel chuckle, but then shake his head.

“Man, with all those heavy clothes, something like that would be overkill.” He started to shuffle through the various battle uniforms, when his eyes fell upon something in the corner. It was on a manikin, but it was mostly hidden, and he didn’t see any others like it. It was a tan greatcoat, heavy fabric somewhat coarse, with a double-row of shining brass buttons. Most of the other things, he imagined, would make him look like that thug, but this?

Rumisiel didn’t see a tag for it, so he took it off the manikin, and walked back to the front, where the clerk was at the counter, the young lady just walking into one of the two dressing rooms. “Uh, excuse me, what’s this?”

Seeing the jacket, the clerk’s eyes lit up. “Oh, wow. You like it?”

Rumisiel nodded, starting to unbutton it. “Yeah. Everything else would’ve made me look like a thug, or a snowman. But this…”

“Oh, I totally agree. That has some class to it. That, my friend, is a British army officer’s overcoat, circa 1950. Mostly I can only ever unload them to girls, since most of the men who come in here are the kind who want to look like thugs or soldiers.”

Rumisiel let out a chuckle. “I want it.”

“You sure? It’s the last one, my boss makes us charge extra to sell off the last of anything.”

“Absolutely sure. How much?”

“A hundred fifty.”

“Ouch. Still, worth it.”

“All right, let me ring you up.”

The clerk started fiddling with his cash register; the total came to above four hundred, which was fine with Rumisiel. He took five of the hundred dollar bills from his pocket and paid the clerk.

“Do you mind if I…” He indicated the dressing room.

“Not at all. Help yourself.”

Rumisiel took the duffel bag and his other purchases, slipping into the dressing room and changing into some of the dark clothing. He laced up the new boots, testing them; heavy winter socks combined with the new boots made his feet feel much heavier than usual, in a good, sturdy way. He stuffed his old clothes into the duffel bag, then carefully unbuttoned the jacket and put it on, buttoning it back up.

“Hmmm… just right.” He looked at it in the mirror, turning from side to side. Then it hit him; he looked somewhat like his brother in the heavy, classy jacket. Rumisiel let out a laugh, and stuck his hands in the pockets, stuffing the balaclava the clerk had insisted he take in as well. “Bond. Rumisiel Bond,” he said, then broke into a snicker, picking up his duffel bag and walking out, throwing a wave to the somewhat fruity clerk.

“Next stop… home.” Rumisiel re-introduced his cloak of obfuscation, and walked into an alley, looking around until he was sure he could return. From there, it was simple to teleport back to Ash’s house and drop his duffel bag behind the couch. Turning, he looked around. Something was off.

Setting his vision up to high, he realized what was wrong—the game system was missing! Rumisiel ran to the front door, cursing himself; had he forgotten to lock it? Was it jimmied? The door was secure, and he quickly checked the other doors. All of them were secure. Getting a bad feeling, he closed his eyes and snapped his fingers.

McArthur Residence, 9:41 A.M.

Rumisiel reappeared in Emily’s living room. The TV was off, and his duffel bag was missing from the floor. “Ash? Emily?!” He called out, but got no response. Looking out the front, he saw that the Monster XR was missing. Quickly searching the bottom floor, he found a note on the kitchen table, written on the reverse of the page he had written his note about Cassiel on.

Rumisiel: Ash and I are going to Cape Cod to visit her mother. We should be back in a few days. DO NOT follow us, call us, or in any way, shape, or form interrupt this. I took your advice, by the way—thank you. You can stay at my house as long as you need, since we still have heat and power. Don’t make a mess, or I’ll kill you.

Love,

Emily.

P.S.: Sleeping bag is in my bedroom. Use it, not my bed.

Rumisiel laughed aloud at the note from Emily, shaking his head and grinning. “Cape Cod, mmm? Good for you, Emily.” He stretched his arms, and snapped his fingers again—quickly transferring his bag and his few other possessions from Ash’s house to Emily’s, he snapped his fingers, returning to New York City.

Alleyway, New York City, 9:56 A.M.

Back in New York, Rumisiel let out a sigh as he looked around. His stomach growled, letting him know it wasn’t going to tolerate being unfed much longer. Not that he actually needed to eat, of course; but that didn’t mean it didn’t cause pain not to. His stomach was saying it was breakfast time, therefore he wanted breakfast. Walking back out onto the streets, he considered various food carts and stands and even shops, before finally simply settling on a small storefront shop. A quick, satisfactory transaction later, Rumisiel walked out the happy owner of a bottle of orange juice and a breakfast bagel sandwich with sausage, egg, and cheese.

After eating his sandwich, Rumisiel tossed the wrapper away, walking aimlessly in a generally southerly direction, while considering the facts he had. He had the ring in his pocket as well as the knife and a wad of money, and the two sets of dog tags. He knew the address, and the maiden name of the woman he was looking for. At one point, she had lived in Hell’s Kitchen, which was where he was going to begin his search.

“But how do I get there?” The hitch in his plan, of course, was that he really didn’t know how to get there from where he was. He knew it was to the south, judging by the street numbers in the direction he’d been traveling, and not too terribly far south at that, but as for east/west? Could be across the city for all he knew.

“Oh well. No time like the present.” Rumisiel started to pound pavement, caught up in the morning rush of foot traffic.

Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan, New York, 10:28 A.M.

Finding the Kitchen had been harder than he had thought; Rumisiel had been under the impression it was a defined geographic area, but it was not. Finding the right building had been even harder; he’d found himself on the wrong road twice. Eventually he had managed it, however, and now he found himself staring up at the stairs of a tenement building, a row house. The address was correct; this was the right place.

“Now, what am I going to say?” Rumisiel sighed, but he imagined that being as vague as possible would be in his best interests. With another heavy sigh, he trod up the steps. The building was old, fortunately, and didn’t require a tenant to buzz him in. He walked past a wall of numbered mailboxes and up, bypassing the elevator for the stairs.

He paused, outside of the apartment. Bit his lip. It had, after all, been sixty years… Giving a sigh, he tried knocking on the door. There was no answer for a few minutes. He tried again, and heard the sound of the door’s latches being undone, two of them. The door opened slightly, but one chain was still connected to the wall. The face staring back at him was mildly annoyed: a dark-skinned, college-aged woman. “What do you want?”

“Ah… Oh…” Rumisiel sighed. His friend Jack had been many good things; tolerant of other races was not one of them. “I’m guessing you’re not related to the Alice Jacobson who lived here in 1944?”

“You guess right, white boy. And sorry, but the last tenant’s name was Smith, not Jacobson. I should know; I get enough of his damn bills.”

Rumisiel let out a sigh. “Sorry to bother you, miss.”

“No apology needed; just stop bothering me.”

With that, the door was shut in his face, and Rumisiel blinked a few times, then shrugged, turning back to go down the stairs. “Big city, guess things are just different here. Strike out,” he muttered with a foul scowl. “She could be anywhere from here to Portland, half-way across the globe, or dead.”

“Lookin’ for someone?”

Rumisiel looked down—an older man in a tweed jacket and floppy ‘cabbie’ hat was climbing the stairs. The white-haired angel nodded, “Yeah… but, I guess she hasn’t lived here in decades.”

“Heh. You don’t look old enough to be one of my students, let alone to be looking for someone who’s been missing for decades. Who’re you looking for?”

Hope sparked; if this man had lived here in 44… He didn’t quite look old enough, but maybe he knew of the family. “Alice Jacobson. She lived on the fifth floor as of 1944, last I heard.”

“Alice Jacobson… Wow, that’s old news, son. I haven’t heard of her since I was a boy.”

“But you have heard of her?!”

“Yeah, I remember her, all right. Lived in 513, as I recall, with her family. She got married and moved out in… oh, hell, I dunno, I wasn’t quite ten, then. I guess it was around ’53?”

“So, I’m guessing you don’t know where she moved?”

“Sorry, can’t help you… I do remember the name of the feller she married, though…”

Rumisiel waited, and prompted, “Go on…”

“You know, that’s funny… I can’t remember, now. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but… Well, what’s a young man like you looking for an octogenarian like Alice Jacobson?”

“(Ah, hell…) I… well, it’s a long story. I found something of hers in a forest in Belgium, after following the lore of an old story from a family friend’s family.”

“Something of hers in a forest in Belgium? That sounds like a story I’d like to hear, young man. Want some tea?”

“Eh… sure.”

The old man led him into an apartment; it was stacked high with books, and a huge covered

birdcage. Rumisiel peered at the cage. “Oh, what kind of bird is that?”

“It isn’t, anymore. Used to be a parrot, but, that bird’s been dead a year or so. Anyway, please, sit down, sit down.”

The old man directed Rumi to the couch and made tea, giving Rumisiel time to fabricate his story. With a cup of tea in hand, he related how his family had long been friends of the Nicolson family; how they had gone through old letters with him and showed him letters about how Jack had bought a ring he wanted to give to Alice.

“But, the next letter they got was the letter telling him that Jack died. It took me a long while, because they never identified the body, but I found out more or less where Jack died. Then I went there, with a metal detector. Found the ring next to the dog-tags.”

“That’s a hell of a tale. And now you’re hell-bent for leather on delivering that ring?” Rumisiel nodded. “Well, good luck and Godspeed on that. Hell of a quest to set out on. A ring’s delivery, delayed sixty years… I just wish I could’ve helped you… Oh! I know! She married a man named McGowan! Michael McGowan.”

“Ah. So I’m looking for an Alice McGowan, then?”

“Right… I don’t know of any McGowans, though, at least not in any other context.”

Rumisiel nodded, and sighed. “Well, it’s a start, at least… I’ve just no idea how I’m even going to start looking.”

“Well, I’ll give you the advice I give my students: start at the library, and search the Internet for it. I guess you could also ask the building manager. The building’s never changed hands, and people moving out sometimes leave forwarding addresses, or list next-of-kin. That might put you in touch with other Jacobsons, who could fast-track you, assuming there are any left…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” The old man sighed. “It was the early 1970s, I recall, when… well, the Jacobsons who lived here are gone. Robbery gone wrong.”

Rumisiel winced. “Damn. That’s not good. All right. Where’s the building manager?”

“Ah… Oh, drat. He’s in Havana for a family ‘thing’. He’ll be back next week.”

“Havana? Cuba?”

“Illinois.”

“Aaah. Okay, then… I guess I’ll start at the library, then.”

“All right. Good luck, son. That’s quite a caper you’re off to.”

“And thanks for the tea.”

“Day like today, young man out to hit the city, you’ll need it.”

Rumisiel exited, and walked down to the building’s exit floor. Then he paused. “Well, what the manager doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” He walked down the stairs to the ground-floor level floor, which on tenement houses like this typically was reserved for the superintendent and offices, as Rumisiel understood things. He found a door marked ‘offices’ and jiggered it open silently, walking in and closing the door behind him, just as silently. Switching on the light, he surveyed the room. Filing cabinets abounded, and there was a computer on a desk.

“Man. This looks like my office, except they never gave me a computer.” He snorted at the dull green cabinets. “Just like my office. Filing cabinet, or Feng Shui nightmare? I don’t know…” To kill time, Rumisiel poked around a bit—he pulled up the ratty old circular carpet simply laid in the middle of the hardwood floor. In fact there was paperwork under it! He put it under the light—unlike the hidden papers in his office, this was what looked like an unpaid bill, so he chuckled and put it back, as the computer’s screen lit up.

The computer on, he began to search, but was hampered by a general lack of knowledge about

computers. Ash hadn’t really wanted to teach him to use them, after all, for fear of the damage he could do. Finally he gave up trying to navigate the computer’s databases and shut it off, wishing for Emily’s help. “She’d know how to use it… Then again, she’d probably want to jam a spork up my ass for breaking and entering.”

Turning to the cabinets, a system he was much more intimately familiar with, he opened the ‘J’ file, searching through it for ‘Jacobson’. There was, thankfully, only one file, which he put out on the desk and perused. The notes were quite well kept, mainly to do with billing. The end, however, was extremely unpleasant: in 1971, the remaining three members of the Jacobson family were killed in a robbery for money their married daughter was supposedly sending them. It had an entry for next-of-kin, but at some point in time the file had been victimized by the touch of coffee, and apparently ripped in the ensuing attempt to clean the paper. The entry was utterly obliterated, and Rumisiel sighed heavily, and very carefully put the file back where he had found it.

“At least I have some idea where to start looking. Alice McGowan, formerly Jacobson…” Rumisiel shut the light off and slid back out of the office, then the building, hitting the streets again and walking back towards uptown. “Library. I need to find a library…”

After about ten minutes of trying, Rumisiel got lucky by asking someone who looked to be a student—she had directed him a block over and a little back south, to a branch of the New York Public Library. Rumisiel followed the directions he was given, finding himself soon outside a crisp, modern branch library.

NYPL Branch Library, 2:25 P.M.

“Agh. This is getting me nowhere,” Rumisiel complained quietly to himself, hanging his head. He was sitting in the back of the library at a computer cubicle. He was forced to admit he really needed Emily or Ash for this. He was a piss-poor typist, and totally unfamiliar with the systems to boot. “Is this a fool’s errand? It’s gotta be. But I’ve gotta do it, for Jack. I gotta help him move on.”

“Something wrong?” Rumisiel looked up, as he felt delicate fingers wrap over his shoulder. A young woman was standing above him, in a blue turtleneck, soft Asian features combined with mostly Caucasian coloring. She smiled at him. “You seem frustrated.”

“Yeah… I am.” Rumisiel sighed, heavily. “I’m looking for someone… and I don’t even know if

she’s still alive.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Well… I know where she lived in 1944. I know the name of the man she married about a decade or so after that and moved out.”

“That’s a start. What’s the problem?”

Rumisiel sighed again. “I’m no good with computers. Not at all. I never really learned to use them.”

“Never? That’s weird, a guy as young as you not knowing how to use computers. Can I help?”

“I… yeah, sure.” The girl dropped her backpack and sat in the seat next to him, logging on to the computer in a few seconds—a process that had taken Rumisiel five minutes to puzzle through.

“How old would she be, if she’s still alive, would you think?”

“(She was 20 in 44, so…) Eighty.”

“Okay… Long shot, but she could still be alive. What’s her name?”

“Alice McGowan.”

“And husband’s name?”

“Um, Michael McGowan.”

“All right.” The woman did a lot of tapping really quickly; Rumisiel watched her zoom through windows with a dizzying speed.

“What’re you doing?”

“Checking phone numbers. If she’s still alive, or even if she’s not, there might still be a phone in her name or her husband’s. Fortunately, McGowan’s not a very common name.”

Rumisiel nodded, watching her. “Wow. A hundred fifty some?”

“Yeah. In New York, that’s tiny. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, no I’m not. This is my first time in the city, really.”

“I can tell.” The woman smiled at him, extending her hand; Rumisiel took it, shaking it. “I’m Amanda.”

“Rumisiel.”

“Rumisiel… Now that’s a funny name.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Amanda shrugged, and smiled. “Well, I’ve heard of stranger. Moon Unit Zappa, for example.”

Rumisiel gave a quiet chuckle. “Yikes.”

“Yep. Anyway, let me… Ahh. I don’t see any ‘Alice’, but there’s a lot listed by first initial only.

There’s a couple of ‘Michaels’ and a few ‘Ms’.”

“Man. I guess I’m gonna have to knock on a lotta doors, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily. Here.”

Rumisiel’s rescuer took a notebook out of her backpack, and started to write down addresses and phone numbers. Finally, she smiled triumphantly, circling an entry. “There’s a lot of McGowans, A, M, and Michael to go through, but you should start here.”

“Why there?”

“There’s an identical listing for a Michael McGowan at that address. The thing with telephone listings is that they often get left in weird databases and old directories, so you can get duplicate entries; and often, a lot of phones will be left in the name of deceased family members by their survivors, so they don’t have to pay the phone company to have the name linked to the address changed. It makes a huge, jumbled mess, but that can sometimes be advantageous in finding people—or at least, finding where they’ve been.”

“Huh… Okay, thanks.”

Amanda tore the page out of her notebook, handing it to Rumisiel. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Rumisiel folded it carefully, and noticed there was a number at the top of the page. “What’s this one?”

The girl who helped him was already standing up, and she winked. “Mine. Ciao!”

She walked off with a grin, leaving Rumisiel with raised eyebrows and buoyed spirits. It took him a few moments to realize he had no idea how to get to the location on the address, so he pulled his coat back on as he walked quickly out of the library.

“Hey, uh… Amanda, where is this, anyway?”

The young woman turned around and smiled. “Oh, right. It’s in Brooklyn.”

“How do I get there?”

“Ah, well, there’s lots of ways. Take the subway, or cross the Brooklyn Bridge if you want.”

“Ah… No, I meant, which way is it?” Rumisiel sheepishly smiled as Amanda laughed.

“Oh, Oh. Head east, cross the East River however you like. It’s pretty damn cold, so I’d say the subway is probably the better choice, even if there are all kinds of freaks and weirdoes on it. Or, if you’re the walking type, and you have a lot of time, you could walk across the bridge.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure. It was built in the late eighteen hundreds, so there’s this big walkway down the middle which is just for foot and bicycle traffic. Of course, it’s a bridge, so it’ll be very cold and windy.”

“Ah, I don’t mind the cold… much.” Rumisiel smiled. “May as well take in the sights while I’m here, right?”

“Right.” The college-girl grinned at him. “You know, I’m going that way myself. I don’t normally walk in this weather, but I’ll show you around if you want.”

“Score! I’ve still got it.” Rumisiel grinned back. “I’d love to be shown around. Thanks, Amanda.”

“Why not? It’s a cold, crisp day, and I’m going to Queens anyway. So, we want to go… this way.”

“So, how far is it?”

“Mmmmh. Pretty far, to be honest,” Amanda replied, as she led Rumisiel through the snowy streets.

“We’re close to Central Park, but the Brooklyn Bridge is closer to Battery Park. Actually, the main route onto the bridge is past the City Hall—it’s worth taking a picture of, if you have a camera.”

“Heh, wish I did.”

“Well, you can buy a disposable pretty much everywhere in the city.”

“Yeah, maybe a good idea.” They walked on, and Rumisiel snagged a disposable from one of the many, many stands to be found along the main streets.

“So, what are you doing in New York, anyway, Rumisiel?”

Rumisiel fiddled with the camera with his hands, talking as he went. “Actually, that’s a funny story, sort of. I’m, ah, trying to deliver a ring that’s been delayed for about sixty years.”

“A ring?”

Rumisiel nodded, putting the camera into his pocket and taking out the ring. “This. See, my family’s been friends with another family for a long time. In 1944, they had a son who died in World War II.

The last letter they got from him was telling them how he bought this ring for them.”

“So…”

“Well, you know, I didn’t have anything to do… Kind of a loser, really, my family thinks I’m a joke. So I went and I found it.”

“You found that ring? Where?”

“Belgium, actually. In an old, snow-filled foxhole, believe it or not.”

“Wow… No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Why was it there?”

“Well, ah… Apparently, they never found the guy’s body, or never identified it… I went looking with a metal detector.”

“Silver’s not a magnetic metal, though,” Amanda pointed out.

Rumisiel shrugged. “Yeah, well, I found it next to his dog tags. They’re made of steel, so…”

“Ahhhh, I see. So… You went to Belgium just to prove you could do something?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Jeez, your family must be loaded.”

Rumisiel thought briefly about the splendor of the Celestial City, and he shrugged. “Something like that. It didn’t cost all that much, just the traveling, mainly. I hiked most of it.”

“Ah. So that’s why you’re not so bothered by this damn freezing cold.”

The young woman shivered, and Rumisiel smiled. “Need my jacket?”

She was wearing a much heavier winter jacket, and shook her head. “Nah, I’m okay. You don’t happen to have a spare balaclava, though, do you?”

Rumisiel grinned at his good fortune. “Actually, I have.” With a silent thought of thanks to the theatrical surplus store clerk, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the brown wool balaclava he had been convinced to purchase, handing it over. With a broad grin, the brunette took it and rolled it up, pulling it over the crown of her head, down her forehead. “That’s lucky. Why aren’t you wearing it, though? You’ve got so much snow in your hair it looks white.”

“My hair is white,” Rumisiel replied with a laugh as he ran his fingers through his snow-white hair.

“Don’t like it?”

“No, I totally dig it. Bleach?”

“Natural, actually.” He shrugged. “My family’s weird that way.”

“Sounds like it.”

The two walked onwards, but Amanda laughed softly. “Hold on… We’ve gotta stop.”

Rumisiel turned around. “Something wrong?”

“It’s just… This is going to be about a five mile hike just to the bridge itself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I guess you don’t really notice it, Mr. ‘Hiked through Belgium’.”

Rumisiel smiled. “Ah, sorry.”

“Heart’s set on the bridge, isn’t it?”

“Well, I—”

“No, that’s fine. Actually, I’ve never walked across it myself. Compromise?”

“How do you mean?”

“We can get on the Lexington line at Times Square, ride it down to the bridge, and walk across?”

The Angel grinned at her suggestion. “I like the way you think.”

“Thanks.” Amanda slapped his chest. “That would be this way, let’s go.”

Approaching The Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan, 3:25 P.M.

“So, what did you think?”

“Of the subway?” Amanda nodded, and Rumisiel laughed. “It was… nothing like I expected. The station was like a maze.”

“Yeah, they are, aren’t they? Tourists never really expect them to be like that.”

“I’m kind of amazed you can stack train tracks on top of each other like that.”

“Isn’t it neat?”

“Yeah… (Mmm, think, this is going well, need to keep her talking.) So, what were you doing in the library in Hell’s Kitchen if you live in Queens?”

“I was picking up a book.” She patted a thick, bulging section of her coat, as they walked up the long, long concourse towards the bridge, surrounded on both sides by lanes of moving traffic.

“Really? For school?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Ahhh, that’s cool… What’re you studying?”

“This year?” Amanda grinned at him. “I’m currently majoring in Journalism. I started out with Architecture, but it got too goddamned boring.” Rumisiel winced at her minor blasphemy; fortunately, she was a step ahead of him and didn’t see. “So I kinda burnt out on the hard maths and all, changed my major to the Lib. Arts for a bit. Now I’m waffling back and forth between Journalism and Sociology and other Liberal Arts stuff… What about you?”

“Me? (Oh crap, I can’t tell her I’m attending a high school.)” Rumisiel winced, trying to think of something.

She solved it herself, though. “Oh, right, silly me. You just got back from Belgium!” Amanda turned, grinning at him. “You know, that is such a cool story. So tragically romantic; a love lost across sixty years, or something like that.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah!” The brunette turned around again, walking quicker as they got up onto the bridge, their feet transitioning from concrete to wooden planks.

“Mmmm. This is good, for a change.” Amanda was about as unalike to Cassiel as a girl could get: bubbly and friendly without having that feeling about her that she was always calculating how to maximize what she could get out of anyone or any situation, while putting the minimal amount of effort or resources into it, bright in a way that reminded him of Emily. Even being away from Ash helped; living with Ash, while it was probably good for him in that it had helped keep him sober for the longest he’d ever been was still harrowing; he was glad for the respite from Ash’s tyrannical rule.

“I wonder if helping Jack move on counts more as ‘saving a soul’ or ‘cleaning up my own mess’? Ah well. I don’t suppose it actually matters.” Rumisiel grinned to himself. “Man, this is the most fun I’ve had in a while. Great big city to explore, no Ash telling me what to do, no Vashiel looking over me, no Cassiel trying to drive away everyone I make a friend with…”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Hmm? Oh, just thinking about folks back home.”

“Oh? Do they know you’re back in the States?”

“What? Oh, no, no they don’t.”

“Ah… So, where’re you from, then?”

“Where am I from? (Oh shit. I can’t use Canada or she’ll figure something’s fishy about my story.)”

“Yeah. You know, where do you hang that coat when you’re not hiking across the Five Boroughs or Belgium or wherever?”

“Tempest. (Nooo! Shit, shit, shiiiiit!)” The truth, ironically, was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Tempest, huh? Never heard of it. Where is it?”

“(Ah crap. She can look it up if I lie.) Uh, it’s in western Massachusetts.”

“Really? That’s neat… I’ve never been outside the Five Boroughs in my whole life.”

“Never?”

“No, never.” She turned back again, smiling; Rumisiel couldn’t help smile back. “So, what was Belgium like?”

“Hmm… Quiet. Kinda somber, really. Walking on old battlefields. A place where you know men fought and died in a sad, ultimately pointless war. Blood spilling into snow…” He got somber all of a sudden, thinking about it; that battle, and all the others he’d seen, flashing before his eyes; men dying, dead; the wounded crying out for help, or their mothers… Everything he’d ever wanted to forget.

There was someone soft and curvy pressing against him; opening his eyes, he found Amanda with her hands on the front of his shoulders, leaning in. “That’s really deep of you, you know. That kind of thing is maybe partly why I sometimes think I want to be a journouh: covering wars, seeing the full horror and pointless of it all, the ultimate expression of humanity’s inhumanity to man. What’s it like?” she asked, quietly. “Walking on a battlefield.”

“Have you ever been in a graveyard? A really old one?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s kinda like that…”

“Like, hallowed ground?”

“Hah. There’s no such thing as hallowed ground. Just… ‘charged’ ground, if you will.”

“Heh. Atheist spirituality, mmm? Just like me.”

“Not really. I know God exists.”

Amanda’s face fell instantly. “Oh no, you’re not one of those psycho-converters, are you?”

“Conversion? What’s the point? I know God exists; it’s like knowing that Nome, Alaska exists.”

“Okay, now you’ve just plain lost me.”

Rumisiel shrugged his shoulders and started to walk again. Amanda walked beside him; she took her glove off, stuffed it in her pocket, wrapped her fingers around his hand, and then laced them. “Well, go on. I’ve never met someone who could say ‘know’ with such seriousness like that who wasn’t some psycho jesus-fruitloop… So I want to hear this.”

“Well… I dunno, people get pissed when you discuss religiosity with them…”

“I won’t, as long as you don’t try to convert me.”

“All right. Like I said; I know God exists. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no need to worship Him.”

“Why not?”

“Well… What does He care? He doesn’t—not about Earth, not about humanity, not about people praying. The whole ‘heaven tickets’ thing about praying and self-flatulation or whatever is the biggest and oldest-running pyramid scheme in human history.”

Amanda stared at him for a few seconds, then she started to giggle. “I think you mean ‘flagellation’, but I get the gist.”

Rumisiel nodded and smiled back, feeling her soft, slender fingers squeezing his.

Then the screaming started.

He saw it instantly, just before Amanda gasped and pointed it out to him. Someone had climbed from the walkway to the heavy riveted metal beam running along the side at about shoulder height, having climbed over the low fence which prevented walkers from somehow slipping between the beam and the walkway and falling to the traffic lanes. Onlookers began to gather, and Rumisiel and Amanda dashed to reach the scene.

The crowd’s reaction was mixed; there were cameras and camera-phones out, pictures being taken. One old lady was trying to coax the boy—he couldn’t have been older than Missi, if that—in the ratty jacket back to the walkway, as he slowly walked out along one of the ribs over the traffic lane, while some thick-headed jock was chanting, “Jump! Jump! Jump!”

“Shaddup,” Rumisiel growled at him, as he leaned against the walkway, trying to talk the boy down. A gust of wind hit, and he bit his lip, carefully pushing with his mind to keep the boy’s precarious balance on the beam.

“Shut yourself up, I wanna see some action. Jump, boy, jump!”

Rumisiel thought about beating the jock up, but he couldn’t take his attention off this. A uniformed officer had reached the scene on a bicycle. “He’ll probably shut that loudmouth up… But I need to do something, or this is going to end bad.”

“Oh my god,” Amanda murmured in his ear as the boy slipped on the ice on the steel rib.

Rumisiel kept him in the center of the rib, though, and the boy grabbed on as the traffic below honked, unable to stop moving for the weight of the traffic behind it. “Come on back,” Rumisiel yelled at him, but the boy only got to his feet, and took one more step forward.

“Oh, fuck,” Rumisiel cursed. He let go of Amanda’s hand and took hold of the railing. Putting as much as he could into enhancing his physical acumen—balance more than strength—he vaulted up to the beam. The ribs crossed three lanes of traffic—not highway width, but wide enough that the boy had gotten a lead on him, and he was on the next rib over.

Amanda shrieked behind him, and he heard the officer trying to tell him not to do it—he ignored it. He felt certain that there was going to be death if he didn’t, so he started to walk across—a difficult prospect, juggling his own physical enhancement and the telekinesis to keep the boy from pitching into the traffic lanes. Made all the worst by the buffeting, icy winds.

“Come on, kid! It’s not worth this; just turn around!”

The boy turned his face to Rumisiel; harrowed, bitter, with sky-blue eyes that spoke volumes of sorrow. Worse was that he was young, very young. “Yes! Yes it is! It has to be better than everything!”

There were more yards between them than Rumisiel cared for—more than he could vault without being obviously supernatural in the jumping, in any event, and the boy was about two yards ahead of him in getting to the beam on the other side of the bridge. He could hear a crowd behind him; some were still chanting ‘Jump! Jump!’

Rumisiel had already determined that he was not going to let this kid die; his mind already working through worst-case scenarios in which he had to openly pop his seals and leap off the bridge after him, halo glowing and wings obvious. Of course, he really didn’t want to have to do that, since it would effectively mean he’d have to go into hiding afterwards, and probably call off his mission to deliver the ring altogether.

He picked up the pace; predictably, he slipped on ice, his leg sliding forward. “G-yaaaah!” Pushing himself right on the beam with telekinetic force, he found his bearing, as the kid had reached the edge. “No time, no time!”

He broke into a run, using all the significant telekinetic force he could muster to keep himself on the beam; the result was that he sprinted to the edge of the bridge, catching himself with his arms on two thin side-cables, one vertical, one diagonal.

The shriek behind him could’ve been any girl—but the shout of “Rumisiel!” could only have been the one who knew his name. The boy was standing on the edge, one foot up on the pipe above the edge beam, staring out over the iced East River.

“Don’t do it. Please don’t do it,” he whispered, as another buffeting wind hit them—the kid rocked back, and Rumisiel gently nudged him to keep him on the beam. His perch was precarious, with the honking and blaring of horns beneath and behind, the howling wind and open sky ahead.

Rumisiel ducked under the diagonal wire, swinging around to the outside. He started to climb over, hand-over-hand, sidestepping along the bridge, the yards slowly closing as the boy appeared to consider it, staring out over the iced precipice of doom. “Come on, you don’t wanna die! It’s not worth it, kid.”

“What do you know?!” The kid turned his face to Rumisiel, eyes distraught. “Do you know what it’s like to be hated? To be kicked out by your family?!”

“Yes.” Rumisiel lurched closer, grabbing the next wire, and then another. “I do. But it still doesn’t have to be like this. Come on kid! Let’s go back.” The boy sniffled, as Rumisiel got closer. Only two more wires separated them. Then one. “Ignore those losers. Just go on back, I’ll go with you, okay?”

“I… I…” The kid’s eyes were quivering. He closed them, as another huge gust of wind buffeted the bridge, howling, shrieking. “Aah!” His arms pinwheeled for balance, his foot slipping on the icy pipe.

An air horn blared, as Rumisiel lunged through the wires. The boy spun as he fell, hitting the hard, riveted bridge-rib with his shoulder, letting out a cry of pain.

Ironic as rejecting the big leap only to fall back and be hit by a car would have been, Rumisiel had no intention of letting the kid die that way, either. Rumisiel’s leap took him closer, as the boy started pitching off the rib, his arms desperately scrabbling for hold.

Rumisiel got one hand around the boy’s ankle, preventing him from pitching over and dangling entirely over the traffic; the other hand was still wrapped around a bridge cable. “I’ve got you! Don’t let go of the beam! Oh shit. Hold on tight! ”

The terrifyingly loud screech of an air horn heralded the approach of an 18-wheeler moving too fast to stop; and worse, if it did stop in the thick afternoon rush, it would probably cause a terrifyingly lethal pile-up. Exerting all his strength to help hold the boy up, both by the ankle and telekinetically, Rumisiel could feel the strain—he was close to his sealed limit.

The tractor-trailer rumbled below them, and the boy in the ratty parka screeched as the hot exhaust from its upright muffler ran under him. “Come on! You can do it! Crawl back towards me, and get your leg above the beam!”

“I can’t! I can’t! I’m gonna die!”

“You can do it! Just start crawling back.”

Whimpering, the boy started to do so, and Rumisiel pulled back with the arm on the cable; pulling himself up, he pulled the boy closer, and up, until the would-be jumper was on top of the beam, which he promptly wrapped his arms and legs around as tightly as he could, crying audibly even over the sound of the crowd and the traffic.

It was over, at least mostly; with the boy holding tight, Rumisiel stepped back onto the side beam, and slowly started walking across the rib. He picked the boy up—having to pry his fingers up to do so—and clutched the terrified boy tightly as he slowly walked, foot in front of foot on either side of the metal rivets, across the heavily-iced truss over the road surface. Its slickness was phenomenal, but Rumisiel was moving slowly, and dedicating all of his concentration to moving carefully and keeping himself upright with steadying psychokinetic force.

Then it was over; jacketed arms belonging to an officer of the NYPD were held up to receive the terrified, crying kid, and Rumisiel carefully handed him down to the policeman. As the officer cleared a space, another hand came up to help him down; Rumisiel took it, and climbed down slowly. The hand turned out to belong to the brunette Asian American wearing the balaclava Rumisiel gave her. Amanda grinned phenomenally wide, throwing a tight hug around him and leaned up; pressing her lips to his, Rumisiel’s eyes widened in surprise, but he hardly objected, returning the kiss and wrapping his arms around her.

“Are you okay? Sir, are you okay?” Slowly, he became conscious of the officer behind him asking him something. He pulled away from the kiss begrudgingly—it had been far too long since a pretty young woman had given him such a spontaneous, genuine kiss—and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Sir, do you want to go to a hospital?”

It was, in Rumisiel’s estimation, an utterly ridiculous question, though he declined to voice that opinion. “No, I want to go to Brooklyn. May I?”

Rumisiel thought he understood what it meant when one said ‘and the crowd goes wild’. He was, however, unprepared for the raw intensity of the cheer that erupted when he uttered the throwaway line; retrospectively, it was, he decided, by far one of the most bad-ass things he had ever uttered, up there with the time he had castigated Bronwyn for toying with forces beyond her ken. He supposed, as the crowd parted, pushing against the side to make room, that he should be glad they didn’t simply hoist him aloft and carry him bodily to the Brooklyn side of the bridge, which would have been embarrassing.

Amanda released him from the tight hug, and took his left hand in both of hers; gloved and bare, squeezing his fingers with hers. “Come on, hero.” She grinned at him, and he grinned back, blushing softly, as they started to walk East. A short commotion caught his eye; the kid he had rescued, sensing a chance to escape what was most certainly becoming a Ward of the State, had slipped his jacket off and was making a dash for Manhattan, with one of New York’s officers of the peace in hot pursuit.

“Going to chase him down again?” Amanda teased.

Rumisiel laughed, shaking his head. “I think I’ll leave this one to the professionals.”

Amanda giggled at him, and leaned against his side as they walked on; Rumisiel smiled, wrapping his arm back around her shoulders.

In The Air To The East Of The Brooklyn Bridge, 3:35 P.M.

“Oooooooooh! That… that lout! ” Cassiel clenched her hands into fists, slamming them together in frustration. A gust of strong wind hit her; shivering, she started to wish she had thought to bring something more substantial than a gossamer robe from her casual wardrobe in Heaven after her earlier fright had worn off. Barefoot, without even a pair of panties, invisibly hovering in the air, she had been wholly unprepared for where she would find the great bastard. What in the world was he doing in New York, she wondered angrily, as she had watched him perform an act of utter bad-assery.

“Makes me remember why I found the useless jackass so attractive in the first place…” Cassiel bared her teeth, shaking her head. “Oh well… Even if he didn’t fuck it up,”—and she had been so strongly hoping the little nut-case would take a dive off the bridge—“he got kissed by that girl.” She patted the thick, heavy, shining steel-and-black camera with the powerful telephoto long lens array she had retrieved from her closet. Ironically, it had been a gift from Rumisiel; he had given it to her in the 1930s, shortly after they began flirting and before they started having sex on a regular basis. Loaded with fresh, brand new Celestial film she had gotten in Heaven before leaving, the camera had been able to easily take highly detailed shots of her ex-paramour.

“But nothing I can use to ruin him!” Quite the opposite, in fact; if she submitted any of those photos to the heavenly bureaucracy, it would make Rumisiel look like a hero. Of course, the pictures of him kissing that girl might, at least, help to crush his dearest Ash… With a broad grin, Cassiel realized that there was still salvage in this situation yet. Especially if the mortal girl’s reaction was anything like the one she refused to admit tugged at her heart and her loins, watching Rumisiel pulling a stunt like the one he had.

She grinned to herself, even as another icy blast chilled her in places she really shouldn’t have left exposed to the howling Atlantic wind rushing up the East River; oh yes, if she could get some good pictures of those two… But first, she needed some heavy clothes.

Brooklyn, New York, New York, 3:43 P.M.

“You know a lot about the city, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m not, like, an encyclopedic reference or anything, but being a one-time Lib Arts major tends to let you pick up all kinds of weird information.”

“You’re good to be around. Smart, bright, friendly…”

Amanda pushed against him, and smiled. “Really? You’re pretty handy yourself.”

“I dunno… I manage to fuck things up pretty often.”

“You didn’t fuck up that rescue,” the Asian American pointed out, stroking his hand softly. “That was totally, totally iced. My heart flew up into my throat when I saw you climbing on the outside of the fucking bridge. Why did you do that, anyway?”

“I was afraid he was going to go forward before I could get close enough behind him. Plus, I didn’t want to take his attention away from looking forward, in case he fell…”

“So you wanted to put yourself between him and danger? You’re crazy! ” She laughed as she said it, shaking her head.

“Eh, I’d have been fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah…”

“Mm-hmmm. Okay, that’s typical of boys my age, anyway. You all think you’re immortal.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Rumisiel considered explaining that he was, in fact, immortal, but there was no real reason to open that can of worms.

“You sound like you don’t like most boys your age.”

“I don’t. Most of them are whiny, self-absorbed jerks. Lib Arts majors are either gay but otherwise perfect in the most frustrating way, or snobbish rich bastards who won’t give me more than a look because I’m not a WASP like them. Engineering majors and the like don’t have the time of day for someone who’s not in the hard sciences, and they are all, on the whole, jackasses and wimps.”

“So, you’re…”

“Very frustrated,” Amanda replied, with a quiet giggle. “Hey, want me to go with you?”

“Hmm?”

“Help you track down this Alice McGowan lady.”

“Don’t you need to study?”

“Probably, but, fuck it. I’ve got my last final of the semester tomorrow; it’s in my main journalism class. I absolutely aced all the writing projects and the other tests. I can just bullshit my way through this and still pass spectacularly.” She smiled. “Besides, Journalism is, at its heart, an applied Lib Arts major, if there is such a thing. That means huge, open-ended essay questions. I’ll just write about you and this adventure and that stunt back there and I’ll pass with flying colors anyway.”

“All right. So, the address you circled first was in, uhhh, Park Hill, right?”

“Park Slope,” she replied, with a smile. “It’s about two and a half miles south of here, which means it’s probably going to be like, a three mile hike or so.”

“All right. You want to get back on the subway?”

“I’m game if you are. It’s just that the city’s subways are a pretty confusing system. You heard the phrase, ‘You can’t get there from here’?” Rumisiel nodded to her question, and Amanda continued. “It describes the New York Subway System to a T. I live in Flushing in Queens. It’s more or less north of here, but I attend college in Brooklyn. You’d think I could just get on a subway going south, right?”

Rumisiel shrugged. “I’d guess so.”

“Wrong! There’s no real ‘north-south’ service here. I can get there while staying on one landmass, but I’d have to hop across all three lines quite a few times, taking several trips between stations underground, and one stretch where I’d actually to walk on the surface for a while. And in the end, ultimately, I’d be getting back on the same subway line I got on in the first place. So it’s easier to just get on the IRT at Flushing and transfer to the Lexington run at 42nd Street and ride down to the college station.”

“Wow… So to get to college in Brooklyn, from Queens, you have to go by way of Manhattan?”

“Yep. Fucked up, isn’t it? So, let’s see… Mmmh. I think maybe Lawrence Street Station. That’s roughly this way.”

“All right. Lead on.”

Boarding A Subway Car, Lawrence St. Station, 3:58 P.M.

“Okay, so, I got a good look at the map back there. We want to, uh, ride this green line down to Prospect Park, right?”

“That’s right.” Then Amanda sighed; the subway was packed. “One seat.”

“You can have it.”

“No, no I won’t. You take it.”

“Uh…”

“You take it,” she murmured, pressing a hand into Rumisiel’s chest, “and I’ll sit on your lap.”

“Oh. Oh, okay.” Rumisiel smiled and walked to the empty seat, sat down, and stretched his legs out.

Amanda sat on his lap with a quiet laugh. “More comfortable than the train seats, anyway.”

“Heh. I’m not complaining.”

“Why? Like having me on your lap?”

“Well, yeah.”

Amanda leaned back into him, taking his hands and squeezing them; her bare fingers lacing with his, her fingertips digging into his palms. “Yanno, I’m really glad I stumbled across you in the library.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you made today a lot more interesting than it would have been otherwise.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Rumisiel smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Amanda’s rear pressing into his lap and against his waist. With the way he was leaning back, her soft curve was actually pressed against the underside of his penis, which he did his best to reign in from getting hard. “Mmmmmh… Been a long time since I’ve had a girl sitting on me like this… I wonder if she wants to… Mmmh, nah. I don’t think I’m thatlucky.”

“So, what do you think of New York, Rumisiel?”

“It’s… an adventure,” he replied, inhaling softly; she was wearing nice-smelling perfume. “The people are a mixed bag, aren’t they?”

“Yep.”

“All kinds, from thugs and coke-dealers to those jackasses shouting ‘jump’, to, well… you.”

“You think I’m what’s good with this city?”

“You’re the best person I’ve met so far.” Rumisiel replied, quietly murmuring into Amanda’s ear. “And you’re really very nice.”

“Am I? Mmmh… I’m glad you think so, Rumisiel.”

Rumisiel gulped as Amanda squirmed on his lap. “I do. You’re great to know, fun, charming…”

“Charming? Isn’t that what girls are supposed to call boys?”

“Well, I’m charmed by you.”

Her fingernails dug into his palms, and Amanda turned her head, kissing his cheek again. “Good, that means I’m not a total loser in the ‘finding worthwhile men’ department. Now, if only I could convince you to shave.”

“To shave? What’s wrong with my beard?”

“It’s, one, not hardly worth the title of a beard, and two, it would make wrapping my thighs around your face about as pleasant as straddling a saguaro cactus.”

Rumisiel blushed at the forwardness of her statement, but it certainly struck a chord within him; he could feel himself stiffening against her quite agreeable rear, definitively detectable even through his boxers and heavy winter pants and her denim jeans. He stifled a groan at his failure to control himself.

Amanda, however, seemed pleased, squirming more against him, and quietly murmured, “Thank god,” in his ear. “I was starting to get worried you were gay, too.”

“You’re doing that on purpose?”

“Yeah,” Amanda murmured back to him. “What’s wrong? Can’t handle forward women?”

Rumisiel closed his eyes, thinking back. In all the time he’d been with Cassiel, she’d certainly been seductive, laced her words and dress with innuendo, but she’d never really been aggressive like this. “It’s, um… new. But I like it,” he hastened to clarify, and she responded by squeezing his hands even more tightly.

“Mmmmh. You’re not seeing anyone right now, are you?”

Rumisiel thought of Cassiel—definitely over her. He thought of Ash—but that was just a cover; Ash would rather have Emily or Missi than have him, and he couldn’t blame her. “No. Not really… You?”

“Sort-of, but he’s a jackass I’ve been working up to dumping. Not that I give a damn.” She giggled quietly, and wrapped his arms around her stomach.

Reflexively, Rumisiel hugged her warmly against himself, his eyes closing. “This feels… Mmmmh. I almost owe Cassiel a thank-you for setting this day in motion.” Rumisiel smiled, and took a bit of a chance, pressing his lips to the native girl’s cheek, kissing softly. She sighed happily.

Then the jolt hit: the light plunged into darkness; the shrieking of metal on metal heralded the subway’s emergency brakes being applied. Rumisiel tightened his arms to prevent Amanda from falling to the floor or sliding into the next-forward passenger’s lap. “Ugh! What happened?”

“Ah, it’s a power outage.” Amanda muttered, darkly. “Probably snow-melt overcame the pumps and shorted the system. This kind of thing happens on a somewhat regular basis.”

“Do they last long?”

“Sometimes. The big one in September lasted over two hours—so much water in the system that it was actually raining inside the car. My prof was fucking pissed. Most of them are a minute or two, if that. It can get pretty disturbing down here if the power goes out, though: creeps, muggers, gropers and worse are rumored to lurk the subways, just waiting for an opportunity like this.”

“Is there any truth to it?”

“I’ve had my share of grab-asses and creeps squeezing my tits, but I keep my stuff to myself, and as you can tell, I haven’t been murdered or anything.” Amanda giggled, quietly; the car was erupting in hushed whispers all over, creating a barrier of noise that let them speak more or less to one another. Her voice got low and husky. “Actually, I’ve heard stories of people fucking during these outages.”

“Whoa… seriously.”

“Yeah. Never heard if there’s any truth to it or not, though I can see how it would be possible,” she continued, rubbing the crack of her rear along his engorged penis. “But it would be ridiculously risky.”

“Why aren’t there emergency lights?”

“There are. But they’re always broken out by some vandals or whatever.”

“Ah…” Rumisiel waited, holding Amanda close against him; soon he felt a hand sliding down his leg; reaching behind, squeezing his rear. “A-aah! Amanda?”

“That’s me,” she replied, with a soft giggle.

Then Rumisiel felt another hand sliding between them; it groped the bulge in his pants, then slid up, undoing the button at the top, fingers sliding in. They felt wrong, though, somehow. “Uh…”

“Not me, Rumisiel,” Amanda husked back at him.

Rumisiel whipped his hand out from in front of the native girl on his lap, seizing the arm reaching for his penis just before it could get under his boxers. “Hands off the merchandise!” He thought about boosting his vision to see who it was, then decided he really didn’t want to know. The hand squirmed out from his grip, and a giggling-like-a-loon voice tore off down the car.

“Wow. So Hot Even the Guys Want You.”

Rumisiel’s cheeks burned and he re-did his trousers. “I’m pretty sure that’s not it, Amanda.”

“I dunno… It’s funny, at least.” She spun around on his lap, knees pressing in beside his thighs; he felt her cheek smoothly sliding next to his. “I mean, I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you. Nobody’s ever thought I was hot enough to do something that forward…”

“Pity?”

“Okay.” She kissed his cheek, softly.

Rumisiel boosted his vision again; but even putting as much of his power into his eyesight as he could, he could barely see Amanda’s face, and only in the most vague sense. “Oh, of course! There’s no light to enhance. Well, there must be some, probably from someone’s watch or something… Huh. I never really thought about it before. We really are dozens of feet below the Earth, aren’t we? Spooky.”

Amanda turned back around; he hugged her, and she wrapped her arms behind him, reverse-hugging him, and they simply waited until the power came back on. Many minutes later, the lights came back up, and soon thereafter the train was back in motion.

Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, 4:39 P.M.

“Wow. This place looks pretty ritzy,” Rumisiel commented as he and Amanda walked along the streets, searching for the address she had circled.

“Yeah, it is. Compared to the loft apartment I have in Queens, anyway.”

“A loft apartment? All to yourself?”

“Yep. My folks pay for it.”

“They must be pretty well-off.”

“Somewhat. They live in Flushing, too, but they wanted to get me out of the apartment, so they rented me the loft of my own about two years ago. How about your folks?”

“My folks?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Rumisiel waffled, and shook his head. “I really don’t wanna talk about them.”

Amanda looked up at him: curiously, sympathetically. “Don’t get along with them?”

“That’s an understatement. I’ve fucked up pretty much everything I’ve ever tried to do. Never was as good in school as my big brother, never was as strong or as fast or as smart as him. I found a good job, a really, really good job, and I blew it all to fuck… And then my brother found me another job, but I blew that one, too.”

“So you decided to say ‘hell with it’ and go traveling?”

“Yeah… Yeah, something like that.”

“Mmmmh. I know how you feel, really. I’m a huge disappointment to all of my family.”

Rumisiel blinked, turning to stare at his companion. “How can you possibly be a disappointment?! You’re in school, talented, educated, and you’re trying to be a journalist. That’s… I don’t understand it at all.”

Amanda shrugged, and sighed. “Well, let’s see… My mother’s pissed off because I dropped a hard, engineering-oriented class to go into the Lib Arts and then Journalism. My father thinks I should be learning to be a banker or a stockbroker or something. My grandmother’s upset because I enjoy sex and I’m not afraid to seek it out, and my grandfather’s furious that I have the gall to try to get any kind of higher education at all, as opposed to finding a rich businessman to marry.”

“Uh, wow… that’s… Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Rumisiel.” Amanda smiled, and took his hand again, squeezing it softly as they walked. “Actually, I’m glad; you’ve taken my mind off it for a while.”

“Then I’m glad I could help…”

Amanda grinned up at him, then looked back at the numbers affixed to the row houses they were passing. “Oh, stop! We passed it.” Coming to a halt, they turned around in the street, and walked back, Amanda counting the numbers off as they went. “Ah, here we go,” she pointed. Behind a wrought-iron fence stood a brownstone row house, old and graceful. The stairs were cracked with age, but the cracks had been filled in with some kind of sealant, color-matched almost perfectly to the surrounding stone; the iron fence and railing were as impeccable as they day they were cast; the windows were all clean and clear.

The mail-slot read ‘McGowan’ above it, and Rumisiel grinned. “Looks like we might be on the right track.”

“Yep…”

“So…”

“Well, hell. I’ve brought you this far, right? May as well see this through.”

“Okay.” Rumisiel smiled back to her, and ascended the Brownstone’s stairs, knocking on the door. Amanda likewise followed him halfway up the stairs, waiting against the railing.

They waited a little bit and knocked again. Shortly thereafter, a woman speaking thickly accented English and wearing a stereotypical maid’s outfit answered the door. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“Uh, hello. We’re looking for Alice McGowan?”

“Ah! Sí, Ms. McGowan. I will get her.”

The door closed again, leaving Rumisiel blinking; he looked back at Amanda, who shrugged. “Well, looks like we’re really on the right track.”

The door opened shortly thereafter again. The first thought that ran through Rumisiel’s mind when he saw the figure standing there: Ash?!

It was not, in fact, Ash Upton, though it was an easy ‘first blush’ mistake to make. The girl who answered the door was a young woman, easily within peerage of Amanda. She had violent red hair and brilliant, green eyes—haunted, harried green eyes. “Do I know you?”

“Uh… Hi. I’m looking for Alice McGowan?”

The woman waited a beat. “Well, you’ve found her. What do you want?”

“Um… no, I’m looking for… I dunno, maybe your grandmother, I think? In 1944 her name was Alice Jacobson?”

Recognition flashed in her eyes; and annoyance. “What is this, some kind of fucking sick joke?”

“Uh… No, I… I have something that was meant for her, and—”

“Ugh. I do not need this right now.” The door slammed shut; Rumisiel thought they’d been shut out, but the sound of a door-chain being undone echoed from inside, and the door opened again. “This had better be a damned good story.”

Rumisiel looked back at Amanda, who shrugged. “Guess we’d better go in, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

They walked inside, following the retreating woman in the blue turtleneck sweater to a dining room where she sat down. Rumisiel and Amanda likewise sat down. “I really don’t need to deal with any nonsense right now, so this had better be damned good. What do you want with my grandmother?”

Rumisiel took a breath, and nodded; launching into his ‘my family and Jack Nicolson’s family’ spiel again. By the time he finished, Alice was drumming her fingers on the table. “So, let me get this straight. That ring, there, in your hand, you say it was owned by a man I never heard of, who purchased it for my grandmother in Belgium in 1944. Only the Third Reich blew him apart, and it’s been laying in the mud for sixty years? And now you want to deliver it to my dying grandmother?”

“Um… She’s still alive?”

“Yes. My grandmother is still alive. For how long, I can’t say. Right now, I should probably be at her bedside; so should my mother and father, motherfuckers both. But no. My entire family has gone insane, and to cap it all off, now here you are, some random strangers, showing up with a ring you say belongs to my grandmother! Fan-Fucking-Tastic!”

“Um…” The harsh language and irate nature of her tone set Rumisiel back a bit. Amanda was clearly nervous, too; she slid her arm over, putting her hand lightly on his knee; to support him, or to take comfort from him, Rumisiel couldn’t say. Perhaps both. “I… don’t mean to intrude overmuch, but… you’re seriously wigging out. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” The woman took a deep breath, and let out a terrible, forced, desperate laugh, followed by slumping her head onto her forearm on the table. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Everything is wrong.” She pushed back from the table, standing up. “My grandmother is dying; her only wish at this point is to see her eightieth Christmas, or failing that, to have her family with her when she goes.”

Alice walked to the mantle of a decorative fireplace, and pointed at a picture; Rumisiel easily recognized the Alice Jacobson he had seen in Jack’s photo of her, aged about forty or so years. “My parents, damn them both to the hell I don’t believe in, are on a cruise in the Caribbean or somewhere, I don’t really fucking care. They’re not going to let a little thing like my father’s mother dying get in the way of the cruise they’ve been saving for for years, oh no! My younger brother, Michael, got kicked out of the house by my parents five months ago, bastards the both of them, because he tried to talk to them about how he thought he was gay. He hasn’t come back, and I can’t find him. I haven’t heard from him since!” She pointed to another picture above the mantle; it was clearly herself, with a young boy with black hair and blue eyes.

Rumisiel felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the picture. Amanda’s hand clenched his knee, and she actually choked. “Oh my god… Rumisiel, isn’t that…”

“Son of a bitch, I think it is.”

“What? Isn’t that what?” The flame-haired lady of the house stormed over, looking at them. “What are you two talking about?”

“Um… I don’t know how to say this…” Rumisiel began.

Amanda took over. “We saw him, today. On the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“On the Brooklyn Bridge? What the hell would he be doing on the bridge?”

Rumisiel and Amanda hemmed and hawed at this. Finally the occupant of the Brownstone ordered, “Out with it!”

“He was trying to jump.”

Boom. Amanda might as well have pulled off her jacket to reveal a suicide vest given the look of utter terror in Alice’s face. Rumisiel stood up as the younger Ms. McGowan lunged at them and caught her hands.

“He’s fine! He’s fine! We got him to back down.”

“He’s… Oh my god, my baby brother went to kill himself?” The stunned look on her face gave way to horror, and Rumisiel found himself with the current lady of the house’s head buried in his chest, crying on his jacket breast.

It took some time for Alice to compose herself enough to talk. She looked up into Rumisiel’s eyes. “He’s… You said h-he was okay, right?”

“Yeah. I handed him to a police officer myself.”

“O-Okay… So he’ll… h-he’ll be in custody?”

Rumisiel turned to look at Amanda; she and he winced at the same time. “Well, err, that is… not necessarily.”

“What?! What do you mean?”

“When the crowd broke up, he kind of shook off the cop and made a run for Manhattan. I figured I’d better just let the cops handle it, so… so I didn’t exactly chase him down.”

“Oh my god… He’s…”

“Somewhere in Manhattan, I’d say.”

“Oh god… Oh god no…” Alice choked again. “I… I have to go look for him, I have to… But if the police call and I’m not here… Pierta won’t answer the phones, she’s afraid of the police… I…”

What else could Rumisiel do or think or say when in the situation of having a crying woman beside herself with worry? He said, “You stay here in case the cops call. I’ll find him.”

The green-eyed woman looked up at him, the tiny spark of hope in her eyes making Rumisiel feel like he was melting. “R-Really? I… Thank you!” She squeezed him, tightly. “Thank you so much… I-If there’s anything I can do to repay you, or—”

Rumisiel cut her off by putting one finger over her lips, squeezing her hand. “Just stay here in case the cops call, or he calls, or something.”

“O-Okay.”

Alice slowly walked to the table, sitting back down; she put her head down, breathing hard.

“Er… Guess we oughta show ourselves out?” Amanda asked.

“Guess so.”

Once back out on the streets, Rumisiel shook his head. “Well, that was an incredible stroke of non-coincidence.”

“Tell me. We both got so fired to see the Brooklyn Bridge… And it turns out it was in time to save the grandson of the woman whose ring you have? That’s eerily serendipitous.”

“Yeah… Jeez. I guess I’d better get going… Shit, how are you gonna get home? Do you need cab fare or something?”

Amanda laughed at him, shaking her head. “Hell no. Are you kidding? This is the most interesting day I’ve ever had, and it looks to just be getting into gear.” She took his hands again, squeezing them.

“I could probably use someone who knows the city…”

“Right, so… Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Well… That’s kind of a tough question, isn’t it? What do we know about him?”

“I dunno. Maybe we should get his picture?”

“Oooh, good idea.”

A quick trip back into the McGowan house had Alice readily agreeing to give them a picture of Michael; she gave Rumisiel and Amanda each one from her wallet.

“So, where should we start,” Rumisiel asked, as they walked back out on the street, Amanda taking point towards a more main thoroughfare.

“Manhattan, somewhere, unless he somehow either got back across the bridge, or went north.”

“So… where would a lost eighth-grader in Manhattan be? If he’s been loose all this time, I’m guessing he’s not, you know, going to be caught by juvenile services yet.”

“Probably not, but we should probably check with the NYPD first. Oh, no, that’s really kind of stupid. His sister will be doing it, I’d bet.”

“All right. So, what, we find a pay-phone, ask her if they have him, and if not, go looking?”

“Something like that… Ah, here. Hey, Taxi!” Amanda ran to the side of the curb, holding her arm out; in the middle of the road a yellow taxicab pulled to a stop.

“After you,” Rumisiel said as he opened the door.

Once in the cab, the driver—a weathered, older man of some Caucasian stripe or another—asked “Where to?”

“Um… I dunno,” Rumisiel started.

“Manhattan, and we’ll know where by the time we get there.”

“All right. No skin off my nose if you can’t make up your minds.”

The cab got started into motion, and Rumisiel buckled up, getting a funny look from Amanda. “Uh, what?” Rumisiel asked.

“You really are from the sticks, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Rumisiel said, thinking of Tempest.

The New Yorker giggled. “We’re not going to get above ten miles an hour.”

“Oh.” Feeling a bit sheepish, Rumisiel simply left the belt on, while Amanda slid over in the bench seat, leaning against him, comfortably.

“You know, it’s really brave of you, taking this on yourself.”

“Yeah, well… it’s kinda on me, since I saved him earlier and didn’t make sure he got home.”

“Most people wouldn’t see it that way.”

She slid her fingers through his, and closed her eyes, placing her head on Rumisiel’s shoulder. “You know, most guys would’ve said something about my color by now.”

“What do you mean?”

Amanda opened one eye, smirking. “I’m white as white bread, but I’m also obviously Asian. Most guys say something about it by now.”

“Why?”

His companion giggled quietly. “That’s sweet.”

“I’ve seen all kinds. Heh, I even have white hair. It just doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Thanks.” Amanda leaned up, kissing his cheek. “It’s ’cause I’m very mixed-race. My great- grandfather came to New York in the early 1900s. He worked for many years as a bachelor, and then married a white girl—somehow—in the 20s. They had one child, and the cycle kept up—50/50 Asian/Caucasian heritage at each junction. I’m the inevitable genetic weirdness of that game; full Caucasian coloration, full Asian features.”

“Oh… Weirdness? I don’t think you’re weird.”

Amanda laughed. “Say that tomorrow with a straight face and I’ll buy you dinner.”

Rumisiel grinned back at her; their eyes met, his ice blue staring into Amanda’s warm haze. Then their lips, in a soft, slow kiss; which grew more heated as Amanda pushed into him, her hands squeezing his tightly. Then they parted.

“Mmmh… Why did you decide to come with me?”

“Because, this is an amazing adventure. I’ll be able to write about it… Because I want to see that boy reunited with his sister… Because I want to see the end when you can give that ring to the old lady… And because I want to get you naked in my bed.”

Rumisiel barely blushed; Amanda’s forwardness was growing on him, and he hugged her tightly.

“First things first… We need to find the kid, right?”

“Right… Now, I’m kind of stumped, I have to say. If it were Monday, I know what I’d do.”

“What?”

“Check the library.”

“Okay, you lost me. I don’t think homeless teenagers frequent the library.”

“More often than you’d think, actually, but what I meant was that I’d call their telephone-in question hotline, phrase the question as ‘research for a story’ or something, and they’d tell me where to find all about where homeless children and teenagers on the streets in New York might congregate in Winter.”

“Oh, wow, would that work?”

“Yep. They tend to be leery about answering questions like that straight-out; they’d probably want to refer you to the police if you’re looking for a lost child. But if you tell them you’re doing research for a work of fiction, they’re more than happy to help.”

“Huh… I never thought of doing that.”

“Not many people do. I use that service all the time, though. It’s saved my ass more times than I can count. They’ll answer pretty much anything, though they won’t do things like kid’s homework questions, or answer philosophical speculation or such.”

“Huh… That’s neat… But, mmmh.”

A cough from the front drew Rumisiel’s attention. “Look, it’s none of my goddamn business, but if you’re lookin’ for someone lost in the city at night, I’d start with Hell’s Kitchen, under the overpasses. Or anyplace like that; places you can expect to find hobos and the like.”

Rumisiel looked back at Amanda, and shrugged. “Got any better ideas?”

“Not really.”

“To the Kitchen, then.”

“You got it, mac.”

The cab ride took a long time, as Amanda had promised; arguably not much longer than taking the subway would have, but Rumisiel winced hard when he saw the fare, which he paid.

Once out on the street, Amanda giggled at him. “And that’s why I didn’t suggest we take a cab to Brooklyn in the first place.”

“Point taken.”

Hell’s Kitchen, 7:47 P.M.

“We’ve looked all over, haven’t we?”

Amanda nodded in reply; she yawned, stretching her arms as the snow began to fall again. “Twice. There’s just…”

“Yeah.”

They’d managed to find a lot of homeless people; some of them would talk to them; and some knew ‘Michaels’, and one had actually known the Michael they were looking for, but weeks ago. They had more or less scoured the Kitchen: parking garages, under overpasses, back alleys…

“Either he’s not here, or he’s holed up better than we are right now.”

“Yeah… Hey, Rumisiel, maybe we should check the Park?”

“Central Park?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“It’s late… I’ll go, but don’t you—”

Amanda silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Not a chance. I’ll go with you.”

“But, the Park can be dangerous at night.”

“That’s why you’ll need me.”

“I’m not talking you out of it, am I?”

“Nope. Start walking.” Amanda pointed north, and Rumisiel sighed, smiled, and began to walk.

“So, what else do you do, Amanda?”

“Hmm?”

“When you’re not working on your school stuff.”

“Oh, this and that. I took up a lotta hobbies that never really got off the ground. Origami, writing, Judo, Aikido, Jujutsu…”

“Fighting?”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “This can be a dangerous town at times. I never really got into any of those.”

“Why not?”

“There’s only so far you can go by using someone’s strength against them, especially when you’re small like me. I wanted to learn how to end a fight fast by beating the other guy up, but none of those were really the right stuff.”

Rumisiel glanced sidelong at Amanda; he himself was five foot ten, and she didn’t look more than an inch shorter than him. “You’re not that small.”

Amanda shrugged. “Have you seen the size the thugs in this city grow to?”

Rumisiel thought back to the fight he had gotten into before sun-up, in the park. “Yeah, good point.”

“Right. I mean, I’m okay, but if I got into a fight with a guy the size of the jackass I’m trying to dump, I get beat. And in this city, that means some really ugly things.”

“Youch. That’s kind of…”

“Horrible? Tell me. That’s why I was trying to learn to fight, silly.” Amanda slapped his chest, with a smirk. “Also why I’ve got a Taser in my purse.”

“Do they work?”

“Not nearly as good as I’d like, but I’m not going to carry a gun without a permit. Too easy to get caught, and then I’d really be up shit creek. I love a little girl-on-girl as much as the next free-spirited horny collegiate girl, but getting raped by some hairy bull-dyke is not my definition of a good time.”

“You’re trying to make me blush, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I am. It’s too easy!”

Rumisiel was in fact blushing, and Amanda laughed. Raising his hands to his head, Rumisiel rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head while it was within his hands.

“Hey, are you as hungry as I am?” Rumisiel looked up, and he nodded at Amanda. “Let’s get something to eat, then.” She pointed at a McDonald’s.

“Sounds good.”

Central Park, 9:32 P.M.

“Man… this doesn’t look to be accomplishing anything useful, does it?”

“We’ve been walking for hours, and we’ve only seen one teenager. Trying to find one kid in New York…” Amanda shook her head.

“I don’t wanna give up.”

“Me neither, but… it’s late, and you’re starting to yawn every ten seconds.”

“Really?”

“Well, not quite, but it’s bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad bad. How long have you been up?”

“Fuck, I dunno… what time is it?”

“Gimme a minute.” Amanda tugged a cell phone out of her coat, checking the time. “It’s 9:32.”

“Then… let’s see… I dunno, I’ve been up since four, so, seventeen hours?”

“Up since four? Jeez, how much sleep did you get?”

“Not as much as I’d like. My psycho ex girlfriend tracked me down.”

“Yeesh. I’ve been there.”

“You had a psycho ex girlfriend?”

“Yep. Hot as hellfire, but man was she a bitch.”

“Mmmh… Jeez, it’s gonna be a bitch finding a hotel, isn’t it?”

Amanda smiled up at him, reached up, and stroked Rumisiel’s cheek with her frigid glove. “Don’t be silly. You can stay with me.”

“Buh… really?”

“Really.” Amanda smiled, leading Rumisiel out of the park, shaking her head. Their search of the park had turned up all of zilch: no kids, relatively few crack pushers, nothing to investigate. “Come on. We can get on the A-division subway at the Museum of Natural History station, take it to Grand Central, and ride the Flushing Line all the way home.”

“Oh… Okay.” Rumisiel yawned as Amanda led him back through the streets. “Do you think we’ll find him?”

“I hope so. Hell, you found a ring lost in the woods in Belgium for sixty years, right?”

“Yeah, but I had records to go on, then.”

“Even still… c’mon. I’ll call Alice from the station, see if she’s heard from the police. Maybe they picked him up and we can rest easy.”

“Okay.”

Rumisiel was very tired by the time they got down into the warmth of the subway station, paid fare, and were waiting on the platform. Amanda pointed to the rows of pay phones; perhaps fortunately for him, no two were free next to one another, so they wound up separated. He paid the long distance charge and dialed home; got no answer except the answering machine, on which he left a vague message that he’d be in New York for a while. Then he tried the hotel where Dr. Upton was staying as of last he heard. The clerk at the hotel responded that the room had already checked out; Rumisiel’s heart sank, but the clerk told him to hold on a minute, as the doctor was crossing the lobby. He heard the clerk call out Dr. Upton’s name, and soon he heard Dr. Upton’s voice on the phone.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Upton?”

“Yes, Rumisiel. Where are you?”

“I’m, ah… in a subway station in New York.”

“New York City? What are you doing in New York?”

“I’m dealing with some personal business that I had to deal with, Doctor Upton.”

“Business? What’s this about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t know how long I’ll be. Have you heard from Ash?”

“Yes, I have; she’s in Cape Cod with Emily, they’re okay. Are all of the people who stay in my house scattered to the four winds?”

“I guess so…”

“Ugh, all right. Look, do you need money? Have you got some place to stay? I can call the hotel I normally stay at in New York, have them put you up in a room, wire some money to you.”

“No, no…” Rumisiel looked over across the station at Amanda, who was talking on the phone; he smiled at the unique, pleasant girl. “Actually, I’m staying with kind of a friend.”

“Okay. Be careful… Ugh. I should wire you some money, but I’ve got a plane to catch. Will you be okay until tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Rumisiel thought of the wad of cash in his pocket; decided against mentioning it, since he really didn’t want to explain beating up a coke dealer and taking his cash cache.

“All right.”

“Doc, can you, ahh… not tell Ash about this?”

“Not tell Ash about this? Is this about a girl, Rumisiel?” The doctor’s voice became hard-edged.

Rumisiel drooped, remembering that he was pretending to be Ash’s boyfriend. “What? N-no, it’s not!” He must have sounded guilty, especially since it was, in a way, about a girl. “It’s about a boy.”

“A boy?” Surprise was evident in the doctor’s voice. “I didn’t think you were that type.”

“What? N-no, I’m not. It’s a runaway, a friend of mine… Her little brother ran away, and she asked me to help find him.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Um… Look, I’ll be fine, okay?”

“You’re not getting in over your head, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“…” Doctor Upton sighed. “Rumisiel, I’m not your father, I’m not your keeper. It’s not my place to tell you what to do or not to do, where to go or where not to go.” His voice got hard-edged again. “But if you hurt my daughter, I swear, I will break you.”

Fear welled up in Rumisiel. “Uh… I totally understand, Doc. Believe me, I’m not gonna hurt Ash.”

“Good! Call me in the morning if you can get through to me, and I’ll wire you some money. And Rumisiel?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck with the missing boy.”

“Thanks, Doctor Upton.”

Rumisiel hung up the phone in time to watch a train roar into the station and see Amanda hang up and walk towards it. He followed her, boarding the car and getting in a seat next to hers.

“Everything okay?”

“No, not really. Alice said she called the cops, but, excepting the bit on the bridge, they didn’t catch him. Which, of course, is really fucking stupid, since he would have had to run past 1PP on his way off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“One PP?”

“One Police Plaza. Their goddamned headquarters.” Amanda chuckled wryly, delivering the information. “I guess it’s true that they say that the best place for a fence is straight across the street from the police station.”

“Heh… Wow, that’s kind of retarded.”

“Yeah… Anyway, how was your call?”

“Uh… it went okay.”

“Who’d you call?”

“Family. Everybody’s scattered at the moment.”

“Ah. Everything… okay?”

“As okay as it ever is. I don’t want to talk about it, really.”

“All right.”

Rumisiel and Amanda leaned against one another. Without something to focus on, Rumisiel’s mind started to drift. He had to be shaken awake to make the transition at Grand Central Station from the Lexington line to the Flushing line, and he fell asleep on the ride towards Queens.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, Flushing, Queens, New York, New York, December 19, 2004, 8:18 A.M.

The last thing Rumisiel could clearly remember was boarding the Flushing line subway car with Amanda at Grand Central Station; after that, everything was fuzzy. He remembered climbing stairs, though it blurred as to where and when. He could vaguely remember walking through doors, and clothes being taken off; her voice, thick with lust and bubbly with admiration, and he vaguely recalled a sensation of heat and wetness around his penis. The first thing he became cognizant of, upon fully waking up, was softness all around him.

A person can, with time, get used to sleeping on a couch. Here, however, was very different. He remembered, from a long time ago, this feeling: the feeling of a soft, comfortable bed supporting him and a warm, pleasant blanket above, and that was what this felt like. More, though, the luxurious sensation of being stretched, sprawled out on his back, right arm spread, with a compacted softness upon it, and most of all, the incredible, long-absent-from-his-life sensation of a curvy, softly-breathing woman’s body against him. He inhaled—the scent of the perfume Amanda wore was thick in his nostrils, and Rumisiel opened his eyes.

Unlike all of the previous times in his life that he woke up not remembering where he had gone to sleep, this one was a blessing, not a curse. Thin sunlight filtered in from windows with the shades drawn, a bare, high ceiling with exposed ductwork and structural beams above him. He was lying on his back—nude, he realized with a goofy, not-fully-awake grin of satisfaction—under two covers; the bottom one thin and soft cotton, the top heavy and coarse, but much more warm. A pillow was laid upon his right shoulder, and Amanda was curled up against him. One of her thighs was between his, her breasts scooped against the right side of his chest, arms curled on the pillow, and her head upon it.

She was naked, too, and Rumisiel’s eyebrows rose, realizing the implications. “I wonder what happened…” He definitely had a morning erection, which was unlikely to diminish while he dwelt on the feeling of his penis against her thigh.

“Amanda?”

“Mmm… Mmmmh?” She stirred against him, and her hazel eyes slowly opened, meeting his.

“What happened last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t remember anything after getting on the train.”

“You don’t?” She raised an eyebrow.

“No, I don’t.”

“Oooh…” Amanda smiled, murmuring, “Not much,” as she licked her lips in a blatantly suggestive manner that made Rumisiel certain he had been treated to fellatio that he could not remember. “Not as much as I’d have liked, anyway. You don’t mind, do you?” She slowly traced the left side of his chest with her hand, and Rumisiel raised his own hand to meet it, clasping the New Yorker’s hand warmly.

“No… No, I can’t say that I do.” She smiled, and leaned up—Rumisiel took her chin between thumb and index finger, pulling her against him the rest of the way and meeting her lips, kissing them hotly; her tongue pressed against his lips and he admitted it without hesitation, meeting it, savoring the sweet taste of her tongue in his mouth before she pulled back.

“So, was it worth it?” he asked.

“Absolutely. Yesterday was, without a doubt, the most interesting day I’ve ever lived.” Her nails scratched down his chest, over his nipple in what he was sure was no accident, causing his back to arch. “And I’m hopeful for today on that front, too.”

Rumisiel slid his right arm down, wrapping it around her back, placing his hand in the small of it. “That’s really good to hear, but I meant the whole ‘blowing the unconscious guy’ thing.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, yeah it was. You weren’t exactly unconscious, though.” She winked at him.

“No?”

“Not exactly.” She stretched out, luxuriously, along his body, and pushed the pillow away, laying her head on his shoulder. “Worth it just to get close to someone who hasn’t been cut, anyway.”

“Cut? Oh, right. First time you’ve seen an intact penis?”

“Well, outside of a book or Internet porn, yeah.” Amanda yawned, arching her back, and sighed. “Fuck… What time is it?”

“Um…”

“Clock’s on the wall opposite the bed.”

Rumisiel raised his head. “Eight thirty, more or less,” he said, reading the analogue clock’s hands without boosting his vision.

Amanda sighed. “Damn; enough time to get a shower, or have a really, really good orgasm, but not both. Getting breakfast on the way to classes will be pushing it anyway.”

“Mmmh… That’s a shame.”

“Tell me about it.” Amanda sighed, biting gently at Rumisiel’s chest. “My shower’s really small, too… Of course, we could probably manage a quickie in it…”

Laughing, Rumisiel shook his head, caressing the hollow of her back. “That’s really tempting, but it’s been a long time for me, so I’d rather wait and enjoy it when we have time.”

Amanda giggled quietly in response, and closed her eyes. “Perfect.” She reached down. Her warm fingers wrapped around his penis, eliciting a hissing intake of breath from the Angel as she slowly pumped her hand, drawing his skin up and down. “I like a guy who doesn’t have to put it in me at every possible opportunity…”

“Mmmmh… Amanda, you’re…”

“A horrible cock-tease?” She winked, and squeezed. “Sometimes I can be. I’ll make it up to you tonight, though. Promise.” She started to rub her thumb’s pad over the tip of his exposed head, making Rumisiel bite his lip and close his eyes. “Oh, this is too beautiful. You’re too easy to get going.”

Amanda released him and rolled off, lithely emerging from under the covers and stretching. Luxuriously framed in the light hitting the window’s shade, she was fit without being overtly muscular, curvaceous, with breasts that were not tiny but not too heavy, capped with hard, bright pink nipples, and she had a thin path of brown pubic hair above her mound, without having any actually around her vagina, and a tattoo of something Rumisiel couldn’t really make out without boosting his vision—which he declined to do—on her hip. She walked around the bed, flopping back on his left side, caressing his cheek. “The bathroom’s in there,” she murmured, pointing to a side door. “It really irks me when guys or girls I bring home watch me in the shower without joining me, so don’t do it, ’kay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” She squeezed his cheek, softly. “Other than that, poke around if you want to. I’m more or less out of food in the fridge, but help yourself to anything you can find. My toy drawer is on the bottom shelf of the nightstand.” She winked. “Go ahead and paw through it if you must. There’s something in there for boys, too, just don’t get any of your delicious semen on my damn sheets.”

“Uhh…” Rumisiel blushed lightly, eliciting another giggle from his new companion.

“Too easy. Keep drinking that pineapple juice. Makes sucking you a pleasure rather than a chore.”

Amanda stood up faster than he could comment, walking to the door to the bathroom, which she disappeared through, leaving Rumisiel with a groaningly-hard erection and a cryptic comment about fruit juice, under the covers enjoying the luxury of a real bed for once. He rolled to his side, smiling. “I’m not sure entirely what just happened, but I think I like it.” He pondered the cryptic fruit juice comment; the answer occurred to him after some time. During their time as Observationists together, Cassiel had occasionally aided him in getting information or access to something by seducing a mortal. She had once commented how ‘disgusting’ mortal seed was, so he supposed it must taste different. “Weird… Ah well.” His distracting erection having gone down after a few minutes of listening to the sound of Amanda’s shower running, he sat up, boosting his vision and surveying her loft.

Amanda’s apartment was a place of living, not simply a place of existing, he decided. It had the feel of a dwelling, as well as the knickknacks of life. A collage of origami cranes hung from the ceiling by two wire coat hangers bound together, a clock decorated with beads that had been affixed with hot glue. An open closet full of clothes which ran the gamut from ‘practical’ to ‘spicy’ to ‘whimsical’, a table with the discarded box of Chinese take-out upon it.

The room had a smell, too: a warm, pleasant smell, like spices. Sitting up and turning his head, Rumisiel smiled as he saw a shelf with many objects upon it: an incense burner, gel-based scent thing, a copy of the Bible, various knick-knacks, charms, bracelets, all kinds of bric-a-brac.

“Waitaminute…” Curiosity piqued, Rumisiel held his hand out—the Bible slipped from the shelf, smoothly, into his hands. It felt too light, and he opened it.

“Whoa! ” Rumisiel’s eyes lit up, beholding a stash of familiar greenery and rolling papers. He laughed to the empty loft. “Woman after my own heart.” With a grin he closed the book, contemplated but just as quickly discarded the idea of helping himself to her stash, and returned the book to its place on the shelf.

Yawning, Rumisiel stretched out and started to look around. “Where’re my clothes?” he mused to himself, as he leaned to either side of the bed, then slipped out of it, poking around. “Ah.” His brand-new clothes were at the foot of the bed, as were the ones Amanda had been wearing yesterday. He let out a chuckle, picking up the lacy, frilly, translucent brassiere in the pile. “Sorry I missed that.”

Hearing the shower turn off, Rumisiel looked back to the door. It didn’t take long for Amanda to emerge, with a towel around her short brown hair, and a much larger towel around her body. “Up and about?” She crossed quickly to Rumisiel, letting the towel fall from her body. She pressed herself into him and Rumisiel held his arms out, wrapping them around her waist; their lips met, as she pressed her very soft body, warm and wet, into his. One hand slid around his hip, squeezing his rear and digging her short, neat fingernails into his buttock, the other taking his flaccid—though not for long—penis in her hand, squeezing it softly.

“Mmm-Mmmh!” Rumisiel’s eyes opened wide at her forward, tactile flirtation, stiffening in her grasp, as Amanda pushed the kiss into him, leaning up on the balls of her feet and pressing harder into the kiss, before pulling away. He was blushing lightly, while she grinned at him.

“Too easy, Rumisiel.” She stepped forward, and he hissed softly as she put her weight on foot.

“What can I say? I’m not used to a girl taking control.”

“Do you like it?”

Rumisiel’s wince turned into a grin. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Perfect. A lot of guys have trouble giving up control. But you have to know how to give it up to know how to take it, I think.” She winked back, and slid down, biting his left nipple and eliciting a groan from him. “Speaking of control, do me a big favor and wash my clothes with yours, would you? The key to the building laundry is in my nightstand.” She backed away, kicking her towel elegantly up and wrapping it around her body before he could get a chance to look at the tattoo again. “My soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend left some spare clothes here; they’ll fit you, sorta, so you can wear them while you’re washing yours. I’d love to play with you, but I gotta get going to get to that final.”

The whirlwind-like Amanda was almost overwhelming, but Rumisiel found it a welcome and fresh change from the girls of his past. He sat back on her bed and watched with a cheesy grin as she dried herself with great speed, dancing to the closet nimbly around her furniture and pulling out clothes for the day, as well as a pair of men’s shorts and a tee shirt, tossing the latter towards the bed. She was dried, dressed, equipped with her backpack, kissing him once more—heartily—and out the door inside of ten minutes, leaving Rumisiel blinking and grinning hugely as he pulled on the oversized shorts and shirt, setting off to do the laundry while occasionally readjusting the shorts so they didn’t fall off him.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:38 A.M.

As the door closed on Rumisiel walking out with a basket full of laundry, Cassiel set her camera down on the kitchenette counter, clenching her fists angrily. It had been risky, but Rumisiel was not known for using his Sight Beyond. She took the film carefully out of the camera, and flicked the roll at the counter; it unfurled rapidly into full-sized pages, large Celestial Photos.

Images taken on Celestial Film captured far more than mere light, though they of course offered superb performance in the visual light spectrum as well—they captured images of the supernatural. So in the image of that damned mortal fellating Rumisiel, his wings and halo were visible as translucent blue outlines. The mortal girl—the whore—was surrounded by an aura of violet and pale yellow: strong lust and pleasant affection. The room had no particular aura—it had no special emotional or supernatural ties.

Cassiel stared at the images in her hands; that mortal girl’s face sliding down on Rumisiel’s shaft for the first time, and the climax shot, her eyes closed, greedily guzzling his seed like a treat. She was shaking, and the pictures fell from her hands; Cassiel raised her fists, and slammed them down on the heavy table.

SMASH! The heavy wooden table shattered under her phenomenal blow, the contents of the table flying everywhere. Cassiel gasped as she realized what she had done, and looked at her balled fists; unblemished, of course. With her seals undone, she could have punched through the heavy construction brick wall; the wooden table stood no chance.

“No… No! ” She sobbed. “I can not, I will not, I am not jealous! I can’t be jealous! Rrgh!” This was different; she had never seen or spied upon Rumisiel and that orange-haired tramp from Tempest in such a compromising position, though not for lack of trying. For one thing, even if Rumisiel never looked Beyond, his brother did so as a habit; for another, they never, ever, seemed to do anything affectionate in public.

She couldn’t let this affect her so. She was so over that bastard, that jackass. Cassiel held her hand out; her fallen photos flew up and placed themselves back on the counter next to the others. Cassiel sniffed, and channeled the emotions she was denying into more destructive emotions—imagining, gleefully, the horror and pain on that orange-haired car bitch’s face when she showed her the photos. After all, Celestial Photographs would appear to be normal to someone who had no Sight Beyond.

“Oh, yes… But this isn’t enough.” Cassiel laughed to herself, holding her hand out; the pieces of the shattered table levitated themselves into place and fused back together with a golden glow, a deep light emerging from the cracks in it, then disappearing as they became solid, as good as brand new. “I’m going to enjoy this, Rumisiel. I hope this New York whore is really good, because your girlfriend’s never going to speak to you again.” She pounded one fist into another, and held her hand out again, picking the objects up, arranging them back on the table exactly as they had been, even stuffing the discarded rice grains back into the box of take-out.

“You’re done for, jackass. You hear me? Oh, of course not.” Cassiel laughed to herself; she convinced herself the laugh was not forced. “You hear me?! I’m going to show her these, and she’s going to toss you and your brother out on the street! And then where will you go? Oh, you’re going to suffer, Rumisiel; just like you made me suffer!”

She turned to the counter, stuffing the photos into her growing portfolio of ruination pictures, then took her camera and laughed as she teleported out.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:21 A.M.

Rumisiel walked back into Amanda’s apartment, wearing his own clothes again, and returned the shorts and shirt to the closet where he had seen Amanda take them. “Hmmm. Now what?” Now, he should go search, but… “Oooh. Right.” He realized, like a flash of the blindingly obvious, that he had no means to get in contact with Amanda. He had, after all, no cellular telephone. “Oh, I’m an idiot.”

It was a quandary; he couldn’t, after all, simply not go and search for Michael McGowan… but he also couldn’t just leave Amanda hanging. Fortunately, perhaps, for him, the telephone rang. He walked over to it, picking it up, inquiringly answering it, “Hello?”

“Rumisiel, good, you’re still there.”

“Yeah, I am. What’s up?”

“I’m at my college, it’s eight minutes ’till my finals start. I’m gonna be here a while, unfortunately. Like, until two p.m.”

“Okay, Amanda.”

“Get a pen and paper ready. It’s below the phone, in the drawer.”

“Okay, um…” Rumisiel balanced the phone between his head and shoulder, fumbling. “Okay, I got it, go ahead.”

“Good, here’s my cell number.” She provided it, and Rumisiel wrote it down. “It’s going to be off until after two, though. Give me a call around two, two-ten or so. I’ll be underground by two thirty heading home, but I’ll wait on the surface for the call as long as I can. If I miss you, just go back to my loft, or call me here—the number’s on the phone.”

“Okay. I got it. Your laundry’s done, by the way.”

“Thank you. Gotta go!”

“Bye.”

Rumisiel hung up. “Now, where should I start?” He picked up his jacket, dropping it on the bed, then sat on the bed and put his boots on. “Oh, wait, I need to get my shower.”

Feeling like an idiot, Rumisiel grinned to himself, pulling boots and shorts off. He walked into the shower; the bathroom was very cramped, unlike the bathroom in Ash’s house. On the other hand, it smelled very much like ‘girl’. Although there was—due to his own incompetence—a female residing in the Upton house, with a plethora of soaps and shampoos and such targeted at girls, Rumisiel was certain that they were the ones that had been stocked by the Misfile’s accounting of girl-Ash’s life, and Ash simply moved them about, preferring to use the soaps and shampoos that Doctor Upton stocked for himself, Rumisiel, and Vashiel.

“Such a little thing… It never really occurred to me before.” Rumisiel grinned; maybe this escapade was doing him some good. He felt freer than he ever had before, at the least, and he wouldn’t have noticed something like that earlier. He looked around the shower area; finding the bottles on the bottom of the stand-up, glass-doored shower, Rumisiel picked up the green bottle of Irish Spring. “Same stuff Doctor Upton uses.” Rumisiel chuckled, turned on the shower, got in, and started thinking to himself: pondering developments; wondering what had happened to Ash and Emily. He briefly considered—he could certainly teleport back to Ash’s mom’s house. Still… “Ash and Em,” he dramatically stated in the wonderfully acoustic shower stall, “would kill me. My brother would never find my body.” Rumisiel laughed from his joke, and emerged from the shower with a smile. He could have simply dried himself with a burst of supernatural power—a trick he often used when running late—but elected to towel off the luxuriously slow way, with one of Amanda’s massive, fluffy towels, thinking to himself that the woman had her priorities straight.

Soon enough, he was dried again, and dressed but for his jacket. “Now… where am I going to start looking? Mmmh…” With a sigh, Rumisiel bit his lip, thinking. Then it hit him. “I know. I’ll hope against hope that Michael went back to Alice’s house somehow, and he’s warm and safe in his own bed.” Letting out a wry laugh, Rumisiel put his jacket on, then undid his seals, popping his halo and wings. With his eyes closed, he pictured Alice’s street, himself above it, hovering. He snapped his fingers again.

Outside Alice McGowan’s Townhouse, Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, 9:58 A.M.

The street was not deserted, but fortunately, it was not heavily crowded, either. Rumisiel, being invisible, simply landed on the steps to Alice’s home, and made himself visible when nobody was looking.

“Going around town with Amanda was fun, and she’s a great guide. I can move faster alone, though… Pity, really.” Rumisiel walked up the door, ringing the bell this time.

The door was soon answered; this time by Alice herself. “Oh, thank god. You’ve found him?!” The look on Rumisiel’s face must have given it away, and her face fell. “You haven’t?”

“Uhh… No. We searched the Kitchen and Central Park last night, but we didn’t see hide nor hair of him… I was hoping you’d maybe heard from him, or of him.”

Alice shook her head. “I haven’t… Oh god… What if he’s killed himself?!”

“Calm—calm down. He tried, but he got scared. I don’t think he’ll try again.”

“But… What if you’re wrong?”

Rumisiel closed his eyes. “I don’t want to be wrong. You can’t think like that. Don’t give up hope. I will find your brother.”

The red-haired woman let out a dramatic, desperate sigh. “Okay… I… I’ll just s-stay here, then?”

“Good idea. I’ll go find him.”

“Where’s the other one, that girl, uh, Amanda?”

“She’s taking a final right now. As soon as she’s done, she’s going to join me in searching, if I haven’t found him already.”

“Okay, then. Good luck, godspeed.”

“Thank you.” Rumisiel turned away, and sighed, as he walked back out to the street. He needed to search again. In the daylight it should be easier—Michael would be more likely to be out and about.

“Where should I start,” he mused to himself, as he strolled down the street. Familiar territory, perhaps; maybe the Kitchen. Those underpasses looked as if they had a lot of homeless around them; sheltered from the sky, more or less, and with all the concrete around, it would be a relatively good place for someone who was homeless to find shelter.

Rumisiel ran his fingers through his snow-white hair, musing to himself. “Where do I know well enough that’s closest to the Kitchen? Oooh, I know.” Chuckling to himself, he grinned at his cleverness; he had become familiar enough with the office in the building in Hell’s Kitchen where he had searched the records to go there easily, and unlike teleporting outside Alice’s townhouse, it wouldn’t require he pop his seals and pull another appearing act, which was dangerous in a city where every window could have eyes behind them. It would be a good start. He focused on making himself unimportant to mortal eyes, and walked a few blocks to be sure nobody was observing him, then snapped his fingers. The world whooshed around him, and he was back in Hell’s Kitchen. The room was dark, but he reached out—feeling the filing cabinet, he walked to the door, and slipped out, then out of the building, onto the streets of the city.

“Now, where to?” Rumisiel wondered to himself, and started towards the traffic exchanges, to search under the overpasses again.

Under The Overpasses, Hell’s Kitchen, 12:02 P.M.

Rumisiel had been searching for hours, with little success. Most of the people he found didn’t want to talk to him, although he had stumbled onto a bizarre sort of bazaar under the underpass, run out of the back of panel vans and selling all sorts of things. Nothing he had felt compelled to buy, though. Most people didn’t talk to him much, and he was beginning to get discouraged, walking back towards the sidewalks, when an older, hard-bitten man looked up at him from a tiny shack made of shipping pallets and other assorted wood

“Hey! C’mere.”

Rumisiel slid closer to the shack. “Yeah?”

“You’re lookin’ for some kid, right?”

Rumisiel nodded. “Yes.” He took out the picture, letting the stained, stinking bum have a look.

“Oh, oh yeah… I knows this kid, I’ve seen him. Usta hang out here awhile back. Fell in with a bad crowd… His name… Eh, started with an M?”

“Michael. Michael McGowan, yes, that’s him.”

“Riiight. Right, that’s the kid… Yeah.” The hobo shook his head.

“What happened to him?!”

“Well, see, kids in the city, on their own… Not good, you know? So sometimes, well… Older runaways and the like take ‘em in, look after ‘em… But not all the older runaways are good people, either… Sure, they look after ‘em, feed and clothe ‘em—after a fashion—but, well…”

“Well, what?!”

“Look, I don’t mean to be, shall we say, rude or anything, but the guy that Michael fell in with…

Eh, he’s not exactly a fan of the ladies, if you catch my meaning? Nor is he all that nice…”

Fear—fear and anger—welled up in Rumisiel, and he practically roared, “Where is he?!”

“Easy, easy,” the hobo said, plaintively holding his fingerless-gloved hands. “The guy’s name is Hugo something or other. In this weather, the folks who ain’t all blubbery and can exist on booze and bread like me, well, they tend to hole up in abandoned buildings. Or not-so abandoned buildings, if they can find a way into a part nobody ever goes to.”

“Where is he?!” Rumisiel repeated.

“Look, I know where, but… Hey, c’mon. It’s the middle o’ friggin’ winter, it’s cold… I know something you need to know… And from the look of that fine coat with your fancy shiny buttons, it looks like you’ve got some of the ready to spread around, y’know?”

“Some of the ready? (That’s one I haven’t heard in awhile…) You’re not from New York, are you?”

“As it happens, I’m not. Meself, I’m from merry old Dublin town. Be a bum there, be a bum here, all the same I’d rather be a bum at home. But, eh, came to this country in the ’60s, been stuck here ever since. So, what’ll it be?”

“All right, all right. I get the deal.” Rumisiel scowled. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the top bill—a twenty.

The bum looked at it. “Come on, it’s Christmas, where’s yer givin’ spirit.”

Rumisiel thought back to the dream he had. It was entirely plausible as a scenario—giving the bum too much money might make him a target. Then again, the information he needed was being held hostage, so Rumisiel sighed. “Fine.” He stuffed the twenty away, and took out one of the hundreds. “That’s all you’re getting. Tell me what I need to know.”

The bum considered the bill for a moment, and reached for it—Rumisiel held on. “Tell me where!”

“All right, all right. It’s seven-forty-seven, West 30th. Go north, can’t miss it.” Rumisiel relinquished the bill. “Nice doin’ business with ya, hope you find your kid safe and sound!”

Rumisiel nodded, and walked away, swiftly. He had an address, and he was going to find Michael, by hook or by crook.

The Corner Of 12th Avenue And W 30th, New York, 1:05 P.M.

Rumisiel was dejected. It had taken him a while to walk this far, and he had spent the rest of roughly an hour scouring roughly a block and a half looking for the address with no luck. Amanda would be getting out of her classes soon, and he was so close, yet so far. He couldn’t find the address; the last he could find was in the six hundreds. “The streets must be numbered funny,” he muttered to himself, and finally gave in. He approached a uniformed officer sitting in a car at the sidewalk, knocked on the window. It rolled down.

“Can I help you?”

“Ah, yeah… I’m looking for someplace, but I can’t seem to find it.”

“I’m not a tour guide, but where do you need to find?”

“Um… 747 West 30th?”

“Seven forty seven? Sure it’s not six forty seven?”

“Quite sure. The guy who gave me directions was very clear.”

The officer turned to his partner sitting at the driver’s seat, slapping her forearm. “Did you get this guy? He’s looking for 747 West 30th.” The officer at the wheel snorted into her coffee, and started to crack up; the officer in the passenger seat followed suit, for a few moments of raucous laughter.

Rumisiel, feeling like an idiot, asked, “What’s so funny?”

The officer looked up at him with a wry, sympathetic grin. “You’re not from ’round here, are you?”

“Uhhh, no.”

“Son, you been had. 747 West 30th is the middle of the Hudson River.” The officer pointed out along the street, across the highway ringing Manhattan, and Rumisiel let out a groan, slapping his forehead. “Where are you looking for?”

“Ah…” Rumisiel shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Thanks for your time.”

“Right. Good luck, son. And don’t believe the guy when he tells you he can sell you the Brooklyn Bridge, either. It’s not for sale!”

The officers’ chuckles dwindling behind him, Rumisiel slunk off back into the city. He’d need to meet up with Amanda, which meant intercepting the train she was going to ride at the subway station. But which station?

He thought back to the map of the subway they had seen under Lawrence Street Station; she took the blue lines—and he wondered to himself why didn’t they just call them by their color coordination instead of doing their weird letter system—back to Manhattan, and just let it ride her into Flushing. “Grand Central,” he muttered to himself. “She has to pass through Grand Central.” Of course, he was on the other side of Manhattan. On foot, he might be able to make it in time, assuming he could make good time through the crowd.

He didn’t want to make that assumption. The closest station to him on the right line was 28th Street Station, he figured from the map; so he started walking.

Grand Central Station, 2:10 P.M.

It had taken Rumisiel much less time to get to Grand Central than he expected it would have; he had been waiting for twenty minutes for the clock to show the hour. A call at precisely two had given him no answer, just the voice mailbox, in which he declined to leave a message, so he had simply putzed about on the platform until two ten, when he tried again.

This time, he got through, hearing Amanda’s say, “Hello?”

“Amanda, it’s me.”

“All right. What’s going on?”

“Thought I had a lead, but uh, I’ll explain later. You getting back on the IRT-Flushing line?”

“Yeah. Why? Where are you?”

“Grand Central. I’ll meet you here.”

“Really? All right, but I’m starving. I was gonna go home and scrounge some leftovers before getting back on the hunt.”

“I’ll buy lunch, no problem.”

“All right. How’d the hunt go?”

“I scoured the underpasses in the Kitchen, no look. Some hobo told me he had a lead, but it was a snipe hunt.”

“Huh. All right. We’ll talk when we get there, eh?”

“Yeah. I’ll just futz around on the platform you’re coming in from.”

“Okay. I gotta jet. TTYL!” She hung up, leaving Rumisiel confused from the strange acronym she said aloud.

“This is gonna be a hell of a wait… I wonder where I should take her?”

Rumisiel spent a while pondering that question; he even tried asking random passerby the question; after getting a couple of cold shoulders, a vocabulary instruction in rude ways to tell someone to go away, and starting a brawl on the platform between two fans of Tad’s Steaks and three of Chevy’s Fresh Mex, each of whom insisted the other’s dining of choice was an experience in micro- and macrobiotic warfare—terms he could thank Emily more than anyone else for vaguely understanding—he simply left it alone.

Her train arrived slightly overdue, and Rumisiel caught her coming out of the car. She took off towards him, and he caught her in a hug.

“H-Hey.”

“Hey!” Amanda smiled brightly, kissing his cheek. “I think I aced the final!”

“Really? Awesome.”

“Let’s go find somewhere to eat, and you can tell me about this snipe hunt of yours. What’s a snipe, anyway?”

Manhattan, 4:11 P.M.

“Man, I still don’t believe you went looking for an address that doesn’t exist. And you paid the guy? A hundred?” Rumisiel sheepishly scratched the back of her head, while Amanda pulled the brown wool balaclava off her head, swatting at his arm with it. “You really are a goof, hmm?”

“Well…”

“Did you think there was no possibility he was just making shit up? ”

Rumisiel shook his head, grinning as they walked down the street. “Sorry… I really didn’t think about that.”

“God, what would you do without me?”

Rumisiel laughed. “I don’t know. I’d probably be lost and confused by now.”

“Yeah, well…” Amanda threw a short jab into his ribs. “You know, the story the bum told you has me thinking. He might not have been lying—at least, not all the way. Abandoned buildings would be a good place to look. And it might be that the ‘Hugo’ person he told you about might be real, though I wouldn’t bet too much money on it. After all, you already did.”

Rumisiel rolled his eyes and grinned. “Yeah? Maybe I oughta go back under that overpass and find that bum and get my money back.”

“You really are lost in the big city, aren’t you? He’s long gone, miles away by now. Might not even be in New York anymore, if he was under the Lincoln Tunnel entrance.”

Rumisiel let out a defeated sigh, and Amanda smiled sympathetically, pulling the balaclava back over her head. “So… How do we go about finding the abandoned building where our missing >McGowan is?”

“I don’t know… It doesn’t seem terribly bright to go investigating abandoned buildings at random. But what choice do we have?”

“I don’t know.” Rumisiel shrugged, and licked his lips. “It’s a lot harder to find someone who’s moving than it is to just look for someplace you’ll find, eventually.”

“Yeah, I…” Amanda started, letting out a giggle.

Rumisiel looked around. “What, did you see him?”

Amanda was fishing in the front pocket of her jeans, though. “No, my cell phone went off right next to my clit.” Rumisiel gave her a wry look, and she grinned. “Okay, I was just baiting you that time. I’m just ticklish is all, and vibrations set it off.” She held the phone’s front face up to her. “It’s… Oh fuck, it’s my mom.” She sighed. “I have to take this.”

She flipped the phone open, holding it up to her head. Rumisiel, respectful of her privacy, didn’t boost his hearing to hear the voice coming out of the tiny speaker. “Hello, mom… What? I’m in Manhattan. Helping a friend look for a lost boy.” Amanda held the phone sharply away from the speaker, a spate of colorful and inventive invective bursting forth in some dialect of Chinese, to the effect of ‘what by the innumerable bleeding anuses of all the hell’s raping-fields are you doing that for’. As an Angel, Rumisiel could perfectly understand and speak to anybody, regardless of the language—as well as understand writings and other forms of visual record of thoughts and concepts. Amanda got angry, replying, “Mom, I’m twenty two. I’m not a child, I can… Rrrrgh!” Amanda rolled her eyes. “No, I will not stop just because you think it’s unsafe… That’s none of your business!” She scowled. “What? Fine. Fine! I’ll be there.”

Amanda shut the phone and shoved it back into the pockets of her jeans, wearing a vicious look on her face that elicited a sympathetic smile from Rumisiel. “That doesn’t sound like it bodes well.”

“It doesn’t.” She sighs. “My mother thinks I’m crazy for being here helping you, and she wants me to come to the traditional family dinner tonight, since I don’t have the excuse of studying anymore.”

“Youch…” Rumisiel scratched the back of his head, as they started to walk back towards the

subway station. “Hey, why did you have a final on a Sunday, anyway?”

“Faked a religious excuse. It’s not as crowded on Sunday tests as the others, and this way, I can just get it over, done with, and party.” Her grin fell. “Or spend another awkward dinner around the family table getting dirty looks from most of my folks.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll probably be home around ten or so, and you have my cell phone number… Actually, if you could give me a call and make it sound like a credible emergency so I can ditch sometime around eight, that would be just awesome.”

“Can do.”

“Thanks. Keep looking. With your luck, you might just find him.” Amanda kissed him again, right outside the 42nd Street Station’s massive, cavernous awning, and disappeared into the chasm of the subway station, leaving Rumisiel again on his own.

The Top Of The Empire State Building, 9:21 P.M.

Rumisiel’s luck seemed spent; head in hands, he wallowed in his own angelic angst. He had been unable to find Michael—he walked all over the Kitchen, even slipped into a few buildings which seemed abandoned or sufficiently run-down as to have squatters, without any luck.

He was sitting on the top of the Empire State Building’s spire, his seals undone but otherwise invisible, scanning the city with his boosted vision in a futile effort to find that boy again. The previous five hours had given him no luck whatsoever—and even his attempted rescue of Amanda from her family function had backlashed, since her parents had taken the call because she was in the bathroom, and his attempt to get to speak with her was met with hostility from her mother who had heard his accent and launched into a tirade about a foreign boy, to say nothing of a non-Asian boy. Of course, it had been in Chinese, but he had caught the gist of it. Unfortunately, he had the naive hope to believe that if he addressed her in the language she was cursing at him in, she might respect him some more; that had backfired, and she had hung the phone up immediately.

So he found himself on top of one of New York’s most recognizable landmarks, his back a few feet from a massive radio transmitter and feet dangling above lesser transmitters, staring out through his fingers at the city for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

He heard a laugh. He had been hearing the occasional laugh from people on the observation deck below, but this one was closer—in front of him. And worse, familiar. “What are you doing here?! ” He looked up; Cassiel was floating a few feet in front of him, wearing thick, heavy winter clothing and—annoyingly—a brown balaclava pulled down over the top of her head, much like the one he had given Amanda and how she wore it.

“Me? Why, I am taking advantage of my vacation to sightsee some of the world’s biggest landmarks. What are you doing here?”

Rumisiel narrowed his eyes; he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t exactly have any proof otherwise.

Not that proof ever did him any good. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, removing his hands from his in front of his face.

Cassiel laughed. “Oh my! Cheating on your darling Ash? What would she think?”

Rumisiel rolled his eyes; Ash, he suspected, might only be pissed because he was doing something she hadn’t let him. Nevertheless. “That’s not your business, but if you must know…” Rumisiel sighed. “I’m looking for a lost boy.”

Cassiel smirked at him. “A lost child? In New York?” She started to laugh, and Rumisiel felt anger well up inside him. Where did she get off taunting him? He took a deep breath, about to reply angrily, but squished it against his better judgment. He needed help; anybody’s help.

“Yes, this lost boy.” Rumisiel produced the picture of Michael from his pocket, holding it out. “I know you’re good at finding things, Cassiel. Please help me find him.”

The other Angel looked surprised and taken-aback for a moment at his request, then she took the photograph from his hands. “Let’s see…”

She considered the photograph for some time, and Rumisiel felt hope swell in his heart. If she led him to Michael, he’d… he’d kiss her.

“Let’s see… he’s somewhere… Mmmmh… I’d say he’s somewhere in the city.”

“Yes, yes…”

Cassiel focused on the image a second more; then she shrugged, and handed it back. “That’s all you get. Somewhere in New York.”

“What?!”

Cassiel smirked. “I’m not going to do your work for you, Rumisiel.”

“What… Urrrgh!” Rumisiel shoved the picture back into his pocket. “This isn’t funny, Cassiel! He’s in danger every second I can’t find him!”

“Then you’d better get moving, shouldn’t you?” She smirked. “What do you care, anyway? He’s just some mortal teenager. They get killed all the time.”

Rumisiel balled his fists up. “How can you be so callous?!”

“What do you want me to do? Get a bleeding heart every single time some mortal kid gets himself into trouble? Spend all of my life fixing human’s mistakes for them?”

“You could help me find a lost, terrified kid in the middle of winter in the biggest and most dangerous city on the world!”

“Mmmm… Nope. It’s not my problem, and it’s not yours, either. And I’m not going to help you get back into Heaven by doing stuff like this.”

“Rrrgh…” Rumisiel pushed off the building, floating next to her. “What’s your problem? Don’t you care that he’s all alone in the middle of New York at night? He could be bleeding, he could be getting raped, any kind of awfulness!”

Cassiel slid back from him at his outburst; for a moment she looked taken aback. Then she shrugged. “So what? He’s just some mortal kid. It’s not like he matters. That’s your problem, Rumisiel. You never had perspective.” She giggled, putting her head in one hand, smirking her annoying smirk at her. “You care about these humans too much, and it’s stupid. It cost you a phenomenal job, it cost you your career, the respect of your father when you were finally earning it…” She pushed close, fast; pressing herself into him. It was like a jolt, feeling Cassiel’s body against his again; she was smaller, more slender than Amanda, much less endowed in the bust, but as much as Rumisiel loathed her, something inside him longed for that feeling again, and he fought his instinct to embrace her. She slid her cheek next to his, whispering in his pointed ear, “and it cost you… me.”

Cassiel vanished, teleporting away, leaving Rumisiel angrier than before, with nothing to do to vent. “Cassiel! ” he railed angrily, slamming one fist into the palm of his hand. “Rrrrgh. Da… rrrrgh! Shit!” He had come close again to saying something terribly destructively Wrathful, and he needed to cool down. Turning towards the Hudson River, he flapped hard, streaking towards it.

He hit like a depth charge going in, and before he knew it, found himself sunk to the mud at the bottom, mere inches from his face. The frigid water all around him was certainly effective at cooling him off, however; he was shivering inside of a second, and he teleported back up into the air above the Empire State Building, dripping onto the street far below, feeling better for the senseless act of smashing himself into the water. He shook himself, then forced out a burst of power to dry all the water from himself, his clothes, his jacket, and his effects.

“Now what?” Rumisiel sighed; he really didn’t know, so he cast his gaze to Time’s Square, to see a clock. It was nearly the time Amanda would be getting home; he’d need to go to Flushing.

Outside Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:51 P.M.

Rumisiel teleported outside Amanda’s apartment in the hallway. He took some time to make sure he was alone, then he sealed himself, and tried knocking. There was no answer, so he supposed he must have gotten here first; he waited, leaning on the wall and closing his eyes.

It wasn’t too long afterwards that he heard her voice again. “Bad day?”

Rumisiel opened his eyes and nodded. “Bad day. And you?”

“Bad evening,” she replied, wryly, unlocking the door and walking in, followed by Rumisiel. “No luck finding him?”

“None.” Rumisiel sighed. “It’s like looking for a needle in an entire vast field of hay.”

“Pity we can’t burn the hay off,” Amanda replied, and sighed; she locked the door behind them, and slumped in a chair at the table.

Rumisiel joined her in the next chair over. “I didn’t get you in trouble with your folks, did I?”

“No more so than usual. They hate it when I wind up with a girl, or a guy who’s not part Chinese.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Yes.” Amanda smiled, and sighed, laying her head on her forearm. “My mother’s the one who set me up with the jackass I need to lose like a bad habit. She never even met him, he’s like the nephew of one of the girls she works with.”

“Arranged relationships? Youch.”

“Yeah… Mmmmh, take your coat off.”

He did so, wrapping it around his chair; then he felt her feet in his lap, pressing into his thighs; even fumbling to pull down the zip of his pants with her toes. “What…”

Amanda smiled weakly. “I said I’d make tonight worth it, remember?”

“You don’t seem in the mood.” Rumisiel reached down, as she finally got his zip down, and was pressing her toes within.

He started to squeeze Amanda’s feet, and she sighed, leaning back in the chair. “I’m not. Ugh, not much makes me angrier than having to deal with my goddamn family’s idiot backwards ways.”

Rumisiel stood up and gently picked Amanda up out of her chair. He walked to the bed with her and set her down, then sat next to her. “I’m all ears.”

Amanda reached up and pulled his head down, kissing his cheek. “See, this is the difference between you and Robert. He’d let me give him a foot-job, then tell me to get on my knees, too. You?” She smiled, and undid his pants’ button, sliding a hand into his thermal underwear; she slid her hand neatly around his flaccid-but-stiffening penis, and leaned into his side. Rumisiel let her push him against the headboard and place her head on his shoulder. “You don’t push at all.”

Rumisiel wrapped his hand around her shoulder, giving Amanda an affectionate, supporting squeeze. “Sex is good, but… Eh, it’ll happen, right? I’d rather have a happy friend than an unhappy lover.” Amanda giggled at him again, and he continued, “But I thought you said you weren’t in the mood right now?”

“I’m not… I’m just a very tactile person.” Amanda smirked, and kissed his pointed ear; fortunately she didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with it. “I know, it seems contradictory, doesn’t it?”

“Well, you’re squeezing my penis, but you’re not in the mood… It does seem a bit contradictory, but… Mmmh, to be honest, I’m not really in the mood either.”

“Oh really? This says otherwise.” She squeezed him, and Rumisiel couldn’t help but laugh.

“Those are always in the mood, even if we’re not.”

“Really? Wow, I think you’ve just solved the big male mystery.” Amanda wryly punched his upper arm, and released his shaft, withdrawing her hand and lying atop him, leaning back on Rumisiel’s body. “So, what ruined your day?”

“The psycho ex. I can’t find a kid to save his life, but I run into her?”

“Oh, ouch. Jeez, what happened?”

“I was so desperate I asked her to help.”

“You were? Heh, why?”

“She’s pretty good at finding things. I think that might be how she found me.”

“Damn, that sucks huge donkey balls.”

“Tell me about it. She just sarcastically said her amazing powers of deduction told her that he was probably still in the city, then laughed and left.”

“Fuck. What a heartless bitch.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she can be.”

Rumisiel closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Amanda, and pushed his boots off; the new footwear didn’t want to come off without being untied, but he slipped out of them anyway. Amanda tugged his socks off with her toes, and he chuckled. “You seem…”

“Pretty good with my feet?” Amanda giggled. “The boyfriend and girlfriend I had before Robert were both into that kind of thing. It’s actually kinda fun, in a silly way…” She grinned at him. “Actually, one time, I jerked that boyfriend off with my feet under the dinner table in front of my whole family.”

“You did? Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I did. It was hilariously funny, I thought.”

“Mmmmh. What happened to that one?”

“Well, he loved that, he loved having me jerk him off, or suck him off, or putting it up my ass… I couldn’t figure out why he never really wanted to put it where it was supposed to go, though.”

“Huh. Afraid of getting you pregnant?”

Amanda laughed. “That’ll be the day. I have a hormone-enhanced IUD. The only more effective birth control would be a hysterectomy. No, I couldn’t figure it out… until I realized he was checking out other men.”

“Oh, wow. That must have been a crushing blow. Is that what broke you up?”

Amanda shook her head. “Not really. It pissed me off, but, on the other hand, I had in my vile clutches a boy who liked to fuck other boys. That was fun for a while.”

“What? Watching him and other men?”

“Yeah. Then he found a boyfriend, ran off to California, and that was that.” Amanda shrugged. “Easy come, easy go, right?”

Rumisiel laughed. “That’s pretty…”

“Seems careless, doesn’t it? I don’t have anything,” she assured him. “I get blood checks once every month, and I save the reports to prove it.”

“Heh. I believe you.”

“Rumisiel, what would you call it if I said I didn’t feel in the mood for sex, but I still had this growing urge to pull your pants down and slide myself onto you?”

“Hmm…” Rumisiel didn’t blush. “I dunno. What do you mean?”

“Well…” Amanda smiled. “I don’t want to get pounded, or to ride you like a cowgirl, I just want you inside me, and I want to feel you holding me.”

“Heh… I dunno.” Rumisiel leaned forward and kissed Amanda’s neck. “I know what you mean.”

“You feel the same way?”

“Yeah, like…” Rumisiel chuckled, as Amanda squirmed out of her pants, tossing them over the side of the bed. “Yeah. Like I just want something with no hard work involved. I just want…”

“To hold me?” Amanda prompted him, as she pulled at his pants; he raised his hips, letting her tug his pants and underwear down to his ankles, where he pushed them off.

“Yeah.”

Rumisiel smiled, as Amanda caressed his thighs; then stroked her hand between them, squeezing his sac softly, before sliding her hand up his shaft. “Reach into the drawer on my nightstand, feel around until you find a tube of lube and give it to me.”

A bit puzzled, Rumisiel did so and handed her the bottle. “Mmmh… you’re not going to…”

“No, but I don’t feel like putting a lot of effort into this,” she murmured, opening the bottle and squirting some of the glistening, clear contents into her hand. “I just want to slide down easily, you know?” She wrapped her hand around his penis again, and Rumisiel’s back arched at the dichotomy of the cold liquid and her warm flesh.

He took her other hand, and smiled. “Yeah, I know. You sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” she replied, with a smile. “Are you? Would you rather wait until I’m in the mood to get hammered?”

“Actually… no. I like this.” Rumisiel closed his eyes. “My last girlfriend… Cassiel, she never did anything like this. Everything had to be a production for her. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t, pretending to get randomly seduced… I don’t think she ever just opened up to me like this.”

Amanda giggled quietly. Rumisiel opened his eyes to see that she was above him, braced on her knees. She was holding his penis with one hand, and she let go of his hand with the other, raising it to her headboard. “Ready?”

Rumisiel raised his hands to her sides. “Yeah.”

She closed her eyes and let her legs relax; holding him in the right direction, he trembled softly, then sighed with relief at the long-absent feeling of a woman’s vagina slowly sliding over the head of his shaft, pushing his skin down with it, clenching his sensitive head with her wet, velvety folds.

Amanda let out a quiet moan at the same time he did; placing her forehead against his, she held the position for a moment, before sliding down further. The lube she had applied, and her own wetness, let her glide easily down. The sensation was one of warmth and welcome as she slid over his shaft.

They moved their heads to the side at the same time, kissing one another on the nape of the neck, and both sighed in pleasure. The strange synchronization elicited a chuckle from Rumisiel at the same time it got one from Amanda. Their chuckles broke into stress-dissolving laughter, staring into one another’s eyes, and Amanda raised her arms to his shoulders, slowly starting to slide up and down on him, lazily.

“You’re not in a hurry, are you,” she asked.

“Not at all.. Mmmmh… You feel incredible.”

“So do you. Touch my pearl,” she commanded, and Rumisiel slid his hand down, between them;

gently rolling her engorged clit around on the pad of his finger. She moaned, quietly, at the feeling.

“Do you like it tight?”

“Tight?” he asked, and understood almost instantly: she squeezed herself around him, almost feeling as though… No, he was certain she was doing that on purpose. “Aa-aah… H-how?”

“I have a pair of ben-wa balls I practice with,” she replied with a grin. “I’ve read that it’s possible to actually be able to manipulate things with the Kegel muscles, but I’ve never been quite able to swap their position… Still,” she winked, squeezing again, the breath slipping from his lungs as she did.

“Wow… it feels…”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

Rumisiel let out a groan of pleasure: she was slowly, languidly riding him, squeezing his shaft with incredible muscular control, while he gently manipulated her clit. There was no hurry, no urgency, and that was new and pleasant, more so than any number of role-played seductions with Cassiel.

His ruminations were interrupted, however, by the sound of wooden buzzing. Their kiss broke, and he asked with a soft moan, “What’s that?”

“My cell phone. Ignore it.”

Rumisiel wanted to, badly, using his hand to guide Amanda’s hips back down, fully subsuming him again. “Mmmmhf… It might be Alice,” he pointed out.

“Aw, fuck, you’re right.” Amanda slid her legs out, wrapping them around his waist, and laid back; the position pulled his penis forward, sharply, nearly out of her, in fact, but she managed to keep a hold around his head with the tighter ring of muscles at her entrance, despite the copious lubrication. She tugged her pants up, looking at the phone’s face. “Ugh. It is Alice.” She answered it, “Alice? Have you found him? What? He’s where?!”

Rumisiel knew instinctively that was their cue; with only mild inner protest, he slid out of Amanda.

“Right. Calm down, Alice. We’ll go get him.” Amanda hung up. “He managed to call her, asked her to come get him.”

“Mmmmh. Fuck, timing, right?”

“Right.” Amanda groaned, and rolled off, with an unhappy sigh. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Shhh. There’s no need.” Rumisiel slid off the bed, picked his underwear up from the pile, put them on, and did his best to force his shaft to go soft again. “It’s not like you did anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No buts, Amanda.” Rumisiel stroked her cheek, as he flicked his pants to make them right-side-out.

“That was incredible.”

“You didn’t get off,” she pointed out.

“I don’t think ejaculating was the point of doing what we just did, anyway.”

“So what was?”

“Bonding. Bonding, and release. It certainly made me forget all the stress I had.”

Amanda smiled at him. “Yeah… me too.” She tugged her panties on, followed by her pants. “Gleh. Going to have to wash these tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Nope. My turn.”

Rumisiel chuckled softly. “All right, all right. So, we go and find him, and take him back to his sister?”

“Yeah. You were right: he is holed up in an abandoned building. Alice is scared stiff, of course.”

“Of course. Why doesn’t she get him? Or send the cops?”

“She’s at her grandmother’s bedside, poor girl. She’s torn between her ailing grandma and her missing brother.”

“Oh, I see. Jeez, I hope she makes it.”

“Yeah. Anyway, let’s get going.”

Outside An Abandoned Building, 10:21 P.M.

“Are you sure this is where you want me to leave you?” The cab driver asked, looking around the neighborhood, which was marked by abandoned vehicles, a few of them torched.

“Yeah.”

“All right. Your funeral, but I ain’t stickin’ around for no amount of money.”

Rumisiel looked back at Amanda. “You sure you want to come with me?”

She smirked and punched his upper arm. “Not a chance you’re losing me that easily. Let’s go.”

“Front or back?” The front door was creaking in the wind, but appeared shut, and might be locked.

“Let’s try the sides.”

The row was imperfect, some buildings having alleyways between them, and the building they were attempting to enter was one such building. Rumisiel and Amanda walked between the alley walls, illuminated by a flickering streetlight above. There was a service entrance on the side of the building they wanted, open. Looking at one another, they nodded, walking down the stone stairs and into the building.

The interior of the building’s basement was mostly dark, with one light at the far end’s stairs flickering on and off. The floor was covered in an inch or so of filthy water, which made Amanda sigh.

“You’re lucky you have those new damn boots. Mine aren’t so waterproof as they used to be.” Rumisiel looked back, offering his shoulders; Amanda was still on the last step before the water, and laughed. “All right. Alley-oop!” She jumped onto his back, clinging to his shoulders and wrapping her legs around his waist. Rumisiel carried her across the water, piggyback, letting her get down on the raised stone platform before the wooden stairs.

“Interesting that the light’s still on,” Rumisiel commented, as they carefully walked up the stairs.

“You think utilities inspectors want to come out here? I don’t think they can just turn off the power without actually inspecting, and if the inspectors refuse to come out without armed guards, it’s cheaper just to eat the loss.”

Nodding in understanding, they walked up to the first floor, and started to case it; it was empty and deserted, the walls worn down in spots to bare wood and splintered in places. Advancing up the stairs, Rumisiel looked around; the second floor was just as damaged and in poor condition as the first, piles of trash sitting around. Amanda made a disgusted sound, and he nodded. Then they heard a loud thump from above them, and a muffled cry.

Rumisiel and Amanda charged up the stairs. “Third, or fourth?” Rumisiel asked. Another muffled cry came, and Amanda pointed down the hallway. Rumisiel took off running towards the sound, followed hotly by Amanda on his heels.

“Whore!” The sound of a ferocious attack—metal digging into wood—filled their ears. “You know what happens to traitors! Huh? You know what happens to people who disrespect me! You go and disrespect me to the police?!”

A scream of terror rent the air; Rumisiel shifted into high gear, putting his power into his muscles and agility; he sped ahead even of Amanda, slamming through the door the sound was coming from.

Inside he found a terrifying sight: a tall, muscular man wearing a ratty overcoat holding a young girl—she couldn’t have been more than ten—against the wall, by the throat. His right fist was clenching a long length of metal chain, wrapped around his wrist, spray-painted various stripes of bright, cheerful colors, with a heavy end made of a plethora of padlocks. Michael was crouching in the room, terrified, his face bruised and beaten, ominously not wearing his pants.

The man turned to face Rumisiel, who felt himself shake. It took him back to a memory: burned, charred corpses of children in an oppressively hot jungle, being rolled into a ditch. He bared his teeth, as the man let out a shout of rage and challenge at him, nearly inarticulate.

“Let her go! ” Rumisiel demanded. Amanda finally caught up behind him and gasped at the sight, illuminated by the dirty, bare bulb above.

The man bared his teeth. “You telling ME what to do? Strangers don’t tell a father what to do with his own kids!” He shoved the girl away, towards the outside wall, and turned towards Rumisiel and Amanda. “You’d better start apologizing for disrespecting me, motherfucker!”

“You’d better apologize,” a female voice said from behind them. Rumisiel turned his head to see it’s owner: a short girl, about Ash’s height but probably about twice Ash’s weight, a fairly even mix of fat and muscle, with a punked out pink hairdo, dirty leather jacket, and a switchblade knife in her right hand, was standing behind them, blocking the corridor down to the stairs. “He likes to cut on the people who dis’ him.”

In a less tense circumstance, Rumisiel might have wondered how he had gotten into this situation. As it was, all he could see was Michael’s beaten face and missing trousers, and the look on the terrified girl’s face. The only thing that stopped him from attacking then and there was the fact that Michael and the girl were in the room. The man and the woman advanced on them, menacingly.

Amanda made the first move. She let out a shout and grabbed; the punk, although having probably 40 pounds on her, was caught off-guard by the ferocity of the Asian-American girl’s attack. Amanda caught the punker’s right arm with her left, driving home a hard, bare-knuckled punch into one of her breasts. With the screams of female rage behind him, Rumisiel ducked to avoid the chain being swung at him; it shattered through the termite-eaten doorframe, every bit as deadly as a medieval flail. Rumisiel would probably be able to survive getting hit with it if he didn’t take it anywhere soft; his bones were more resistant to shattering than a human’s. On the other hand, he wasn’t particularly keen to test that theory, as he danced out of range, the enraged ‘father’ charging him again.

Amanda had wrestled in under the punker girl’s range, her back to the ‘mother’s’ front, trying to force the knife out of the woman’s hand, while the punk reeled under the blow of a reverse-headbutt from Amanda. It wasn’t successful: the punk girl went down, and Amanda went with her; Amanda was forced to let go of the grapple and roll away, as the hefty, angry girl rolled over and got to her feet, ready for Amanda’s next move.

Rumisiel reeled from the blow to his forehead. He has been so distracted watching the chain in the abuser’s right arm that he hadn’t watched the fist on the end of the left. He narrowly avoided a swing from the chain, and failed to return the blow, staggering into the wall on the other side of the hallway—but not the wall, the door to the next room. Rumisiel ducked again, and the mammoth blow of the chain was enough to pop the door inwards, letting him dance into the dark room; with his vision boosted, he could see the strewn, broken furniture, whereas the man with the chain would be at a disadvantage. Unfortunately for Rumisiel, the distance let the man with the chain draw a switchblade with his left hand. Now Rumisiel was in trouble.

A stabbing or slashing weapon wouldn’t actually kill him, but unless he undid his seals, it would incapacitate him for a long time—and then Amanda could be hurt, killed, or worse. But if he undid his seals, Amanda would probably see. He needed another option, and he danced back through the room, shoving a battered, wooden love seat into the man’s way.

“Coward! Faggot! Get over here and die!” The man slammed his chain into the love seat, splintering its back, but his chain caught. Rumisiel saw his opening—he ran wide while the abusive man screamed with rage. Rumisiel darted out of the room to help Amanda, in time to have the punker girl land at his feet, Amanda having intercepted a charge from her and thrown her with a shout of triumphant rage. Rumisiel didn’t like the idea of hitting a girl—he hesitated, and it cost him.

The punk stabbed at his ankle with her knife. The heavy-duty leather took the blow, mostly, but he felt the scrape of the blade across the back of his ankle, and pitched forward. Combined with the heavy blow of the chain across his back, it sent him tumbling over the hefty, pink-haired girl, and Amanda let out a yelp, dodging his tumbling body by shoving her way into a room and holding onto the door frame, then popping back out into the hall. Rumisiel knew he couldn’t afford to get pinned; he pushed telekinetically on his own body, letting him roll forward and lash out, grabbing the metal arm of a disused lamp hanging on the wall, pulling himself up again.

The skitter-skitter of something hitting the floor and sliding hit everybody’s ears; the knife Rumisiel had taken from the big thug on his first venture into Central Park had tumbled out of his coat and into the hallway. Amanda dove for it, rolling up next to him and snapping the knife into position as the thug charged, literally over his girl—she let out a squeal of pain as his shoe planted in her stomach.

He swung the flail wildly, in a wide horizontal arc; Rumisiel could only imagine Amanda’s head being shattered by it; red rage at the thought filled him. He was not going to let that happen. He held up his left arm and swung his head back; the flail-like chain wrapped fast around his forearm, which screamed with pain, but he got hold of it. The man tugged, and he tugged back.

Amanda tossed the knife to her left hand; she darted in under the abusive man’s chain-grapple with Rumisiel, pinned his knife-arm to his chest with the blade turned in, and stabbed the wickedly curved knife she was wielding into his right underarm and tore. The shock of the blow, the blade severing through flesh and tendons and blood vessels, caused his right arm to relax, and the chain came out of his grip. Amanda pressed the attack: she kneed him in the crotch, and turned, shoving him away towards Rumisiel. The Angel’s wide, right hook caught the filthy man’s head on the temple, knocking him through the door Amanda had dodged into. Rumisiel had put all of his Angelic strength and quite a bit of telekinetic force into the blow, caught in the heat of the violence, the sight of the blood, and the thought of Amanda being injured or killed.

The man flew through the door, which snapped back on its hinges as his body impacted it. What Rumisiel had not been expecting was the tremendous shatter of wood. Looking to his left, Rumisiel saw flickering light from below—the man had fallen through a weak section of floor and was lying in a room in the apartment below, with what appeared to be a broken table and chair underneath his body. His head was at a decidedly unnatural angle, his neck over the wooden back of the chair. Rumisiel felt a cold rush of fear through his body—he had just killed a mortal. Accidentally, to be certain, since he had wanted to incapacitate him… but…

Amanda’s shout brought him out of his reverie and back to the fight. The punk-haired girl let out a scream of inarticulate fury; Amanda and she were wrestling, each pinning the other’s knife hand with their free hand, but Amanda was in no position to use her formal martial arts training to her advantage, and muscle and weight were beginning to be telling in the grapple. Fortunately, Amanda had an unoccupied ally and the punk didn’t; Rumisiel drove his right elbow down onto the punker girl’s inside elbow, and although he didn’t hear the snapping of bone, the blow was jarring enough to force her to relinquish her knife, which clattered to the ground, and Amanda pulled her hand free of that arm.

With Rumisiel holding the girl’s right arm, Amanda drove her left palm into the pink-haired girl’s nose. A cry of pain and fear erupted from her, but the enraged Amanda refused to relent, driving home left jab after jab into her ribs. Amanda hooked her left leg behind the girl’s right, and bore in. Reeling from the force of the blows and the pain of the shattered nose, the punk girlfriend of the dead abuser went down, and Amanda drove her left arm out into the girl’s neck, choking her, the larger girl letting out gurgles and writhing.

Finally Rumisiel intervened, loudly yelling “Let her go, let her go!” as he got his arms under Amanda’s and lifted her free. The hefty girl struggled in the heat of the moment, but didn’t seem inclined to continue trying to fight—she rolled to her stomach and clawed her way free of Amanda’s immediate reach, then blindly got to her feet and dashed for the stairs.

Amanda struggled for a moment, but calmed down when she realized it was Rumisiel holding her, easing up and panting heavily. “Oh… Oh fuck, oh fucking god…”

Rumisiel was heaving just as heavily, lungs feeling like fire, as did his left forearm. The chain-flail was still wrapped around it, he realized, tightly locked.

“Thank you,” Amanda groaned. “I got caught up…”

“It’s okay,” Rumisiel assured her, even though he himself was more terrified than he ever had been before. “Let’s get the kids and get out of here.”

When they looked back into the room, however, the window was open; the two kids were both gone.

Rumisiel and Amanda ran to the window, looking down the rickety fire escape, but there was no sign of either of them in either direction.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Rumisiel railed.

“Maybe he’ll go home. He wanted his sister to come get him, probably because of that bastard… Maybe he took the chance to run, and I strongly recommend we do the same.”

Rumisiel nodded, and the two of them made their way back into the city at large.

Robert Zhang’s Apartment, 10:30 P.M.

It had taken Cassiel a fair bit of trouble to find the apartment that the mortal whore had written down for her boyfriend in her black book. However, once she had heard his name, there had been only one ‘Robert’ in the book. This had to be it. She adopted her ‘Cassi’ persona and shape, checking her face and hair in a compact mirror to ensure everything was just fine.

She laughed to herself—she was looking fine. She checked her folder, and yes, the copies of the pictures she wanted were on top: the picture of Rumisiel being fellated by the girl, the one of her with her hand down his pants, and the one of her riding him with a look of bliss on her face.

She knocked on the door. There was no answer at first, which miffed her; she knew damn well there was someone inside. She knocked again, and a voice from inside angrily shouted, “There had better be a damn good reason for this!”

The door was answered, and Cassiel’s senses were assailed by sweat and burning incense. The man at the door stood to a stature to rival Rumisiel’s older brother, and he had a hefty, muscular frame. Bare from the waist up, he had a massive tattoo of a Chinese dragon over his body, coiled around his torso with its long, sinuous neck being formed of his right arm, its open maw his fist. He was covered in disgusting sweat; Cassiel could see a home exercise gym behind him. The anger on his face cooled instantly when he saw what appeared to be an attractive teenage girl at his door.

“Well, hello.” His voice was dark and broody, full of menace and dark, dangerous charm. Cassiel grinned as he continued, “What can I do for a beautiful young lady?”

“I don’t think it’s what you can do for me, so much as what I can do for you…”

That had his attention; lust blossomed on his face, and Cassiel pushed down a murmur of disgust that rose in her stomach. “Come in,” he offered, and she did, seating herself on a chair in front of a low table. “What brings you here,” he asked, as he sat on the couch, a curvaceous full-sized, gaudy piece in the shape of a full-bodied woman. Robert sat at a right angle to the table, sitting sideways on it, one leg up on the couch, the other on the floor, leering openly at Cassiel.

“Not what you’re hoping for, unfortunately,” Cassiel teased, as she leaned over the table. “But I think you might want to see what I have for you nonetheless.” She set her folder on the table, as he raised an eyebrow. “You see… I just hate cheats…”

“Cheats?”

“Yes. For example… my cheating ex-boyfriend… I hate him to death.” She grinned. “And I think you might hate it if, say, someone important to you was cheating on you, too?”

“That whore Amanda’s cheating on me?!”

“I’m afraid so,” Cassiel replied. She took the pictures out of her folder, arranging them on the table. Robert bared his teeth, picking them up and studying them.

“Who is this… this gwailo?” He said the word with such venom.

Cassiel knew it was a derogatory word for ‘white person’, which was close enough since Rumisiel had fair skin. Glee erupted in her heart. “Why, my cheating ex-boyfriend, of course. He chews women up and spits them out. He’s not even done with the one after me, and he’s already—”

“Enough!”

Cassiel rocked back as he glared at her. “I should be angry. You bring me these pictures, expect me to get angry with this gwailo for you, to deal with him for you. But he has insulted me, the bastard thinks he can take my woman like this?” Robert took a heavy breath, and slapped his fist into his palm. “Get out of my sight.”

Cassiel knew better than to stick around. After all, if she heard what was going to happen, she might be obligated to do something. If she was present and saw Rumisiel being attacked, she might be obligated to help. On the other hand, if she just left, she’d be fine. Laughing to herself, she teleported home as soon as she was in the stairs, intending to take a nice, long, relaxing soak.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 20, 2004, 12:47 A.M.

Excitement had given way to cold nerves; Rumisiel knew that he was sometimes watched. On the other hand, more than an hour or two had passed; surely Xaphrael or Vashiel would have shown up to take him home in chains by now if they had seen. Had he somehow lucked out? Had his life been without watchers during the few crucial minutes it needed to be without them? He didn’t know. He could only hope.

Amanda shut the door behind him as they slipped into the apartment, doing up the locks on the door, and letting out a heavy breath. “I think we’re clear,” she murmured. “Holy shit. Holy shit…” She took the knife out of her pocket, tossing the stainless-steel framed implement into the kitchen sink, staring at her hands. “Shit. I’ve gotta… I’ve…” She walked to the bathroom, leaving Rumisiel alone for the moment. Doctor Upton made him watch enough Law & Order that he knew what she was afraid of: DNA evidence on the knife. He really didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, they had acted to protect those two kids. On the other hand… he had killed a mortal. Rumisiel looked at his hands. He hadn’t wanted to kill him.

“Or did I?” He had been so angry with the man they had found in the abandoned building, whom he had started to think of as ‘Hugo’ for lack of another name. The sight of Michael without his pants, his face beaten and bruised; the way the girl was about to be murdered; the thought of Amanda’s head being caught by the brutally strong swing of the chain—the chain Rumisiel was still holding. It slipped from his grasp, falling heavily to the wooden floor.

He wondered for a moment where Amanda’s taser had been. She said she had one. He should ask; he went to the door to the bathroom. Amanda had started to wash her hands of the blood, but he found her over the toilet bowl. “Amanda?” He hadn’t heard the sound of vomiting or retching; when he looked, he didn’t see any, either.

“I’m okay,” she gulped, heavily. “I think I’m okay…” She stood up, groaning, going back to washing her hands. “I felt like I was gonna hurl, but…”

Rumisiel put his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades; she tensed for a second, then her eyes closed, and she leaned back into his palm, even as she vigorously scrubbed her hands again and again, until he was quite sure her hands were clean and she was going to scrub her palms raw if he let her continue. He took the bottle of soap away and wrapped his hands around her wrists. “You’re clean, Amanda. It’s okay.”

She sobbed, and leaned back into him, closing her eyes; he let go of her wrists, and she turned around, hugging herself into him and putting her head on Rumisiel’s shoulder. “I… I feel so…”

“It’s okay.” Rumisiel had seen this before. In a way, he knew he was going through it himself. His mind wandered as he guided Amanda to the bed, sitting down and cradling her. He remembered a young Briton, his eyes wide and terrified, in a hospital somewhere in France, his arm shot through. He didn’t care so much about the bullet wound he himself was sporting, however, as the fact that he had rammed the bayonet on the end of his rifle into the chest of the German soldier who had shot him and watched the man bleed rapidly to death from a wound through the heart in the midst of a muddy trench. The young Briton had kept saying he had ‘watched the light drain from that man’s eyes’.

Or the first time Jack had shot someone. Jack had ‘acquired’ a German submachine gun from somewhere, and he and Rumisiel had been searching room-to-room in a tightly packed village somewhere in France, long after the Germans had been believed flushed out. A German soldier had been trapped in a closet when a shell had collapsed the roof; when they pulled the rubble from the closet, believing it to be a civilian, the man had rushed them with his entrenching shovel, crazed from the time in the dark. Jack had riddled him with bullets; it had been so sudden. But then they had had to stay and stare at the man, his limbs twitching long after life had really ended, as they worked to dig through the rubble to the basement of the building.

And here he was again, sitting on the edge of Amanda’s bed, rocking back and forth. Who was he comforting? Was he comforting her by letting her lay her head on his shoulder, or himself, by squeezing the soft woman to him? Both, he realized. He needed her close, as much as she needed him close. He held her tightly, drawing comfort from her soft curves and warm body pressing into his own. Amanda held just as tightly, just as desperately.

After some time, Amanda let out one more, tremulous breath, and pulled away. She took off her jacket, dropped it on the floor, and then undid the buttons on his greatcoat—he shifted, and his jacket joined hers.

“How’s your leg?” she murmured.

“It’s fine.” With the armoring effect of the thick leather, and his regenerative speed, the wound was by now no more than a scratch, and possibly healed entirely.

“We’ll have to get you another pair of boots tomorrow.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. We really oughta lose those in the East River or something.”

“Afraid of the cops?” She nodded, and Rumisiel closed his eyes. “I think we’re probably clear. I…” He sighed. “Shit. I don’t believe I—”

“Stop,” she ordered him. “You did what you had to do. You couldn’t have known that throwing him into that room was going to kill him.”

“But I punched him so hard, I—”

“Rumisiel, one way or another, he had to be stopped. We both knew that. He was gonna kill that little girl, and he was trying to kill us.”

“I didn’t want him to die…”

“I know.” Amanda stroked Rumisiel’s chest, and slowly pulled off his heavy shirt, dropping it on his jacket. “But it’s better him than that little girl. Or you.”

“Or you,” Rumisiel murmured, tugging Amanda close. She didn’t resist as he pulled her shirt off, undid her bra. She kissed him as he tugged her bra out of the way, pressing her soft breasts into his chest, pushing him back to the bed. There was intensity. Need, but it wasn’t the same. Not a sexual need as much as… Rumisiel couldn’t describe it, but he thought he understood it; he felt the same way. His penis was throbbing and hard, but he was uninterested in sex.

Amanda and Rumisiel squirmed one another’s clothes off, and rolled into the bed, searching for a position. They found one—nestled under her many covers, Rumisiel spooned to Amanda’s back. They cradled one another—his arms around her stomach, her arms atop his. She moved one of his hands to her breasts, and he held her across them, squeezing softly with her fingers splayed between his. She cradled his shaft between her thighs, resting with its top against her mound, but he wasn’t even rocking back and forth, and their legs crossed over one another’s at the ankles.

For the longest time they lay awake. She broke the silence, asking him, “Are you okay?”

He responded, quietly, “I don’t know… I… I don’t like it, but…”

“What’s done is done, right?”

Rumisiel nodded, kissing the side of her cheek.

“Rumisiel…”

“Yes?”

“Do you feel… Mmmh, what’s the word? I…”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I have this strange desire for sex,” Amanda confessed, reaching down—she caressed his thigh. “I don’t feel like… aroused, romantic, I just… I feel so nervous, so full of energy, I…”

“It’s the excitement. The adrenaline rush,” Rumisiel replied.

“Yeah…” Amanda groaned softly in reply, and rolled her shoulders into him, pressing herself back into Rumisiel. Quietly, she asked, “Do you think we should?”

“It doesn’t seem very… appropriate, does it?”

“I guess not,” Amanda replied, but she squeezed her thighs together. She asked a different question, then: “Do you want to?”

“More than anything,” Rumisiel thought, squeezing the strong young woman in his arms. He kissed her cheek, softly, then her ear, eliciting a moan. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Amanda hissed emphatically in reply—she rolled over, in his arms, wrapping her arms around him, under his arms, pressing herself smoothly into him, kissing his lips. Rumisiel kissed back as she intensified, heat and blood pounding in his body as in hers. He tasted her tongue in his mouth, pushing back. Her hands were on his back, scratching, digging. Then one slid up, taking a fistful of his hair. She rolled, pushing him to his back, gyrating her body atop his. “Ready?”, she asked, her voice thick and hot. He nodded in reply, staring into her eyes.

Entering her was much less smooth this time. They groaned in synchronization at the sensation, his uncut shaft sinking into her body. He could feel every subtle fold and crease, savoring the feeling as her labia glided over, around him, her body swallowing him. She groaned, biting his lip, squeezing down on Rumisiel, savoring the friction of his entry as she pushed herself down along him, groaning at the feeling of his shaft splitting her vagina, squeezing her muscles tightly, heavily.

Rumisiel’s eyes closed, arching, as Amanda bit his bottom lip. She tugged her hands from under him, digging them into his shoulders. Her fingers clenched as she started to drive down on him, squeezing tightly on the way out and relaxing for the thrusts in. The sensation was ecstatic, and he wrapped his own arms around her as she pulled her hips off and then thrust them in, again and again, groaning with each thrust. She tugged her head away, not easily, and he tasted blood from his lip as she cried out with the sensation of terrible, intense pleasure in time with him.

“Mmmh!”

His hand fell to her hip, pushing her down on him harder, while he slid the other hand under her stomach, squeezing her abs, then sliding to where they were joined. He probed, found her pearl, started to rub it as she lithely rose and fell on him.

“Harder,” she groaned, opening her eyes to look down into his. “Harder!” He complied, pressing his finger into her clitoris with more pressure, and a guttural growl escaped her lips. “Mmmmh! Mmmh… R-Roll me,” she breathed heavily.

“You sure?”

“Roll me,” Amanda demanded again.

Rumisiel complied. The covers twisted around them as he rolled the two of them over, pushing her onto her back. The tables turned, he started to thrust into her, staring into her eyes as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Everything about her was greedy, yet she gave as much as she took, shoving back at him even as her velvety, wet channel clenched to prevent him from withdrawing, her arms scratching and clawing at his back again.

“Fuck meee,” she keened out, and Rumisiel obliged. Trembling with the red, raw pleasure, he pushed into her, pushing her to the bed by one of her shoulders, the other hand still rubbing at her nubbin. It was driving her wild, as well as him.

She arched. He pressed into her. Her lips parted in a scream. His eyes closed and he clenched his teeth together, a groan escaping them nonetheless. It was too intense, too hot, the pleasure overwhelming, the intensity of her around him, her arms and legs wrapping around him, controlling despite her being on her back, her vagina engulfing his penis, squeezing, milking, desperately trying to get an orgasm from him.

Somehow, they climaxed at the same time, and Amanda bit his shoulder, causing a sharp blossom of pain as she clenched herself around him with newfound strength. His penis twitched, then released a thick, heavy rope of seed into her, followed by two more of slightly less intense strength, then numerous weak pulses.

They collapsed together, whining. Battered and bruised, more from each other than the battle earlier. Amanda let out a sob of intense emotion, her body going limp save for her legs holding him still within her, and Rumisiel laid his head above her shoulder, next to hers. Tears flowed from their eyes as a euphoric catharsis took them both. He could feel her lips on his ear, sucking, her tongue tracing. He didn’t care. At the moment, he just needed, craved, more of Amanda’s unique brand of comfort. This she obligingly provided in spades, limply placing one arm in the hollow of his back, the other wrapping around his shoulders.

“Was that wrong, somehow?” He mulled it over, niggling guilt the only sensation marring the blissful afterglow as they pleasantly baked under the covers. Was it wrong to have coupled with her; mated with Amanda, driven himself into her and happily loosed himself within her so soon after they had been in a fight where blood had been shed, a life snuffed out?

She seemed to understand what was going through his mind, perhaps because she was pondering the same things herself. She moved the hand from his shoulder to his head, murmuring quietly into his ear which sent shivers down his spine, “Don’t think about it. Don’t think. Just be with me.” With a soft kiss, she rolled him, flat to the bed, and leaned down over his chest, laying her head on his shoulder.

“Okay,” he whispered back. Taking her advice, he focused his mind on the softness of her body, the slick sensation of her body against his, and the feeling of his softening penis, still clenched within her, her body refusing to relinquish him, squeezing and pulsing around his shaft. He let his mind focus on the girl above him, around him in every way imaginable, and kissed her neck, banishing all other concerns from his mind.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 5:59 A.M.

Warm again. It was warm once again, and Rumisiel was glad for it. The comforting sensation of a warm, lithe woman against his body, the wet heat their bodies made together, under the covers, which had been pulled up to Amanda’s cheeks, and his chin.

This time, they were on their sides, their bodies wrapped around one another. She was sleeping, peacefully, somehow. Though he, himself, had not had any nightmares—his sleep had been, for once, quiet and calm. No memories of the atrocities he had witnessed earlier in life. No horrible replay of throwing the enraged abuser to his doom. Simply… warmth.

“She’s incredible,” he thought, smiling. “If only I could sleep with her every night.” His thoughts turned to Tempest, to Ash and Emily, the young people his actions had changed. Until now, he could firmly say that the Misfile had been the worst in a long string of fuck-ups. Now?

In a way, he wanted to say it had been exceeded, but a cold, schadenfreudian part of him was not so convinced. The lunatic had, after all, attacked him, been about to murder the girl, and presumably had raped Michael—Michael… Rumisiel’s thoughts turned to the boy. Had that abusive man been why he had attempted to kill himself? The thought made revulsion and horror well up within him.

“Was it justice? Is killing ever Just?” Strangely, the person he wanted to ask that question to wasn’t his brother, or his father—it was Emily. Or Amanda. “Was it vengeance?” In a way, it could have been. He was so angry: at the thought of Amanda being killed, or the girl; at the thought of what the man had done to Michael.

“I wonder if I’m being watched now?” The idea scared him, so Rumisiel activated his sight Beyond and swept through the room. The sight Beyond would give the best, most perceptive Angels and other beings a tremendous amount of information about a place, person or thing; but for him, at least, it would simply reveal any obviously supernaturally-concealed beings, like invisible Angels, of which he thankfully saw none.

Rumisiel shivered again at the thought of how up shit creek he’d be if someone knew what he had done. They wouldn’t care why—protecting mortal life was no excuse for taking it, in their opinions. It made him shiver. The fact that he had only been trying to incapacitate ‘Hugo’ and could not have known the floor would fall out from under him was no excuse, either.

He wanted to cuddle against Amanda, tighter. To lay his head between her breasts, stroke her long, lean curves, let her legs wrap around his ribs. It was perhaps sissy and foolish of him, but he wanted it nonetheless; she had an amazing capacity to be comforting and comfortable. Still, he had work to do.

Even if he went down in a Celestial court for what transpired, he was damn sure going to make sure she didn’t wind up in prison. She had a justifiable reason to be nervous, and he had a good idea of what to do. He slowly started to lift himself, telekinetically pushing the covers and blankets into the spaces his body vacated, so as to support her. With a bit lip, he teleported out to the room at large, leaving her to settle slightly as the bed shifted, now lacking his weight. She moaned softly, but didn’t wake up.

“Go time.” Rumisiel crossed to the sink in the kitchenette; the knife was inside, folded down, its stainless steel frame red with dried blood. No mortal solvent would ever be able to truly clean it to a microscopic level—if a CSI team were to investigate the knife, they would surely discover that it had been used to stab someone. But then, he wasn’t going to pour a mortal solvent onto it.

Rumisiel undid his seals, his wings sprouting and halo appearing. He quickly tossed a dishtowel over it with a flick of telekinesis, and peered down, expanding his vision. With his seals undone, he became perceptive to a level far exceeding that of the equipment in Tempest High’s science labs. Telekinetically he raised the knife, flicking it open. He held his hand out. The tricky part would be taking only the blood. He held his hand out, focusing, concentrating.

“I’m gonna lose this blood somewhere nobody will ever find it.” It was one of the most difficult things he could imagine doing—stripping only blood, and maybe a few outer layers of the steel, from the knife all over, not just outside but inside as well. But dissolve it did, coalescing into a dense ball in front of his hand, being crushed into nothingness. Dissolved, the energy making it up dissipated into the universe at large as things no longer recognizable as minuscule traces of steel or human blood.

The knife cleaned, he let it set back down in the sink, and turned to walk into the bathroom. The sink and toilet seat, where she had braced with her hand last night, were next to receive the careful-cleaning treatment. It took a phenomenal amount of concentration, but he didn’t stop until he was done, by which time he was utterly drained, slouching.

“Ooogh.” Rumisiel let his seals slip back into place, the dishtowel hitting his head as his halo vanished. He walked out—to see Amanda had propped herself up on her arm.

“Rumisiel?” she asked sleepily.

“Oh shit, did she see…”

“What’re you doing?”

“I was, ah, cleaning. I didn’t think you wanted dried blood everywhere.”

“What? Oh…” She smiled, lazily, lowering her head back to the pillow. “Thanks, but… Mmmh, come back to bed. It’s too early, and I’m getting cold.”

Rumisiel smiled and walked back to the bed. She held the covers up and he slipped under them. “Too early to get up,” she murmured into his ear as she spread her arms and legs. Pulling him close and wrapping her limbs around his, she laid her head on Rumisiel’s shoulder, rolled to lie mostly-atop him, and then closed her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something—his inhalation must have gotten her notice, because it was cut off by a long, slow, lips-sealed-tightly kiss. Getting the hint, he merely smiled as she pulled away.

“More sleep sounds good.”

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:30 A.M.

Deep, happy slumber was broken; this time not slowly, but to the sound of a wooden vibration. Rumisiel looked up and groaned; his shifting dislodged Amanda, who likewise let out a groan.

“Fuck, who is it now?” she groused, reaching down to the floor and fishing for her pants.

“They’re here,” Rumisiel murmured helpfully—he reached to the side of the bed, whisking Amanda’s pants into his hand with a burst of telekinetic force and holding them up for her.

She fished her cell phone out. “It’s Alice,” Amanda moaned, flipping the phone open. “Hello?” she asked. Her eyes went wide. “Really?! You have him? Them? Yes. No, we didn’t want to call, since it was after midnight or so when we got home… What? We’ll explain it when we get there, okay?”

Amanda closed the phone, and looked back to Rumisiel. “She has them?” he queried.

“They slipped in about a half hour ago; Pierta saw them while she was cleaning his old room. She’s taking them to the Brooklyn Hospital Center.”

“Okay.” Rumisiel groaned softly, and propped up on his elbows—nuzzling Amanda’s cheek, kissing it softly. “What do we have to do?”

She smiled and kissed his cheek in return. “Well, first we have to get a shower, and do laundry…” She stroked her hand down the center of his chest, slow and warmly. “Then we get our asses in gear and go to Brooklyn. She wants to see us. Michael wants to see us, too. And since her grandmother is in the same hospital…”

Rumisiel picked up, nodding at the unspoken assertion. Amanda smiled softly, closed her eyes, and laid her head back on Rumisiel’s shoulder. He raised his hand, running his palm along her soft hair.

“I guess we should get outta bed?”

“Mmmhmm. I could put your clothes in the laundry while you’re getting a shower…” Amanda yawned, and stretched out her body along his, sliding her right leg between both of his. “Rumisiel, about last night…”

“Yes?” he asked, trepidation entering his heart. Was she regretting it?

“Do you think it was wrong of us? To have sex, after…”

Rumisiel stroked her ear softly. “I’ve been thinking about that, Amanda.”

“What’ve you come up with?”

“I just… I just don’t know. It seems wrong, perverse, somehow…”

“But it felt so right,” Amanda moaned.

“Yes. Yes it did.”

Her right hand met his left, their fingers interlacing together, squeezing one another’s hands. Eyes met again, and Amanda smiled softly, getting a return from Rumisiel. Then their lips met, kissing deeply, slowly. Her body stiffened, then almost melted, going totally limp, and he felt his shaft stiffening, becoming hard against her thigh.

She pulled her head away, and laid it back on his shoulder. “Do you want to…”

“I’d love to,” he replied. “But do we have the time?”

“She didn’t indicate anything was especially… time-sensitive.”

Rumisiel raised his arms to squeeze the young woman against himself, getting a sigh of pleasure from her. “What did you have in mind?”

“You know…” she grinned, lazily. “I guess that depends on how… controlling you feel.”

“Mmmh… I don’t know. Why? Are you in the mood to be controlled?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice thickening. “Yes, I am.”

Rumisiel reached down, stroked Amanda’s rear, then squeezed.

“Go on…” The native girl snickered softly. “Didja ever fuck that pretentious ex of yours in the ass?”

Rumisiel blinked twice at the notion, and blushed, hot red. “Er… no. No, I haven’t done that.”

“Want to?”

“Uh, err… that is…”

She pressed the idea, and herself, murmuring, “You, me, in my shower… The water hot and hitting us both from the side… Pushing me into the wall, making me squeal and moan with your cock up my ass…” Amanda turned her devious mind and broad—and broadly filthy—vocabulary on Rumisiel.

“Well… Um…”

“Too forward?”

“No, I just… I’ve never actually thought of the idea of anal sex before… Well, not… directly… Directly as in something I’d be doing. Besides, didn’t I control you last night? Isn’t it your turn?”

“I was on my back, below you. That doesn’t mean you were in control.”

Thinking about it, she was right; though she had been below him, she had called every shot, and he had, quite happily, done exactly as she had asked.

“Or…” The New Yorker slid up, further, on Rumisiel’s body, laying her nose to his. “Or I could just go down on you again.”

He grinned at that, wrapping his hands gently around Amanda’s waist. She shifted, and they both grinned as she sandwiched his shaft between her thighs, letting him slowly rub the top of it against her mound. He realized she was slightly wet. “That’s… an idea…” A good idea, in his estimation. Rumisiel slid his hand up her back and started to stroke his hand through her brown hair. Her eyes closed, and she bit his lip—

The slamming of a fist into the door made them both jump. Rumisiel was about to make a sound of surprise, but Amanda smoothly silenced him in the expedient way—with her own lips.

“Whore!” The voice injected a terrifying amount of vitriol. Amanda squeezed Rumisiel’s other ear, and slid off his lips, once she saw in his eyes that he wasn’t going to betray their presence. “Bitch! Slut! I know you’re in there with that pasty gwailo!”

“It’s Robert,” she hissed.

“How does he know about us?”

“Probably one of his hoodlum friends saw us together or something. He can’t know we’re together.”

Robert’s banging on the door was quite insistent. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

“He doesn’t know jack shit,” Amanda reassured Rumisiel. “He’ll go away after a while…” Rumisiel nodded, and reaffirmed his embrace of Amanda; she wrapped her arms around him just as tightly, and again whispered in his ears, “Hey… you wanna fuck me?”

“Now?!” Rumisiel hissed, incredulous.

“What could be more… titillating than fucking a girl while her angry boyfriend bangs on the door, promising grievous bodily harm to you if he catches you with the girl?”

“I dunno, but that’s really killing my boner.” Indeed, Rumisiel had thought it impossible, but his penis, between her thighs and pressing against Amanda’s vulva, was actually becoming flaccid.

With a snicker stifled in his shoulder, she teased him, “Not an exhibitionist or a risk-taker?”

“Not really, no.”

“Whore! Slut! Bitch! I’ll make you pay for this! Nobody is unfaithful to me and gets away with it!” After a massive thump at the bottom of the door, they heard thumping boots clomping off.

“Ugh…” Amanda let out a full-volume sigh and draped her head on Rumisiel’s shoulder. “Well, it was coming sooner or later. I can’t stand that hypocritical cock.”

“Jeeze, Amanda, I’m sorry, I—mmm!” Amanda silenced him by biting the nape of his neck.

“Don’t apologize. I hated dating him. I’d much rather be fucking a white boy as cute as you than him, anyway. Besides, you’re a better lay.”

“I am?” Rumisiel’s chest swelled with machismo-filled pride. That was something, anyway; thirty years’ rusty—give or take the potential odd drunken one-night stand that he could barely remember and might just have been a fantasy anyway—and he still had it.

She deflated him by giggling and pinching his scrotum. “I didn’t say you were the best I’d ever had, just that you were better than my asshole of a boyfriend.” Rumisiel’s ears drooped, and she grinned. “But, I bet you take instruction well. Do you?”

“I… would like to find out,” Rumisiel carefully answered.

“That’s what I wanna hear. Mmmh, we need to get outta bed, though.”

“And that’s kinda killed my boner.”

“And my arousal, too.”

“Why don’t I do the laundry, while you get your shower, and then I can get mine?”

“It’s my turn to do the laundry,” Amanda pointed out.

“That punk might be waiting or something. He probably doesn’t know what I look like, though.”

“Well, yeah, there is that,” Amanda sighed. “Deal, but only if you let me do it the next two times.”

“There’s gonna be another two times?”

“Oh, I hope so,” Amanda purred.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:23 A.M.

“How you holding up?”

Rumisiel looked up from putting on his boots. “I’m good. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you took the worst part of the fight last night.” She pointed at the chain-flail on her floor. “I can’t believe you dragged that thing all the way here.”

“I dunno, I kinda forgot about it, and it was wrapped around my arm. You held onto my knife.”

“Yeah, true…” Amanda shrugged. She pointed at his boots. “Those look ruined. And they look brand new, too”

“Well, they were brand new, but… Well, I was wearing just ordinary sneakers before this, so I should be glad they saved me from getting hamstrung.”

“True. Where did you get them, anyway? Most of your stuff looks like you got it at some surplus store, but those boots and that jacket…”

“Heh… Heheh!” Rumisiel laughed. “Actually, I got it all at a surplus store in Manhattan, sometime before I met you that morning.”

“Really? What happened?”

“Well… ah… no, I’d sound like I’m bragging.”

She punched him in the upper arm. “You’re already like, my hero, so go on.”

“Well… I started out at some ridiculous hour in the morning, and I was in Central Park. Don’t ask,” he said to stave off the ‘why’, “And I accidentally interrupted a drug deal. It went south fast, and I got this big, beefy motherfucker on me. He knifed up my jacket and shirt pretty good, but I knocked him senseless by knocking him into a brick tunnel wall.”

“Really? I think I know the place; there’s a couple of places like that. So…” She snickered. Then Amanda burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You… you had a Random Encounter,” she said, and he could almost hear the capitalization, “and you looted the bodies afterwards!”

“Uh…” Rumisiel shook his head, snickering, getting her joke; after all, Ash let him use her Playstation, and she had a couple of RPG games. “I guess so, kinda. Only, not a body, and I only picked up what fell out of his pockets. The knife and a wad of cash.”

“And then your clothes were ruined, so you treated yourself to new gear, on his dime. What happened?”

“Well, I put the brained punk on the corner and called the cops to tell them about him. I figure they find him and do whatever. If there’s any justice, he’s got some crack or something on him, and he’s going away for a while.”

Amanda nodded at him. “Crack… Yech.” She shook her head. “I toke up once in a while, but that stuff? No thank you!” Amanda shivered. “So, let’s go see this to the end. To the hospital? See Alice, Michael, and that girl.”

“And the other Alice.” Rumisiel took the ring out of his pocket, turning it over in his fingers.

“And Alice’s grandmother, yeah. Then we have to go and get you new boots. Those won’t do to keep out the snow and cold.”

“I guess not.” Rumisiel sighed. “I don’t like the idea, but…”

“Yep.” She smiled. “Cheer up. I’ll get a pair like them, too.”

“Really? Aren’t they kind of… uh…”

“Mannish? I can pull off tomboy stuff okay, and watching you just slog through that water with no ill effects has given me a healthy desire for a pair of high waterproofs myself. Especially in this winter.”

“We’re really getting it socked to us, aren’t we?”

“Yep. Hopefully there won’t be another power short on the subway this time.”

“Right.”

Brooklyn Hospital Center, Brooklyn, New York, 10:18 A.M.

Amanda was double-checking with Alice that she was at the hospital as she and Rumisiel walked towards the towering building. He was barely paying attention, looking around. Hospitals… Hospitals made him uncomfortable. Of course, this wasn’t a field hospital, processing thousands of casualties a week for the express purpose of sending them straight back out to the muddy hell of dysentery and disease and bullets as fast as possible. This was a true hospital, one focused on saving lives and healing the sick. He took comfort in that, but he must have still looked nervous.

“Hey, you okay? You look creeped out.”

“Eh… I’ll live. What’s the story?”

“Alice’ll meet us in the lobby. Hospitals give me the heebie-jeebies, too.”

“Really? Why?”

“The idea that… well… every time I say it, I get told ‘If I don’t like it, go the hell back to China’.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Amanda shrugged as they walked towards the hospital. “Don’t get me started. Please. I’ll start ranting and we’ll get thrown out.”

“I don’t get it.” Utterly clueless about politics as he was, he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Boy, for someone who travels the world, you sure are sheltered, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Rumisiel murmured.

Amanda took his hand, squeezing between both of hers. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t hold it against you. Let’s go—oh, there she is!” Amanda pointed.

Alice McGowan the younger was standing in the lobby, checking her cell phone. When she saw Rumisiel and Amanda, she waved at them and they rapidly approached her.

“Rumisiel, Amanda! Thank god.” She pinned them both with a stare. “I don’t know whether to give you everything I own, or strike you, though. How could you leave two children in a state like that in the night?”

Looking down, Rumisiel blushed, guiltily. “Look, we… Can we not talk about it here?”

“Fine. Come along. I know a place we can have some privacy.”

That place, it turned out, was the hospital’s small chapel. Rumisiel looked around uncomfortably; Amanda looked decidedly hostile to the various icons of religiosity around, and he saw her throw the bird at the cross once, behind Alice’s back. Still, the room was dark, lit only through the small stained-glass windows, and quiet.

“Why here?” Rumisiel asked, as the doors closed behind them.

“My grandmother insists on being wheeled in here every Sunday for Mass, and makes me sit with her. It’s pretty quiet, and when I’m here and I need to catch my breath, I can just come here.”

“You’re at the hospital… often?”

Alice nodded as she sat in a plush chair near the back; Rumisiel and Amanda did likewise, turning chairs to face her. “Yes, I am. My parents, may their ship sink and take them with it, are on this damn cruise rather than being here. Sometimes I feel like everything’s falling apart.”

“Looking for comfort, then,” Amanda asked perceptively.

“And not finding any. But go on, tell me. Why did you leave my little brother on the streets?”

“We… we didn’t,” Rumisiel murmured. “He… Look, when we found him, and the girl, it was a stroke of pure luck we got there when we did. He…” There was no way to sugarcoat it, but Rumisiel was struggling to find words.

Amanda beat him to the punch, delivering it quickly and brutally. “He looked like the bastard guy in the place we found him in raped him, Alice. And the girl had talked to the cops or something, and he was about to kill her when we showed up. He flew into a rage at us and we got into a fight. The kids slipped out of the window while we were in that fight. We looked around for them, but… well…”

Rumisiel and Amanda both looked down as Alice’s face got a horrified look and the color drained from her cheeks.

“The guy, he was like… I dunno, berzerking or something. He fell through a weak floor, and got… Well, he was killed. We freaked, okay? We thought the cops might show up, we were a little beat up, and we couldn’t find the kids after a quick canvas of the area, so we spooked and ran. I’m sorry, we should have told you, but—”

“No… No, I… My god,” Alice whispered. “I… He told me he’d been made to have sex with a man, but… he didn’t tell me this! Did… did he see the fight?”

“Not a chance.”

“Okay. That’s a relief.” Alice sighed, clutching her hand over her heart. “I wish I had something to repay you with… I… I can find some money. It’s not much, but…”

Amanda held her hand up. “No, no. This isn’t Shadowrun, you’re not Mr. Johnson.” Leaving Alice and Rumisiel thoroughly confused for a moment or two, she continued. “We did it because it was the right thing to do. We don’t need a reward.”

Rumisiel nodded. “I’m just glad they’re okay. Do they… um…”

“Would they like to see you? Michael would, yes. Jamie is… well… How does one cope with this much mayhem in such a short time? My grandmother’s dying, my parents are selfishly off on some holiday cruise, my little brother returns to me, raped, and having tried to kill himself, and he’s got in tow with him some younger girl that I had to lie about her being my baby sister to get in here.”

Rumisiel shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alice… I… I guess everything is just kind of… nutso.”

“Yeah, a bit.” The red-haired woman sighed, running her hand through her hair. “Anyway… Well, we should talk to my grandmother first. She’ll be with doctors for hours after eleven.” Alice stood up and led them from the chapel.

Rumisiel had seen pictures of the elder Alice McGowan at two stages of her life. He remembered vividly the picture of her that Jack had kept taped to the inside of his helmet, and the picture he had seen in the McGowan townhouse.

He was not prepared to see her now, at the end of her life, dying a slow, treacherous death as her body rebelled against her, shutting itself down. When humans died from accident, or violence, it was usually swift and at least merciful in its brutality. This was something far more terrifying to Rumisiel.

What had once been a vital, hearty, healthy young woman was now frail, wrinkled innumerably with age, her hands bony and slight, her hair gray and thin. Blue veins were stark in most of her visible flesh, and she had a plethora of tubes stuck into her, with machines beeping and whining softly. He recognized the stereotypical hospital staple, the ECG—he knew what it was; he had once commented on it during an episode of Law & Order, and Dr. Upton had made him more familiar with the functions of it than he had ever wanted to be—beeping out her slow, weak heartbeat. The spikes on the machine were painfully small to see, and Rumisiel felt his entire being crunch with sympathy for the woman at the absolute twilight of her life.

And her family in shambles, her own son and that man’s wife away, her grandson raped by some horrible hobo and in the hospital himself, her granddaughter run ragged…

Worse, perhaps, was the dignity, or lack thereof. She tried, she absolutely tried, to retain her dignity. There was a faded blue jacket around her shoulders, more of a cushion now than a garment, a Rosary with an elaborately large crucifix hanging around her neck. It seemed that, however irreverent or faithless her granddaughter, in her waning months (Weeks? Days? Hours?) Alice McGowan clung fervently to her faith, made all the more sad in Rumisiel’s estimation by the fact that he knew that it was pointless.

Jack had, after all, been buoyed by the idea of not simply ceasing to be entirely, as a person, when he died, no matter what came after death—Rumisiel truly did not know. On the other hand, he knew for certain that whatever Mrs. McGowan expected, it was not to be.

She struggled to sit up, and her granddaughter slipped to her side, using the bed’s controls to raise the back of the bed so she could see. “Alice,” she weakly asked, “Who are these young people? Why have… have you brought them to see me?”

“This is Amanda, and this is Rumisiel,” Alice quietly introduced the awkward-feeling duo. “They… they got Michael back, grandma.”

“They… they did?!” Her voice raised, heartbeat perking up, Alice’s voice betrayed hope. “Oh… oh, I’m so glad… I’m so… so glad. You’ve saved my grandson. Thank you, thank you!”

Rumisiel carefully crossed to the other side of the bed. His mouth was dry. He had briefly entertained notions of visiting Alice and Jack, after the War, even in violation of the rules, just briefly. Now here she was, at the end of an entirely different life she had lived, and he was about to dredge up old and possibly excruciating memories.

“Mrs. McGowan,” he began. “I… I have something for you. This is… awkward, but… I think you should have it.”

“Something for me? What… What is it, young man?”

Rumisiel reached into his pocket. He withdrew the silver ring with the gleaming stone. “Mrs. McGowan… I… I’m not sure how to start this.” How did you tell a woman on her deathbed that you had a ring to give her from a long-lost betrothed? “I… well… I don’t think you want to hear the pointless details.”

“What’s that? Out with it, young man,” she asked, her voice feeble. But he could tell she was desperately trying to draw on the reserves of steely nature Jack had lauded her for. Best to make this quick and to the point.

“In the year 1944, Jack Nicolson bought a ring for you, in Belgium. It was lost in the Ardennes, where he fought and died during the battle of the Bulge. I… I found the ring.” He held it out, feeling incredibly awkward.

The old woman speared him with a glare of disbelief. Then she looked down at the ring. “Are… You shouldn’t tease an old woman with a cruel story like that!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McGowan. It’s the truth, I swear to you.”

“Do you?” She reached out, taking the ring. “Jack… Jack Nicolson…” She let out a sigh.

Alice—the younger—asked, “You really knew this person?”

Her grandmother nodded, her throat working. “Oh… Oh yes…”

“You doubted it?” Rumisiel asked.

“I kinda figured you were being a crank, but since you found my brother…”

“Oh, yes. I knew him,” the elder McGowan murmured, staring at the ring. “I said ‘I do’ in 1943. That was right about the time my father threatened to do some very unspeakable things to him if he looked at me again. Jack wasn’t… approved of by my family. Oh, no. He didn’t believe in the Lord, you see.”

Rumisiel and Amanda sat back and listened to the conversation between elder and youngest.

“Well, I was a fool in love for him; he was charming, handsome, daring. I was young, I didn’t care s’much about his lack of faith.”

“So what happened?”

“My father kept threatening him. Then, oh… One day they caught him an’ me kissin’, his hand in my shirt. He leapt out the window and ran for his life. My father got him a bat, and my brother and my cousin, went and banged on his family’s door all night. He got so spooked, he up and volunteered for the Army the next day…” She sighed, and looked at Rumisiel. “What happened to him? My parents… never would let me get any of his letters if they could help it.”

“He died in battle, during the Battle of the Bulge, holding the line. A Panzer got him. It was quick.”

Alice sighed softly at the news. “I knew something happened to him. Thank God it was quick.” She settled back, and stared at Rumisiel. “My word, you truly are an Angel, aren’t you, young man?”

That stung; Rumisiel blushed. “Well… I…” He didn’t want to just flat-out lie, but…

“Yes, yes you are,” Mrs. McGowan said, and that seemed final enough. When an elder human made up their minds, they had a strange way of being final, and he was glad he neither had to defend himself with a lie, or tell the truth that would expose him.

“I… well… I don’t know what to say. You couldn’t bring Jack back to me, but…” She slowly fumbled to put the ring on her hand, which was absent another ring. Since an Irish Catholic wouldn’t have divorced, barring greatly extenuating circumstances, and having seen no evidence of the man who gave her the McGowan surname, Rumisiel surmised that the elder Alice was a widow. “Thank you, boy. T-Tell me, would you do an old woman one last favor?”

He doubted he could say no if he tried. “Anything.”

“I’m going to pass on soon, and my granddaughter… is not so much one of Faith. I hope she may find the Lord someday, but… well, I don’t think she’d want to do it.”

A bit confused, Rumisiel raised his eyebrows, as did the younger Alice.

“Would you light a candle for me in Saint Paddy’s when I’m gone?”

Rumisiel’s throat worked. He looked to the younger Alice; he didn’t want to steal something from her that she could never take back for her grandmother. But the younger Alice nodded. Rumisiel licked his again-dry throat. In all honesty, the idea didn’t sit well with him, either. But if it would rescue the younger Alice from a distasteful duty and put a woman on her deathbed at ease… “I’d be glad to, Mrs. McGowan.”

“Oh, thank you, young man. You truly must be an Angel, thank you.”

Rumisiel didn’t know what to say; fortunately, he was saved by the doctor knocking on the door, quietly, and announcing that they needed to tend to Mrs. McGowan.

As the trio filed out of the room, Rumisiel looked back to see the elder McGowan was staring at the ring he had delivered, rubbing her frail thumb over the stone. Once outside the ICU room, Alice let out a sigh of relief. “You really did go all the way to Belgium and back to give my grandmother that ring. That’s… that’s sweet.” She smiled. “A ring like that would probably fetch a couple of thousand, but even so… thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her happy like that.”

“I was… glad to do it.”

“And… thanks for volunteering to light a candle for her. I really don’t want to go in there, but dad’s never gonna be bothered, and, well…”

“If it would put her at ease, I’ll happily do it.”

“All right.” Amanda sighed, looking back down the hall. “That poor woman. It’s sad.”

“I honestly don’t know long she’s going to last. The doctors say it could be months, could be minutes…”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Just… just age. Age, and her body’s giving out. Well, come on. You wanted to see the kids, right? Michael wanted to talk to you.”

Alice led them again through the hospital, down a wing. This floor was quieter, more subdued. Lacking the Intensive Care Unit’s constant hiss of ventilation machines and the beeping of hundreds of ECG machines, this was a bed ward: row after row of subdued room for patients of longer-term care than the ER provided.

“The doctors say they should be okay to go in a day or so, they’re just running a battery of tests, have given them all the usual shots—tetanus and the like. I just…” Alice sighed, hanging her head. “I know he was forced to… do things by that horrible man, but he won’t open up to me about it.”

Amanda let out a quiet hiss of a sigh. “He’s probably mortified. Maybe he’d feel better talking to Rumisiel alone about it, or a male doctor?”

“That’s possible. I… I asked for a female doctor, since he’s always been more able to open up with me than his father anyway, but…” She smiled weakly.

Rumisiel could see the helplessness and frayed nerves in her. “All right.”

“Why don’t we talk to the girl, Jamie, I think you said her name was?”

Alice nodded. “They’re in adjacent rooms.”

The lights were out when Rumisiel walked into Michael’s room. Rather than turn them on, he simply boosted his vision, which let him see in the low light coming in from the frosted window to the corridor. Michael had been cleaned up; he was wearing a hospital gown and had the blanket on his bed up to his armpits. He looked… horrified. And terribly embarrassed.

“Michael?”

“A-Ah?! W-who…”

“Want the lights on?”

“Yes. Where’s my sister?” Rumisiel turned the lights on. Michael winced at the sudden light, then his eyes focused on Rumisiel. “It’s you…”

“Hey. I heard you wanted to see me?”

Michael nodded, as Rumisiel walked to the chair beside the bed, sitting in it. “You saved my life… and Jamie’s.”

Rumisiel shook his head. “I’m just glad I found you in time.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rumisiel.”

The boy extended his hand, and Rumisiel took it with both of his. The boy squeezed his hand as strongly as he could; it was terrifyingly weak to the Angel’s perception. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. “I hurt…”

“Why?”

“He…” The boy sniffed. “He did things to me…”

Rumisiel felt his heart breaking. He wanted to do something, anything, to protect the young boy. But he’d already taken the most extreme action possible, but nothing could undo things in the past…

“Well… that’s not strictly true,” he thought. If he could get to the Files he could do something. Assign ‘Hugo’ an early end, or change Michael’s file to be a year younger than he was, erasing the last year… Caught up in thinking of the ways he could cosmically erase the boy’s pain, he almost missed what Michael was saying.

“The doctors keep asking what he did to me. I don’t want to tell them,” Michael said, his face red. He had sat up in the bed, and was rocking back and forth.

Rumisiel decided not to go straight for the jugular of the matter. “Michael, you know your sister asked for a woman doctor for you because she thought you’d have an easier time opening up to her. Would you rather talk to a man?”

Michael shook his head vehemently. “I don’ wanna talk about it at all! I…”

“Shhh. It’s okay.” Rumisiel squeezed the boy’s hand again, softly. “Michael, nothing that bastard did to you is your fault.”

“Yes it—”

“No, it’s not.” Rumisiel put as much emphasis behind the word as he could. “You didn’t do anything to ‘deserve’ it. You didn’t ‘make’ him do it. He chose to do it. That was a very awful, bad, evil man, but he’s gone now. And the doctors need to know what he did to you, so they can help you.”

Michael sniffled. And he squeezed his eyes shut. Rumisiel was certain the boy was trying not to cry. “I-I met him… a-a few days a-after I ran away. He… he made us call him daddy…”

“You and Jamie?”

“And a-all the others.”

Rumisiel felt his blood run cold. “Others?”

“T-There were twelve of us. We l-lived under the… under the overpasses, the big ones. He t-took care of us, b-but…”

“He forced you to have sex with him.”

The boy nodded. “H-He… he was nice… just… said that since he was taking care of us, we should… t-take care of him.” The boy looked mortally embarrassed, and Rumisiel felt his skin crawl. Michael froze for a bit. “It s-started nice. He’d… you know… r-rub me, and I’d… do the same for him, then he started to sometimes suck on me… and I learned to do the same for him…”

“Oh, Jeez… Michael, I… Look. It’s not your fault, kiddo. Okay?”

“He… he’d make us… On Halloween… he… he made me get on my knees…” The boy broke into tears, clutching a pillow tightly to his chest. Like watching a train wreck, or maybe a dam bursting, Rumisiel could only watch and listen on in growing horror, as the boy continued, his face burning with shame, “H-He… he put his cock in m-me… and…”

Rumisiel squeezed Michael’s hands again. “It’s okay… It’s okay…” He felt his very being squirming. Certainly he had known, but it was quite another thing altogether to hear the boy telling him what had been done to him.

“L-Last night was… was different.” Michael sniffled. “J-Jamie… J-Jamie must have called the cops. S-She didn’t like t-taking care of him, and… t-the cops came. He grabbed me, the old girl, th-the one we called m-mother, grabbed Jamie, and they ran with us. We h-hid in that building. He was so mad, he wanted to know how the cops found them… Then he got… you know. So he got an idea. He… pulled down Jamie’s pants, and mine, and pushed me over her. He…” Rumisiel shuddered at the thought as the boy’s fingers clawed into his palms. “He made me… made me push into her. Then he got behind me. She was screaming. I… I didn’t w-want to, but… h-he pushed me from behind…”

Rumisiel shook with a cold rage. He knew it was wrong, but… He’d spent years doing his level best not to hate people most deserving of hatred. Now? He felt futile. He’d already killed the man responsible, yet he was still helpless to alleviate the boy’s pain.

“T-Then…” Michael sniffled. “Then he… he… he was gonna k-kill her for w-what she did. He always kills people he thinks di-disrespected him, or-or… talked to the cops. But you showed up,” Michael said, and he sniffled. “You d-distracted him. A-And we jumped out the window.”

Rumisiel closed his eyes. “Michael, you really need to tell all of this to the doctor…”

“I-I’m scared…”

“Don’t be, Michael. The doctors need to know so they can help you and Jamie.”

“I… I’m scared… I don’t…”

“Shh…” Rumisiel stood up. Looking into the boy’s eyes, he slid one hand away, stroking his hair. “It’ll be okay, Michael.”

“I… I feel so embarrassed to say it.”

“I know. I know it embarrasses you, but you need to tell the doctors, okay?”

“O-Okay, Rumisiel…” The boy let go, closing his eyes. “I-Is it… Will you come back to see me?”

“I… may… Yes, Michael,” he finished. “I will. I don’t know when, or how, but I will.”

“O-Okay…” Michael closed his eyes, sniffling softly. “Will you stay with me a while?”

“Sure.”

Rumisiel sat back down, and Michael again took his hand, squeezing it weakly. Michael no longer spoke, just sat up on his bed with his eyes closed. Time passed; Rumisiel paid no attention to how long, and there was a soft knock at the door knocked.

“Michael?” It was Alice. “Michael, Rumisiel?”

“I’m here, s-sis,” Michael answered. “And s-so is Rumisiel.”

“Rumisiel, thank you…” She smiled, weakly, sliding into the room. “How do you feel, Michael?”

“Better,” the boy answered, and Alice slid to the other side of him, taking the boy’s other hand.

Alice leaned onto the bed, kissing his cheek, softly. “You’re gonna be okay, baby brother…” Michael’s eyes closed again. Turning her attention to Rumisiel, Alice said, “The doc says she’d like to see Michael again. I’m afraid you’ll have to…”

“No, I understand.” Rumisiel squeezed the boy’s hand again. “Sorry, kiddo…”

“It’s okay. T-Thank you. And thank you for ge-getting me down on the bridge.”

“Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“I w-won’t,” he replied, and let go of Rumisiel’s hand, reaching over to hug his sister.

Amanda didn’t speak again until after they got out of the hospital and were walking down the street. She did, however, squeeze Rumisiel tightly. She was shaking with barely-contained rage, and he needed no supernatural perception to tell that.

He broke the silence. “The girl told you…”

“Everything,” Amanda finished, and she squeezed one of his hands. Far from the weak squeeze the boy gave him, he winced at the strength of her grip.

“Rumisiel… I… I don’t think I’m sorry that bastard is dead.”

The Angel squeezed her hand back. He knew it was wrong to hate, to wish destruction on another… yet… He took in a breath to say he didn’t hate the man, but found he couldn’t utter the words with honesty. He let out a deflating sigh. “I don’t think I am, either. And that scares me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Amanda replied, and leaned into him. “God, what a… I… I wish he wasn’t dead, so I could strangle the life out of him myself.” Her fury had been raised; she must have felt just as helpless talking to Jamie as he had, talking to Michael. He pitied Alice, having to shoulder the burdens of the two youngsters.

“Come on, Rumisiel. We need to get out of here.”

“What?”

“We need to find something else to do. Somewhere not a downer to be. Let’s head into Manhattan. I want to… I want to do something.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Do you remember where you got those boots?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, let’s go there first. Clothes shopping always cheers me up. You need new boots, maybe I can pick up something.”

“In a military surplus store?”

“Why not?”

Not having an answer for that, Rumisiel shrugged. “I dunno. To the subway?”

“I’m too pissed. You always have to use elbows and hips, but at this juncture, I’d probably be using fists and throwing people. Let’s hoof it, at least until I get tired.”

Outside The Designer Surplus Store, Manhattan, 3:37 P.M.

Amanda’s desire to march off her anger had lasted them until well past the Brooklyn Bridge, whereupon they rode the subway north to the Upper West Side. Having cooled down by the time they emerged from the subway, both were complaining of hunger, which was quickly and expediently crushed by a brief trip into a Taco Bell—Taco Hell, Amanda had called it with a giggle. Then they had marched on, and found themselves outside the same store.

“Hey, looks like the guy who helped me out last time is on the desk again.”

“Really? Cool.”

They walked in just as another customer was leaving, and recognition lit up in the clerk’s eyes right away. “Oh, hi, Mabel!” He waved to Rumisiel.

Amanda looked up at the angel, asking “Mabel?”

Rumisiel shrugged, and the clerk laughed. “Oh, wow, is she with you?” Rumisiel nodded, and the clerk clapped. “Well, how wonderful! Lucky for you.” He smiled. “Can I help you with anything, or would you two lovebirds just like to browse?”

“Lovebirds…”

Amanda jabbed Rumisiel with her elbow in the ribs, grinning. “Actually, his boots got kind of destroyed, he needs new ones.”

“Destroyed?! Tsk tsk, they were brand-new. What happened?”

“They died in the line of duty, preventing me from getting knifed in the ankles.”

“Oh, my, how terrible, yet exciting.”

The clerk led them over to a rack where the designer boots had been laid out.

“You don’t happen to have these in women’s sizes, do you?” Amanda chuckled.

The clerk clucked, and then snapped his fingers. “You know, yes I do. Not exactly the same, but the same company makes them… Hang on, what’s your shoe size?”

“I don’t honestly know. It’s been so long, and these shoes have stretched so well…”

“Well, why don’t you have a seat, and I can measure you?”

Rumisiel picked through the boots until he found a set identical to the ones he was wearing. He winced at the price tag, but shrugged. Not his money, anyway. His mind wandered, while Amanda began to monopolize the clerk’s time, talking with him animatedly about the clothes. That was fine with him, since it gave him time to ponder the recent events and crazy turns in his life.

Before too long, she was asking his opinion, between a pair of boots that were best described as a shorter version of the ones he himself was wearing, and a brown pair of very tall ones.

“Um… I think the black ones look better, but the brown ones would probably do better in this weather.”

“Thanks.” She went back to considering the question herself. She set them down, and went back to look through the coats room, filled to the brim with its heavy winter wear jackets. She nearly squealed when she spotted a tan-colored pile of fabric at the bottom of a pile of otherwise drab coats. Digging it out, it turned out to be a coat just like the one Rumisiel was wearing, but smaller. “Look at this!” She unbuttoned the coat and put it on, buttoning it back up and twirling.

She… looked good, he had to admit. Very good, and she tugged him in front of a mirror, standing against his side. They looked a couple, without a doubt, wearing identical coats. She held her hand up, and he gave her a high-five.

“Ooooh, I want it so bad.”

“I’ll buy it, then.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You look good in it.”

Amanda grinned wolfishly at him. “Oh, thank you!” She hugged him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him, to which Rumisiel responded by leaning into her, gently pushing. She pushed back with a giggle, then lunged into his body, laughing as he took a step back to brace and hold her. She snaked her hands into his coat to tickle him.

“C’mon.” Amanda took his hand again, and with a laugh, he let himself be drawn back out to the front of the store. She spent quite a bit more time than he had—she wasn’t simply looking for clothes to replace lost or unsuitable one, she was looking for style, and laughed when she came up from a rack with red and white designer camouflage.

“Where are you planning to go hiding with that, girlfriend?” the clerk asked her with a laugh.

“I dunno, a rose garden? I’d look like a gangster, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe,” Rumisiel conceded, shaking his head and grinning.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” she replied. “Still, it was worth it to see the looks on your faces.”

Rumisiel and the clerk both let out a groan; the man at the register chuckled. In the end, their total was quite expensive again, between Rumisiel insisting on paying for all of Amanda’s things as well as his own new boots, and, at Amanda’s insistence, a second set of things for him to be left at her place.

“So, where do you wanna go now?” he asked Amanda as they walked out

“No clue. I’ve managed to shake my family for a while. I feel better; thanks for letting me shop in there. Most guys won’t stand still and take it.”

“Eh, I can be patient if I have to.”

“Good. If you actually liked it, I’d have to get scared you really were gay.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and he did likewise.

“Even after last night?”

“Well, okay, on the fruity side of bi, anyway; like that guy at the desk.”

“He’s bi? How can you tell?”

“Didn’t you notice him checking me out, or the really sweet way he was pawing over my feet?”

In truth, Rumisiel didn’t notice, and said as much, to which Amanda laughed. “Well, at least you’re not the jealous type.”

“Eh, what’s the point? You’re going to be yourself, and I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Amanda laughed again and slid against him, pressing in as they walked to the subway, carrying their purchases down the stairs and boarding the IRT Flushing line.

“So… Mmm, hey, Rumi? Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Everything. This whole adventure. Thanks for having me along.”

“Thanks for coming with me. I’d have been sunk without you.”

Amanda smiled back at him. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

He let her lean against him, shifting to put his back—he had luckily gotten a corner seat—against the wall and let her lean fully onto his body.

“Rumi?”

“Mmmmh?”

“I’m gonna have to tell Robert it’s over sooner or later. Will you come with me?”

“Uhh, won’t that risk a fight?”

“Probably. But he’s pretty scary, and I don’t wanna go alone. I’ve wanted to break it off with him for over a month, but…”

“Okay. No problem.”

Rumisiel took her hands, and she laced their fingers together, putting their hands on her stomach.

“So, what’re your plans for this evening?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you imagine a scenario that involves you, me, my apartment, and no clothes on either of us?”

Rumisiel chuckled, quietly. “That would be nice.”

“Yes. Yes it would be.”

She slid back into his lap, settling in comfortably; it had become a simple, easy gesture somehow, her sitting on his lap, letting his shaft harden into the soft curves of her rear. He didn’t object at all, closing his eyes and placing her head on his shoulder.

The train did have an interruption again, during which time they put their bags on her lap and held them tight, whispering to one another.

“This is romantic, in a eerie kind of way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

“You know… I can’t help but wonder, what if there’s some kind of… I dunno, monsters down here or something?”

“Monsters?”

“Yeah. Vicious, ravenous, rubbery beasts that can see in the dark, ripping their way into the train cars to the tune of metal shrieking and people screaming…” Her voice was thick and mischievous; he imagined that she was doing it to freak out anybody around her, which brought a grin to his face.

“I dunno about that, Amanda.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there’s no light down here. You need some light for even the best night-vision stuff.”

“Really? You can’t imagine some kind of… hideous… slime-oozing… disgusting beast that sees in the dark?”

“Well…” He could imagine it, sure. “I guess, but it’s much more plausible that whatever kind of subway beasts lurk malign, they see in the infra-red spectrum. You know, seeing the heat from your body, instead of some kind of super-vision sensitive to light that’s not there.”

“Oooh! Good point. Some kind of… hideous cave-dwelling horror that was not meant to be known by man?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think it has claws or tentacles?”

“I dunno, that depends on how much heat there is. If it can see just fine, claws. If not, it probably crawls its way around, so…”

“Tentacles.”

“Right…”

He followed her lead, as she let out a sigh, leaning back on him. “Some hideous… slimy… tentacular beast…”

“Is tentacular even a word?”

“I say it is, so Webster can go fuck himself,” Amanda replied, with a quiet snicker. “What if it was blind?” she asked him.

“Blind, but tentacular? I dunno. It’d probably have really sensitive hearing, then.”

“Right. It can hear you… breathing. And it would slurp its way into the train car, feeling its way around… tentacles crawling up the leg…” She giggled. “Ripping away the strange fabrics we cover ourselves in…”

Rumisiel started to crack up, burying his head in her shoulder to avoid utterly destroying her subway car freak-out’s delivery, as he realized where she was going with her freak-out.

“Probing. Squeezing, squishing, sliding in where tentacles were never meant to be. So strong you can’t break free, so slick you keep sliding around…”

With a jolt, the lights came back on, and the car lurched back into motion. The bench next to her was empty for four seats in the other direction—most of the car had crowded away, to the rear, and Amanda giggled, putting her legs up on the bench, leaving those who had vacated their seats to grumble and hold the straps.

“Hey, Rumsiel.”

“Mmmmh?”

“Why don’t we leave our stuff in my apartment when we get home, and go buy stuff for dinner? I’ll cook when it gets late.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. I like cooking for other people.”

“All right.” Rumisiel kissed her cheek, and she sighed, luxuriating in her hard-earned space and the support he provided behind her, letting the subway rumble onwards.

Much later, walking out of the subway terminal in Flushing, Amanda laughed, half-doubled over, shaking her head and giggling. Rumisiel couldn’t help but crack up, trying not to laugh.

“Did you see their faces? That was too precious, I wish I’d had a camera…”

“I still can’t quite believe you could start talking like that in the train car while the power was out.”

“It was funny, imagining it. And imagining everybody getting creeped out by it.”

Rumisiel shook his head, grinning widely. “You’re an unfathomable well of… something, Amanda.”

“Thank you. So, wanna go get those groceries now, or later?”

“Now’s fine for me.”

“All right.”

Amanda Jung’s Apartment Building, 5:49 P.M.

“So, you’ve never had sushi?”

“Believe it or not, no.” Rumisiel shook his head as he followed Amanda up the stairs.

“That’s pretty unimaginable to me.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, I guess it’s just one of those things I take for granted that everyone’s had at least once.”

“Ah well. We could go out to a Sushi restaurant if you wanted?”

“They tend to be called Sushi Bars, and that’s okay. Not even Asian-American college students can survive on sushi all the time. I want beef,” she growled.

Rumisiel laughed. “Hence the Teriyaki sauce?”

“Right. I can make a mean stir-fry on short notice.”

Amanda unlocked and opened the door, though it seemed to be extra-loud to open. Shrugging it off, Rumisiel followed her inside. His ‘quest’, such as it was, was complete. Jack had probably moved on already, and if not, well, he would pop off to Belgium sometime after Amanda was asleep to double-check. His mind pre-occupied by thoughts of Amanda out of her clothes and/or imagining the dinner she had insisted on cooking for him—which was making him salivate—he never really noticed the steps behind him.

At least, not until the club hit him in the back of the head. Stars erupted in his sight. With a “Waaah!” he pitched forward, toppling into Amanda, their bags falling everywhere. She barely had time to cry out in surprise as they pitched forward onto her rug, in the middle of the room.

A mortal man might have been knocked unconscious or stunned by the blow. As it was, Rumisiel’s head hurt about as badly as it ever had from any bender or night-long drug-induced haze he had ever experienced, but he felt adrenaline coursing through his body, triggering the fight instinct.

Amanda, too, was just as angered. Though she initially was saying “What the fuck, Rumisi—” she gasped as he rolled from her and pushed himself, with the help of a burst of telekinetic force that made his head swim to summon, to his feet, letting her roll to her back.

“Robert! ” Amanda hissed with anger, athletically rolling to her feet, as the thickly built man in the center of the trio tapped the short wooden bat in his hands into his palm.

“Whore,” he said, his voice dripping with venom and anger. “I told you I’d make you pay for being unfaithful to me.”

“I’m not your wife, Robert. I’m not some Mob Molly. Get the hell out of my apartment!”

Amanda arguing gave Rumisiel time to clear his head. He balled his fists, forcing clarity into his head as he forced physical prowess into his body.

“You think you can be unfaithful to Robert Zhang? Behind his back, you fuck some pasty gwailo?”

“So what?!” Amanda spat, as she edged towards the sink, where the chain-flail and the knife were still lying. “I never promised to be faithful to you. And I know you haven’t been faithful to me!”

CRACK! Robert smashed the bat into a small table next to the door, sending the lamp that was on it flying; it shattered with a smash. “Shut your cheating mouth, bitch!”

“Shut yours,” Rumisiel growled at him.

Robert turned to Rumisiel. “Oh, we’re going to deal with you and that treacherous cock of yours, gwailo.” The word, Rumisiel knew, roughly translated as ‘white devil’. “I’m going to stick a rod of glass up it.” Then he smacked the bat into his hand. Rumisiel winced at the ugly implications.

“Oh, shut up.” Rumisiel advanced on them.

“Kang, deal with this gwailo.”

The one on the left leapt at Rumisiel. The Angel could see he was wearing a knuckle-duster on his left hand; the right was bare. The man was fast, though; Rumisiel had to roll out of the way of the punch, catching ‘Kang’ by the extended arm. He tried to follow up by ramming his fist into the man’s ribs, but found himself exchanging counter after counter; ducking a punch, having his fist deflected, raising his arm to block an overhanded chop, they danced back and forth. His attention all upon ‘Kang’, he didn’t see what was going on as he focused on trying to avoid the angry mobster’s blows.

His back found the wall of Amanda’s apartment; he had reacted too much, and only his supernatural agility got his head out of the way, Kang burying his knuckle-duster in the wall. Rumisiel shoved hard, pushing Kang back to the middle of the room, and lunged, swinging his right arm wide. He caught the man in the stomach with a wild blow, but despite getting the wind knocked out of him, Kang blocked the follow-through. Wrapping his hand around Rumisiel’s wrist, he twisted around Rumisiel’s arm, making the Angel scream in pain as he was thrown towards the kitchen table.

“No.” Rumisiel went with the force of the throw, putting his hands on the table as he reached it. Another jolt of telekinetic energy applied to himself, and instead of smashing through the table, he rolled over it, the leftovers from several nights ago scattering everywhere as he landed neatly on the other side. He slid the table out of his way, letting it bang into the back wall, and stared at the man with the brass knuckles as he came at Rumisiel again.

He needed leverage. If he could land one good blow… Rumisiel took a risk. He telekinetically pushed on the man’s next blow, freeing up his left arm to hammer into Kang’s chest, open-palmed, once, twice, three times, four, five, six times. Kang was definitively the worse for the wear, and Rumisiel spun him by the arm he had locked, tossing him back towards the door.

He had a brief moment to wonder how Amanda was doing, but he didn’t recall seeing any sudden movements from her; if she had been fighting, as she had helped him back in the house, he would have known, right? Kang hit the wall beside the door with a groan, slumping against it.

Then Rumisiel blanched. “Oh.” Robert had removed his coat, and both he and the other man were brandishing firearms; the third goon was pointing a pistol at Amanda, who had gone even paler than usual, Robert was holding what looked like an Uzi or similar compact submachine gun, aiming it in Rumisiel’s direction.

Rumisiel clenched his teeth. He couldn’t dodge bullets. Cold fear welled up in him; not for what they could do to him, but for what they could do to Amanda. He’d survive being shot—he knew this from having been shot, and by much more powerful weapons. He recalled the sweltering heat of an oppressive jungle, the rat-a-tat-tat sound of Kalashnikov rifles firing.

He moved; Robert kept the Uzi trained on him. There was nowhere to run, anyway, but Rumisiel moved in front of Amanda, who was biting her lip, the knife in her hand. She didn’t see a way out, so she did what he seemed to be expecting her to do, and slid behind him.

“Rumisiel,” she whispered. “I think they might let you g-go,” she hissed.

Kang climbed to his feet, taking a revolver out of his pocket and aiming it at Rumisiel, too.

“Say goodnight, gwailo. Whore.”

Rumisiel was not going to let her die this way.

He was not going to let it end this way.

Letting out a shout of supernatural fury, Rumisiel popped his seals as fast as possible, and threw his hand forward, putting an incredible amount of kinetic fine-control and force behind his thrust. The slide snapped off of the pistol and Robert’s Uzi, and the barrel of the revolver bent, as the trio pulled the triggers. The pistol and the Uzi failed to fire; the revolver exploded in its owner’s hand. Tables turned in an instant, the three hardened thugs stared with fear at Rumisiel, turning to run.

He didn’t give them the chance. They found themselves pinned to the walls by an invisible force, lifted from the ground and secured at the shoulders and wrists, squirming to try to break free. It took most of his concentration to hold them there without crushing them, but not all of it. Rumisiel advanced on Robert. As Rumisiel held his hand up, the lead thug gasped—Rumisiel was choking him with the power of his Angelic mind, slowly. “You bastard,” he muttered, quietly. “How dare you!”

Robert squirmed even harder; a whimper came from his throat, about all that Rumisiel was letting get through, the man’s eyes bulged as he exerted everything he could still control in a futile effort to break free. It would be easy, terrifyingly easy, Rumisiel thought, to simply snap the man’s neck.

He didn’t. He got up in Robert’s face. “If you ever come back here again, ever threaten her again…” >What Doctor Upton had told him he would do to Rumisiel if Rumisiel hurt Ash came to his mind, “I will break you.” Releasing the man’s neck, he put pressure on his back. Pinned by shoulders and pelvis, he pushed the man’s back forward, getting a screech of pain from Robert. “Get the picture?”

Rumisiel slammed the trio to the floor, releasing them, and shouting “Begone! ” in the loudest, most dangerous voice he could muster; he needn’t have told them twice. Or once, for that matter, the three thugs nearly clawed their way through one another to be the first one out of the door and dashing down the hallway for the stairs, screaming about a demon.

Heaving for breath, Rumisiel closed his eyes. He needed to relax. He shouldn’t have done that: the Darth Vader-esque neck-choke, or the illustrative pressure on Robert’s back. He came far too close to doing serious damage, and it had taken a bare thought on his part. A little more, and he could have snapped the thug’s spine.

He held his hand up, closing the door, and taking one final breath. Then he realized that Amanda must still be in the apartment. “Oh shit. Now I’ve done it,” Rumisiel thought as he turned, slowly, looking over his right wing. She was in the corner, staring at him nervously.

“Aw, shit. Amanda…” She let out a ‘meep’, and he closed his eyes. “This… Well, fuck, it’s probably exactly what it looks like.” He closed his eyes, letting his seals come back into place. The brief time with his seals undone had cleared his mind and body; his head wasn’t swimming and he felt none of the aches in the arms and body that trading blows with the preternaturally fast thug with the brass knuckles should have left him with.

“W-W-What… What are you?” she asked in a tiny voice, staring at him. She was afraid, and that crushed him. He tugged a chair close to himself by holding his hand out and having it zip into his grip, then he sat upon it.

“Amanda, I…” He sighed, as she trembled. “Please, Amanda. I’m not going to hurt you…” He looked into her eyes, his own shimmering; he blinked to clear the tears from them. “I’m crying?” He was: the excitement, the fear that had gripped his heart when he saw the thugs pointing firearms at Amanda, was dissipating, his body wracked with a cold sensation.

“My name is Rumisiel son of Gabriel. I’m… well…” He had felt so cocky when he told Ash. What had changed since then? Him? He felt embarrassed. Ashamed.

“An Angel,” she finished for him, her voice tremulous.

“Yes.”

“W-What… Why? Why are you here? A-Am I…”

“What? No, Amanda. I’m not here because of you… I…” Rumisiel took a deep, heavy sigh. “It’s a long and convoluted story.”

“I’m not… i-in trouble?” she asked tinnily.

“Not at all. Relax, Amanda.” She seemed to be winding down, but she still hugged herself around the middle. He stood up and walked towards her; she flinched away, and that made him hurt worse than the blow to the back of the head.

“Amanda… I… Look, I…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to do that. I just… couldn’t see any other way to stop them from shooting you.” She blinked at him, and he held his hand out. “Please, just let me explain?”

She slowly, hesitantly, reached out. Then she pulled her hand back for a moment. Finally she laid her hand in his. “Why are you here?” she finally asked, and he nodded. Leading her towards the bed, she followed, sitting down after he did.

“The ring. I came to deliver the ring.”

“Do you expect me to believe that story?”

“No. The whole letters shit? That was bull.” He took a deep sigh. “I knew Jack Nicolson in 1944. I was… Well, I was with him, I was watching.”

“Watching… him? What, are you the atheist-buster or something?”

He snorted. “Amanda, everything I told you on that bridge is absolutely true. It doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t.” He let her hand go, and reached up, stroking her back. “Back in those days, I was a Watcher of the Fourth Depot. I was… well, monitoring the human situation. From the ground, so to speak, I was pretending to be a soldier. Remember how I knew how Jack died? I got blown away by that tank, too.”

“But…”

“The ring? See… Okay, a couple of days ago, my psycho-ex, who is very real, and yes, she’s an Angel too… sort of… She was making trouble, like she always does, and I needed to get away for a while. I… I teleported to the cemetery where Jack was buried. I’d been there before, but this time… Well, I found him. He wasn’t able to pass on.”

“Because of the ring?” Her voice was somewhat incredulous as she asked.

He nodded, feeling silly about the whole affair. “Yes. I’d promised him that if he got killed, I’d deliver the ring. And I didn’t, and because of it, Jack was still stuck here. So, I flew back to that forest, and I found the ring.”

“And… you came to New York to deliver it?”

“Yes. And you found me, fumbling about in a library, trying to figure out where to go with it. The rest you’ve seen.”

Amanda let out a huff of breath and lay back on the bed. “This is all…”

“Kind of crazy?”

“Yeah. Why did you… I mean…” She trembled. “I thought Angels… You know…”

“The sex?” She nodded, and he took her hand, squeezing it softly. “Because you pushed, and I liked that. Because you’re everything my psycho ex wasn’t. I didn’t lie about that.” She looked up at him, and he sighed, likewise lying back on the bed, his head turned, as was hers. “You don’t regret it… do you?” he asked nervously, afraid the answer might be ‘yes’.

“I… don’t know what to feel. I…” Rumisiel started to stroke her hand, softly, and she shivered, her eyes half-lidding. “Why me?” she asked.

“I can’t answer that. I don’t know. You found me in the library… and I’m glad you did. I’d have been screwed without your help. Those kids would probably have been murdered…”

“And Robert would have done something to me,” she finished.

“Amanda…”

“Shh…” Amanda rolled over, lying against his side, stroking his cheek, toying with his whiskers with a fingertip. “Can I… I mean… this isn’t…”

“Against the rules? Fuck the rules,” he replied, and she cracked up, grinning at him. “Are you… afraid of me?” he asked.

She closed her eyes. “Should I be?”

“No,” he murmured, kissing her earlobe and squeezing her fingers tenderly within his hands.

He opened his lips, taking in a breath to ask her, but she beat him to it: “Do you still want me?” she murmured into his ear.

“I was just about to ask you that.”

She kissed his ear in return. “You won’t… get in trouble, will you?”

“Only if Doctor Upton hears about it.”

“Doctor Upton?”

“The… ah, long story. You wanna hear it?”

“Sure. Later,” she growled, as she slid her hands up, unbuttoning his jacket.

Rumisiel laughed softly as she tugged his coat’s front open, and pulled it apart. “Are you horny already?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she said, growling again and biting his neck which elicited a hiss of pleasure from him.

“Why?”

“That’s a long story, too.”

“You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

“Sure,” she replied, tossing his jacket from the bed.

He reached up, unzipped her jacket, and slid his hands in. Squeezing her breasts through her shirt and bra, a soft moan came from her.

With the pressure of the fight off, and relief spreading through her at the return to sensation and affection, Amanda trembled at the touch, pressing herself into his hands. She discarded her jacket on top of his, pushed her shoes off with her toes, and followed with her socks.

“Get your clothes off,” she hissed at him, rolling from Rumisiel

“In a hurry?” he teased, as he pulled his shirt off, discarding it atop the growing pile, joined soon by her shirt and bra.

“Yes, yes I am,” she groaned in reply, gasping softly when he pushed her to the bed, lowered his head to lick her nipples, and then started to suck upon them. She groaned, “This is… mmmfh… no time for foreplay.”

Rumisiel laughed. “I thought it was always a good time for foreplay?”

“Maybe before round two,” she groaned back at him, lustily dragging her fingernails down his chest. Sliding them into his pants and under the hem of his underwear, she tugged them down. He rose up on his knees to oblige, letting her free his shaft from its confines, already hard.

Amanda lustily stared at his penis, making Rumisiel blush softly. She noticed, and asked, “What?” as she wrapped her hand around it, causing him to close his eyes in pleasure.

“It’s been a long, long damn time…”

“It’s only been since last night,” she pointed out.

He groaned as she squeezed tightly, starting to pump her fist up and down his penis. “I meant… since I’ve had a girl going wild for me.”

“How long?”

“Give or take thirty years.”

“Wow. I’d be insane by then,” she murmured. “Lay on your back.”

“Gonna cowgirl me again?”

“No, I just can’t stand your boots on in bed.” She untied his boots and pulled them off, followed by his socks, pants, and underwear, leaving him fully naked. Then she licked her lips, rising to her knees, swaying as she unbuttoned her denim jeans.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured, staring openly as the half-naked young woman slowly tugged her pants off. “But I thought you were in a hurry?”

“I am. But I’m enjoying tormenting you, too.” She laughed, and dove onto him, kissing him hungrily, needily, and he kissed back, helping her with her pants and underwear by pulling them off. She kicked them onto the pile of clothes, and pressed him into the bed, slowly straddling his waist.

“How do you want to do me,” she murmured.

“I just want you,” Rumisiel replied. Reaching down, he squeezed her rear, and leaning up; their lips met again, and she closed her eyes.

“Show them again.”

“What?”

“Your wings. I want to see them again.”

“Ah, really?”

Amanda opened her eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I can’t. I’m on my back, remember? That’d hurt.”

“Then roll me,” she replied, and he smiled, doing so. With her on her back, under him, she stared into his eyes. He let his seals come undone again, revealing his wings and halo, hovering above the top of his head.

Amanda licked her lips, slowly. “You know, you’re going to have to explain a lot to me…”

“If you want me to, I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Rumisiel replied.

She slid her hand up, behind his head, taking another fistful of his hair. “Do you really… want me?”

He answered by lowering his head, and matching her hand on the back of his head with one of his on the back of her head. Kissing Amanda, slowly and languidly, she let out a sound of muffled pleasure, spreading her legs around his thighs. She slid her other hand up along his side, then against the inside of his wings, marveling at the feeling of the feathers against her fingertips.

“That’s a yes,” she answered herself as he let off the kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist. “Go on.”

Rumisiel nodded, and closed his eyes. He lowered himself, slowly, against her, rubbing the head of his shaft against Amanda’s vulva. She let out of a soft murmur of consent. Squeezing her hip for support, Rumisiel slowly lowered himself, his skin peeling back as he pushed his hard shaft into her soft, wet body. She trembled, letting out a whimper of pleasure and clutching his shoulder as he slowly pushed himself deep. Their hips meeting, with his penis fully inside her, she squeezed down on him, clenching the muscles inside her around his shaft. Their eyes met, as did their hands, fingers lacing. An exchange without words, and he took a breath, preparing to begin thrusting within her.

The room shook. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Police! Is everything okay?!”

Amanda squeaked, as Rumisiel bit his lip. “Fuck,” she let out with a groan. “Ix-nay the ings-way!” she hissed at him while pushing him out of her with a groan of annoyance; getting the hint, he re-sealed himself.

“Police! Someone reported a disturbance! Is everything okay in there?!”

“Y-Yeah,” Amanda answered, sliding out the bed. Her eyes darted around the room—there was a scratch in the wall from where Kang’s brass knuckles had punched the wall, a lamp broken, table broken—and three firearms on the floor, along with the multitude of bullets that had sprung out when Rumisiel had slammed the slide off two of them The remains of dinner from a few nights ago were scattered all over, the table was moved… She looked at Rumisiel with the mother of all ‘oh shit’ looks, and he nodded. Holding his hand out, the weapons—including the bullets, knife, and the chain flail—flew across the floor, under the bed.

“Ma’am? Is everything okay? Are you alone?”

“What? No, I… Jeez, I’m just in here with my boyfriend! We were getting a little rough is all.” Amanda tugged the sheets around herself, while Rumisiel dove for the side of the bed, tugging his pants and underwear back on in one go, even as his chest filled with an uncertain glee at having heard Amanda describe him as her boyfriend.

“Are you sure about that, ma’am?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “They think you might be threatening me. Hold on,” she whispered to Rumisiel.

To the police, she called out, “Yes. Ugh, let me open the door!” With an exasperated sigh, she pulled her own pants back on and, clutching the blanket around her shoulders, opened the door. Two uniformed officers of the NYPD were standing outside, peering through the door.

“Miss? Someone said they saw several large men entering the apartment, and heard a lot of… loud noises.” He warily eyed the table.

“That was Robert, my old boyfriend. We ran him off.”

“Are you okay? If anyone’s hiding in there, we’ll get rid of them. You won’t have to worry.”

Amanda let out a sigh, and smiled. “No, sir. I’m fine. This is my new boyfriend, we ran Robert and his two buddies off.”

“Do you want to sign a complaint against them?” The officer sounded unconvinced. “This place looks beat to hell…”

“No, it’s fine. Robert didn’t do this. This was after he left.” She pointed back to Rumisiel, who blushed furiously, crossing his legs and sitting back on the side of the bed.

“Uh-huh. You know, miss, if this man is threatening you…”

Exasperated, Amanda said, “If he were threatening me, I’d kick his ass and tell you to haul him off in irons. I promise, I’m all right. Do you mind?”

The officers looked at one another. And shrugged. “Miss, if you insist you’re all right, then… sorry to disturb you.” With that, the officers left.

Amanda closed and locked the door and walked back to the bed. “There went my mood.”

“Mine too,” the Angel replied, lying back on the bed.

Amanda let the sheets drop from her, and crawled above him, lying atop Rumisiel at crossed angles, closing her eyes.

He lay his hands up on her back, and smiled. “It’s okay. There’ll be another time.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess.” She took one of his hands, squeezing. “So, which one of us goes first?”

“I’m kind of curious to know why you got so excited?”

“Adrenaline does it. You know how I said I studied a lot of martial arts a bit?”

“Yeah.”

“My first boyfriend, when I was fifteen, was heavily into wrestling, and he started to teach me. We used to fuck after wrestling around on a mat for a while. It got to be that we’d just skip the get-up and go to bed bit, and then, well… It didn’t take long for our ‘practice’ to become more or less a sex game. Ever since then, if I get into a fight, or have to run, or something, when it’s over, I get really horny.”

“That’s gotta be…”

“Annoying, let me tell you.” Amanda sighed, blowing a raspberry on Rumisiel’s upper arm. “Okay, your turn. Who’s this Doctor guy?”

“Well… okay. My story starts, well, in March. I… I was working in the Fifth Branch of the Celestial Filing Depot.”

“Filing depot?”

“Yeah. It’s… well, Emily says the best way to kind of describe it is as a metaphor.”

“Emily?”

“I’ll get to her. Anyway, the filing depot, Fifth Branch… Well, that’s where they keep the files for humanity and all humanity’s works, and all the other life forms and stuff on Earth. Follow?”

“Files… You mean, like, my permanent record?”

“Sort-of. Only the files are just code, see? Like in The Matrix.” And he thanked Ash profusely for having made him watch the movie.

“So, it’s more like a computer file?”

“Well… yes, actually, even though it’s a literal paper and folder file. The codes record what happens, what you are, but they’re just code. If, say, I took Robert’s file, and put it in the cabinet for sea bass, he’d turn into a fish.”

Amanda snickered. “Put him in the turkey file,” she joked.

“Well, see, filing errors are bad, but… well…” He sighed, looking around with his sight Beyond. Good, he was clear. “I shouldn’t say,” he decided. “But suffice to say, mistakes were made. I… kind of screwed up some people’s lives.”

“Why?”

“Well, after my forty third hour of overtime, straight… I was kind of loopy.”

“Forty three hours of overtime?!” Amanda sounded incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Jeez. You were dead on your feet after what, fourteen hours awake here?”

“Well, Earth can be more draining, but yeah, pretty much. Anyway, I had just lit up a joint.”

“Wait,” she said, crawling around to look him in the eyes. “In heaven? Smoking pot?” He nodded, and she laughed. “My kind of place.”

“Not really. They don’t tend to… like those things.” He shrugged, as she pressed her breasts into his chest. “I dunno why; God did make it, after all.”

“Good one, I’ll need to remember that line. Keep going, this is getting interesting.”

“Well, like I said, I was on my forty-third hour of overtime, I lit up… and my bosses start wandering in. I panic, because I’ve got files out on my desk, loose. Not the kind of thing they like to see.”

“Why not?” Amanda asked, curiously, tilting her head. “I mean, it’s your job to have them out, right?”

“Yeah, it is. But my bosses are jackasses, and prefer things to look perfect all the time. So, after stashing the joint in my pocket, I pack everything away. Just in time, too, ’cause they’re grilling me with questions.”

“Been there, done that, bought the tee shirt.”

“What, bad bosses, too?”

“My parents.”

“Yeah. So, while they’re yelling at me, I notice, to my horror, a file and some papers on the floor. If they see those, it’s my ass. The papers were easy; while they were talking I just kicked them under the rug. The file was harder. Fortunately, they’re in such an argumentative mood that they turn to argue at each other, and I take the chance to stuff the file in the nearest cabinet—human females it turns out.

And I’m home free; I mean, I’ll just straighten everything out when they’re done yelling at me, right?”

“Right… except…”

“Thaaaat’s when the joint in my pocket burnt its way through to my crotch.”

Amanda snerked, then started to giggle, shaking her head at the mental image. “Oh, that’s too funny.

Let me guess, the two-step you did set them off?”

“Not quite, but they started to smell it, and… well…” He sighed. “I got banished on unpaid leave.”

“Banished? Wait, your bosses have the authority to banish you from your home? ” Rumisiel nodded. Amanda rolled her eyes. “That’s… that’s loco! That’s like my prof having the authority to evict me from my apartment because I cheated on a test!”

“Why do you think I was so stressed out I felt the need to toke up on the job?”

“Point taken. So, you got banished. Then what?”

“Well, I knew the rough area where I’d been working. Tempest.”

“Tempest?”

“Tempest,” he replied. “And… well, it turns out I’d accidentally erased two years of one young woman’s life, and done an impromptu gender swap, turning a boy into a girl.”

“Holy shit, that had to be freaky.”

“You have no idea. So… well, I’m trying to fix things, but I can’t do that if I can’t get home, and last I heard, they were thinking of letting me back in seventy two years.”

“Seven decades?! For a joint?!”

“Yep.”

“Jeez. That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, tell me.” Rumisiel sighed, stroking Amanda’s head. “Finally, someone who understands me. I think I may be in love.”

She giggled quietly, tickling his stomach. “So…”

“So, I’m living with the guy I accidentally turned into a girl. Ash.”

“How?”

“Pretending to be a Canadian exchange student.”

“How the hell does that work? I mean… the paperwork alone…”

“It’s, ah, kinda magic. You know the old, ‘these are not the droids you’re looking for’?”

“Yeah. Oh! So you just say ‘I’m a Canadian exchange student’ and people buy whatever bullshit you try to feed them?”

“For the most part. Some people are sharp enough to take notice, but if it’s a lie that doesn’t affect them, they generally won’t.”

“Wow. That’s gotta be handy.”

“Yeah… So, I’m pretending to be her boyfriend, she’s pretending to be my girlfriend, and she pretty much hates me… more or less rightfully. I’ve fucked Ash’s life up so many times…”

“Ah, well… it sounds like you’re getting a bum rap out of all of this.”

“No, really. I deserve it. I totally fucked this up.”

“Well, maybe, but still… she… he? Could probably stand to be a little more understanding, considering that one of you got kicked out of home.”

“Hah! I’d love to hear you tell her that. She’d kick your ass and mine without breaking stride.”

“Some kind of a fightin’ type?”

“Sorta, but mostly, Ash just gets really mad.”

“Fair ’nuff…” Amanda sighed. “So, that’s why you’re on Earth, anyway… And New York was the ring? So you could help your old friend move on?”

“Right.”

“What happened between then?”

“Eh?”

“You went from ‘Watcher’ to filing clerk? Something had to happen.”

“Ah… that… that’s another long story. I… well, I don’t want to talk about that right now, okay?”

“Mmm… If you say so.” Amanda closed her eyes, kissing his shoulder. “Mmmh. When are you going back?”

“I dunno. Our house is cold right now, the utilities went out, and Ash is staying with her mother in Cape Cod.”

“Ahh, nifty…” Amanda grinned. “So, you’re here… she’s gone…” The New Yorker licked her lips, and leaned up, kissing Rumisiel’s cheek. “Why not stay with me for a while?”

“I’d… I’d like that,” Rumisiel decided, hugging her warmly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hold me. I’m tired, now.” She yawned, murmuring, “The adrenaline is… mmmh, wearing off.”

“Okay.”

He rolled her to her side, with him behind her; their ankles wrapped together, he tugged the sheets above them with his mind, and snuggled into her back.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 21, 2004, 4:36 A.M.

Something smelled good—damned good. The hot scent and sound of sizzling beef and vegetables coyly teased him from sleep, as did the sound of furniture screeching on the floor.

“Wha?”

Rumisiel looked up; the bed was cold, for a terrible moment he feared the absence of the warm girl who had slept nestled into him.

Then her voice met his ears. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Rumisiel’s head rose. “Wha? Amanda.” She had pulled on a large white T-shirt, but other than that was still wearing the jeans she had fallen asleep wearing. She nodded to him, as she pushed the table towards the foot of the bed.

He held out his hand, levitating it, and she laughed at him, pushing it all the way in and setting it down right where she wanted it. “Perfect. That’s handy, isn’t it?”

“I don’t get to do it often.”

“Really? Why not?”

“My brother and Ash yell at me for cheating.”

“Bah. If you got it, flaunt it.”

He laughed. “Something smells good. The stir-fry?”

“Yeah. Good thing I’d bought frozen. I was just gonna thaw it in the microwave, but it thawed out overnight, so it was cook it now, or let it go bad.”

“Smells good.”

“It will be. Help me get this place in order, will ya?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She pointed at the smashed lamp on the floor. “Unplug that and clean it up with your Jedi tricks, and I’ll clean up the stuff you spilled doing those acrobatics.”

“Heh… Sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s the trashcan,” she pointed, and he nodded—floating it over to the scene of the smashed lamp, he jerked the cord from the wall with a fast yank, then carefully levitated the pieces up and into the trash, boosting his vision and scanning the floor to be sure he had all of the tiniest pieces safely trashed. While he was cleaning up the shards of porcelain and glass, Amanda swept the remains of her dinner from several nights ago up—dried, hard rice mostly—and tossed it likewise into the trash.

“Well, today’s what, Tuesday?”

“Technically,” Amanda replied, as she straightened up from her task. “Why?”

“I’m just thinking, I oughta check in.”

“With that doctor guy?” Rumisiel nodded, and Amanda pointed at the phone on the nightstand.

“Go ahead, I can eat a long distance call.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Amanda smiled at him, turning back to the stove, and Rumisiel picked up the phone.

Then he hit himself in the head. “What am I thinking, it’s like, five in the morning!”

“It is? Shit.” Amanda looked up, and giggled. “It’s easy to lose track of time, isn’t it?”

“It can be.” Rumisiel hung the phone back up and rolled out of bed. “Can I help?”

“Sure. Get the plates out and set the table.”

“All right.” He did as she asked, while they continued talking.

“Hey, when Robert started squirming, were you doing what it looked like you were doing?”

“Uh, what’d it look like I was doing.”

“It looked like you were doing the Darth Vader Special on him.”

“Uh…” Rumisiel blushed, setting the plates out. “Kinda.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you teach me to do that?”

“What?!” Rumisiel looked at her, a bit incredulous.

“Well, come on. Who hasn’t wanted to choke a bitch with the power of her mind before? Sith girls have all the fun.”

“Sith? Uh… You’ve lost me.” The reference to Star Wars lore went over his head.

“Never mind… So, you said you saw the Second World War firsthand, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Any other interesting points in history you’ve seen?”

“Well… I guess, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Journalistic curiosity, by which I mean I’m fucking nosy.” Amanda turned off the burner and walked to the table with the skillet held in a gloved hand. She doled out the stir-fry—which made Rumisiel’s stomach clench with hunger at the sight—onto the two plates.

“Like I said, I’ve never been anywhere but this city.”

Rumisiel shrugged. “Is it so bad? New York is freaking huge. There are countries smaller than New York—hell, smaller than Manhattan itself—and this place is a giant city.”

Amanda laughed quietly at him. “I suppose that’s true enough… Still, I want to see somewhere else, you know? And you’ve been so many places…”

“It’s… well…” He slid behind her again, squeezing Amanda’s shoulders. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“Do I ever,” she replied, with a sigh. “Mmmh. Anyway, breakfast’s on.” She pointed him to the table, and he sat, with her opposite him.

As they ate, quietly at first, Amanda put her feet up in his lap. At first Rumisiel wondered if she were going to try what she had earlier, but instead she pressed her toes into his bare stomach and smiled. “So… tell me about yourself.” She held a hand out, on the table, and he took it. “I mean, really about yourself, not the cock-and-bull story.”

“Well, um… what would you like to know?”

“Mmm. I’ve told you about my family, tell me about yours. The ones you started with, anyway.”

Rumisiel chuckled at that, taking another bite. “Well…” He let out a quiet sigh, squeezing her hand and releasing it. “I dunno what to say. My brother’s the big hero, not me.”

“What are you talking about?” Amanda smirked at him, pressing the balls of her right foot into his stomach. “I witnessed you whoop the ass of some kind of psycho-molester, and you ran off three armed thugs.”

“Yeah, but… I’ve always been a disappointment to my family.”

“How so?”

Rumisiel shrugged. What he had anticipated started; Amanda slowly, carefully unbuttoned the pants he was wearing with her toes. “I was never as bright as my brother, never as good in school as he was.”

“Angels have to go to school?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t, like, pop into existence adult-size?” Amanda asked him with a grin.

“No, we’re made the normal way.”

“Ahh…” Delivering a salacious grin, Amanda nodded. “Go on.”

“Well… my brother, Vashiel, he’s the hero. You know the avenging Angel image, the huge, burning sword and all that? That’s my brother to the letter. He literally can’t tell a lie, or knowingly not correct a falsehood.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Rumisiel closed his eyes. “And my dad, well…” Amanda slowly unzipped the pants he was wearing, as he murmured, “he’s even more of the same. Like… a big-time hero. Big… Ahhh!”

He let out a hiss of pleasure, as Amanda’s agile toes pulled his no-longer-quite-flaccid penis free from his pants, and she started to stroke him. “Go on,” she murmured, her eyes thick with lust and affection, even as she toyed with him.

“Y-You’re bad, aren’t you?”

“Atrociously bad. Really. You probably shouldn’t hang around me. I’m a bad influence.”

He closed his eyes. She was very good at what she was doing to him, dragging her feet along his penis, wrapping her toes around him.

“So, why are you a disappointment to them?”

“Ah, t-that’s… heh. You expect me to think while you’re doing that?”

“Yes, I do.” Amanda giggled at him. Rumisiel chuckled, trying to phrase his thoughts through the haze of pleasure she was generating in him.

“Um… okay, like… like I said, my brother’s the smart one, the one who can do all the Angel stuff I can’t… I’m really… mmmh… not so good at stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like… well… anything, really.” Rumisiel shrugged—and groaned when she pushed his shaft up, dragging one foot firmly down the underside, spreading her biggest toe and the second around his shaft, peeling his skin down with her. He felt a tremble of pleasure run through his body, and murmured to her, “You’re mean.”

“You know it. Go on…”

“W-Well… what I was always… mmmh… interested in was Earth. Mortals. I always… mmmh, had

a kind of fascination with this place.”

“Really? Even when you were young?”

“Yeah.” Amanda grinned at him. “So… you like to… watch, mmmh?” She grinned suggestively.

Rumisiel held up his hands, defensively. “N-No, not… mmmh! Not like that.”

“No? Pity. I would.” Amanda chuckled softly, and slid from the table. Discarding the shirt she had put on while cooking, she lay back on the bed, at a right angle from him, putting her feet back in his lap. “So… How did you go from the whole ‘watch, but don’t interfere’ shtick to being a glorified file clerk?” She wrapped her feet around his penis again, and Rumisiel laughed softly.

“Who said… mmm…” He laid his hand on her ankles, to still her stroking. “Who said it was glorious?”

“What, isn’t everything in Heaven glorious?” The twinkle in her eyes said she was joking.

“Not hardly… mmmh.”

Amanda squeezed him tightly. “And you just tried to evade the question.”

“I got fired,” he answered her, and took her small feet into his hands. Taking them gingerly away from his penis, he started to massage them, which was met with a soft moan of approval.

“Fired? Let me guess, you finally… mmmh… intervened?”

He stopped mid-squeeze, looking into her eyes. “How…”

“I was right?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“It seemed like the kind of thing you’d do,” she replied.

“Yeah…” He did not want to think back to that time.

“C’mere,” she said, and he looked up—she was holding a hand up, beckoning him with it. He nodded, and stood up, letting his pants fall from him, and crawled onto the bed, over her.

His head was promptly tugged down to hers. He spread his lips, meeting the kiss eagerly, sliding his tongue forward to meet hers. Amanda pushed up against him, while wrapping her legs around his waist and her free arm around his shoulders.

“Mmmmh… mmh!” Amanda pulled away from the kiss and lied back. “Squeeze me.”

“Okay.” Rumisiel did so, happily taking her breasts into his hands, supporting himself by his knees as he kneaded her wonderfully plump breasts in his hands. She trembled with the motion, biting her lip, then let out a groan.

“You like ‘em? Like my tits?” Rumisiel laughed, and in response, leaned down, sliding his tongue out to lick at her nipples. “I’ll… mmmh! Suck,” she hissed, just before he began to suck on her hard peaks. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Amanda’s hand slid into his hair, gripping—squeezing it, grinning down at Rumisiel as the angel’s eyes closed, focused entirely on sucking at her nipples. She laughed, as he continued on, seemingly without getting tired of it. “You really like that, mmmh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Roll over.” Rumisiel did as she asked, resulting in her straddling his waist. Amanda sat up, running her fingernails down his chest. “Do you like being on top, or on the bottom?” she asked, as he took her hands. Lacing their fingers together, he pushed back, and she pushed harder on his arms.

“Um… I dunno. They’re both good.”

“But would you rather control me, or let me control you?”

“Why don’t we just see what we see?”

“Okay.” Amanda extracted her legs from under Rumisiel, with a giggle, sliding to the side of him.

“Where are you… oh.”

She turned to face away from his head, sliding down to her knees and elbows, laying her breasts upon his pelvis, and slowly ran her tongue up his penis. He gasped at the sensation of her tongue flattening against him, running to the top of his shaft.

“Aaah, Amanda… that’s… ah!” He gasped again as she opened her lips, sliding back down, and he closed his eyes. “Mmmh!”

Amanda was good, and unrestrainedly, enthusiastically she fellated him, squeezing the base of his penis with one hand, falling upon him eagerly, driving the heat and tight wetness of her mouth down around him, pulling herself off him despite sucking as hard as she could, the vacuum effect drawing his skin back up until her lips pulled away too far.

“Y-You really like that, don’t you?” She paused in mid-suck, turning her head; her eyes opened, lazily, full of lust and pleasure, and he grinned back. “Yeah, you do…” Rumisiel held his hand up, and used telekinetic force to tug her pants off her hips, down to her knees. She grinned, going back to sucking him, while he slid his hand in, between her legs, stroking his finger over Amanda’s labia.

The New Yorker moaned, pleased, sliding her hips back and forth against him. She was already moist, and Rumisiel laughed softly; he reached down with his other arm, sliding his fingers through her hair and stroking the back of her head, while slowly stroking the college girl’s vagina, taking his time, lazily rubbing between her lips. She began to moan at the feeling, and pulled off him with a laugh of pleasure, staring over her shoulder at him, asking “You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

Grinning back, somewhat cheekily, he replied, “I’ve done this a few times.”

“Mmmh. I can tell.” She pushed back, pressing down, and he angled his finger to her, letting her slide her vagina down, onto his middle finger. “Oh, yes, I can tell,” she repeated, her eyes closing, while Rumisiel crooked his finger, turning his hand to press against the top of her vagina, carefully exploring for her G-spot. He found it, he reckoned, when she let out a shuddering groan, and parted her lips, leading with her tongue as she went back down on him.

His back arched as he realized that she had been merely toying with him, lazily, before. Amanda’s tongue, surprisingly strong and experienced, swirled around his penis, wrapping around him almost fully and tugging, as she gulped him greedily into her tight throat with nary a gag. Rumisiel closed his eyes, letting out a keen of pleasure as he felt the girl’s tight throat convulsing, tugging, pulling on his shaft. Cassiel had never done that, never that deeply for him. His eyes rolled up, vocalizing his pleasure with a long, slow groan. She reached behind her head, taking his hand; she squeezed, and he squeezed back, riding back and forth against his finger inside her, while her deep-throat swallowing played merry havoc with his sensations.

It ended abruptly, with her pulling off of his penis with a gasp for air.

“You okay?”

“Fine…” Amanda looked back at him, licking her lips, stained with his pre-cum. “You want me to finish you? Or…”

“I think I’d rather finish kissing you.”

Amanda’s lips twisted into a broad, lustful smile, and she pulled away from the finger inside her, then rolled over, still holding his hand.

Rumisiel sat forward and undid his seals, revealing his wings and halo. She winked at him, giving him a thumbs-up with her other hand, spreading her legs. The wayward Angel let out a grin, crawling forward, over her body—she met him with her other hand, first squeezing his shoulder, then reaching up, hooking her arm behind his neck.

“Mmmm… Go on.” She raised her head, and he leaned in to meet her in the kiss, his lips parting for hers. Her lips and tongue tasted sweet, and he greedily slid his tongue around her mouth, flicking over her teeth, wrestling with her agile tongue, while sliding his legs between hers and wrapping his arm under her shoulder.

Rumisiel slid down, squeezing Amanda’s shoulders into his, as he pressed the tip of his penis to the slit in her mound, slowly pressing against it. Her eyes, wide and accepting, urged him on, so he slid in. She arched at the feeling as they met, her body grasping, squeezing at him, enveloping his shaft in wet heat, as he pushed down, further, slowly all the way in, eventually his hips met hers, his shaft caught in her pulsing vagina up to the hilt.

Amanda let out a groan of pleasure as she pulled away from the kiss, her body tensing, gasping for air. “Don’t start yet,” she murmured into his ear, and he nodded, pressing tightly against her, connected by their hips, her body greedily squeezing on him. She started to lick at his pointed ear. “Mmmmh. How come nobody notices these? The same obfuscation effect?”

“Obfuscation? How’d you know the name?”

Amanda giggled quietly. “Remind me to tell you about Vampire: The Masquerade sometime.” She bit his ear, and he let out a hiss of pleasure, while she ran her fingernails up his back. “Hey, is it solid?”

“What? Oh! Yeah, it is.”

Amanda squeezed his hand in the grip they maintained, and reached up, wrapping her fingers around his halo—she giggled. “Warm!”

Rumisiel kissed Amanda’s cheek, then the nape of her neck, while she pushed up at him; he pulled back, and let her relax, pulling herself down off him, and she nodded. He drove forward again, and Amanda let out a groan of pleasure, releasing her arms. She spread them wide, and he let his wings fall to the bed, limp, the leading edges of them just above her hands; her left wrapped around his right wing’s leading edge, while her right still held his halo, glowing under the feathered drape. They met, again and again, staring into one another’s eyes, flesh sliding around, within flesh, joining. Slowly, languidly, without hurry, Amanda pushed up into him, and he responded by pushing her back down, hilting himself in her yielding, accommodating vagina.

“Rub my clitty, baby,” Amanda gasped softly at him.

Rumisiel licked his lips, and kissed her cheek. “I can do better.”

“Mmmh?”

He closed his eyes, focusing on her body, feeling down with a soft tingle of power. Amanda gasped as he wrapped lazy coils of careful telekinetic force around her pearl, slowly massaging it from every direction, compressing it just barely, then relaxing, rubbing swirls of telekinetic pressure along it.

“Aaaaah,” she vocalized, loudly and excitedly, segueing into a laugh as he expanded the sensation, tugging at her clitoris, her nipples, with tiny feelers of force, groaning up into him. Her left hand squeezed around his wing’s leading edge, strongly, while her right clenched his halo tightly. Her feet planted on the bed, Amanda shoved up against him, harder, faster, and he met with a stronger thrust, carefully pushing himself into her, pushing her hips to the bed, only to rise up and let her lead by engulfing him with an upwards thrust, her voice and his coming faster, harder.

Orgasm hit them almost simultaneously again, Amanda digging her short fingernails into the top of his wing and the heel of her palm, around his halo’s body, as he emptied inside her, groaning into her shoulder while she let out a loud, feminine cry of aggressive release, squeezing herself as tightly around his spurting penis as she could, milking him for more, more!

They collapsed together, his head next to hers, his whiskers slightly scratching her shoulder and neck, but she ignored them for now, kissing his cheek. He responded, kissing the side of her head, his lips in her short, brown hair. He seemed almost lighter now than before, and she breathed easily, despite the larger, bulkier body lying atop hers. She wasn’t inclined to tell him to get off, her legs relaxed, lying along aside his.

“Close your eyes?” she asked him, as she did just that.

“Mmm-hmm,” he responded.

“Just stay here with me.”

“Okay.”

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 6:01 A.M.

Amanda yawned, waking up, happy in the warm, afterglow-filled, post-coitus nap. Despite the whispering wind running through the city, despite the honking sounds of New Yorkers taking out their frustrations on the air in the pre-dawn gray, she was content, with her head upon the bundled-up blanket at the foot of her bed, the larger Angel atop her. She opened her eyes. His halo was still in her hand, though instead of gripping, she had simply turned her hand over, pinning it to the bed under her palm and hooked into her thumb. It was tugging, gently, towards his head. She nuzzled her nose through his white hair, then kissed Rumisiel’s pointed ear-tip.

He whispered, “Good morning,” into her ear.

“Yeah. Yeah it is. That was incredible.”

“Mmmh. I’ve never done that before.”

“Done what?”

“Had sex with someone while my seals were undone.”

“Seals? You mean the wings out and all?”

“Yeah.”

Amanda giggled softly at him. “Why not?”

“Well, we don’t usually have our seals undone, even in Heaven. And Cassiel… she never even wanted to have sex as herself, let alone with her wings out.”

“Ahhh… that’s…”

“Mmmh, yeah. Thank you.” Rumisiel kissed her cheek, and she turned her head. Their lips met, as their eyes locked with one another.

Amanda turned her hand, letting his Halo slip out of her fingers to float back over his head. “C’mon. Let’s go get a shower.”

“Together?”

“Yeah. Problem?” Amanda slid her hand down, taking his, squeezing his four fingers in her grasp.

Rumisiel shrugged, atop her. “Not really. It’s just… your shower’s small.”

“And you have big wings?”

“Yeah.”

“What’sa matter? Claustrophobic?”

“No…” Rumisiel grinned, kissing her cheek. “Just… it’ll be tight.”

“All the more fun,” she replied with a grin, stroking his legs with her own. Then she hooked her arms around his neck, hugging tightly. “Flap.”

“You sure?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Rumisiel spread his wings wide, and Amanda hugged tightly to him, wrapping her legs and ankles around the Angel’s waist. He flapped down, hard, sending a gust of air through the room and propelling himself up to the ceiling, with Amanda laughing against him, holding tight the whole time, careless of the fact that the massive downdraft from Rumisiel’s flap, though not exactly like a bomb going off, had sent all the loose objects in the apartment flying.

He supported her, just barely, but she noticed. “I can hold on.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He released the telekinetic hold on her, and Amanda hung tight, groaning as gravity tried to tug her away. Rumisiel spun over, banging his wing on an exposed beam with a wince of foolishness, but the New Yorker simply giggled, nuzzling into him from above, and reaching up, touching the beam, slowly stroking her hand over it. “Wow. This is awesome. You’re going to have to help me clean and decorate the ceiling.”

“I’d love to,” he replied, kissing her cheek.

“This is so awesome.”

“What is?”

“I’m staring down through the crack in my window’s shade at the street, while lying on top of an honest-to-fuck angel.” She giggled. “Who happens to honestly be very awesome to fuck, at that.”

Stroking her back with one hand, he lazily sighed, supporting them both nearly effortlessly. “You know… I really liked it, back then. When the cops showed up.”

“Getting interrupted by the cops when you just got it into me? You get off on weird shit, Rumisiel.”

“No, I mean… when you called me your boyfriend.”

“Oh…”

The New Yorker reached down, sliding her fingers through Rumisiel’s. Their lips met; they held the kiss for a long time, Rumisiel closing his eyes first, followed by Amanda. The parting was slow, a torturous, dragged-out affair, but it left them both smiling. Rumisiel opened his eyes, staring into Amanda’s eyelids; she laid her head on her arm again, smiling, her eyes not opening.

“Won’t your fake-girlfriend that you accidentally fucked up be pissed?”

“Ash gets angry at everything I do, but I doubt it’ll because I’m ‘cheating’. Her father, on the other hand, might.”

“Good.” Amanda grinned. “Life is more fun with cloak-and-dagger skullduggery,” she snickered.

“Hold on.”

Amanda did so as Rumisiel lazily pushed them to the door to the bathroom with short flaps from just the tips of his wings and set down. Amanda took his hand, turned around, and walked into the bathroom. She reached for the cabinet, but only giggled when Rumisiel pulled it open with a quick tug of force, and pulled out two towels, laying them over the radiator.

“That’s handy.”

“Yeah. It’s good to just do it for once.”

“Can’t use it in front of the Muggles, eh?”

“Something like that. Plus, my bro calls it cheating.”

“What’s life without some cheating, mmmh?”

“Not nearly as much fun,” Rumisiel replied, tugging her into him and embracing her from behind, pressing his body—and his by-now erect penis—against her.

She laughed and wrapped her arms up behind his neck. “Slap my ass.” He did so, and Amanda squealed softly. “Mmmmh.”

“What? Don’t tell me you like that?”

“Not so much sexually. I just like a guy who’s not afraid to touch me, but who doesn’t objectify me, either. You’re great. Now, c’mon.”

Amanda opened the shower and stepped in. Rumisiel slipped in after her and, keeping his opened wings against the shower walls, slid to the back of the shower against Amanda’s back. The college girl pressed her soft body back against his and reached under his left wing to close the door to the shower.

“Hey, can you do that trick, like in the Matrix, how Neo stopped those bullets?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”

“Because the water’s gonna be cold for the first few seconds, duh.”

“Ahhh, right.” He curled his wing up, in front of the showerhead. “Better not to risk it, then?”

“Sure. You can do that.” Amanda giggled, leaned back on him, and turned the faucets on.

With a snap into action, the hiss of rushing water hit their ears, and Rumisiel let out a “Yeek!”

“What?”

“That’s cold!”

“Well, yeah. Oh wait, you have feeling in them?”

“Yeah, they’re kind of connected to me…”

Amanda reached down and took one of his flight primaries between her fingers. “Really?”

“Uh-oh…” Amanda tugged. Rumisiel winced, saying “Ow!”

She didn’t get the feather. “Huh, it didn’t come out?”

“I’m nigh-invulnerable with my seals undone.”

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah, I… I… I shouldn’t have told you that, should I?”

Amanda turned around, stepping up on his feet, leaning up on the balls of her own, to stare into his eyes. Rumisiel shriveled under her gaze… before she broke out laughing, pressing herself tightly to him. “Oh, man, you looked so terrified! ” Amanda laughed against him, slapping his chest; the levity broke through him like a wave crashing on the shore, and Rumisiel embraced her again with his arms and wings, kissing her forehead.

Amanda ran her fingers down his chest, over his stomach, and down to his hips, wrapping her careful, agile fingers around his shaft. Rumisiel let out a sigh of pleasure, as she murmured, “Want me to go down on you?” She squeezed, and he laid his head back against the wall, groaning as the shower spray skipped off her and dripped down his body.

“Mmmh, that’s okay.”

“You sure?” Amanda leaned to the side, licking his nipple, slowly sealing her lips around it. Rumisiel gasped at the feeling, as she sucked hard, then popped off of him, leaving his nipple almost painfully hard in her wake.

“It’s, mmmh, it has an appeal to it, but you already did that once.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t cum in my mouth,” Amanda replied, with a grin up at him, her eyes opening.

Rumisiel licked his lips. The offer was very tempting… “But isn’t it my turn to go down on you?”

“Not with those whiskers, it isn’t.” Amanda’s grin turned into a smile, and she reached up, stroking his cheek and jawline. “You really oughta shave.”

“You think so?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“All right. I’ll get a razor sometime today, then.”

“I’ve got one you can use. You’re not the only boy I’ve brought home I’ve made shave.”

Rumisiel picked her up under the arms and squeezed her in a tight hug. She threw her arms behind his head, tugging him close in return, meeting him for a slow, languid kiss, while pressing her hips against him, grinding the front of her pelvis against his shaft.

He pulled away from the kiss first, smiling warmly. “You really are… Mmmh, you really get horny for me, don’t you?”

“When I find someone who makes me feel the way you do, yes, I am.”

“How do I make you feel?”

“You make me feel good. You make me feel happy to be the way I am, to be the openly sexual, liberal bitch I am. You make me feel like you’re happy for what I am, and not what I can do to your cock, like you’re glad for me, not just my pussy and my tongue. And you make me feel just plain good, with the way you touch me, hold me… mmmh.”

Rumisiel blushed slightly at her vocabulary, but he nuzzled Amanda’s cheek; she nuzzled him, in return. “You’re incredible, Amanda. Really… you ‘re… mmmh, you’re probably… mmmmh, you know, it’s funny—you do the same things for me.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” Rumisiel reached down, squeezed her right buttock, making her sigh against his cheek.

“Everybody else I know puts me down, tells me I’m worthless, yells at me if I fuck up. Yeah, I guess I do fuck up every now and then, but it’s pretty hard when the standard is set so ridiculously high.”

“You mean what with being all feathery-glowy? By the way, you’re so much better than turning on the light.” Amanda reached up, plucking his halo from above his head and whirling it around on one finger to illustrate her point, and he laughed.

“Not just. I feel like I’m always in my brother’s shadow, always in my father’s shadow. They’re such big, huge heroes, and I’m a constant fuck-up.”

“Bah. You’re a hero.”

“No I’m, not,” Rumisiel instinctively replied.

Amanda kissed him. “Yes. Yes you are. I remember watching you climb out over the fucking Hudson River to get a teenager back from the edge. I remember you attacking someone with a fucking flail with just your bare fists. I remember watching you stare down three goons, one of them with a motherfucking Uzi, in my own goddamned apartment last night. Plus, you told me about that murder you broke up the day you got into New York.”

“Well… yeah, but…”

“Shhh. No buts. I think you’re a hero. Or close enough for me, anyway. You may not have a giant flaming sword, but you make me all gooey in the guts for you, just the same.”

“Really?”

“Really. Besides, it’s more badass to do with just your fists, anyway.”

“Heh. Really?” Rumisiel grinned, and kissed Amanda’s cheek. “Thanks. But you’re the badass.”

“Me? Why?”

“I’m immortal. You’re not, but you stood right next to me those last two times.”

“I hid behind you.”

“That was only once you realized they had guns. Were you going for the knife, or the chain?”

“Both, actually.”

Rumisiel grinned, then tilted her head up by pressing his nose under hers. He began a kiss, which she gladly joined him in, flicking her tongue into his mouth. “I guess you’re a bit of a bad girl, too,” he murmured as the kiss broke.

“I’m a lot of a bad girl. I drink, I smoke pot, I fuck other girls and boys both, I procrastinate, I fuck off studying to have fun, I have a drawer full of sex toys.”

“And you apparently fight like a fucking tiger,” Rumisiel replied.

“Don’t you mean I fuck like a fighting tiger?”

Rumisiel’s breath caught, half-in to reply, then tried to escape into a laugh. He broke into a giggle.

“Yes! Both!”

Amanda laughed in reply, and leaned in, biting at his neck. “Mmmmf! You really know how to

build a girl up, Rumisiel.”

“And you know how to build me up. Fuck, I’m glad for this, Amanda.”

“Me too.” She looked into his eyes, and smiled. “So… mmmh… do you wanna try fucking me in the ass?” She pushed into him. “We’re already in the shower…”

Rumisiel bit his lip. The offer was very tempting. The idea still unnerved him a bit, but he could see the appeal; especially as she illustrated it for him, stroking her hands over his chest and murmuring, “In control of me, pressing my face and my tits to the wall… squeezing me, making me moan, helpless… entirely at your mercy…”

He closed his eyes. The idea did appeal, in a way. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I like a guy who can take control from me. And give it back.”

“I dunno. I mean… well… It might be fun. I just…”

“Want time to think it through? All right. Well, if you set me down, we can actually wash…”

“I do have an idea.”

“Mmmh?”

Rumisiel flicked her up into the air, Amanda laughing as she was levitated. Then he put his legs up, holding himself up the same way, and she grinned, getting it; he was ‘sitting’ in mid-air in her shower, and she spread her legs, sitting in his lap, scooting forward, pressing her vagina against his shaft.

“This could work. Have me ride you while we rub soap all over each other’s bodies… while we wash each other’s hair. Mmmmh, I like that idea.” She licked her lips, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Float me again.”

He did so, pushing at her gently from below. She took over, using his shoulders and her legs braced in the corners of the back wall to move herself up and forward. Then she let go of his shoulders, using two fingers to spread herself, and one hand to aim him into her. “Okay, let me down slow.”

He did, and she let out a slow groan as gravity slowly reestablished its dominion over her body, pulling her down onto the warm, hard pole of Rumisiel’s member. For his part, he arched at the sensation as her vagina—warm, pliant, and still very slick from their earlier tryst—surrounded him.

Their hips met, and she embraced him again, sighing happily. “You know, I like fucking boys. But you’re the first I’ve met that it’s truly fun to just have in me. Most men I’ve met have to buck, have to fuck, they can’t just relax inside me, let me be in control of the sex. They have to use me, and that makes me feel like a piece of meat.”

Rumisiel smiled, one hand resting on her back, between her shoulder blades, the other summoning the shampoo from the floor. “That’s wrong,” he replied, kissing Amanda’s jawbone, trailing his kisses down her chin and to the other side. She was pulsing, softly, around him, and it was great. “You’re wonderful. You’re not a toy.”

“Thanks.” She smiled when he lowered them, putting her hair under the shower’s spray, and then his own. He put his hands in her hair, and she closed her eyes. “Give me the shampoo.”

He whisked the bottle around to her hands, behind his head, and soon they were running their fingers lazily through one another’s short hair, he using his telekinetic force to remove most of her weight, letting her push herself up and down with her legs with effortless ease.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 7:08 A.M.

Amanda flopped on her back onto her bed, mere seconds after the extra towel had been spread over it. She laughed as Rumisiel belly-flopped next to her. He put his head on her shoulder, relaxed, steamed, freshly washed. Contented. Happy. She was happy too, scratching the back of his head lazily, as they let gravity and evaporation take the water from them.

“Wow,” he moaned.

“Too long since you just had fun with sex, hmmm?”

“Way too long…”

“Yeah. Sex, Rumisiel, is a toy. To be played with and enjoyed, loved and appreciated.” She squeezed his hair, making water flee the clenched fibers and run down his neck, streaking down her armpit, into the towel below them.

“And one to be played with often?”

“Mmmmhmmm. Well, when in the mood, anyway.” She giggled quietly, closing her eyes and leaning her head, craning, to kiss his forehead. “You’re great. And that thing with the sitting in mid-air? That was totally fucking mag.”

Rumisiel chuckled softly. “Thanks. And thanks for shampooing my wings for me. They’re a bitch to get to myself.”

“Another reason you keep ’em hidden most of the time?”

“Yep.”

Amanda let out a sigh, relaxing, spread-eagled and happy. “How do you cum so much?”

“What do you mean?”

“You put out a lot. Most guys only spurt a teaspoon full. You’re more like a mug’s worth.”

“Really?” Rumisiel raised his head, surprised.

“Well, that’s an exaggeration. That much would be like, hentai anime, gushing-out-of-my-pussy levels. But it’s a lot more than most guys, that’s for sure.”

Rumisiel shrugged. “I dunno, to be honest… I’m sorry, I—mmmh.”

She pushed her shoulder into his lips. “No, I like it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s easy to enjoy, with you. You’re not like, compelled to be some macho fucker that makes me just want to kick you in the balls and go find a girl to squeeze. You don’t have to own me to be my lover.”

Rumisiel blushed at the word ‘lover’. “I… Heh, I didn’t think about it that way.”

“Right. Because, you know what? You’re a friend. There’s no… no sense of intensity to this. I can just lay against you and be happy.”

Rumisiel took her hand, and Amanda squeezed his, smiling warmly at him. He closed his eyes, and flicked a towel over them, letting it dry them from above as well as below, in companionable silence for a long time.

Finally, she broke the silence, asking “What should we do today, Rumisiel?”

“Mmmh… I dunno. I need to go to Belgium.”

“Gotta see if your friend’s moved on?”

“Yep.”

“Mmmmh. Flying across the Atlantic ocean? Wow. I wanna go with you. Can I?”

“Heh… Um, it’s not like that. I actually just teleport.”

“Teleport? Like, boom, are there? Like, beam me up, Scotty teleport?”

“Right.”

Amanda’s eyes opened, and she grinned at him. “That’s awesome! Oooh! Can you take me?”

The excitement in her voice made him grin as he replied. “Yes, Amanda. I can take you with me.”

She squealed softly with delight in response, hugging him and kissing Rumisiel’s cheek in return. “Show me,” she whispered, thoughts of making Rumisiel shave long forgotten.

“We oughta get dried off and dressed, first.”

“All right,” Amanda murmured back, punctuating with a yawn. “But only because it’s probably cold in Belgium.”

“Very cold,” Rumisiel confirmed, and she started pulling the towel over her hair and rubbing vigorously, hell bent for leather on getting dried and dressed in a hurry.

American Military Cemetery, Neuville-en-Condroz, Belgium, 1:39 P.M.

“Oh, my holy wow.” Amanda’s face lit up as the rush of the teleportation wore off; she stared around with what was at first wide-eyed wonder at being able to see trees for a change. Rumisiel smiled warmly at her, but her enthusiasm curbed when it hit her that they’d teleported into a vast yard of graves. Her voice got quiet, “Oh, Jeez. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Rumisiel murmured, taking her gloved hand into his.

They were not alone, this time. Amanda saw the other persons in the cemetery first, pointing for Rumisiel as they stood. “Hey, we’ve got company.”

Rumisiel boosted his vision: an old man was stooped by a star-of-David marker; next to him a young woman Amanda’s age.

“Looks like he’s visiting old friends, too,” Amanda quietly remarked.

“Yeah. He’s wearing the campaign patch on his hat, but…” Rumisiel shook his head, as the old man swept the thread-bared old hat from his head, holding it to his chest. “I don’t recognize him.”

“No?”

“No. But that’s not so surprising. Even with my memory, there’s bound to be thousands I didn’t meet. He and his friend might even have been replacements brought in after my assignment was, ah…”

“Terminated?” Amanda quipped, with an arched eyebrow.

Rumisiel groaned. “You’re awful, Amanda.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He squeezed her hand, and started walking

He quickly found the marker again. Rumisiel crouched down, rubbing the snow from the stone cross, revealing the inscription again. Amanda crouched next to him, reading it quietly aloud,

HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY

A COMRADE IN ARMS

KNOWN BUT TO GOD

“I don’t see anything else,” she finished, standing up and holding her arm out for Rumisiel to get to his feet.

Rumisiel let his sight go Beyond, something he normally wouldn’t do in a graveyard. He looked around, sweeping his gaze across the picturesque scene, from the snowy ground to the skies above. “He’s not here.”

“He’s not?”

“He’s gone.”

“I guess he moved on, then.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

They stood in silence for some time, Amanda leaning against him; she laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around hers, while staring down at the stone cross.

“I still need to figure out a way to get this marker changed.”

“Hmmm?”

“He asked me to see if I could get him a grave-stone with his name on it.”

“Do you still have his dog-tags?”

“Mmm? Yeah.” Rumisiel reached into his pocket, fishing under the wad of cash, and wrapping his fingers around the chains. He took them out, and separated them. “Why?”

Amanda took the set that read ‘Pvt. Jack Nicolson’, and smiled, unwinding the chain to its full length. Then she slipped the chain around the top post of the cross, letting it slide down until the nametags were face-up, above the inscription. Rumisiel smiled at her clever, quiet memorial. “Sooner or later a grounds-keeper will discover it. They’ll probably make a note of it, and the… remains will be tested for his DNA. They’ll probably manage to confirm his identity by measuring against some living relative, and then the marker will be changed.”

“And until then, the tags do nicely,” Rumisiel decided, and leaned over, laying his head against Amanda’s.

“Mmmm-hmm.”

In companionable silence they stood for some time, staring down at the marker, their grave mission completed on a note of quiet satisfaction.

Rumisiel broke the silence, murmuring, “We should probably go.”

“Yeah. You want to go back to New York?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Why don’t you show me where it went down? If that’s not too morbid.”

Rumisiel bit his lip for a few moments, contemplating it. Then he nodded. “Sure.”

Amanda squeezed Rumisiel’s hand again, staring with wide-eyes as he snapped his fingers, the world going gray and whooshing past them for a terrifyingly exhilarating instant, until they were standing in the middle of a real forest.

“Whoa,” she murmured, looking around. “Where is this?”

“Mmm. Near Foy, actually.” He pointed in the direction of the town.

“You know, they made that into a video game?”

“They did?”

“Mmmhmmm. I’ve played them. Military history fascinates me. I guess I’m ghoulish.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t mind. So, what happened?”

“Eh?”

“Well, it was the 18th of December, 1944, the last I saw this place.” They were in a trench in the middle of the woods, and he pointed up the western bank. “Up there, actually. Come on.” They crossed the trench, and started climbing.

On the one hand, he never really liked to recall these memories. On the other hand, Amanda wanted to talk, and it was kind of closure, in a way, to tell her, as they trudged up the embankment. “I mean, I guess I know the gist of it—I mean, we’re not speaking German now.”

Amanda snickered softly at him. “You mean in this battle?” He nodded, and she licked her lips. “Well, bear in mind, most of what I know comes from playing the video game and reading Wikipedia, but… as I understand it, the Germans rolled through this area like, well, the fucking Blitzkrieg,” she said with a sheepish grin.

“That’s pretty much accurate. It was one second, all quiet, me and Jack are shooting the breeze in that foxhole,” he pointed at it, “then boom. Nazis everywhere, people screaming…” He shrugged. “War’s been like that, ever since the advent of mechanized infantry.”

“You saw it before then?”

“Yeah…” He took a breath, blew it out. “Yeah, I did…”

“What, you have a fascination with military activity, too?”

“More like a morbid inability to look away… I stopped doing that, though.”

“Why?”

“It…” Rumisiel closed his eyes, sighing quietly. “That’s… Well, I got fired, I told you. I broke the rules. I was sick of the rules. Tired of watching people I knew get killed and filing reports on it.”

Amanda took his hand, squeezing softly. “So, they gave someone else your job? Is there some poor squad in Iraq right now with an Angel amongst them, watching and observing instead of covering their backs?”

“No, actually. They axed the entire position. Decided it was ‘no longer necessary nor proper’ to embed an Angelic observer anywhere on Earth, much less in the middle of war.”

“Because of you?”

“Yes, because of me. They don’t really give a crap about Humanity, I’m sorry to say.”

“They don’t?”

“It’s… I guess it’s one of the reasons I’ve never got along too well with my family.” Rumisiel chuckled quietly, as they walked across the snow-covered forest floor, under the tree’s reach, to the edge of the foxhole he had excavated the snow from mere days prior.

“So, if they’re not watching us to damn us for our sins and all… what do they do?”

“Well, Fifth Depot, which is where I was fired from most recently, is the one concerned with Humanity. You can tell how little of a crap they give because the four higher Depots all have Archons and we don’t.”

“Archon?”

“Big boss. The guy in charge. Theoretically answerable only to God, practically answerable to nobody but each other.”

“So, what do the other four do?”

“Fourth branch’s job is to take measurements and readings and make sure the reality reflects the Files maintained in the other branches.”

“I thought you said the Files themselves defined reality?”

“They do. That’s why it’s really kind of pointless. When I was there, Fourth also measured Fifth’s job, by which I mean they had an observation wing, with Angels monitoring and reporting on the state of Humanity’s sociological and technological development, and so forth. That was kind of exciting.”

“Technology?”

“Yeah.”

“What, you guys run around with phasers and shit?”

Rumisiel snickered. “Not hardly. Actually, Humanity outstripped us sometime around the late Renaissance when they figured out how to forge steel into complex shapes as an industrial process, and since then we’ve just leeched ideas and enhanced them with supernatural force since then.”

Amanda hummed, nodding softly. “So, like, what, a Magitech computer?”

“Exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. Or magic film that can capture everything supernatural that you wouldn’t see, like emotional auras and spooks and such.”

“Oh really? Neat. So, if I looked at supernatural film, I could see into the spirit world?”

“Not likely. The film itself is supernatural, so if you don’t have a way to see Beyond, you’ll just see what was captured in the visual spectrum.”

“So, how do I get a sight Beyond, mmmh? Because that sounds awesome. Amanda Jung: Paranormal Private Eye, Journalist of the Extraordinary.”

Amanda put her fists on her hips, and Rumisiel cracked up, grinning and smiling, hugging her warmly. She hugged him back, kissing his neck.

“Actually, I don’t know how. Um… I do know once, when I was forced to deal with this chick’s ghost, the fight got so intense that Emily saw it…”

“Hum. So, you can make me see the supernatural?”

“I dunno. She might just have been forced into visibility.”

“Fair enough.” Amanda let go, and he did likewise.

“So, where did the Axis get stopped?”

“Bastogne,” Amanda replied, stroking her fingers down Rumisiel’s chest. “The Hundred-and-First Airborne held the town despite all the odds, then Patton rolled through like, well, a blitzkrieg of his own, and the One-oh-One picked up and went with him. They took back Foy, and didn’t stop moving until Patton’s tanks ran out of gas.”

Rumisiel nodded at her description. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Amanda squeezed his fingers, softly, turning around, looking out over the snow-covered gulf in the woods. Then she gasped. “It’s snowing!”

Rumisiel turned as well, to see a thin fog of snow, lazily from sky to ground falling, settling over the Ardennes forest. He pulled Amanda close, hugging her by the shoulders; she responded by wrapping her arm around his waist.

“This is all kinds of fucked up as a place for a romantic moment, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is. I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I.” Amanda smiled, leaning against Rumisiel, putting her weight into him, and he leaned back. Amanda turned into him, and leaned up.

They met again, slowly, softly, deeply kissing, lips parted; pressing into one another, Amanda pushed her tongue into his mouth, wrapping the tip around, against Rumisiel’s, which curled to meet her. He undid his seals, wrapping her against him, inside his wings’ embrace, amidst the falling snow and the cold, windless Ardennes forest backdrop.

The kiss lasted for a very long time indeed, trailing off with the pair parting. “We must look a hell of a sight in matching coats, kissing in a place like this.”

“Wish I had a picture,” Rumisiel replied with a soft snicker.

“Ah, well. Hey, maybe we can get that ‘girlfriend’ of yours to take it?”

“I think Ash would kick my ass hard enough for the both of us.”

“Rumisiel? Take my hand.” She held her hand up, and he took it. “Fly.”

“Mmmh?”

“I want to fly.”

“Where?”

“Northeast. No, northwest,” she corrected. “I wanna see if we can actually fly over England.”

“All right. Pull your balaclava down. Or, here.” He did it for her, furling the brown wool hat down over her face.

“Why?”

“It’s cold when you’re flying.”

“Oh… Oh, right.”

“Ready?”

“Abso-fucking-loutely.”

Amanda slid in, close to his chest, reversing her grip on his right arm. He wrapped his left around her body, securing her close with telekinetic force and his arm. Then he spread his wings. “Hold on.

This’ll wake you up.”

“Waaaaaa-haaaaaah!” Amanda laughed as Rumisiel took off with a single, hard flap. He didn’t continue to flap, instead using telekinesis to propel himself and Amanda, in a deliberate take on the ending of The Matrix as they soared into the sky. Rumisiel keeled over and let Amanda lie atop him, looking out over his shoulders as they flew, the wind howling in his ears, Amanda hot and excited above him, his fingers splayed on her stomach, her hand squeezing his. She pushed down on his arm, pushing it towards the ground. He wondered, did she want him to roll?

She did, she indicated by changing her grip on his hand, clenching his thumb and pushing it. Rumisiel grinned, and spread his wings as he snap-rolled with her held tightly to his chest; Amanda squirmed. He realized he couldn’t hear what she was saying, so he boosted his hearing. She was giggling, and put her left arm out in front of them, fingers balled into a fist as they soared on.

Flight Line, RAF Leeming, North Yorkshire, UK, 13:01 Hours

A blaring klaxon was sounding all over the air base as the four men in flight suits pelted down their corridor. It had started moments ago, and the four men waiting at ready positions had been out the door even before the flight line officer had managed to belt out “This is not a drill, all pilots, scramble scramble scramble. This is not a drill, all pilots scramble!” The most senior of the four pilots on Quick Reaction Alert duty felt a chill run down his back as the quartet’s boots dug into the rain-spattered tarmac, dashing for the two gray F.3 Tornadoes on the flight line.

“What do you think it is, Mick?”

Michael ‘Mick’ MacElroy shook his head at his navigator’s question. “No bloody clue! They must think it’s damn serious.”

“Do you think it’s a hostile, then?”

“Scrambling us like this, I’d bet on it,” Mick replied, as they got to the ladder and began to climb into their aircraft, the flight crew to perform a quick final check on them a few paces behind them.

“Fifty quid says otherwise.”

“You’re on, James.”

Mick pulled himself into his seat and reached forward. His navigator, James ‘Gambler’ Dolan held his fist up, and Mick punched it, as the ground crew strapped them into the aircraft, thumped their helmets to tell them they were good, and pulled away. The canopy closed around them as the ground crew yanked away the chocks and ran for cover. Mick took the stick in his hands, flexing his fingers around the control input of the fighter. This part always made his guts clench with excitement, akin in a way to the feeling when an attractive woman led him into her flat, but more so. Wings out, flaps down, hand on the throttle. Now, just waiting on the flight controller to clear them.

“Eyeball One, we have erratic bogey approaching across the Channel from the southwest at variable velocity which may exceed Mach 1.”

“The Channel?” Mick did not like that—RAF Conningsby should have been scrambling first.

“What’s going on? Did Conningsby get hit?” A cold fear clenched in his guts.

“Negative, Conningsby flight line is blocked by debris from an accident this morning. Your orders are to intercept the bogey as fast as possible.”

“Kill mission?”

“We are taking this threat as credible. Eyeball one, you are cleared for launch.”

Responding in the affirmative, Mick put the throttle down all the way, as the visual signals from the side indicated. He spared a look to the right to see that the other crew, likewise in a Tornado F3, were standing by; they’d be authorized for launch mere moments after him. He waved; his wingman’s pilot waved back. The massive aeroplane he was sitting at the controls of lurched, twin turbofan engines behind him accelerating straight from a cold idle to just below the point when re-heat kicks in. The noise would be deafening to anyone outside who was anywhere in the vicinity and not wearing ear protection.

“Eyeball Two, clear for launch.”

Mick nodded his head; he didn’t look, but he could well see the same thing happening in the identical fighter sitting to the right, on the other side of the runway. The sleek, massive fighter rolled down the runway, gathering speed as the roaring engines sucked air from the front, compressed it, and sent it back out the rear, the air behind them shimmering from the heat. As his aircraft gathered speed, he couldn’t help but worry—true coincidences were, in his estimation, rare, and often not coincidental at all. If the flight line at Conningsby going down was not a coincidence, this could be the first step of a well-planned attack he’d be powerless to stop.

The air rushing under the wings gave rise to the aircraft—quite literally, as the runway fell away below, and the two Tornadoes lifted into the air. Mick was, as always, perfectly steady with his stick-work despite the nervousness in his stomach, and gravity became more a set of guidelines than actual rules. Mick spoke up again, feeling the fear lift as he became all business, “Eyeball One lifting from Home Plate.” As his wingman caught up, flying just off his right wing, he added, “Holding hands,” indicating the flight was in proper formation.

“Affirmative, Eyeball One. Picture is hotdog blue.” The code phase translated itself in Mick’s head: the contact they were scrambling to intercept had not yet flown over the English Channel. Green and yellow meant the far and near Channel, respectively. Red was inside the United Kingdom’s sovereign airspace.

With his microphone un-keyed, Mick mused aloud to his navigator, “Who the bloody hell do you think it is? Some trick by Putin?”

The head in front of him shook. “Angle’s wrong. They picked it up over Belgium.”

“And, since we’re out here, I’m presuming that the Belgian government says they have never seen it before?”

“That would be my bet.”

“Eyeball One, picture is hotdog green, AWACS airborne. Bogey has turned to the north.”

“Bogey going cold?” Mick asked, wondering if the incoming airborne target was going to turn itself to the far north and skirt or evade the UK’s airspace altogether—a wasted trip, but all in all, a preferable outcome.

“Negative, bogey still inbound. Standby…” Ground control gave him a new heading for intercept.

“Buster, buster, buster,” the line officer added. It surprised Mick—he was being ordered to engage the re-heat for sustained flight over the United Kingdom, and fly the Tornado as hot as it could. “Bogey is accelerating.”

Mick pushed it. The aircraft began to howl, the wings sweeping all the way back for supersonic flight. He could easily imagine it, the fuel-air mixture coming out the back of his turbofans through the engine cowling being ignited again, becoming more energetic, adding more thrust to the engine’s power, and forcing the Tornado forward. It gulped fuel at a phenomenal rate, but pushed the aircraft to more than twice the propagation speed of sound as they climbed for altitude and burnt for distance.

“I’ve got it, Mick.”

“You have the bogey?”

“I’m getting hits… Ah?! Bastard faded!”

The radio channel all-but exploded. Mick reported the loss of the contact, ground control likewise reported to him the loss of the contact, and that the AWACS aircraft had lost the contact as well. “Maintain track,” the air controller ordered. Mick maintained his intercept heading as directed, climbing to 25,000 feet, about half of his service ceiling.

Tense moments rolled by, as the two massive fighters hurtled through the sky, rending the afternoon peace—at five miles high.

“Feet wet,” Mick reported as their intercept course brought them over the banks of the North Sea. He did some quick navigating of his own in his head—the bogey’s course was too far north to be going for London. If it was a first-strike, it must have been heading for an airbase—Conningsby? Take down the flight line then wipe them out for good—or some other installation. They would probably intercept it again over Norfolk or Suffolk if it didn’t get where it was going first, maybe Essex if the bogey decided to slow down and take its time.

Some few minutes after Mick reported his feet were ‘dry’—having flown back over land, above Norfolk—ground control reported they had the contact again. “Bogey is at hotdog yellow, angels minus fifteen! Standby…”

“Did he say the bloody thing’s still over the channel?”

“Aye, that’s what he said,” Mick replied to his navigator. “Have you got the damn thing?”

“Negative… Ah! I think I have him. No, he faded again! Bloody hell, this bastard’s all over the place.”

“Hits not steady?”

“Forget unsteady, one pass it’s there, then he’s gone, then he’s back again and a mile out of track.”

“What manoeuvres like that?”

“I’ve no clue. A new kind of missile, maybe? Superman?”

Mick snorted derisively; he opened his mouth to say ‘be serious’, but he couldn’t explain it either. Ground control broke into his thoughts, “Eyeball One, bogey is now Slow and is still hotdog yellow, closing hot. You are directed to intercept and establish visual identification.”

“Affirmative, ground control.” Mick cut his throttle back—he was well above the target now, and moving too fast. They’d blow past above it and never see it if he maintained his current speed and altitude, so he let the aircraft slow down, allowing the sound of their passing to catch up to them as he let the plane fall towards the surface of the world, gravity’s suggestion becoming more and more difficult to refuse. For now…

Mick’s aircraft hurtled south, airspeed and altitude both bleeding away, albeit slowly. He couldn’t possibly intercept it over the Channel… could he?

“Eyeball one, New Picture; bogey has new heading, hotdog red.” The unknown air contact was over the United Kingdom’s sovereign airspace—a call of hotdog alone was the only next step, indicating it was actually above land. They were provided with their new heading, and shifted to intercept again.

“That’s… That makes no bloody sense, Mick.”

“What do you mean?”

James was a navigational wizard: he could translate headings and bearings from three different people into a map in his head. “That’s taking the target almost south-west; actually flying south of the isles. Almost…”

“Almost like what?”

“Almost like they’re bloody sightseeing. If I’m right, we’re going to intercept this bogey just off the cliffs of Dover.”

“What’re you saying, James? That Superman’s on a sightseeing tour and we’re scrambling to intercept him?”

“Buggered if I know. That may be, though. I’ve lost him.”

“More intermittent contact?”

“No, he’s just plain gone. I’m not getting anything.”

“Ground control, Eyeball One; Bogey is faded.”

“Affirmative, Eyeball One. AWACS and ground stations still have target. Continue on intercept.”

“You know, Mick… what if he’s only giving us radar bounce on one aspect?”

“Eh?”

“Well, if he’s been doing aerobatics—looping, changing course, diving, and what-not, but we only see him when our radar’s pointing at his front…”

“That seems absurd.”

“Absurd or not, it would fit.”

“We’re over Kent now. We should have visual soon,” James commented. Craning his head slightly, Mick gazed out over the countryside they were hurtling over, to the line of blue beyond—the Channel. “We’re at the bogey’s indicated altitude.”

“Feet wet,” Mick called as they passed over the Cliffs themselves, rocketing over the Channel.

“Distance?”

“5 nautical and closing fast.”

“Do you see anything?”

“Not a thing… I’ve got contact. Faint, but… Locked!”

“New Picture,” Mick said, “We are locked on target.”

“Affirmative, Eyeball One. Intercept!”

Mick glanced down; though James was responsible for the radar, he had a screen himself. The image was tiny—like an ultralight aircraft, or a glider or something. “Infrared?”

“Nil.”

“Nil?!” Mick blinked, surprised. An aircraft that had exceeded the speed of sound had a nil infrared profile at this range? “AMRAAM lock?”

“Negative. I’m not sensing it above the background.”

Ground control demanded an update, to which Mick replied, “No joy,” indicating they were not yet in visual contact.

“What the hell is it? One of those blasted Raptors the Yanks have been working on?”

“Those aren’t near flying yet.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t see it yet, I don’t know.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

Mick’s mind worked. He fumed. At this range, he damned well should have had a contact. They were at five miles nautical and closing—they should be able to see the damn thing! “Distance?”

“We’re… There!” James excitedly said, pointing.

Mick’s eyes snapped to see… and inside his flight helmet, his jaw dropped, as the two faster fighters caught up.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. In fact, he blinked, squeezing his eyes shut for a few moments, then opening them. “James?”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“Are you seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

“I don’t know, but if we report a Tally on this, we’re grounded for good.”

Mick craned his neck to the right. He could see the pilot of Eyeball Two looking back. It was easy to imagine an identical conversation going on in his wingman’s cockpit. Ground control demanded another report, adding that their radar had the Eyeballs and the target merged as a group.

“Uh… we have Tally.”

“What is it?”

“I’m… not sure.” It was small, it looked like… a flying man with wings? If he said that, he was definitely getting a full psych evaluation and almost certainly grounded forever.

“Should we… try to wave it down?”

“Why not? This day just took a direct turn into the Twilight Zone,” Mick replied, and hit his mic “Ground control, we’re going to, ah… attempt to wave the bogey down, over.”

“Roger. What is it?”

“It looks like some kind of ultralight.”

“An ultralight? Is that some kind of a bad joke?”

“Negative, Ground Control. Over."

Mick dropped the Tornado slightly, and pushed the throttle forward. Distance closed, and he could start to make out details.

As could James. “It’s not one, it’s two.”

“Eh?”

“Have a look, Mick.”

As they pushed forward, accelerating, the details became clear—it was a man, with massive, white-feathered wings, holding a more slender figure tight to his chest—a woman. She had no wings, but was reaching out, her hands gripping the leading edges of his. She shifted her weight, and he banked slightly; the subtle course change gave them a better view of the White Cliffs of Dover, upon which their heads were fixed. Most disturbingly, however, was that there was a glowing golden ring hovering above the man’s head.

“Mick?”

“Yes, James?”

“So, who do we see first when we land? The psychologist, the chaplain, or the optician?”

Mick thought about it for a moment. “The bartender.”

“Copy that and Amen.”

The girl clutched to the man’s front looked around; for a strange moment, Mick could clearly see her—very pretty—eyes that went stark wide inside the balaclava she was wearing. She shifted her weight hard. They were gone in a flash—the winged man tilted up on one wingtip and then yawed right around vertically, as if mass and inertia were of only passing interest to him, doing a full reversal of his direction of heading instantly.

“Bloody hell!” Mick hit his mic. “Bogey evaded, repeat, bogey evaded! Full one-eighty!”

“Eyeball One, break and intercept. Follow him!”

Mick banked low and hard right, towards the White Cliffs, whilst his wingman climbed and did a hard left, towards France; they passed over/under one another, rolling the aircraft into the turn. G-forces pulled on the pilot and navigator, Mick’s fist clenching the stick. The reports were going crazy; AWACS called the lost lock first, followed by ground stations, and then he did.

Pulled around, Mick scanned the skies. “Where the hell did he go?”

“I don’t see him.”

“Radar?”

“Nothing.”

“Is he below us?” Mick thumbed the mic. “Eyeball Two, is the bogey below us?” He looked over, saw his wingman’s aircraft, and looked under it: the sky was clear.

“Negative, Eyeball One. Bogey is… Bogey is gone.”

“Eyeball One, what is your picture?”

“Uh… Bogey is vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Gone, ground control. Bogey is not within sight; we have no joy.”

“How? Did he crash?”

“Uh… we have no information at this time. He evaded us, and there’s nothing at all now. No contacts.”

Mick shook his head. There was going to be hell to pay when they got back on the ground. Ground control and AWACS were likewise reporting they had no contact.

“It’s like the bloody bastard just vanished into thin air, Mick.”

“Aye.”

“Who won the bet?”

“I have no idea.”

“Call it evens?”

“Done.”

The White Cliffs Of Dover, Kent, UK, 1:15 P.M.

They laughed, raising a joyous, raucous laughter to one another. Amanda yanked her balaclava off and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat, freeing her hair to whip in the wind as his did.

“Oh man, did you see that?” Amanda pointed the two jet fighters in the sky.

“I barely had a chance to.” They were still in flight, but much lower and slower, mere yards from the cliff faces themselves; Rumisiel had rolled to right, flying with his back to the cliffs. “Jeez, do you think they just found us?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Coincidence?”

Amanda snickered. “I don’t believe in it, do you?”

“Well, I’ve known some pretty big ones to slide…”

“Come on, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

Amanda pinched his thigh, making Rumisiel wince slightly.

“No, I guess not.”

“Ah-hah! So, we did inadvertently get a pair of jet fighters all the way out to see what we were?”

“That’s possible.”

“Looks like they’re looking for us. Think they’ll see us again?”

“I don’t think so. For one thing, we’re not far from the sea, and for another, well… we blend in with the cliffs.”

“Not to mention we’re tiny compared to a couple of jets?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Hey, you can make us invisible. Why don’t we get close while they can’t see us and knock on the window?”

Rumisiel snickered at her extremely mischievous suggestion. “Isn’t that a bad idea?”

“Atrociously irresponsible, Oh well. So, wow. This is pretty fucking amazing.”

“What?”

“Everything. Mainly the fact that like, ten hours ago, I was a regular old New Yorker who never even was out of the city, and now I’ve stood in a massive graveyard of soldiers, on a battlefield sixty years frozen, and for the encore, I got to see a pair of the Royal Air Force’s finest jets extremely close and personal.”

“Yeah. I don’t know why they came after us.”

“Well, duh. Obviously, something we were doing was wigging out their radar guys.”

“I guess.” Rumisiel stroked her stomach, looking back—and up. “Ooooh, there we go.”

“What?”

“Hold on.”

Amanda did, though there was no real need to—the most violent maneuver hardly made her feel as if she were moving at all, thanks to Rumisiel’s strong telekinetic control. Still, she held on as he turned upwards and rolled, bringing her face to face with the cliffs. They were flying up an erosion channel, and soon topped it. A small section of the cliff face, worn away heavily, was a gentle slope down until it pitched off, several yards below the tops of the cliff to either side.

The pair alighted upon the cliff. Though steeper than most might think comfortable, Amanda was well aware of the supporting force Rumisiel was maintaining on her; thusly, she remained unafraid, smiling and turning around in his embrace. They leaned together, lips joining one another in a soft, slow kiss as the weather slowly dripped water on them.

Amanda turned, pushing Rumisiel inwards. Then she pushed him down, with but a finger, and he let himself fall slowly to the ground, his wings spread invitingly. She fell forward; as she had expected, Rumisiel slowed her fall to a gentle pace, and she landed on her stomach, on his wing, with her head pressed into his shoulder; he wrapped both his right wing and arm around her.

“This. Is. Fucking. Incredible,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is. It’s very… Mmmh…”

“Magical?”

Rumisiel grinned, squeezing Amanda’s shoulder. “Exactly.”

He felt… content. For the first time in a long time, at ease, without pressure. Amanda liked him for him. Unlike all the other girls he knew, she respected him and was thrilled with the supernatural powers he had displayed. However pathetic he was compared to any other angel, she seemed quite happy to stretch and push his powers to the limit, to explore them in ways he’d never thought of. Controlling the air around himself had been her idea, after all.

And more, he was very pleased to, for the first time in a long damn time, hear a woman’s voice praising him. She accepted his past mistakes as readily as she accepted everything else about him, and didn’t hate him for it.

“This is fan-fucking-tastic,” Amanda murmured, pulling her gloves off. After stuffing them into her coat-pockets, she reached over, clasping his hands. “I’ve always wanted to get out of the city, see something new. And now here I am, lying against my new boyfriend—an angel for fuck’s sake—on top of The White Cliffs of Dover. How awesome is that?”

“It’s pretty awesome,” Rumisiel replied, stroking the back of her head. “These cliffs are just phenomenal…”

“Not the first time you’ve seen them?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Mmmmh. That’s okay.” She raised her head, smiling at him. “It’s still awesome.”

Amanda leaned in, slowly pressing her lips to his. Rumisiel opened his lips to the kiss as she pressed into him, sliding her tongue gently into his mouth. The kiss progressed naturally, deepening, as comfortable lust built within each—a craving for the other, to couple, to join, the need to mate.

She pulled away from his head. “I don’t know about you, but I am so hot for you right now.”

“Me too,” he replied, grinning as much as she did.

He fell into her trap, and she laughed. “Hot for yourself?”

Blushing, Rumisiel laughed. “No!” He slid a hand between them, cupping Amanda’s right breast through her greatcoat. “Hot for you.”

Amanda arched her back into the soft pressure. “You know, I can think of worse ways, a lot of worse ways, to top off this adventure, than slinking into some quaint, charming hotel—err, inn—in some hamlet on the coast that time’s forgotten, renting a room and, what’s the word? Shagging our brains out.” Amanda grinned salaciously at him as she said it.

Rumisiel grinned back with equally mischievous lust on his face. “As… wonderful as that sounds… there’s just one small flaw with that plan.”

“A flaw? In my plan?”

“We don’t have any Pounds.”

Amanda blinked. Then her face fell, and she sighed. “Oh well. That’s a big kink in an otherwise damn fine plan, isn’t it?”

Rumisiel caressed Amanda’s cheek with the back of one finger. “I would love nothing more than to get you naked on an antique four-poster bed in some picturesque little cottage of an inn somewhere.”

Amanda grinned at him. “Picturesque? You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“I have, yes. Several times. Why do you ask?”

“Your vocabulary improved. Then again, so did mine. Must be the clean air out here. So…”

“Mmmh?”

“About the money problem, why don’t we raise some?”

“How do you think we should?”

“Well, we fly into a city, to the tough parts of town, convince some thugs to attack us, then we beat the unholy crap out of them and take theirs.”

Rumisiel cracked up at the thought, his breath catching in his nose on its way into a snicker, before breaking into an outright chuckle. Amanda curled her arms on his chest, leaning up on them, staring into his face, smiling as he wound down from the laughter.

“Heh… Heheh, nooo… I don’t think that’s a very good idea. For one thing, I’m certain it’s against the rules, and I do like to try following them when it’s, you know, stuff like not hurting people. For another… Just wouldn’t be right, would it? Baiting dumb fuckers into picking a fight they can’t win.”

“Well, if you insist on being chivalrous about it. We could probably get the wad of cash you have in your pocket exchanged at a fairly large bank or something. Or…” She leaned down, reaching out to stroke his ears. “We could just do it here.”

“Here? As in, here here?”

“Sure, why not? I mean, how many other people can say they’ve fucked their brand-new lover on top of one of the most recognizable landmarks in the world?”

“I’ll admit to having no firsthand knowledge of it, but I’m quite sure young lovers have been having sex on top of these cliffs ever since people realized how beautiful they were.”

“I wonder how many?”

“No clue. Would be interesting to find out, though.”

“Yeah… So, want to add another pair to the list?”

“Mmmh… The idea’s not bad, but it’s wintertime, and cold and rainy. Maybe in the middle of a bright summer day, it wouldn’t be a bad idea, but…”

“Good point,” Amanda was forced to concede, with a soft, wistful sigh. “Well, you know… it might not be as exotic as England, but we could always just go back to my loft…”

“That would be nice. I have to admit, it became pretty… you know, cozy.”

“Mmmmh. It can be…” She sighed. “Man. My folks are probably gonna want to drag me home for Christmas.”

“Don’t like the family thing?”

“Well, it’s a bit confused, as a holiday, when your living family stretches back to first-generation American, and runs the gamut from ethnic traditionalist to reactionary conservative to dyed-in-the-wool bisexual commie Liberal.”

“Ah. Bad blood?”

“There can be. I mean, there’s times it goes great, but one mention of marriage, or school, or traditional Chinese holidays versus Western ones can set off arguments the likes of which 4Chan has no hope of comparing to.”

“4Chan?”

“Ah, you’ve never been there? Consider yourself more sane for it,” she replied, laying her head in, cheek to cheek with his. “So, yeah, it can be pretty bad. Sometimes I just wish I could disappear for a week or two, you know?”

“… Yeah, yeah I do.” He stroked her back, and she arched into it. “So, you want me to take us to your apartment?”

“Well, if you don’t want to fuck me in the rain… And we don’t have any easy way to raise the money for that charming little cottage… sure.”

“Close your eyes.”

“They’ve been closed,” she replied, kissing his cheek; he raised his hand. Set his fingers. And snapped them.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:30 A.M.

The frigid air of winter, hanging like a cloying, toying mistress about the British Isles, was dispelled as Rumisiel and Amanda vanished from the White Cliffs of Dover and returned to her loft in Brooklyn. The hard, frosted ground was replaced by Amanda’s bed sheets as they teleported over them, landing with a springing sensation. Amanda laughed, raised her head, and stared into Rumisiel’s eyes. He stared back and reached his hand up, slowly stroking her cheek.

“Mmmmh.” She closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into his palm. Then she yawned.

“Tired?”

“A bit,” she replied. “We had a weird night.”

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

Rumisiel’s eyes locked onto her clock. “Eight thirty.”

“Let’s take a nap.”

“All right.” Rumisiel smiled, already using telekinetic force to undo the buttons on her coat, while she did the same—with her fingers—to his. Soon they had managed to denude one another, and Rumisiel was lying on his back, with Amanda’s head nestled on his shoulder again, his wings wrapped over her, and the blankets tugged above them both.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured.

Rumisiel cocked his head, making an “Mmmm?” sound.

“Robert never cuddled. He never wanted to hold me, unless he was pushing into me.”

“Cassiel was like that. She… I told you she never wanted to have sex as herself, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He let out a puff, and shrugged. “I dunno. She never talked about it. She certainly didn’t…”

“This,” Amanda replied, squeezing his left shoulder whilst kissing his right.

“Yeah.”

Drifting together in the sea of drowsiness, the pair breathed. Rumisiel savored the soft heat of the warm Amanda against his body, and she luxuriated with him holding her; wrapping her in those wings.

“Seventy-two years…” That was ‘only’ twenty-two years more than he had had Cassiel, and yet… Somehow, it didn’t seem enough. Then again, that time might be shortened, too… “Why? What’s back there for me?”

The faces of his family swam to mind, unbidden—then they turned sour. His father’s omnipresent disapproval, the way he could never please Gabriel, no matter what he tried, how hard he worked, or didn’t. His brother, always smarter, faster, more powerful. Cheerful—so damn cheerful—yet he never respected Rumisiel. “Oh, very incompetent, sir,” his brother’s words swam to mind, unbidden. And that awfully cheerful way he had said it, as if stating simple fact. Which, well… he was. But that didn’t mean it was nice to him. And Cassiel, his psychotic ex, who had chased him to Earth, just to try to make his immortal life as close to Hell as possible.

“You tensed up,” Amanda whispered.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Nearly. What’s on your mind?”

“… Just thinking.”

“About home?”

“How’d you know?”

“I was thinking about my family’s home. About my parents, and my grandparents, and…” She sighed, laying her head on his chest. “Does Heaven have Christmas?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

“Really? I thought…”

“That the whole Jesus thing was a scam?” She nodded, and he continued. “It is. Um… actually, I think that might have been a scam we tried.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. Ah, I never paid attention, really.”

“Isn’t your memory perfect?”

“Sure it is. I can remember everything I was thinking of while goofing off in history class. My brother would know, but… does it matter?”

“No.” Amanda sighed and nuzzled his chest. “I don’t want to go home,” she decided, murmuring.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to face my folks. I don’t want to explain to them that I broke up with Robert. They thought he was, you know, the best thing since sliced bread.”

“Why?”

“He was a ‘strong man’, a ‘leader’. A leader of thugs, maybe, and a strong man who intimidates girls, but then, I guess the ethnicity isn’t burnt out until about the third generation. I guess they like that kind of thing.”

“That’s…”

“Crazy, I know. They liked him, though, thought he’d be a good match for me. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck him.” She sighed and raised her head. He met her eyes again as she pulled herself up, closer to his face. Their lips opened, meeting and kissing, whilst staring into one another’s eyes.

When she pulled away, they both let out a sigh at the same time, then smiled, more contentedly.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I dunno. Eventually they’ll come looking for me here. I just… I just wish…”

“You could disappear.”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Where would I disappear to?”

Rumisiel bit his lip, shrugging at that. Then… “Tempest?”

“You mean… go back with you?”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. I… mmmmh. Hell, I don’t need their permission to go wherever the hell I please.”

The phone beside her bed rang, and Amanda squirmed an arm out to reach for it. “Hello? Mom? Agh…” She sighed, and Rumisiel refrained from boosting his hearing as Amanda continued to speak.

“No, I… No, mom. I’m not with Robert anymore. No, mom, I broke up with him. Jeez, maybe because he pulled a fucking Uzi on me?” She started after that, and Rumisiel heard a burst of annoyed Chinese from the earphone, though it was too quiet for him to discern the details of it.

“Believe it or not, I don’t care. Yes, I am seeing a white boy. In fact, I’m naked on top of him right now, mother.” Rumisiel blushed lightly at the candidness of the disclosure. “No, mother. We weren’t fucking, not that it’s any of your business. Yes, we have fucked, but maybe it’s just because this one knows how to treat me like a person, instead of a vagina to fuck and a hand to fetch a beer for him?”

Another burst of angry Chinese came from the phone, and Amanda rolled her eyes. “If you like him so damn much, you date him. Don’t ever try to hook me up with somebody because he happens to be half-Chinese again. That was the worst relationship of my life, and I’m including the gay man in that. Goodbye, mother.” She slammed the telephone down, and no sooner had she made a wind-up for her exasperated sigh than her cell phone rang.

“Oh, motherfucker,” she hissed, as Rumisiel tugged it out of her jacket and levitated it to her hand.

She answered with a remarkably calm “Hello? Alice! Ah? Oh…”

Her face fell, and Rumisiel felt the icy hand of inevitability clenching his guts. Amanda closed her eyes. “When… How long? Mmmmh… I’m sorry, Alice. I… Yes, yes, he’s right here next to me.

“Mmmh… That’s some good news, at least. I understand, I’ll tell him. Goodbye.”

“Alice’s grandmother.”

“She slipped into a coma this morning. The doctors don’t know if she’ll come out of it.”

“Are they going to pull the plug?”

“No. Her living will instructs them to sustain her as long as possible.”

“That’s… Why?”

She shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say she saw it as suicide. Catholics are supposed to not like that, right?”

“Right, I guess. What was the good news?”

“Michael and Jamie were cleared to go home, and the initial battery of tests came back negative for STDs.” Rumisiel let out a sigh, wiping his brow. “I know, right? Still, they’re not conclusive, yet…”

“Mmmh. How grim.”

“Yeah…” Amanda closed her eyes, and asked, “Do you think that Doctor of yours will even let me stay with you?”

“He probably will. Doctor Upton’s pretty easy about that. Hell, he’s let me and my brother stay under his roof all year since like, March.”

“Mmmmmh. You’ll have to call him.”

“Yeah. I hope the heat’s back on, though.”

“Mmmmh.” Amanda offered him her cell phone.

Rumisiel took a breath… and let it out, with a sigh. He had to, he supposed. He licked his lips, while Amanda laid her head back on his shoulder, and he dialed the Doctor’s house.

The phone rang. And rang, and rang… He was just taking it away from his head to disconnect when he heard the Doctor’s voice answer, “Hello?”

“Doc?”

“Rumisiel? What happened? Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I, ah… Well, I just didn’t want to take your money. I’m fine.”

“Okay. Are you still in New York?”

“Yeah, though not for long. I, ah… I’m going to come home soon, I think.”

“All right. They just got everything fixed up; some of the roads in town are torn up. Do you need help getting home?”

“No, no, I’m good. I, ah… You know that friend I told you about, the one who helped me search for another friend’s lost brother?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Crap. I didn’t tell him about Amanda.” Rumisiel filled Dr. Upton in about Amanda as well as he could without giving away the fact they’d been having sex.

“So, you found the boy? That’s a relief.”

“Yeah. Um, anyway… this is gonna sound weird, but she really wants to get out of New York for a while.”

“Why?”

“Her… Well, her ex-boyfriend is a piece of work, a real thug. Him and a couple guys came here threatening her when he heard she wanted to break up with him, and…”

“I understand. Hmm… okay. She can use Ash’s room until Ash gets back, I guess.”

Relief evident on his face, Rumisiel nodded. “All right. We’ll be there… eh, sometime today.”

“Very well. You sure you don’t need any help getting home?”

“Positive. We’ll be fine.”

“All right. I need to get this house heated. Rumisiel, you didn’t take anything, did you?”

“Er, take anything? No, nothing that wasn’t my clothes. Why? What’s missing?”

“Ash’s game system.”

“She probably took it to the Cape.”

“I suppose. If not, we’ll deal with that when she gets back. Good-bye, Rumisiel.”

Doctor Upton hung up on him, and Rumisiel let out a sigh, letting Amanda take the phone back. She turned it off, then reached to the nightstand and pulled the cord out of the telephone.

“Now, since I’m guessing we’re going to wait a while…” Amanda grinned softly, and Rumisiel nodded, squeezing her warmly into him. She let out a quiet, wistful sigh, kissing his neck, caressing him with her hands and feet. “So, this doctor guy… thinks you’re his daughter’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Which means we’re going to have an… interesting time trying to be together.”

“Uh… huh. I didn’t think about that.”

“Right.” Amanda giggled quietly.

“Maybe we should just…”

“Not?” She shrugged. “We could do that. But that would be boring, wouldn’t it?” Amanda gently sank her teeth into his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re a wicked girl, Amanda Jung.”

“You know it,” she replied. “Now, how are we going to pass the time between now and when we should show up?” She stroked her hand down his chest, over his stomach. “We could go wig out the RAF again,” she murmured, whilst sliding her hand down, between his thighs, gently tugging his penis and testicles from between them. “But I have another idea,” she finished, while he took in a soft breath and closed his eyes, and she squeezed his rapidly hardening member.

“Mmmmh… I thought you were tired?”

“Funny how my mood changes like that. Reach into the drawer and get the lube again, would you?”

He fished it out, put it in her hands, she undid the top, and vanished under the covers, squirming down his body. “What are you do—oh.” Her tongue found him, sliding from the base of his shaft to the tip, warm and wet. He reached down, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Just trust me,” she murmured.

“I want to… mmmh, warm you up.”

“Go right ahead,” he replied as she started to lick his penis from every angle she could. He thought she was going to go down on him, but that never materialized, somehow, and she wormed her way back up, between his wings and him, smiling softly. “Er, what are you… oh, I see.”

She slid back and pushed gingerly onto him. Having taken the time, somehow, to apply the lube to herself, she slid onto his penis easily, her eyes closing.

“Like that first time?”

“Mmmhmm.” Amanda slowly, softly slid forward and back, barely an inch each way. “Relax,” she murmured to him, “Close your eyes, breathe slow. Give me your hands.” He did, and she pushed them up, above his head, palm-to-palm, her fingers laced through his, languidly pulling herself around him. “Mmm. What do you think of me, Rumisiel?”

“You’re incredible… I… mmmh.” He kissed the top of her head. “What do you think of me?”

“You’re…” She smiled, letting out a quiet sigh. “You’re great. You may have fucked up in the past, but… so what? People fuck up. And I’m glad you’re a person. It makes you… normal.”

He smiled at the application of the word to himself and squeezed his wings around her, letting her do the moving, controlling the rate of their coupling. “You like being in control, don’t you?”

“I do,” she replied, letting out a quiet moan as she slowly picked up speed. “You don’t mind it when I feel like this, do you?” She grinned up at him.

“No… No, I don’t. Go on…” Rumisiel stretched his arms, stretching Amanda’s in the process.

She tugged against his hands, pulling herself up his body, then slid down again, letting out a quiet groan, met by his own. “Mmmh… Do you like being in control, Rumisiel?”

“I guess. Why?”

“I just… mmmh.” Amanda giggled, and closed her eyes, slipping her hands from his and dragging her fingernails down Rumisiel’s arms, clenching his shoulders. “I want to know. I want to know how to get you off, how to do what you like…”

In response, Rumisiel wrapped his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her back. “Just be yourself.”

She bit him gingerly, eliciting a hiss and an arch, and she clenched down around his penis again. “Be myself, mmmh?”

“Yeah…”

Amanda’s grin grew somewhat feral, and she picked up the pace, pushing her body up, starting to rise and fall on his hips.

It was wonderful, Amanda going crazy atop him, her breasts bouncing. He slid his arms from behind her to cup them. Squeezing and rubbing her nipples made Amanda groan, and her pace of riding him became fevered as their hips slapped together.

“Mmmh… Here.” Amanda reached up and took his right hand from her breast. She guided his hand below, to her mound, straining around his shaft. In response, he slid his fingers between their bodies. She gasped sharply as he found her clitoris, pressing into it with each of her falls upon him.

“Mmmh! There you go. Again, Rumisiel. Do—aah! Yes.” Amanda hissed, happily, letting his finger work over her pearl while she fell upon him, squeezing, clenching. She leaned down, close to his face, and bit his pointed ear. In return, he arched his back, groaning, as she released his ear, whispering “For me, Rumisiel. Give it to me!”

He did. With a hiss and a clench of his teeth, he raised his back into her, and she slid down onto him fully, letting out a quiet, soft groaning sound as he emptied into her. Then they collapsed, Amanda falling back atop him, and Rumisiel letting out a quiet, satisfied sigh.

In companionable silence they lay for quite some time, Rumisiel’s penis softening inside her, and finally, Amanda looked up. Quietly, she murmured, “How do you feel?”

“Good. Tired.”

“Fucked out?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Me too.” Amanda closed her eyes, and Rumisiel started stroking her hair. “You don’t have to…”

“I know.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Shush.”

“All right.”

Tempest, Massachusetts, 6:50 P.M.

“Here we are. For some reason, it feels like coming home.”

“You live in a place a while, and I guess it becomes home, doesn’t it?”

“Well… I guess.”

Amanda held Rumisiel’s hand as they walked up the road to the Upton house. He had teleported them in, invisibly, down the road, and walked in. The Doctor had been accurate, as the roads were very torn up, with barriers still in place and detour signage up in town. He was carrying Amanda’s brand-new suitcase in his right hand.

“What did you tell your folks, anyway?”

“I told them I couldn’t take New York anymore and that I’d be back whenever.”

“All right. How’d they take it?”

“Bad. But that’s to be expected.”

“Yeah…” Rumisiel nodded, and leaned to his left—she met him, lean for lean. “You know you can’t kiss me or anything while we’re here.”

“No? But it would be so fuuun,” she playfully feigned whining, “having an illicit affair in your not-girlfriend’s home, under the noses of your can’t-tell-a-lie brother and her dad. Maybe in her bed!”

Rumisiel blushed heavily. Then a shiver ran down his spine at the thought of what Ash would to do to him if she found out he and Amanda had had sex in his bed. “She’d kill me. I think I’d rather spend some time with my psycho ex and her uncle.”

“Uncle?”

“Uh… I’ll tell you later.”

“O-kay…”

Rumisiel paused, turning her up the walk to the Upton house. “Here we are.”

“Okay.”

Amanda let go as they walked to the door. She knocked, and the door opened promptly, but it wasn’t Doctor Upton on the other side of the door.

“Bro!”

“Rumisiel!”

Rumisiel let Amanda’s suitcase hit the floor just inside the door, and opened his arms as his older brother darted forward, grabbing him in a tight hug, which Rumisiel returned gladly. “What are you doing back, did you find Myrael?”

His brother shook his head next to Rumisiel’s, and let out a sigh. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Mmmh. Crap, that’s not good.”

“No. Hey, is this your friend from New York?”

Rumisiel put his arm around Amanda’s shoulders, shaking her affectionately. “Yeah, this is—”

She jabbed her elbow into his ribs. “Amanda,” she said, flashing a bright smile and extending her hand, which Vashiel took. “Amanda Jung.”

“Pleased to meet you, Amanda. I’m Vashiel.”

Rumisiel picked Amanda’s suitcase up again and the trio walking away from the door, as Rumisiel asked, “So, where’d Doctor Upton get to?”

“He said he didn’t feel like cooking, so he’s gone to see if the fish shop is open.”

“Ah, cool,” Rumisiel replied.

“Hey, Vashiel,” Amanda asked, as she walked to the couch and sat on it, “is it true you can’t lie?”

“Absolutely true,” Rumisiel’s brother replied with earnest sincerity.

Rumisiel felt a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach as he recognized the potential for the kind of mischief that Amanda could create, armed with his brother.

“Really? So, what’s the stupidest thing your brother’s ever done?”

“Ah…”

“No, no no no!” Rumisiel tried to say as his brother thought about it.

“I’d have to say that was the time he destroyed a body because he thought I’d killed the dead man.”

Rumisiel groaned, slapping his head as his brother’s embarrassed face gave way to mortified when Amanda asked, “Did you?”

“N-No!” he replied.

“Mmmm-hmmm! Wish I had a brother loyal enough to hide evidence for me.”

Burning with embarrassment, Rumisiel sat in, next to her on the couch. “Come on…”

“Really. So, did you do that?” she asked him, meeting his eyes.

“Uh, Jeez, kinda. I… I thought my bro had done it, you know?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. And you burnt a corpse for him?”

“Kinda. Actually, I kind of… Uncreated it.”

His brother’s face went to horrified, as Amanda, ghoulishly interested, giggled at him. “Oh, really?!

Can you teach me to do that?”

“B-Brother! Is it… I mean…”

Rumisiel flopped his head back on the couch. “(Somehow, it’s good to be home.) Chill, Vashiel. She knows.”

“Mmmm-hmm. So…” Amanda turned around in the couch, crouching on her knees, staring at Vashiel behind them in Dr. Upton’s chair. “I wonder, do Angels’ wings or halos have any variation? Or is it all the same?”

“Ah, you’re nosy,” Rumisiel complained, earning a ribbing from her elbow.

“Our wings can be different from individual to individual, but the halos are the same.”

“Really? That’s sweet. Do you really have a giant… sword?”

“Er… yes, I do,” Vashiel replied, a bit bewildered at the strong emphasis. Rumisiel did his best not to crack up.

“Can I see it?”

“Uh, I’m afraid not. I can’t take it out without breaking my seals, and I’m not allowed to do that. You know an awful lot about Angels, don’t you?”

“I’ve been grilling your brother since I found out.” She slid around and flopped down in the couch.

“Oh well. I guess you two are getting kind of uncomfortable talking about it, huh?”

“Yes, very,” Vashiel answered.

“Oh, my goodness, he can’t lie even a little bit, can he?”

“He once confessed that he was in love with Ash… In front of the whole school.”

Amanda felt a snicker catch in her head, and she burst out laughing. “Really? Holy shit, that’s too funny! Oh god. You’re going to have to keep him away from me. I could have too much fun with that.”

“I’m getting the picture,” Rumisiel replied, with a chuckle, and a sigh. “Hey, I’ve gotta go to Emily’s and get my stuff. See you later.” He stood up, walking out with a wave back, leaving Amanda alone with Vashiel.

“Hum… Why didn’t he just teleport?”

“He’s not supposed to,” Vashiel answered. “But I can’t really stop him.”

“You’ll just yell at him, huh?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Why… exactly isn’t he supposed to?” She stood up, leaning on the side of the couch, staring at the older of the Angelic brothers.

“It’s in the rules.”

“But why?”

“I never asked,” Vashiel replied after a moment.

“So, you just do what you’re told, without asking why?”

“I… guess I do.”

“Huh. Wow, you must be a real Dudley Do-Right. So, tell me about this dead guy?”

“Angel.”

“A dead angel? Aren’t you guys like… Immortal?”

“Strictly speaking, no. We won’t die of age or disease, and mortal weapons can’t kill us, but Heavenly blades or such can.”

“Really? Huh, that’s… interesting. Why swords, though?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean… he said that Heaven copies mortal technology, right? So why not like, an enchanted gun or something?”

“I… You know, I guess because we’ve always had swords. You ask a lot of questions.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Yes, please. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

Amanda frowned. “Awwh. Okay.” She let out a sigh, and sat back on the couch.

After a few moments, Vashiel joined her, sitting on the far side. “Um… if it wouldn’t be too forward, why are you wearing the same coats?”

“Oh, you like them? He found this neat military surplus store and they had these. It’s a British Army Officer’s greatcoat. Bad-ass, aren’t they?”

“They look… rather impressive, yes. It kind of reminds me of my uniform jacket. Though why do you have the same jacket?”

Amanda laughed. “I saw his, and I was so gooey over it, he saw a need to buy me one of my own.”

“My brother bought it for you?”

“Yeah. Does that surprise you?”

“I just wonder where he got the money.”

“He got into a fight in Central Park.” She waited a beat. “He won, and the guy who attacked him dropped a stack of cash, so he took it.” Vashiel frowned. “Something wrong?”

“It… My…”

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re gonna get upset about that?”

“It’s very against the rules.”

Amanda frowned. She got the feeling she really shouldn’t tell her new boyfriend’s brother about the fight with ‘Hugo’—or the way, specifically, he dealt with Robert. “Look, from what he told me, this punk was a drug dealer, and he was about to cut someone else to ribbons. Rumisiel stepped in. Is that really so wrong?”

Vashiel looked down at his hands. “It’s… It’s so very against the rules. I’ll have to tell his superiors. It might extend his exile.”

“What? Interrupting a fight?”

“We’re not supposed to do that kind of thing!”

Amanda turned a surprisingly harsh look on him. “You’re not supposed to step into a fight?”

“No. We… There are rules against hurting mortals.”

“Even to stop them from hurting or killing someone else?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. It’s…” He sighed.

“What do you think?”

“What?”

“I didn’t ask what the rules are. Do you think it was wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Vashiel replied. “The rules—”

“Hang the rules!”

“I can’t! ” Vashiel excitedly said.

“You can’t… think outside the rules?”

“No. Please, stop asking about this. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Amanda blinked at him… and closed her eyes, nodding. “Okay.” She sighed and looked around. Finding a remote control on the nightstand, she turned on the television. As she did, the door opened, and she looked up, saying “Rumisiel?”

A man in a light brown jacket with light brown hair was standing there instead. Older than Rumisiel—well, older than he looked—by a great deal, about as old as her own father she estimated, with a proud jaw and sharp eyes, carrying several bags. The television started to emit the familiar strings of a legendary police drama’s theme song, and he grinned as he heard it. “Ah, Vashiel, you put my show—oh, hello there.” His eyes met Amanda’s.

The man walked in, setting the bags down in front of the couch, and turned back to Amanda, offering his hand—she had stood, and took it. “You must be Rumisiel’s friend from New York.”

“Amanda. Amanda Jung,” she replied.

“Edward, Doctor Edward Upton.”

“So you’re the famous Doctor he’s afraid of, mmm?”

“Rumisiel? Afraid of me?” Dr. Upton grinned. “Good. Yes, I am.”

“What are you a doctor of?” she asked, while moving back to the couch to sit down. “Surgeon?”

“Ob/Gyn, actually,” he replied. “Now, I’m going to put dinner out, and then I can show you to the room… Wait, where’s your brother, Vashiel?”

“He said he was going to Emily’s to retrieve something.”

“All right, no problem, we can wait for him to get back. I hope you don’t mind halibut, Amanda.”

Upton Residence, Tempest, 9:59 P.M.

“Awh, c’mon! I hate it when they do that!” Amanda growled at the television while Dr. Upton laughed at her.

The show had ended abruptly, with the jury foreman saying, “We the Jury, on the sole count of the indictment of rape, find the defendant—” and then it cut to the credits.

Vashiel had excused himself to the basement when the subject matter of the show turned to rape, and Rumisiel shook his head on the other side of the couch. “Yeah, that sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Would you prefer a not guilty verdict?” Amanda shot back, and Rumisiel shook his head.

From his chair, Dr. Upton asked, “What makes you think he was guilty?”

“What? Oh, come on! The guy was a schmuck, his daughter was covering for him…”

“But she admitted to having consensual sex with him.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t rape her.”

“She seems shifty to me.”

“Yeah, so what? Just because you’re not a paragon of virtue doesn’t mean everything that happens to you is your fault.”

“I didn’t say it was. I’m just not convinced it was rape.”

Rumisiel felt kind of caught as they debated. In truth, he thought the defendant had been guilty, though if he sided with Amanda, he feared Dr. Upton might take offense.

“What would she have to gain by falsely accusing him? He was already expelled from the faculty.”

“She had nothing to lose, either. Some people are just spiteful.”

“Hmmm. Maybe, but why? She was fucking him for grades; why bite the hand that gives you the golden A?”

“She didn’t like him.”

“Yeah, but still… I don’t think it was the case here.”

“I’m not convinced,” Dr. Upton said. “Then again, if she did say no, that does make it rape. But it’s he-said, she-said. She might have just decided to jam him up after the fact.”

“Might have. But it’s a huge thing. And she tried to kill herself.”

“She really didn’t, remember? She timed it?”

“Mmmh. I dunno. A lot of people who’re thinking about offing themselves and really don’t mean it will try to make sure someone will stop them.”

“Maybe, but it looks more self-serving.”

“Duh? Suicide is self-serving. At its least selfish, it’s about escape. At its most, it’s about revenge.

That doesn’t mean she’s the boy crying wolf.”

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean she’s not, though,” Dr. Upton replied, and looked to Rumisiel.

“What do you think?”

“Crap! Not me.” Rumisiel shook his head, shrugging. “I… I, uh…”

“Yesss?” Amanda asked, grinning at him.

“Go on,” the Doctor said, appearing at the other side of the couch. “It seems we’re at an impasse, and you have the tiebreaker.”

“Um…” Rumisiel gulped. “I, ah… I kinda… Well… You know, maybe I’m just…”

“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t made up your mind,” Amanda asked.

“I dunno… Guilty?” Rumisiel almost cringed, afraid of retribution from Dr. Upton.

But he just shrugged. “All right. Let’s show you to your room, then.” He walked to the door, picking up Amanda’s case.

“I can get it,” she said.

“Nonsense! What kind of a host would I be if I didn’t carry a lady’s bags? What kind of a man would I be?”

Amanda laughed. “Well, what do you know? Two men who know how to treat a girl in as many weeks! That’s service you don’t get from someone not wearing a uniform in the Big Apple. Maybe there’s something to these nowhereville towns.”

Dr. Upton started to laugh, hefting her bag. “This way, then, Ms. Jung.” He walked to the stairs, and Amanda followed him, with Rumisiel bringing up the rear. Opening the door to Ash’s room, he walked in, setting her suitcase at the foot of Ash’s bed. “Here you are, Ms. Jung, you—”

“Please, call me Amanda,” she cut him off, laughing. “I’m not nearly old enough to be ‘Ms.’ anything.”

“As you wish, Amanda,” Dr. Upton replied. “Anyway, you can use my daughter’s room, since she’s going to be away a while, it seems. Hopefully she’ll call before she comes back. If not… could be interesting.”

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t mind meeting her; Rumisiel has so many good things to say about her.”

“I’d hope so.” The Doctor chuckled. “Is there anything you need, um…”

“Ah… Hey, do you have wireless?”

“I do, yes.” He pointed to Ash’s laptop, saying, “I don’t think she’ll mind if you use her computer.”

“I brought my own, but thanks. I can get the settings from hers. Thank you, Doctor Upton.”

“Please, you can call me Edward. I’m only a doctor at work,” he replied.

Amanda sat on the edge of the bed. “Edward, then. Thank you.”

“Why not? I let everyone else who rolls up under the sun stay under my roof. Like this reprobate.” He grinned at Rumisiel, whose ears drooped.

“That’s not very fair to him, Do—Edward. He did run off my ex-boyfriend and two thugs, and we found a child runaway, lost in New York.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Huh…” Dr. Upton looked to Rumisiel, and raised his eyebrow. “That’s no mean feat. Maybe I underestimated you?”

Beaming, Rumisiel smiled, saying “Really? Thanks, Doc.”

“So I assume you’ll be looking for a job come summer? I could always put you to work sweeping my practice.” Rumisiel deflated instantly, and opened his mouth to protest—but thought better of it and nodded. “Good. Else, I’d have to make you and your brother assemble a garage or something else useful.” He turned back to Amanda. “Unfortunately, early though it is, I have to be in the clinic early tomorrow, so, goodnight.” Once Amanda bade him goodnight, he slipped from the room, leaving Amanda snickering at Rumisiel.

“Put you to work, eh?”

“Last year, he made me and my brother roof the house, then we had to dig a new leech field for the septic system. And now he’s put my bro to work in his office.”

Amanda slapped her thighs, shaking her head and laughing. “Really? Damn, that’s harsh. And it makes me glad where I’m from has proper sewer systems. Though I guess there’s advantages to living in a place like this, too.”

She stood up, sweeping her arms around the room. “This is almost as big as my whole apartment!”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

“Somehow seems less… lived-in, though. Where’s the stuff? ”

“Stuff?”

“Stuff. You know, silly dolls, or toy cars, or extra lamps you bought ’cause you liked ’em, or stuff like that. I can’t believe a teenager lives in this room.”

Rumisiel snickered. “Ash doesn’t really… Ash lives more in the garage.”

“Really? What’s in there?”

“The cars.”

“Cars?”

“Yeah. See… Well, why not. Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

In the garage, Amanda looked around at the Audi and XR4Ti—and the multitude of tools and spare parts sorted away neatly. “She’s a gearhead? Er, he?” she corrected, at a whisper.

“Yeah, she’s really into cars,” Rumisiel said.

Amanda got the picture: to refer to the person he said he had accidentally gender-swapped as a female. “So, which one?”

Rumisiel pointed to the XR4Ti. “This one. She took the Monster to Cape Cod, but this is the one Ash started with.”

“Monster, eh? I gotta see that.”

“It looks mostly the same,” Rumisiel said with a shrug. “Anyway, ah… Yeah. What do you think?”

“It’s neat, I guess,” Amanda replied. “I don’t drive, though.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope. No license, no money for a car, what with New York’s prices and all.”

“Wow… that… kinda sucks.”

“Eh.” Amanda shrugged. “Maybe it does, but so what? I never needed to.”

“Heh. I guess so.”

“What about you? She teach you to drive it?”

Rumisiel caught a snicker, then broke into a laugh, pulling Amanda close and leaning onto her for support. She leaned back, supporting him, grinning and asking what he found so funny. “She won’t let me touch the thing. Literally. She has my bro levitate parts for her, but she’d kill me if I touched it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… sucky. You have such great control,” Amanda said. She grinned salaciously, remembering the way he had telekinetically manipulated her.

It brought a blush to his face, and he said, “Uh…”

“Right, I know. Goodnight, Rumisiel. Where do you sleep?”

“The couch, remember?”

“Oh yeah. And I get your ‘girlfriend’s’ bedroom all to myself. What about your brother?”

“The guest bed in the basement.”

“Huh. Cool, cool. Anyway… mmmh, show me around town tomorrow?”

“There’s not much to see, but sure. Goin’ to bed now?”

“Yeah. I’m going to set my laptop up first, check my email and shit, then… well… thanks.” Amanda looked at the closed door to the house, and laid her hands over Rumisiel’s shoulders, pulling herself up and kissing him. He wrapped his arms around her as she did, though he nervously feared they’d be seen. The taste of her lips, her cherry chapstick, the softness, the wet sensation when she brushed her tongue on his lips…

It was thrilling, kissing her in the Upton’s garage. But all the same, he was glad when she let go. “’Night.” Amanda winked, leaving him behind, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

Back in Ash’s room, Amanda looked around. “Mmmm, to snoop, or not to snoop. As if I have to ask.” She smirked evilly and set her laptop on the desk next to the one owned by the original resident of the room, turning them both on. While the computers were booting, she busied herself snooping about the room—the drawers contained only clothes and underwear, the nightstand only bore a clock and a toy car, which Amanda thought was the same as the one she had seen in the garage, between mattress and springs yielded nothing, and the closet was only more clothing.

“Hmmm. No porn anywhere, no sex toys… The closet has a full range of underwear, but the fun stuff was kinda dusty. But more… there’s no… well, stuff. It’s only a few steps removed from a hotel room,” she muttered to herself, turning back to the computers on the desktop. Pondering the meaning of her discoveries—or lack thereof—she sat down, noting that Ash’s laptop was up. Getting the wireless settings from its connection configurations, she configured her laptop to use the Upton house wireless. Then she started to snoop in Ash’s laptop. The bookmarks were mostly car stuff, though under a sub-sub file noted as ‘art stuff’ she found the pornography she had noted as absent. “A real beacon of the digital age,” she wryly commented, noting that it was almost exclusively lesbian stuff as far as real girls went, and even the hentai and other drawings rarely—if ever—featured men.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this laptop belonged to a genuine lesbian. Then again, maybe it does, in a way.” Checking the history, she found that none of the pornographic websites had been visited in two months, whereas the car stuff had been visited the day before Rumisiel had met her.

“Very interesting…” Amanda stood up and walked back to the bed, yawning. “Interesting. There’s almost nothing invested in this bedroom. I wonder who you are, Ash Upton.” She disrobed, climbed into the bed, and tugged the covers over herself. She closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 22, 2004, 7:45 A.M.

“Arrrrrrrrgh!” The cry, and the sound of shattering glass rent the morning air along with the omnipresent blare of car horns and other city sounds.

Cassiel sat by herself, sprawled on the floor of the loft in a sheer dress. She had come back to view the results of her handiwork. Far from the pool of blood and chalk outline she had been hoping for, or at least hospitalization, the residual traces in the room had told the tale quite readily—Rumisiel had undone his seals, and used his powers freely. But even more angering was the intense emotions that now clung to the loft: lust in every color of the rainbow, from soft to intense, like a heavy fog, clinging to the room, swirling about her shins, with a heavy frosting of affection and caring.

She had held out her hand, summoning a nice, large, heavy object—the largest book from the shelf—to her, and hurled it promptly out of the apartment. It shattered through a window, fluttering out over the street as it fell. But even that petty act of destruction offered little catharsis to sooth her anger, her frustration.

“You, you bastard. Why!? ” Cassiel climbed to her feet. “Why that little human wrench wench? And now this. Why this? Why can… why can you find what you want, and I can’t?!” Cassiel balled her fists up, shaking with rage, her vision blurred with tears even as she let control of her seals slip, her wings unfolding from her back.

“Damn you, Rumisiel!” Cassiel, sickened with anger and seemingly impotent fury, raised her arms and smashed them down on the wooden table. The sturdy surface was no match for her supernatural strength, and it gave way with a heavy shattering of wood. “Damn you!” she said, weaker than last time, her anger muted by tears and grief, as a chill wind howled through the apartment.

“Why you, you… impotent jackass? Why can you find someone, why do you get to be happy? After what you cost me?! After what you took from me?!” Cassiel fell to her knees and opened her eyes. This time she could literally see the cloying swirls of emotion that permeated the room. It sickened her, the thought of what they could have been doing to make that kind of a trace and she weakly slapped the floor, then sniffled.

“You… you bitch, Rumisiel. Ugh…” She looked around. Seeing the table beside the door, she held her hand out, trying to draw it to herself to stand up with. It wobbled and then tipped over. Frustrated, she reached out, affirming a tight grip around the table, and hurled it against the cinder block wall, the flimsy wooden table shattering to splinters.

Cassiel dropped her head into her hands, palms over her eyes, fury draining to impotence, which then became sorrow. She wept, angrily, bitterly.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 7:50 A.M.

Amanda let out a yawn as she walked into the bathroom, happily rested from her extra-long night’s sleep after the events of the past few days, though feeling a distinct sensation that something was missing—that something having been Rumisiel, naturally. Almost without having to think, she dug out a towel, and looked for another small one.

“Hmm. Where are they?” Amanda stared at the cabinet with the towels, feeling around. There was certainly a plentiful stock of full body towels, but she could find no hair towels, despite a full search of the cabinet, removing all of the heavy towels and laying them on the toilet’s seat cover to check.

“That’s odd.” Amanda then pulled out the hamper from below the shelf where she found the towels; it was full of clothes ready to be laundered. “Someone left in a hurry.” She reached in, rummaging around, but failed to find anything that felt like a towel. Pulling her hand out, a brassiere caught on her thumb, and she lifted it free. It was strictly utilitarian white, and she chuckled as she examined the size of it, tapping her foot with an unsettling burst of annoyance as she held the cups to her chest; she was woefully inadequate to the task of filling them.

“Hmph. I’d kill for tits that big.” Amanda tossed it back into the hamper, slid it back, and mused quietly, “Hmmm, if it really is a guy in a girl’s body… Oh, poor bastard.” Amanda started to snicker, the mild schadenfreude soothing her earlier feeling of inadequacy, as she put the towels back. She left two of them over the radiator and checked the mirror; as she expected, it opened up into a cabinet.

“Nothing out of the ordinary… and that itself is out of the ordinary.” The usual suspects were in attendance: stack of paper cups, toothbrush and toothpaste, pack of razors—disposables, which Amanda helped herself to one of, leaving it on the mantle of the sink—some standard headache and pain blockers. No antacids, Immodium, or any of the usual remedies for typical ailments. “Good tits and good health? Now I’m really jealous,” she murmured. Turning from the cabinet back to the bathtub, she turned the shower on and pulled the curtain.

“Well, hmmm.” Amanda crossed her arms, sitting on the toilet’s closed seat, waiting for the water to heat up as she pondered the meaning of her discoveries. All the evidence was pointing to Rumisiel having been totally honest. Not that she had doubted him after seeing him choke the shit out of her ex-boyfriend, but she wanted to know.

Getting into the shower, Amanda sighed happily as the hot water rolled over her shoulders and body while turning around a few times. She marveled at having enough space to stretch her arms. There were four bottles on the back of the tub and a razor. Curious, she crouched down to inspect them: a bottle of generic nail polish, common, sexy red, a bottle of liquid soap, a bottle of conditioner, and shampoo.

“Nail polish?” Amanda picked it up, a large, economy size bottle. That didn’t fit; she didn’t imagine a boy turned into a girl would have a lot of use for it. Then again, the bottle was heavy. Turning around to shield the bottle from the spray with her body, she peered at it in the light from the fixture above.

“Nearly completely full.” Amanda set the bottle back down. She checked the other bottles next. The soap had seen some use, the conditioner was completely full, and the shampoo nearly so. She paused, thinking about this, drumming her fingers on the ledge.

“Interesting. Fully stocked, but the soap and such looks like it’s not used.” She felt the bottles carefully, especially on the bottom. Though there was no mold, they didn’t feel as if they were brand new, but as if they had dwelt in the shower for a long time.

“So, she didn’t just stock up shortly before she left. Or should that be he? I dunno, better just use ‘she’ to avoid questions,” Amanda muttered to herself, arching her back into the spray as she started to shampoo up her hair. Tilting her head back into the water, she continued to muse aloud, “So, this is here, but it’s almost never used. Why? Camouflage? Could be… But where’s the soap she really uses?” The question tugged at Amanda as she showered.

Cassiel’s House, Tempest, Massachusetts, 7:50 A.M.

Cassiel sat on the edge of the bed, shaking her head. She had teleported here straight from New York, and simply brooded. It made her so angry, the thought of Rumisiel having sex with that lithe human girl, the thought of her touching him, holding his wings…

She had never gotten to touch his wings like that. She clenched her fist, tightly, smacking it into her knee. “No. No! I am… I am so over him!” Yet she wasn’t. Every time she tried to convince herself of that, when she closed her eyes, she thought of that human whore riding him, or being ridden.

It infuriated her. The whole house shook with the howling wind. “I’m going to ruin you, Rumisiel. Neither of those sluts will touch you when I’m done.” She raised her hands, angrily. Opening her palms, she spotted the blood she had drawn with her fingernails. That annoyed her, and she willed her skin to close, then her blood to vaporize. Standing up, she scowled, looking around.

The house was unlit, of course; she could see just fine without the lights, except on the very darkest nights. She barely used it; it had been a house for sale, and she had used her authority in Fourth Depot to have the sales company’s files changed to record it as having been sold, inserted false identities into the right files, and now nobody would look into it. It was just here to support her ‘Cassi’ disguise, and give her a bed to crash on when living on Earth had dragged her down. She looked after it, but there was no emotional investment.

She tugged the closet in the bedroom open, looking around her wardrobe—mostly things for ‘Cassi’, though she had a few of her own clothes there, too. She really didn’t feel like putting on a disguise today, so she changed into something more suitable for winter, and picked out a jacket.

“This is perfect.” She took her camera and portfolio and grinned to herself, imagining the havoc and malcontent she could spread in Rumisiel’s little paradise by showing his wrench wench the pictures of him and Amanda. She knew how this sort of thing worked—his main squeeze was away, so he felt free to play. But she would certainly kick him out if she saw what he had been doing. The vision/image of Rumisiel, alone and homeless on the streets, made her giddy with the thought.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 8:30 A.M.

Dried off and dressed, Amanda checked the time on the bedside stand: 8:30. “Mmmh. Everyone’s probably awake already… Hell with it, I have to figure this out.” Like a cat on the hunt for a mouse, the unanswered question tugged at her. Though it was silly, she went to the bathroom to conduct a thorough search. But the cabinet under the sink yielded nothing save normal cleaners, and there was nothing behind the toilet, nor the hamper.

“This is going to bake my noodle,” Amanda groused to herself, walking back out to the bedroom and looking around; she looked at the bed. “Hmmm. That would be odd.” Still, she got down on the floor, searching under the bed, but found nothing.

“Hmmmmmmm. I would’ve thought there would’ve been some porno mags under there.” Amanda smirked, thinking of the Hustler magazines she had concealed under her bed as a teenager. Though she had concealed them in the underside of the springs themselves.

“Ah-hah!” Turning her hand up, she ran her fingers over the underside, but felt only cloth, unlike the naked bottom of the springs from her bed supported by metal slats, which a bottle of soap or something could have been hidden in. “What the… Mmmh.” Amanda sighed, and slid out, standing up. She sighed, looking at the clock again; she had wasted ten minutes on that fruitless search. “This is stupid,” she decided, left the bedroom, and walked down the stairs.

“Hello?” Amanda cautiously asked, looking about.

Though it seemed empty, a hand shot up from the couch. “Yo.” Rumisiel sat up, yawning.

Amanda walked over and sat next to him. “Where’s your brother and the doctor?”

“They went to work. Last day they’re gonna be open this year.”

“Ah, right. They work together?”

“Yeah, remember? The doc put my bro to work doing filing.”

“Ooooh, right, gotcha.” She chuckled. “I guess we’re on our own today, then?”

“Yeah, more or less. Dr. Upton gave me fifty bucks and told me to get breakfast for me and you with it.”

“Really?” Amanda snickered. “As if you need it.”

“Yeah, well… the alternative is to tell him I beat somebody up and took his cash.”

“Uhh… I kinda accidentally told your brother that last night.”

“Really? Damn. That’s not good.”

“Why?”

“It’s probably gonna come out, then. He can’t not answer a direct question, as you found out, and he often answers questions only partially asked, or even sort-of hinted at.”

Amanda shook her head, frowning. “Is it really such a bad thing?”

Rumisiel laughed, quietly, and leaned back, sighing. “Well… I don’t think that Doctor Upton would appreciate it, you know? I mean… beating someone up and all, and then taking his money…”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Amanda shrugged, and leaned over, placing her head on Rumisiel’s shoulder. “But what can you do, then?”

“I guess… nothing?”

“Right. So let’s not worry about it.” Amanda placed her hand on Rumisiel’s, and he leaned his head onto hers in return. “So, what’s there to do in this place?”

“Tempest?” Amanda made an affirmative sound, and he shrugged. “I dunno.”

“You dunno? What do you normally do?”

“Uh… Well, I guess I normally just play Ash’s Playstation, but she kinda took it with her. So… I dunno. I was thinking about seeing if there’s anything good on TV.”

Amanda slid away from Rumisiel, looking askance at him. “What? Just the TV?”

“Well…” Rumisiel shrugged, scuffing his foot along the floor.

“Oh, come on!” Amanda stood up, pulling Rumisiel out of his couch to his feet. “I’m in a brand new place, I want to see it. Let’s go.”

“Uh, okay.” Rumisiel shrugged. “I’ll go get ready, then?”

“Do that,” she said, with a smirk, settling back down on the couch as Rumisiel slunk up the stairs. Crossing her legs up on the couch’s arm, she pondered Rumisiel’s sudden lack of initiative.

“Maybe… mmm.” Amanda shrugged. “Oh well. I’ll make him show me around town.”

Rumisiel returned downstairs after a half-an-hour’s time in the shower, to find Amanda reclining sideways on his couch, with his pillow under her head, flicking through channels lazily. She looked up as she heard him walking across the room, mostly toweled off with his hair still damp, wearing a pair of boxers.

Amanda grinned and reached out. She caught his rear firmly, pinching, eliciting an “Aaah!” from him, which in turn got a giggle from her. “Hurry up and get dressed, then let’s go out and get that breakfast.”

Rumisiel did as directed, dressing quickly, as Amanda stood up, stretched, and put her coat on. He caught his coat when she tossed it to him, putting it on, and they walked out. Amanda looked around the street in the light of day. It was cold and crisp, a bright winter day, with snow packed on the lawns up and down the street.

“This is… kind of beautiful,” Amanda said. “Except for the road work.”

“Yeah…”

“Not as beautiful as Belgium or the White Cliffs of Dover, though. Oh well, let’s go.”

Upton Residence, Cape Cod, 9:20 A.M.

Cassiel blinked as she looked down at her camera’s film reel reading ‘0’, telling her how many exposures she had left.

“I was right!” She had not, however, anticipated the orange-haired car bitch being with her blue-haired best friend. She had called that Ash could fall for a girl, but she’d had no idea the bookworm was like that.

She had spent the last hour and a half or so spying on the house, had watched Ash’s mother climb into a car and leave, had photographed the two girls in bed together. She had intended to just present the images she already had by leaving them somewhere. But the opportunity was too good, she decided, when she spied Ash and that girlfriend of hers together in bed, naked, Ash’s head on top of the other’s breasts.

It had filled her heart with a terrible glee, realizing she could break Rumisiel’s heart at the same time. Despite her glee, however, as she saw her plans expand and encompass even more thorough ruination of his life, it made her even angrier.

She scoffed at the notion she could be jealous of her jackass ex-boyfriend’s little homosexual ‘girlfriend’. Yet as she looked at the pictures she had taken from outside the window, the pictures of the two of them curled together so peacefully, or of the ones she had taken, riskily, from the inside of the bedroom of the two in the shower, washing one another’s hair, holding each other tight, kissing, their breasts pressed together…

It infuriated her that these mortal, philandering bitches could be happy, and she wasn’t. It was aggravating. She had achieved some modicum of a high station—to which she had technically risen after Myrael’s disappearance came to light—despite Rumisiel’s asinine actions that had resulted in him being fired and her plans set back. But there was still something missing, a lack she blamed on Rumisiel. And inside, she recognized it now as this: the way Ash and Emily were clutching one another, feeling quite securely alone behind the glass of the shower’s door, and the way Rumisiel and Amanda had held one another.

But she could fix that. She could, and she would. When she was done, Ash would throw down and cast out Rumisiel, and he would be heartbroken that she had touched another—and another girl—while he was away. And as a bonus, these sorts of things had a tendency to spread. She could easily see his emotional psychosis spreading to Amanda, who would likewise abandon him, and tearing these teenage twats apart.

Oh yes. They would pay. They would all pay. She would make them pay! Cassiel fought down the urge to throw back her head and laugh, as a powerful, cold wind rattled the house. The two girls in the shower huddled together at the sound, which probably made them feel cold, even though it must have been quite hot inside the spray.

The Old Road, Near Tempest, Massachusetts, 2:32 P.M.

“And that’s the Old Road, more or less. It’s a lot more impressive when it’s not covered with snow, though,” Rumisiel said as he and Amanda hovered off the side of the Mountain.

She looked to her left and right—corresponding to up and down the mountain, respectively—and then shook her head. “Wow. I can’t believe people drive cars fast up here, let alone hold races.”

Rumisiel laughed in reply. “You should see her. Ash is an incredible driver.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t even try that. I’d be too afraid of getting myself killed.”

“And you weren’t back in New York?”

“Well, no? I can handle muggers and would-be rapists. But this? One twitch wrong, and…” She smacked her right hand into her left, pantomiming a car going into and through the barrier, and taking an arc down into the air. “I guess Ash must really be a guy at heart, after all.”

“Why do you say that?” Rumisiel, puzzled, asked.

“I can’t see any girl doing this of her own free will.”

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. No way. We’re not stupid enough.”

Rumisiel shook his head. “That’s pretty… unfair. Especially since I know of at least three others who do. Let’s see, there’s Emily, Ash’s friend. She hasn’t actually raced, yet, but she’s working up the nerve. There’s this girl I heard of from Emily, and then there’s Kamikaze Kate.”

“Kamikaze Kate?”

“Kamikaze Kate.”

“Wow. That’s a name to run away from really fast.”

Rumisiel laughed. “Running won’t do you much good, unless you have wings. There’s a reason she’s called the Kamikaze. Girl is scary, even without the ghost of her sister.”

“Ghost of her sister? This sounds like a good tale. Tell?”

Rumisiel nodded, floating the two back towards the mountain and setting them gently down on their feet. He related to Amanda the tale of Kamikaze Kate and Angelica, how Angelica got killed—at which Amanda winced—and how she had persisted in the world, haunting her sister and driving her to being an aggressive, mean-spirited driver who drove to win at any cost, and how he thought she wasn’t far from actually killing people when he and his brother had intervened.

“Hah! So, wait, wait, let me get this straight.” Amanda giggled, softly. “So, your brother, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, Mr. Bigass Sword Guy, gets his ass whipped by the ghost of a dead girl my age?”

Rumisiel snickered softly. They had since nestled up against the rock wall in a shallow indentation, somewhat sheltered from the wind blowing around the bend, sitting on a rock he had cleared of snow. “Well, when you put it that way… Yeah!”

“So, why not? I mean, why didn’t he just pop out his wings and put her in a celestial choke hold?”

“He can’t.” The voice was deeper and harsher than Rumisiel’s, and it came from around the bend.

Amanda’s head snapped to the side, while Rumisiel went pale. “Xaphrael!”

The tone in Rumisiel’s voice told Amanda that this was not a friend, and she bit off her glib ‘friend of yours’ comment before it formed, standing a second before Rumisiel stood, as a figure strode around the bend. Taller even than Vashiel, he was wearing a greatcoat that reminded Amanda of the ones Rumisiel had bought for her and himself—that they were wearing—and so she imagined it was similar or the same as Vashiel’s uniform jacket. Long, high boots, a pair of shoulder pauldrons with fine collar to match, and a scar completed his face.

“What do you want, Xaphrael?”

Amanda sensed the nervousness in Rumisiel’s voice, and she didn’t like it. She pushed her hands into her coat’s pocket, running her fingers over the folded knife she still had on her. Not that it would do a lot of good if the newcomer was an Angel like Rumisiel and he meant trouble.

“Why, nothing, Rumisiel, except to have you deliver a message for me.”

“A message?”

“Yes. A message. I need to borrow your brother sometime tomorrow. Tell Vashiel I need to talk to him, would you?”

Xaphrael turned around, then looked back, his eyes focusing on Amanda for the first time. She did her best to keep steady, but felt her lower lip quivering under the gaze, as she felt a strange and sudden and unfriendly power course through her. “Hmm.” Xaphrael shrugged, and turned away. The sensation removed itself as soon as he looked away, and she couldn’t help but think it was related to his gaze. She looked up at Rumisiel’s face as he watched the retreating, uniformed Angel.

“What’s the message?”

“Hmm?” Xaphrael turned his head around.

Rumisiel slid forward, around Amanda’s back. “I said, what’s the message?”

“I told you: tell your brother to talk to me.”

“What’s so important?”

Xaphrael snorted. “If you must know, I think Myrael may have come to this area, too. Try not to destroy the evidence if you find this one as a corpse, mmmh?” Rumisiel hung his head, his cheeks red, as Xaphrael smiled. “I still will need to talk to your brother tomorrow. Tell him he can find me; he knows how.” Rumisiel nodded, and Xaphrael turned back to the cliff. He took a run towards it, and jumped up. For a moment, he perched on the guardrail, then shoved off, vanishing into thin air with hardly a sound.

“Who the hell was that?” Amanda asked, unsettled from the encounter.

“That was Xaphrael. He is—was one of my brother’s old comrades.”

“What happened?”

“Ah, that’s a long story, and I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Amanda looked up at him, and Rumisiel shook his head. “My brother… Look, it’s not something I want to talk about, okay? It was a long time ago.”

“Ooh-kay…” Amanda closed her eyes. “Why did he say your brother can’t?”

“Well, you remember how he literally can’t tell a lie? That’s not just because he’s the ultimate goody-two-shoes. He magically can’t.”

“Can’t? At all?”

“Nope.”

“Wow. That’s gotta suck.”

“It gets worse. He can’t lie, and that means he also can’t disobey any rules.”

“Is… is that the same for all sword-angels? Like that guy, Xaphrael?”

“Not hardly. It’s… Look, don’t breathe a word of this to my brother.”

The sudden hardness in Rumisiel’s voice had Amanda nodding. “I swear.”

“He once… he once did something bad, okay?”

“What, you mean like you screwed up the—”

“No, ” Rumisiel almost growled it. “He did something much worse. And then our father and the rest of Heaven came down on him about it like a ton of bricks, and he accepted those… those chains on his mind voluntarily, accepting full responsibility for what he, Xaphrael, and their other friend did.”

Amanda felt her guts squirming. “He did something… really bad, didn’t he? With his powers?”

Rumisiel closed his eyes for a few moments and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“And whatever it is, even you think it was bad… so it had to be destructive, not just that he fucked up at his job.” The Angel didn’t answer, but she knew she was getting on the right track, just as surely as she knew he didn’t want her to press the issue. “And you still destroyed a corpse for him.”

“Yeah, I—mmm.”

Amanda had leaned up, pulling his head to the side, and placing a slow, soft kiss on his mouth. The warm contact made his body flush with warmth, and he wrapped her in his arms, holding her against himself. “You must really love your brother,” Amanda murmured into his ear as the kiss parted.

Rumisiel closed his eyes and whispered, “He’s my bro. Of course I do.”

Amanda nodded softly, and laid her head against Rumisiel’s chest, nuzzling in under his chin. “So… Mmmh. What happened to Angelica?”

“Oh…” Rumisiel related the tale of how he had talked Angelica into letting go of her hatred and moving on, thus releasing Kate.

“She’s still a scary broad, through.”

“How so?”

“Well, she intimidated Ash into going to her wedding.”

“Oh Jeez, she intimidated Ash into being a Bridesmaid?”

“Worse, into being her Maid of Honor.”

Amanda broke into uproariously laughter at that, crouching and smacking her hands into her thighs. “Oh god, really? Maid of Honor? And she’s really…” Rumisiel nodded, as Amanda’s laughter overcame her, and she held herself up, struggling to breathe. Once she recovered, she stood up, shaking her head. “Hooooo boy. I bet that made her happy.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Especially since I, ah, was kind of responsible.”

“What? How?”

“Well, see, there was a problem with another haunting I was investigating…”

“Another one? What the hell, is this really Arkham, renamed?” Rumisiel blinked, the reference to Lovecraft’s writings going over his head, and Amanda shook her head. “Never mind. Just seems weird for so much supernatural stuff in this one dinky-ass town.”

Rumisiel shrugged. Thinking about it, he concluded she was probably right and that it was out of place. She continued before he could comment, saying, “So, go on. It’s your fault, how?”

“Well, I needed to compare the residual spirit-stuff left on Kate to what was on this other guy that was being seriously haunted by some big-time bad mojo. So I needed to get her and him together, on the Mountain, so I kind of told Kate that Ash wanted her to come…”

“Ooooh, I see. And she took the opportunity to tell Ash she wanted her to be the Maid of Honor.”

“Yep. Every time I try to do something, it seems like I fuck it up. I get by mostly by luck.”

“My family always said it was better to be lucky than good,” Amanda said, poking him in the ribs, getting a poke and a grin back.

“Maybe.”

“Definitely. After all, even if you’re good, there’s always going to be someone better enough than you to whip your ass. If you’re lucky, he’ll trip on his own shoelaces and you can kick his teeth into his throat while he’s down.” She illustrated with a sharp, short kick at the snow in front of her.

Rumisiel laughed again, looping his arm over Amanda’s shoulder. “You are mean, Amanda.”

“I can be. I can also be sweet. I’m like sweet and sour sauce. Or maybe I’m the Phoenix and Dragon.”

“Phoenix and Dragon?”

“It’s a dish, shrimp in sweet and sour sauce, and chicken in ridiculously hot sauce, mixed together. It’s all cut up and has so many other leafy things in it, you never know what you’ll get in the next bite.”

Rumisiel grinned at that description, and turned his head, kissing Amanda softly on the cheek.

“So, tell me about this other ghostly haunting…”

Upton Residence, Tempest, December 23, 2004, 5:55 A.M.

The previous night had gone smoothly, more or less. Dr. Upton had said that he was going to Albany—or Boston, he hadn’t decided yet—to do some Christmas shopping, and that Amanda, Rumisiel, and Vashiel were welcome to come. At that, Rumisiel and Vashiel shared a look and a smile, recalling the trip to Cape Cod in James’ car.

After the doctor had gone to bed, Rumisiel had told his brother about the encounter with Xaphrael. Vashiel had been surprised at this, asking why Xaphrael had not contacted him directly, which of course Rumisiel and Amanda didn’t know. Then his expression turned to concern that Myrael might be in the area as well. However, he had been certain that all would be explained tomorrow, and made his apologies as they went to bed.

Rumisiel was sitting on the couch, somewhat awake at the early hour. He had, after all, suggested his brother leave early in the morning so as to avoid inconveniencing the doctor, and offered to give his brother’s explanation for him. In truth, he was trying to avoid a repeat of the incident wherein his brother had said he was going to search for a missing Angel, since he doubted the doctor would buy the ‘Canadian Seminary thing’ again. Ten minutes ago, Vashiel had gone upstairs to take a shower before setting out, waking Rumisiel inadvertently.

The clock on the wall clicked over to six, and almost like clockwork he heard his brother descending the stairs. Letting out a yawn, Rumisiel curled back, tugged the blanket up over his feet, and wished that Amanda were next to him. He knew it was unreasonably risky, but that didn’t free him from wanting it.

“Yo.” He held his hand up.

“Hey.” Vashiel gently punched his palm on the way past the couch. “Are you sure leaving like this is a good idea?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, the Doc will understand.”

“Okay. I won’t have time to do the laundry.”

“I’ll do it.”

“It’s my turn—”

“I got you covered, bro. You can take my next turn.”

“All right.”

Vashiel leaned over the couch—Rumisiel, sensing it, looked up at his brother’s face.

“Are you okay?” Vashiel asked.

“Yes, why?”

“It’s just… I don’t know. You seem different, somehow.”

“Is it the coat?”

“Maybe.” Vashiel smiled. “It’s a nice coat.”

“Thanks.”

“A bit strange that you bought the same coat for Amanda as for yourself.”

“She really liked it.”

“Okay. What are you going to get for Ash?”

“Mmmh? Oh, right. It’s almost Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been able to think of anything to get anyone. I’ve been so busy, and now this, almost the day after I get back…”

Rumisiel chuckled softly. “Want me to try and get something for everyone from you, too?”

“Oh, would you?”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay. Hang on, I’ll go get the money I’ve got—”

“Save it, Bro. I got you covered.”

“But I can’t—”

“You can. I’m fine.”

Vashiel frowned at the thought, but nodded. “All right. I’ll pay you back for it.”

Rumisiel let out a sigh, hanging his head. It was the best he was going to get from his brother, and he knew it, so he nodded. “Okay. See you later.”

“Later.”

Vashiel waved to his brother and walked out of the door, letting Rumisiel lean back, hugging the blanket up around his shoulders as the gust of cold wind hit him. When it settled down, he was left alone with only the ticking of the clock to keep him company.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Rumisiel stared at the ticking clock, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Wake up Amanda? Mmmmh. Too early, I should let her sleep in. Get a shower? Hmmm…” He looked up the stairs, considering it, as the clock clicked on. Then he looked back down at the clock.

Ten minutes later, he gasped as he felt a hand clasping over his shoulder. He looked up, seeing Amanda’s face. “Amanda.”

“Hey.” Amanda slid around the couch and sat down on his lower legs.

“I didn’t know you were up yet.”

“Your brother woke me up taking his shower. I’m a light sleeper, and he was whistling something catchy.”

“How long have you been watching?”

“Long enough to figure out you weren’t going to go get a shower, so I couldn’t surprise you in it.”

“Uh…” Rumisiel blushed. “We definitely shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you know, the walls…”

“We could use the one in your ‘girlfriend’s’ bedroom.”

Rumisiel cringed, looking up the stairs.

“Don’t worry. He’s zonked.”

“How do you know?”

“I opened the door a crack. The doc’s got those sound-blocking earmuffs on.”

Rumisiel blushed at the thought of Amanda peeking into Dr. Upton’s room. “Uhhh.”

She snickered softly. “He’s not bad-looking for a guy near-to fifty. The whole turning silver thing is a turn-off, though.”

Thoroughly blushing at Amanda’s insinuation, Rumisiel opened his mouth to say something, and was cut off when she pushed a full-mouth kiss into him. Pushing him down to the couch’s surface, she giggled softly, muffling it into his shoulder. “Hey, I’m secretly fucking his daughter’s fake-boyfriend, who’s pushing four hundred forty.”

“… Yeah, but I’m immortal.”

“There is that. I mean, I don’t mind boys a little on the bony side, but otherwise, that would be a bit much.” Amanda clasped Rumisiel’s hands, and curled her fingers between his into his palms. “You know, I almost want to go back to New York.”

“Uh… Really?”

“No. But you’re different here. Less assertive, less aggressive. You aren’t taking initiative. And I don’t like it.”

Rumisiel blinked. “You… What do you mean?”

“I just said what I meant.” Amanda leaned down, nipping his chin. “You aren’t acting, you’re just doing what you’re told. What changed? Is it your brother?”

Rumisiel closed his eyes and sighed. “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe it’s him, and Ash, and Dr. Upton… Maybe I just like being ‘on a mission’, but…”

“But nothing.” Amanda crawled up, straddled his waist, and pinned his shoulders with her hands. “You’re stronger than that; I’ve seen it.” She leaned down and kissed him.

Then her teeth sunk into his lower lip, getting a gasp from Rumisiel and a startled arch of his back. His eyes opened wide, to find hers half-slitted, gazing into his. She reminded him of nothing so much as Missi hunting Ash, or maybe a tiger hunting dinner. She released his lips, and leaned over, to his ear. “You won’t let me down… will you?” Her fingernails scratched over his shoulder, sending a tingle through his body. “Because I don’t mind shy men. But I don’t like a wimp.”

Rumisiel felt his cheeks burning. He gulped, softly. “I, uh… No.” He wrapped his hands around her waist. “No, I won’t.”

“Good,” she growled. “So, let’s go upstairs…”

“Okay.”

Upton Residence, Tempest, 6:23 A.M.

Cassiel was furious. That sort of thing was becoming more common, ever since Rumisiel had met that girl. But now? She hated it, even if she had managed—thanks to a careful position mostly behind the apex of the cross-the-street neighbor’s rooftop and her telephoto lens array—to get some very stellar images of the two of them in an obvious tumble in Ash’s bed.

She glared at the essence swirls on the photograph. It infuriated her. When she and Rumisiel had had sex and she had taken celestial photos of it—thanks to remote trigger for the camera—what she had seen was two fields of energy, separate, distinct. This was more like a lava lamp—twisting, flowing together, not merging, but close.

Unlike, she mused, those of Emily and Ash. Cassiel turned around on her back, holding up the pictures. This wasn’t her specialty, and the context was different so she couldn’t be sure, but there was something very different.

In her left hand, the just-taken picture of Rumisiel and Amanda held a swirl of colors, flowing around one another, distinct yet comfortably together. In the image of Ash and Emily together on the bed asleep, it was difficult to tell there were even two sources; the essence traces coming from the two seemed so close that it might as well have been one creature.

But then, Cassiel thought, there were many variables that could account for that. Rumisiel was an Angel and Amanda was mortal, whereas both of the girls were mortal. Her pictures of Amanda and Rumisiel were taken during the throes of passionate sex, whereas the pictures of Ash and Emily were either at complete rest, or contented holding of one another.

It truly didn’t matter, she decided. Maybe the girls were each other’s One True Love—though not for long, if Cassiel’s plan went perfectly—or maybe they just weren’t that hot for one another, but were very similar. She really didn’t have anything else to compare it to, and didn’t give a damn.

“More. I need more.” Cassiel licked her lips, putting the photo back in her growing collection of homewreckers, and looked back to the house across the way. She had seen Vashiel depart half an hour ago. She could sneak into the Upton house now…

Cassiel looked back through the window. With supernatural vision she could see that Rumisiel and Amanda had stood up and were moving into the bathroom. Fixing her eyes on the corner of the bedroom against the bathroom door, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers.

The world zoomed through her, around her, a mere few yard’s distance and a flimsy window being no barrier at all to her short-range teleport. The sound of the shower hit her, and she adjusted her hearing so she could pick out their voices through it.

She expected to hear moaning and groaning; instead, she heard the whore’s voice asking, “So, do you have like, special feather shampoo or something in heaven?”

Rumisiel’s voice chuckled. “Well… some do, sure. My psycho ex was nuts about the stuff. But I say, why bother, though?”

Cassiel’s blood boiled as she heard herself being referred to as his ‘psycho ex’. “Bastard! You’re the psycho. You ruined everything for some mortal punk!” She clenched her teeth, listening on as Amanda laughed.

“Guys and dolls, eh? Guess some things never change. Give me the other one.”

The rustling of his wings came from the inside. Cassiel triple-checked her own invisibility and crept to the wall, peering through from the door’s side. Illuminated in the light from inside the shower—the light fixture, she realized, was Rumisiel’s halo—was the outline of the two.

Her guts felt like they were clenched in a knot. The bitch was running her hands over that asshole’s wings, and she smelled soap. With a sniff, and increasing her sense of smell, she identified it as being the brand of shampoo she herself used. That made her all the more upset.

They had what she never had. “I could,” she bitterly thought to herself. “Hmmph. It must be so easy to snag a mortal girl. Maybe I should. Heh. Maybe I should take this one from you.” She twisted her lips up in a grin. She had botched it when she tried to seduce that car-girl, but this one would be easier; she was, after all, something of a slut.

Cassiel’s lips twisted up in a grin as she imagined taking his new girl from him. She imagined herself in his place, being the one doted over by the clueless little twit… Her expression turned mean as she watched him reach out and rub Amanda’s back.

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“I’ve had a bit of practice.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought your psycho girlfriend would have let you do this to her.”

“Normally, no. But one of her games was as a masseuse, and eventually I tried it the other way—pretending to be a masseur.”

Amanda laughed as Cassiel’s blood boiled. It infuriated her, watching him do that for another girl! More voices from the inside, and she almost missed them.

“—only like other girls doing this to me, normally.”

“Why?”

“Mmmmh. Same reason I usually look for longer relationships from women: familiarity. And girl’s hands are smaller. Between bigger hands and cluelessness, guys usually hurt me when they try to be suave.”

Rumisiel wrapped his wings around Amanda’s body, and his arms snaked down, starkly silhouetted against the brighter wall of the shower; around her stomach they snaked, then down. Cassiel’s guts clenched in something between anger and anticipation as she watched his fingers find the spot between her thighs and pelvis; her laugh, the way she wrapped her arms up, around his head, one of them snatching his halo away from the top of his head and holding it, told her what he was doing.

She swore to all of Heaven and to God Almighty that she hated his guts. But she wanted to be there, to be the girl in his arms. And that just made her all the more angry. “Good heavens. I can’t be crying… Can I?” Cassiel raised her hand to her eyes, finding them moist. It made her loathing intensify, but she couldn’t bear to turn away as she listened to Amanda’s giggle turn into a loud gasp and an excited chuckle.

“Hey, you know… I’ve been meaning to ask,” she heard him say, as she stared at his hand, visibly moving between Amanda’s thighs, starkly illustrated. She brought up the camera; that would be a perfect shot…

“What is it?”

“You have a tattoo, but I haven’t gotten a good look at it.”

“I told you, shave off the whiskers and I’ll let you get between my thighs.”

Cassiel’s guts churned, hesitating from putting up the wall of silence she’d need to take the picture without the camera giving her away. One hand snaked into her dress. “No. No, I can’t be.” She found slight moisture on her mound, biting her lips as her fingers brushed her labia. He really was good at cunnilingus; she had, after all, taught him that herself.

“So, what is it?”

“An… Heh. It’s an angel and a succubus kissing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I saw the picture online, saved it, took it to a tat parlor, and, well…”

Cassiel withdrew her hand from her dress, furious—at herself as much as them—for the sensations they were arousing in her. She let a wall of silence go up and switched to a more appropriate lens. She sighted down the camera, held it a moment, and was rewarded. The bitch moved his halo down behind them, giving her a perfect shot of the silhouetted action. She snapped the picture.

Lowering the camera, Cassiel bit her lip. Should she continue? Part of her wanted to watch, especially when Amanda obviously shifted to tug Rumisiel’s penis between her thighs as he started to soap her up. A big part of her wanted so badly to watch, the part that caused the hollow emptiness in her guts. She clenched her teeth and her fists, turning away. She walked to the door, slipping out of the bedroom, taking a deep breath. She needed to do… Something. She didn’t know what, yet. Looking from side to side, she considered the upstairs hallway, and the stairs down.

It was unlikely she’d find anything compellingly interesting in the car-slut’s father’s room or in the rest of the upstairs. She highly doubted there were any skeletons in the closets or attic, so she slipped down the stairs, looking around.

Rumisiel’s things were, as usual, under and around the couch, mostly in that duffel bag he’d gotten somewhere. She thought about picking through them, and shook her head. He was such a bum, he wouldn’t have anything interesting on his things, anyway. His brother, though…

It was the extreme of long shots, she knew. After all, if he still cared about him after what Vashiel had done, she thought it highly unlikely anything she could bring to light would break the brothers up. On the other hand, she felt sure that, by now, she had enough to begin to wreck Rumisiel’s world on Earth. If she could shake his feelings in Heaven, so much the better.

She slipped down the stairs, descending to the basement. It was warm, even warmer than the bedroom with the shower going had been. She looked around. A curtain had been stretched on a clothesline between the concrete pillar in the middle of the room to the wall, blocking off casual sight into the area she supposed Vashiel dwelt in. On the near side from the curtain were the washing machine and clothes dryer and a few baskets—one full of clothes, the others empty. In the corner was a refrigerator, which she opened and found to be full of various alcohols.

Looking around, in the near corner under the stairs was a cabinet full of cleaning supplies, and in the corner not shielded by the curtain were the water exchange and furnace.

Stepping around the concrete pillar in the middle, she beheld Vashiel’s foldout sofa bed, ruthlessly neat and clean. His jacket hung on a hanger hung from a beam in the ceiling. The electrical box was in the corner, and there was also a card table with a metal foldout chair serving as a desk, she supposed. On the table was a metal rack holding files in folders.

Curious, Cassiel quietly padded up to the table. The files all had names, a few of which she recognized as being either students at Tempest High, faculty thereof, or likely parents thereof—all of them female. For a brief moment she imagined that Vashiel was, for some bizarre reason, keeping files from Fifth Depot on Earth, and her heart bounced with glee at what kind of trouble she imagined that could get them in—if only she could somehow avoid the whole “I will kill you” trouble with that ass Xaphrael. But when she examined one she found it was, instead of the format used by the Celestial Filing Depot, medical records.

“Oh, right…” Her glee sinking, she recalled briefly hearing about how one of the girls had seen Vashiel working at Dr. Upton’s clinic. Cassiel carefully replaced the file, her shoulders drooping. “Not much good to me. I wonder what Goody-Two-Shoes is up to.” She thought about trying to locate Vashiel and spying on him, but decided against it. He was, after all, much more perceptive than his brother, and would probably spot her. Spirits flagging, she sunk to the floor next to the sofa, hoping to spot something interesting, but there was nothing.

“Nothing. Crap…” Cassiel let out a sigh, and stood back up. She heard rustling from above, and heard the pipes creak and change as water-flow was terminated. Realizing that her jackass ex and his new squeeze were going to start roaming, she knew that her time to snoop was at an end. With an aggravated huff, she snapped her fingers, vanishing from the basement.

On The Highway West, 9:47 A.M.

“Win big, momma’s fallen angel, lose big, livin’ out her lies. Wants it all, momma’s fallen angel, lose it all, rollin’ the dice of her life!”

“Ahh, this song brings back memories.”

Rumisiel and Amanda had taken up singing along as Doctor Upton drove them steadily along the highway west. Amanda was sitting in the front passenger seat with Rumisiel in the rear behind Dr. Upton. She looked to her left. “It does?”

“Yes, it does. Ahh, the nineteen eighties. I kind of miss them.”

“Really? I was a kid then. What were they like for you?”

The doctor chuckled softly, then let out a sigh. “They started okay. They got great around nineteen eighty five, then my world started falling apart in eighty-nine…”

“Right… I’m sorry, Edward.”

“Heh. It’s not your fault.” He reached down to change the station, then shook his head. “Nah. It’s been a while. You don’t mind if I leave it on the oldies, do you?”

Amanda shook her head, and Rumisiel answered, “Fine by me.”

“Why did this song… bring up those memories?” Amanda asked, carefully.

Edward kept his eyes dead ahead for a few moments of nothing but the engine and the song. “For some time in nineteen eighty seven and nineteen eighty eight, I was on top of the world, married to the most amazing girl in the world. And I made her happy, she was on top of the world. For a while, this was her favorite song.”

“Isn’t this a young person’s song?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“But in eighty-eight, you’d still have been…” Edward nodded; Amanda frowned, sensing something deep and painful there. “I’m sorry, Edward.”

“Yeah. So am I.” He looked to the side. “She wasn’t even your age. And I… was a fool. I wasn’t old enough to be her father, but I was too old to be her husband. I tried to be, but I… Hell, I was more than a decade older than her. She wasn’t out of high school when I married her, and I was nearly out of med-school.”

Amanda winced at that.

“I know. I tried to control her. I loved how she made me feel when she did something wild or funny or unruly before Ash came along. But being a mother didn’t change the fact that she was still a wild, unruly, fun-loving girl at heart. I tried to ‘shape her up’, tried to control her, and… I ran her off.”

In the back, Rumisiel squirmed. The fact that mortals aged always bothered him. “If I’d met Mrs. Upton in 1988, would I have felt any different about her than I feel about Amanda now? Would I call her Marie?” He bit his lip. “Hell, what if I’d met the Doc in ‘78? Would we have run around drinking beer and chasing skirts together? Hell, we would have been…” His eyes closed, imagining, in his mind’s eye, himself in the year 1978. He’d been a wreck, following his dismissal and serious chewing-out. He had seen so much, and it had affected him. He’d been summarily fired from every job he had tried to get, and not long after that, he’d wound up just leaving Heaven on his own, bitter.

In the front, Amanda had her eyes closed. She reached over, setting her hand on Edward’s forearm. “You sound like you still love her.”

Edward’s throat worked slightly. “It was the biggest mistake of my life. I tried to control her. I tried to tell her who to associa… Who to hang out with, what to do, when to be home…”

“Sounds like…”

“Yeah. And I swore I wouldn’t treat my daughter that way. I wouldn’t push her like I pushed her mother.”

“Is that why she’s at Cape Cod for Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Does it upset you?”

“Doesn’t it upset your parents that you’re in Massachusetts?”

Amanda let out a ‘hmmph’ sound, crossing her arms. “I hope it upsets them.”

“Don’t get along with them?”

“Not so much. Not so much as I’d like. And my mother’s the one who hooked me up with that thug of a boyfriend that your brave houseguest helped me run off.”

“Worried about him?”

Amanda bit her lip at that, and pondered how much to tell. “I do. I may be good in a scrap, but he’s a thug in every sense of the word, about two-eighty, and I know for a fact he beat other girls.”

“Men who do that… don’t deserve the title.” His jaw worked.

Amanda felt her gut wrench, sensing something uncomfortable underlying. Better judgment told her not to press, but before she could cut it off, she opened her mouth, saying, “Did you… ah…”

“No. Thank god. I…” He huffed in aggravation. “I raised my hand, once, but I never hit her. I think, at that moment… that’s when it… that’s when she knew she was going to leave me. And rightly so.”

“A big fight?”

“The biggest.”

“Over what?”

“Alcohol. She was nineteen, underage, and the mother of my daughter. I was furious that she’d gotten… gotten ridiculously drunk the night before, with a bunch of friends I didn’t like her having. She told me I ‘wasn’t the boss of her’, and… She was right, but I was so angry, so righteous. I went off on her about responsibility, and she wouldn’t have it. Ash started crying, and that made the both of us more irritable, and…” He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I raised my hand in anger. The sight of her cowering stopped me, and I ran out. Slept in my car that night, on the old mountain road. When I came back, she didn’t speak about it, but we no longer even slept together, we hardly talked. A few days later, she packed a bag and left, and that was the last I saw or heard of her, until one day a letter arrived for Ash from her.”

“But—”

“But, I knew. It was hard not to. She was an underwear model before I met her… Hell, that’s why I met her. She was still one after she left me. Those catalogs that used to come to your home, whether you wanted them or not, you know the ones, right?” Amanda nodded. “Not so much in this millennium, but in the nineties they still showed up. Actually, that’s how I showed Ash what her mother looked like; I found her looking through one of those.” Edward let out a wry chuckle. “I haven’t told anyone that in full. Not in a long damn time.”

“I just… have a way of getting people to open up, I guess.”

“You going into psychotherapy?”

“Journalism.”

“Ahhh. Good place for that kind of talent. If that falls through, though, you should think about it.”

“What, therapy?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. It’s a good field, pays well, and you can help people.”

A thoughtful expression on her face, Amanda mused, “Well, one time, I did have to try dealing with a friend of mine. He was head over heels with this girl, but she smoked a little pot, drank a lot of booze, and he hated it.”

“Was he very religious?”

“Not especially, but his dad was a no-good, worthless loser who did both. He tried to control her, and I tried to tell him that he had to love her for who she was, not who he wanted her to be.”

“Mmmmh. Sage advice. But it’s not that simple in practice. The exact same reasons I fell in love with Marie are why I became what she hated. I don’t know if I expected her to change when she said ‘I do’, or when she gave birth, or what, but… she didn’t, really, and…”

“You tried to make her into who you thought she should be.” He nodded, and Amanda clucked her tongue. “That’s what my friend tried to do.”

“What happened?”

“He lost it, tried to beat her. She kicked the holy shit out of him and told him to go get bent.”

“How old were they?”

“He was seventeen, I was sixteen.”

Edward’s eyes drew over the mirror, meeting the reflection of Amanda’s. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He came back to apologize some time later, and I beat the crap out of him again, and said ‘apology accepted’. That was that.”

“That was harsh.”

“Yeah, well… things are, in New York. I’d seen too many of my girlfriends go down that gooey, crying, ‘I miss him and I feel like it’s my fault he left me’ path. I’m never going to get like that over some man.”

“That’s cold, but I wish a lot more of the girls I have to deal with could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cut off a relationship that’s gone sour without blaming themselves, and with finality. I deal with that kind of thing all too often in my job.”

“Your job? But aren’t you a gyno?”

“Imagine any kind of teenage or tweenage pregnancy crisis you can think of. That’s the kind of thing I have to deal with on a daily basis. I try not to, but sometimes I can’t help but pick up on what’s under it all.”

“Mmmmhm.” Amanda nodded at that, leaning back into the comfortable seat. “Have you thought about trying to get back in touch with her?”

“Marie?” He shook his head. “She hates my guts. And rightly so.”

“I…” Amanda sighed, biting her lip, as they passed the ‘Welcome to Albany’ sign. “You miss her, don’t you?”

“Only on the days that end with the letter ‘y’.”

Amanda smiled at the joke. “So, why don’t you try?”

“I…” Edward let out a remorseful sigh. “Sometimes… you can’t rewind. You’ve gone too far.”

Amanda nodded; then she smiled in recognition. “Pictures came and broke your heart?”

“My god, you know that song?” Edward slid his eyes across the mirror again, and actually grinned. “That song was the catchiest tune in everyone’s head when I was your age…”

“Yeah. You keep a weird enough circle of friends, and you get exposed to all kinds of music.”

“Mmmmh.”

Amanda nodded, as did Edward. She leaned back, turning her head. Finding Rumisiel lost in thought, she closed her eyes, waiting for them to arrive at the mall.

Outside The Albany Mall, Albany, NY, 10:27 A.M.

“I think we might have waited too long.” Dr. Upton laughed at the huge crowd.

Amanda laughed back. “You think this is bad? I’ve seen worse crowds than this getting onto a subway car.” She smacked her gloved fist into her palm. “You just have to be willing to force your way through, and foster a deep and abiding disrespect for human dignity and life.”

“Do no harm, remember?”

Amanda smirked as Edward quoted the most widely recognized portion of the Hippocratic Oath. “I guess me and Rumisiel will just have to do enough harm for the three of us then, mmm?”

As the Angel stood up from the car, he caught the tail end of the conversation, asking, “What are we harming, and why?”

Amanda pointed at the crowd. “Anyone who gets in the Doctor’s way.”

Edward let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Necessary? No. But it could be fun.” Amanda laughed, and Rumisiel broke into a chuckle with her.

“Try to keep the harming to a minimum, okay?”

“Well, if you insist.”

The inside of the mall was a madhouse. Cheery, happy Christmas music was being piped in from above, clashing starkly with the noise of the many, many shoppers. As they pushed forward—and Amanda was in fact soon reduced to elbowing people out of the way, as she had taken the lead—they discussed what they should get for whom.

“I have no idea what to get for Ash,” Rumisiel said from the back, “Or for Emily, or my bro.”

“Nor have I,” Edward replied. “Usually I just give Ash a couple of hundred dollars and she buys something for her car, but… This year, I’d like to give her something from me. Plus, there’s you and your brother.”

“Aw, you don’t have to—”

“Nonsense, I do.” Dr. Upton grinned. “I was actually thinking of getting you a new coat, since it’s winter and you had that ratty old one, but you seem to have handled that problem on your own.”

Rumisiel chuckled in response, looking down at the double row of big, shiny brass buttons on the front of his greatcoat. “So, we need to figure out something to get for Ash, then?”

“Right.”

Looking back from the front, Amanda said, “Well, tell me about her.”

Dr. Upton and Rumisiel together painted the picture of a tomboy, told of Ash’s positive delight with cars, and how she hated shopping for clothes.

Along with her knowledge of Ash having been originally a boy, Amanda nodded. “Well, I’d suggest, maybe a video game or two? I mean, I wouldn’t have the first clue where to go about getting her something for her car, and clothes seem to be out. I’ll bet she likes car racing games.”

“She already has the new car racing games this year,” Rumisiel said.

“Okay then. Action? A shooter or something?”

“Maybe,” Rumisiel commented.

Edward shook his head. “That might be okay for you to give her, Rumisiel, but I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I should give her.”

“Too… impersonal?”

Edward nodded at the New Yorker’s question. “Right. For the same reason I don’t want to just give her a stack of cash again.”

Amanda licked her lips. “How about…” She put on her best Bob Barker impression, “A new CAR! ”

Even in the crowded mall, her sudden outburst drew a few stares, not that she cared. Edward laughed, and Rumisiel broke into laughter a second later.

Dr. Upton laughed for a good twenty seconds, then shook his head, letting out a long, drawn-out amused sigh. “Hoo… I may be a doctor, but I’m not rich. That’s for neurosurgeons, not OB/GYNs. Besides, she has two, and I wouldn’t know what kind of car to get her, anyway.”

“Okay, fair point. Besides, your name’s not Bob Barker.”

“True. Though now you mention it, I kind of miss that show. Is it still on?”

“Yeah, daytime,” Rumisiel supplied. “I catch it occasionally, when there’s nothin’ else doing…”

“Okay, okay. A new car is out, then. Maybe a ring or something?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Edward, no offense, but your daughter doesn’t sound like the kind who’d be really glad for jewelry. More for the rest of us, I say. Plus, you know, getting jewelry from your folks is kinda creepy.”

“Really? Okay.” Edward frowned. “Maybe I’m just too old to know what a girl my daughter’s age and tastes wants.”

“Nonsense.” Amanda smirked, putting her hand on his forearm. “Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional. You’re only as old as you feel.”

The doctor broke into a loud laugh, putting one hand over his stomach and shaking his head, grinning. “Okay, okay. But I’ve been out of touch with girls Ash’s age since the mid-Eighties.”

“Some things are timeless. I have never met a girl, be she tomboy, bull-dyke, lipstick lesbo, slut, Catholic schoolgirl, Jewish princess, or whatever, who didn’t love getting a brand-new coat appropriate to her style.”

“She already has a new one, though,” Rumisiel spoke up. “She bought one—at this mall, in fact—last week.”

Amanda looked back at him, asking, “What kind?”

“Brown leather bomber.”

“That’s a mild winter or late autumn coat. Something lighter might go over well.”

Edward hmmmed. “I don’t know… What’s all the rage these days?”

“Well… I have a feeling she’d be delighted if you didn’t get her something that just screams ‘girly’. She strikes me, from what I’ve heard, as the kind who’d like something tough—like a bomber—or at least neutral.”

“Like… a trench coat?”

“Well, if she’s a thug, sure…” Amanda wryly smirked. “I kid, but trench coats are so overwrought, they’re for the kids who own all The Matrix videos and worship Keanu Reeves.”

“Hmmm. I’ve never—”

“Oooh!” Amanda brought them to an abrupt halt. “Let’s have a look in here.” She pointed into a designer styles store.

Rumisiel shrugged, and Edward nodded. “Can’t hurt.”

The inside was packed tight, and they were jostled to and fro. They were literally reduced to what headway Amanda could make by elbowing people aside. Chaos aside, Amanda saw something first. Over the heads of those around, she pointed to a light gray fabric jacket on a mannequin. With black buttons in a double-row, it was somewhat reminiscent of the tan greatcoats Rumisiel and Amanda were wearing, but was cut less heavily and more stylish.

They reached the mannequin, and Dr. Upton let out a “Hmmm,” touching the sleeve of the jacket. Though the texture was slightly coarse, it didn’t scratch. Opening the front, he found the inside lined with sleek black material. “I don’t know…”

“What’s the worst that can happen? She says her thank-yous and quietly returns it in January?”

“Well, yes.”

“And if it blows up, then at least you tried, and you can’t be held entirely to blame, since you had our advice on it. Right, Rumisiel?” Amanda leaned over to punch the Angel in the arm as he got a ‘deer in headlights’ look in his face. Her eyes went wide though, and Amanda let out an “Ooooh. Excuse me for a moment…”

She slipped around Edward, letting him continue to look at the jacket, taking Rumisiel’s hand, and dragging him around the displays. “How do you think I’d look with the Agent/Men in Black look?” Amanda grinned, having found a solid black evening jacket in the style popularized by the movies Men in Black and The Matrix, but cut for women.

Rumisiel laughed. “You’d look good in anything.”

Amanda slid out of her own jacket. Handing it to Rumisiel—who took it—she pulled the one off the mannequin and slipped into it. “The difference between you and me,” she said, as she mimed taking out a pair of sunglasses and putting them on. “I make this look good.”

“Yes, yes you certainly do. But that hardly seems your style.” Edward had followed them after a moment, with one of the jackets in his arms.

“‘Style’ is mostly in the clothes and how you wear them. There’s times even I want to invoke the air of sinister authority that the full outfit of this would give.”

“Sinister authority?” Edward questioned.

“Yep. Just imagine: black Ray-Ban Aviators, curly ear-wire, black jacket, white blouse, straight black silk tie, black business pants, shiny black dress shoes. The kind of look that makes you look like you have a ‘go anywhere, do anything, and get away with it’ badge in the pocket.”

“Okay, point conceded,” Edward said.

Amanda undid the black jacket and put it back on the mannequin. She put her own jacket back on and looked for the tag. She winced. “Ouch. I guess the G-Men don’t have their wardrobe done by the lowest bidder.”

“Do you really want it?” Rumisiel asked.

“Mmmmh… Nah, I suppose I don’t need it.”

“Okay.” He turned, and looked at the jacket Edward was holding. “Gonna buy it for Ash?”

The doctor nodded. “She could use something that doesn’t have a car company’s logo on it.”

“Just don’t let her hear you say that.”

Amanda pouted behind Rumisiel’s back. She had been hoping he would pick up the hint, but then, he was kind of clueless. He had, after all, gone looking for a nonexistent building at an address in the middle of the Hudson. She considered telling him point-blank she wanted it, but decided against it; she’d let him think of something for her. Then again, he’d already bought her one jacket. It had come a little early, was all. Amanda ran her hands down the breast of her jacket, and smiled, satisfied.

And, in any event, she reasoned, she had, after all, only noticed it because she had watched The Matrix recently. Just a passing fancy, she probably wouldn’t have really worn it very often.

The three proceeded towards the counter, which was equivalent to forging a path through a stampede, but once again Amanda’s violent nature and New York instincts served them in good stead, pushing through the crowd at a relatively acceptable pace.

“Oooh. There’s an electronics store ’cross the way.” Rumisiel pointed.

Edward nodded. “I can handle it from here. If you two want to have a look, go.” Amanda and Rumisiel departed, and Edward reached the counter, paying for the jacket. Then a glint caught his eyes, and he grinned. Pointing at a shelf behind the counter, he said “And four of those—the silver ones.”

In the electronics store, Rumisiel and Amanda dug around, mulling things over.

“What kind of electronics does she have?”

“Well… just that laptop.”

“What? Seriously? Not even a cell phone?” Rumisiel shook his head, and Amanda made a face of distaste. “Disgraceful. You could—Oh, no. You’d have to have bank accounts and stuff to set up a cell phone account.”

“Yeah.” Rumisiel scowled; Amanda had, instead of aiming for the video games, gone straight for the pricey stuff that could run down his ill-gotten reserves of cash in a short time if they went crazy.

“What about a music player?”

“Uh…”

“Like these iPod Minis,” Amanda pointed.

“I’ve no idea. What are they?”

“Well, you upload music to them from your computer, and you can listen to them anywhere.”

“Like, anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

Rumisiel licked his lips, contemplating. “Well, they both have computers…”

“Both?”

“Ash and Emily.”

“Ahhh… So, what does she like?” A quick run-down of what Rumisiel knew of Emily, and Amanda nodded her head. “Mmmmh. Book-worm type, eh? She’d probably like one, too.”

“Okay… Okay.” He smiled, and looked around, then walked to the clerk. “Two of these, please.” The clerk nodded, and Amanda turned around, looking elsewhere. Rumisiel held up three fingers, nodding a head at Amanda. The clerk nodded, winked back, and slipped three into the bag. Rumisiel paid him while Amanda had started to walk away, and then Rumisiel turned back to follow her.

On The Highway East, 3:55 P.M.

The bags in the trunk, Amanda had laid down her seat, so that her head and torso were in the back of the car, her head on top of her crossed arms—she could look up at Rumisiel, and one of his hands was between hers, their fingers curled together.

“So, what kind of music do you like, Amanda?”

“Oh, I’m fine with this. Really, I like all kinds of music.” She smiled at the song that was coming on, a slow musical intro, which the coarse DJ spoke over.

“Looks like we’re all in for some Bon Jovi. Y’all write in all the time, tell me how you like my particularly caustic wit—except the ones who don’t. Hey, I got news for you, on your parts, nobody appointed you moral guardians with the right to tell other people what kind of opinions to have, and on my part, I didn’t spot-weld the dials on your antique, two-ton radios on this station. So for those of you who love me—thank you. Thank you, for loving me, as delivered by Jon.”

Amanda giggled as Bon Jovi started to croon, and she closed her eyes. “You know, I could kind of get used to this?”

“To what?”

“Being chauffeured around. In New York, you kind of have to develop a sort of rugged jackass who can muscle other people out of the way to get into your subway car, subsist on old noodles, with an upstairs apartment that bangs all the time. Dog-eat-dog, you know? This is slow. Maybe it’s not bad.”

Edward chuckled, smiling down at the girl, her denim-clad legs crossed, easily laid back in the passenger seat of his Audi as if she’d always been there. She certainly had a way of crowbarring her way in, he thought, and looked back up at the road.

Rumisiel, however, looked quizzically down at her. “I never heard the upstairs apartment bang.”

“The fucker’s been gone for a few weeks, and I hope he never comes back.”

“Wait, it was your little brother that went missing?” Edward asked.

“No, that was a woman named Alice McGowan.”

“Didn’t you say you were staying with the lady whose brother went missing?”

Rumisiel ‘erred’ softly from the back seat; he needed deflect this. “No, I said I was staying with a friend I was helping look for the boy. I didn’t say he was hers.”

“Mmm. All right.” Dr. Upton looked back ahead as the Bon Jovi song wound down and the DJ began to speak again.

“And that was some Jon Bon Jovi, as if you needed me to tell you that. I’ve got some requests here, I’ve got a play list.” Amanda’s ears perked up at the dramatic thump that she imagined was the DJ dramatically dropping a heavy object that certainly couldn’t have been the playlist on the desk.

“But you know what? Nah. It’s around this time of year I get all in the mood to reminisce, and with the producers all in Hawaii instead of freezin’ their limbs off with the rest of us, and they don’t even pay for somebody else in the studio, I’m gonna take the next few minutes to play one for myself.”

Unbidden, Amanda imagined the DJ brusquely telling everyone who was listening “Shaddup! I got words!” from the tone of his voice. She imagined he was about to drone on about something important to him that she probably wouldn’t give a damn about. Then she realized Rumisiel was squeezing her fingers kind of hard. She looked up; he was paler than she had even seen.

“See, it was around this time of year in a steamy jungle in the closest place to Hell on earth that I can imagine, in the year 1967, when me and two of my friends got into some serious shi—crap. Well, those friends of mine are layin’ somewhere in Vietnam, since we couldn’t even recover their bodies.”

Dr. Upton abruptly switched the radio off.

Amanda perked up, blinking. “Why’d you do that?”

Edward shook his head. “I don’t…” He bit his lip and sighed. “I don’t want to hear about that.”

Amanda read between the lines—it was a topic he didn’t like. “The Vietnam War?” She reached across with her right arm, placing her fingers gingerly on Edward’s forearm. “You would have been what… ten?”

“Nine, in ’67.”

Amanda closed her eyes. “You lost an older brother?”

“My father.”

Amanda winced. “Harsh. I’m sorry, Edward—”

“It’s not your fault, Amanda. It’s…” He sighed. “I don’t like hearing about it. Especially about people they never found.”

“… MIA?”

Edward nodded. “He was a bomber captain in the Air Force. Joined at the very tail end of World War II, survived Korea.”

“Career?”

“Mmm-hmm. His plane was shot down. After the war, there were POWs who said they’d met a Harold Upton in the Hanoi Hilton, but nothing that could be substantiated. The North Vietnamese denied ever holding him.”

Amanda looked up; the set of Dr. Upton’s jaw revealed that she’d touched a raw nerve, and she bit her lip, electing not to pursue the matter further.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 6:13 P.M.

The ride back had been quiet after that, the radio off, none of them speaking. Upon their return home, Dr. Upton went upstairs quietly, leaving Amanda and Rumisiel alone. Surprisingly, Edward came back downstairs after only a few minutes, a picture frame in his hand.

“Doc? Where you going?” Rumisiel asked, looking up.

The Doctor stopped at the coat tree, turning around and reaching out. “I don’t know, Rumisiel. I just need to… go and think.” He plucked the coat off the tree without looking, shrugging into it and walking out the door.

Rumisiel blinked and looked at Amanda. “He must be really off over something. He took my coat.”

Amanda nodded, and she nodded again as Edward walked back in the front door, setting the picture frame down to take off Rumisiel’s coat. “Sorry about that.” He plucked his own coat from the tree, leaving Rumisiel’s over the back of his chair, and walked out with his coat in his arms. The door shut, and they listened to the sound of the Audi’s engine purring to life and leaving the driveway.

“Wonder what this is about?” Amanda stood up, walking to the picture frame. She frowned and brought it back to the couch, sitting next to Rumisiel as they looked at the picture together.

The frame was dusty, as if it had been stored a long time in an out-of-the-way spot, the glass having been wiped clear recently. The photograph was black and white, having been taken in what was obviously the Upton house living room; a large flag, plainly recognizable as the Stars and Stripes, in the background. Amanda quickly counted the stars—all fifty were present, meaning that the flag was made sometime after 1959. In the photograph, a middle-aged man in an Air Force uniform with a large number of medals on his chest had one arm around a woman’s shoulders, with a young boy between them, their hands holding his. The woman was obviously pregnant, and Amanda bit her lip.

“There’s a date on it,” Rumisiel commented.

“I can’t see one.”

“Here.” Rumisiel rubbed a section near the bottom of the pane clean again, tapping on it.

Amanda squinted. “I can see the numbers, but I can’t make it out.”

“It says, July 4, 1967. Must have been…”

“Mmmh. Maybe not long before he…”

“Though it’s funny… I don’t recall Ash saying she had any uncles or aunts.” Rumisiel shook his head, setting the picture down. “There’s something… Wrong about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. I’m not good at sensing emotion, but there’s a lot of grief in this picture.”

“Edward’s?”

“Eh… I dunno. Hard to tell, but I don’t think him… Not just him.”

Amanda tapped the woman’s face with her fingernail, clicking on the glass. “Her.”

“Maybe… Maybe.”

“There’s something very, very wrong here.”

“Yeah…” Rumisiel sighed, muttering, “Vietnam.” The word rolled off his tongue like a curse.

“You were there too, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was there. And that guy on the radio, I knew him.”

“You… knew him?”

“Yeah. As soon as he started talking about Vietnam, it clicked. That’s John. John Phillips, or Jay Phil.” Rumisiel closed his eyes, putting his head back on the couch.

Amanda sensed pain there, too, and put her head on his shoulder. “Bad memories for you, too?”

“That whole damn country is bad memories. But, yeah… yeah, it is.”

“Talk to me about it?”

Rumisiel let out a soft sigh, and curled Amanda close to him. “Amanda, I… I guess I’ve always been kind of close to Humanity. To the fucked-up brutality of it all. I guess we’re kind of alike like that. I can’t stop watching, or getting angry and sad…”

“And neither can I. I guess that’s why I chose journalism over all the other stupid LibArts majors I could’ve taken.”

“The first time I set foot on Earth… It was…” Rumisiel closed his eyes. “July 28, 1809.”

“Eighteen oh nine?”

“Eighteen oh nine.”

“What was… what happened?!”

“I was expressing an interest in humanity, and my father didn’t like it. He thought seeing the worst humanity had to offer would, well, ‘set me straight’. So he said, ‘Why don’t you go have a look,’ and teleported me to the middle of the Battle of Talavera.”

“Battle of Talavera…?” Amanda’s voice betrayed her lack of knowledge on the subject.

“The Napoleonic Wars,” Rumisiel supplied. “It was… like a meat grinder. He dropped me in the middle, I watched two giant armies exchange a volley of fire, and then they charged with bayonets.”

“And you were just…”

“Standing there. I was utterly gobstruck, watching men and horses collide. Actually, it’s got to be some kind of miracle of ballistics I wasn’t just blown away, since I was sealed up and not hidden. They kind of just… fought around me, and in the end, I was left standing in a field full of dead and dying men and beasts.”

Rumisiel let out a soft sigh, and Amanda laid her hand on his chest. “Why in the world would you want to come back?”

“I dunno. For a while, I was horrified like my dad wanted, but one day someone from Fourth Depot got the bright idea of questioning me about what I’d seen. He wanted to use my testimony to corroborate his data about human wars and their tolls. A while later, they offered me a position actually observing.”

“How did that go?”

“At first, like you’d expect. I started out just invisibly hovering over, watching people die. It always… I never really liked that, and I started following the armies before and after the battles.”

“You were watching the humans, not the war.”

“Right. It was… interesting, fascinating, horrifying. The first time I started to actually walk and talk with mortals… mmmh, it was the Second Boer War, more commonly known as just The Boer War.”

“I’m a bit fuzzy on wars earlier than WWI; enlighten me, what was it?”

“The…” Rumisiel sighed. “The Second Boer War started over gold. A whole lot of gold was found in the south of Africa in some places called the Orange Free State and Transvaal, which were north of the British Cape Colony. British citizens began flocking there in droves, gold rush style, and they outnumbered the natives pretty soon.”

“Go on.” Amanda curled her legs up; ghoulishly interested in the history, she leaned on Rumisiel as he continued.

“So, the government of England demanded that the natives give the foreigners full political rights, which would, de facto, make the place a British colony overnight since they were all loyal subjects of Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Which one?”

“Victoria.”

“So, war for gold… a people outnumbered by those they have nothing in common with… that reminds me of Israel and Palestine.”

“Good God, is that still going on?”

“Yep. You were there?”

“No, I was put in Vietnam. Someone else covered that war and its aftermath.”

“Who?”

“The psycho Ex.”

“Okay, so…”

“Right. The Boer war, as I said, was the first one where I went around talking to people. Completely against policy, you understand, but frankly I was so confused just watching the shit fly from above, I wanted to know what was going on, and why. I was tired of just recording the deaths of people and shoving it into files. That made no sense. I had to know why they were killing each other, burning villages to the ground…”

“You want to stop?”

“No. No, it’s okay.” Rumisiel was glad her attention was on the Boer War and not Vietnam, so he pulled her shoulders closer. “It started when the Orange guys launched a preemptive strike. They told Britain to fuck off and die when Britain demanded that the foreigners be given full political rights, and to take their troops and get bent. Britain said like hell, and the Orange Free States preempted the British strike with a strike into the British Cape Colony.”

“How did that go?”

“Pretty good for the Orange guys for a while. Then a whole mess of British army showed up and they started kicking ass left, right, and center any time they wound up in a stand-up, knock-down, Napoleonic fight, which was an art they had long since mastered.”

“So, what, the Boers stopped fighting on those terms?”

“Exactly. The Boers never had what we’d call a regular army, they just took the concept of militia to an art form. Sign the document of war, order the few full-time military guys to muster their troops, and within a week each one of them has coalesced an army of thirty or forty thousand men out of farmers and ranchers and such. They turned out to be really damn good at raiding and vanishing, and the British traditional doctrine was pretty helpless against it.”

“The birth of asymmetrical warfare,” Amanda mused.

“Asymmetrical?”

“Yeah, a symmetrical war being one where the two sides are largely identical in make-up and doctrine, like the second world war. Asymmetrical is the opposite, where the two sides are wildly divergent. Guerrilla warfare with ambushes and IEDs, dropping five-million dollar precision bombs on five guys and a camel…”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it went. The Boers got kicked hard when they tried to do a stand-up fight with the British, so they didn’t. They tried to raid supply lines, cut communications wires, anything and everything to make the British unable to fight that didn’t involve just standing there and trying to kill them all while they tried to kill you.”

“It didn’t work, though, did it?”

“Well, it sort of did. The Orange Free State and the South African Republic got absorbed by Britain, but it was the most costly and last of England’s wars. I went to England itself a few times during the war, and they started to hate it when they didn’t just beat up a bunch of dumb foreigners, establish rule, and come home for supper. The war dragged on, and it got more and more unpopular.”

“Just like Vietnam.”

“Just like. The British public was all for one more hurrah, but when they realized it wasn’t going to be a decisive victory any time soon, even with them doing their level best to starve and destroy the Boers, they started demanding a settlement. Though they got absorbed, the terms were favorable to the locals, with limited autonomy and such.”

“What… was it like?”

“It was fucked-up. The British couldn’t simply beat the Boers in a stand-up fight like they wanted, because the Boers hit and ran. They knew the terrain, but more, they could just vanish into towns and villages and look just like anyone else. The British couldn’t simply exterminate everyone, so they wound up ordering everyone out of their homes and burning everything to the ground as a matter of policy.”

“I’ll bet that made them beloved by the locals.”

“Oh yeah, you can imagine. They got biblical on the locals: burnt the houses, slaughtered the livestock, poisoned the wells, burnt the crops, and salted the fields.”

“Good fucking… How the hell did… What about the civilians?”

“They were rounded up and sent to concentration camps that were pretty much a single step above Auschwitz.”

“A single step?”

“Yeah. There was no actual intent of exterminating the locals, but given the little food, no hygiene, and almost nonexistent medical services, they were dying in droves, too. Actually, there was this one woman, Emily Hobhouse, who went around and started campaigning for the conditions to improve.”

“How do you know that?”

“I met her. Heh, actually, she was pretty hot.”

Amanda snorted softly. “In the middle of a war? You lech.”

“Hey… It’s not like I… you know… Hey!”

Amanda smirked and pinched Rumisiel’s thigh. “I know, I’m just giving you a hard time. Go on.”

“Well, like I said, she went back to England and started raising a ruckus about the conditions in the camps, and they started to improve later on. Well, for the Boers, anyway; nobody gave a flying fuck about the black Africans who weren’t even involved in the war.”

“Waaaait, huh? I thought the Boers were the black Africans?”

Rumisiel shook his head. “Common misconception. The Boers were white descendants of earlier Europeans who went to Africa, then forged north and cut their own nations out from the locals because they didn’t want to be British subjects in the Cape Colony.”

“Hmmph. Typical white man. Fuck the black guy just ’cause he’s black, and ain’t a normal human being.”

“Yeah, well… It wasn’t quite like that. The British didn’t see the local natives as hostile; after all, it wasn’t their war. They didn’t get any stake in the gold or the politics, so why the hell should they risk their necks fighting? But again, the British were trying to starve the Boers out, so they had to destroy the black local’s homes and food, too, which meant they had to go somewhere, and if they instituted a policy of just killing them, which nobody wanted to do anyway, then they would have a stake in the war, and there were nowhere near enough British soldiers available to fight against the Boers and the blacks united.”

“So… you just went around… doing what?”

“Talking. Asking questions. Monitoring the sentiment.”

“Which was?”

“At first, the British were thinking this was going to be another ‘jolly good fight’, a chance to exert their dominance over some fuckers and expand the Empire.”

“Wait… they seriously thought like that? ‘We’ll go conquer these people and take what’s theirs and make us the rulers of them?’”

“Yeah, they seriously thought like that like there was nothing wrong with it.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know, right. I asked about that, asked how they’d feel if it was someone else doing that to Britain. The ones that didn’t get wholly pissed off at me just looked at me like I was crazy. You know, one guy, he said, ‘We’re the strongest, that’ll never happen,’ and that was that. Might makes right.”

“Crazy.”

“Yeah. The attitude changed as things bogged down. I got a sense nobody was actually saying what they were really thinking, but there was a pretty large expressed sentiment, as that same guy said a year and a half later, when his arm had been sawed off, ‘What has this forsaken, Godless land have to do with Her Majesty the Queen?’”

“Not so much fun to beat up on people who go and hide and hit you from behind, is it?”

“Not so much, no…”

“So, tell me about Jay Phil?”

“Damn, I hoped you’d forgotten.”

“Not that easily, no.” Amanda reached down, taking Rumisiel’s hand. “If you’d rather not…”

“That was when I got thrown out of the Fourth Depot… Well, like I said, I’d been through the Second World War, and Korea… I was really angry about the pointlessness of it all… I guess I got close to the guys. Stopped really remembering I was an Angel, since I lived, ate, ran, jumped, did everything with them. I started to break rules. I smoked the shit with them, we shared hookers in Saigon, we got pissed when our friends got killed…”

Rumisiel looked up at Amanda, who was hanging off of him, literally and figuratively. She reached down, opening his hand which had clenched into a fist, sliding her fingers within, between his. “I don’t think you did wrong.”

“… Neither do I.” He pulled her close, putting her head on his shoulder, and rubbing his head into hers. “Eventually, we got sent into the deep of the shit, following the Tet Offensive. Jungle patrol, we got into a huge cluster-fuck. The radioman bought it, as did the dumbfuck Louie who was standing right next to him.”

“Louie? Louis?”

“Lieutenant.”

“Oooh.”

“So, we were cut off, being hunted. Trying to get to the prearranged extraction zone was a stupid fucking mistake…” He sighed, heavily. “And I made that call.”

“You?”

“Yeah. By virtue of longevity, I’d actually been observing the war long enough to have made Corporal. The Sergeant bought it trying to grab the radioman’s kit, since he knew how to operate it, and I was the most senior Corporal. That put me in charge.”

Amanda winced and leaned across and up Rumisiel, kissing his cheek. “You were trying to look out for them. Isn’t that what you were supposed to do? Get them to the extraction zone?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. But that still didn’t help us. Charlie had a fair idea what we’d do, and we got tore up. So we hoofed it into the unknown. It was a stupid move, but…” He shrugged. “They were forced to start hunting us instead of just killing, and we made headway towards friendly areas, but we were less than seven by then. Eventually, it was just me, Jay Phil, and Carlos. We’d been on the run for two days, and out of nowhere came six guys with Kalashnikov rifles and, of all things, pan magazines, so they could just hose lead.”

“How did you survive?”

“I didn’t. Carlos bought it in the ambush, I got shot up pretty bad: arms, legs, enough to stop me moving sealed, but not to kill me. So… I yelled for Jay Phil to run for it, and he did. Then I undid my seals and got up, halo and wings.”

“Ah… So, what happened?”

“Well, how do you imagine they’d react? High-strung guerrillas fighting for a cause they believed in, confronted by an obvious supernatural threat? They opened the hell up on me, emptied their magazines, and ran like fuck when they realized it had done all of jack and shit. I knew it was over then, but I hoped Jay Phil had gotten away. I guess not only did he get away from that, he survived the whole war.”

“What… happened?”

“Well, I went back to Heaven, back to my office, just stared at a wall for a long time. I realized I was still wearing what I’d been wearing, and I had a few joints in my pocket, so I started smoking them. Turns out even my memory gets fucked up when I get fucked up like that, which, really, is pretty much why soldiers want to get fucked up.”

“To forget…” Amanda closed her eyes; she’d only recreationally used alcohol or marijuana, never to forget something or block her ability to remember what was going on.

“Yeah. To forget. Well, Cassiel moseyed into my office, found me in the middle of smoking my brains out, still wearing the uniform of a United States Marine, and wanted to know what the fuck was going on. So, I told her. I told her everything.”

“And she told your superiors?”

“Yep. See, she was ‘attached’ to me in 1914, as a junior. I got kinda high so fast because I was a novel implementation of actually sending an Angel to observe, and in 1914, after the success of my reporting of ‘on the ground’ attitudes of the Boer War, they decided to expand it, and they gave me her. By ’68, expansion was looming, and she was naturally first in line to be promoted. There was talk of establishing a division of Fourth Depot specifically for observation, and as she was the one showing all the administration skills, she was the shoe-in, and she was gunning for that slot.”

“So…”

“She… well, she was afraid it was going to get the program canceled and her and me sacked when it got out. So she preempted it by reporting everything I’d told her to the superiors, who about blew the tops of their heads off. I was promptly fired, the observation branch demolished, everyone who was looking at coming in was told there weren’t going to be any more Angelic observers, and only Cassiel’s herculean efforts of brown-nosing and emphasizing that my actions were my own and not hers kept her in the Depot at all. She blames me for ruining her career, and I realized then that she was only in it for advancement, and I figured she’d only been dating me for the same reason. So I dumped her, and she’s never forgiven me.”

“For doing what you did to protect Jay Phil, or dumping her?”

“Either.” Rumisiel let out a long, drawn-out sigh, as Amanda closed her eyes.

Tempest Diner, Tempest, 7:01 P.M.

Two white-haired men sat over two cups of coffee. One was wearing a very large, imposing jacket with adornments on the lapels and collars and cuffs, the other was wearing a more ordinary winter jacket, open in the front.

Vashiel took a sip of his coffee and sighed. Xaphrael had met him on the Old Road. They had talked about old times, old friends—it had been good, at least, to catch up on some news from home. They had talked all through the day, reminiscing, about good times, times before his colossal mistake. What they had not talked about, however, was business. Finally, Vashiel could stand the curiosity no longer.

“Why did you tell my brother to summon me to you, Xaphrael?”

“Why, My Captain, can’t I simply have wanted to talk to an old friend?”

“Of course you can, Xaphrael. But you don’t need my brother to get my attention for you. And he said you mentioned Myreal…”

“Yes, I did. Business as always, Vashiel? I am surprised you didn’t grill me on the subject when you found me.”

“I imagined you would tell me in good time.”

“Very well.” Xaphrael took a long draw of his coffee and set it down. “I think Myrael has come here, to Earth. And not only to Earth, but to this area, as well.”

“That… makes no sense.”

“No, it does not. Two Angels, both of whom were judges of yours at your trial. Both of whom are Archons in charge of branches of the Filing Depot. Both of whom have gone missing, for reason or reasons unknown, and both of whom seem to have come, of all places, to this particular part of Earth.”

Vashiel let out a sigh. “This doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Do you know of their business? Did you have something to do with their vanishing?”

“What? Of course not! ” Vashiel hissed. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, My Captain. Only a fool could not trust you, for I can see the chains still, binding you; and more, I know you. But, of course, it would be remiss of me not to ask, surely you know that.”

Vashiel deflated, nodded, and took a long draw of his own coffee—he found it empty, and that displeased him. He set it down on the edge of the table. “Yes, Xaphrael. You’re just doing your job.”

“Indeed I am, My Captain. And you… You are still on vacation?”

“I’ve earned it,” Vashiel said; he had not taken one break since his trial and punishment.

“Yes, you have, and I would be the last one to dispute that. Nevertheless, I wonder why you have not come back, since times appear to be becoming more interesting—but I think I know. Your brother.”

“My brother. I am doing my best to help him get back into Heaven, but it’s not going so easily.”

“He always was a slacker, wasn’t he…”

Vashiel thought about that. His brother had, in truth, always been rather lazy and inattentive, unless the subject interested him. When his interest was piqued, when he was doing something he liked, his brother could demonstrate as much competence as Vashiel himself. Unfortunately, that was very, very seldom. So he was forced to nod in affirmation, despite his instinct to defend his brother’s reputation, as he said, “Almost always.”

“Why are you bothering? He’s failed so many times by now. Why not leave him to his own devices? Aren’t you sheltering him from the consequences of his actions?”

Again, Vashiel was forced to think about the answer. “He may have failed many times, but he is still my younger brother. It’s my job to protect him, in more ways than one. Someone killed Raechiel with a holy sword. Something is causing Archons to go missing from Heaven, and to come here. Raechiel was powerful, but he was not a warrior. I am.”

“And you remain, lest your brother become a target for whoever or whatever killed Raechiel… I see, I understand. But in that case, why not petition for his sentence of exile to be changed to imprisonment in Heaven itself, where he would be at least safe?”

A waitress drifting by and refilling their coffee cups gave Vashiel a moment’s pause, and then she was gone, ignoring their conversation entirely. Vashiel bit his lip; he thought about Ash, and thought about his brother’s performance against that poor, lost soul.

“My brother has a chance at vindication here. He’s already vanquished one bad spirit, turned her back towards the light, and proved to be the salvation of the mortal woman the ghost was haunting. But that’s not all; there are things that tie him to Earth. He’s met a girl, fallen in love, made friends. I don’t recall seeing him so… Well, at ease, happy, even if he is sometimes pushed around or under pressure here. He… Well, he’s doing well here, better than he was, the last time I saw him in Heaven. I’m not sure I want him to leave Earth so soon.”

“No?” Xaphrael raised an eyebrow. “My Captain, why not?”

“My brother… It’s hard to understand for me, but he has a strange affinity for the mortal world, for the mortals themselves. I have to admit it puzzled me, but I’m glad to see it. And having lived under Dr. Upton’s roof for so long, I begin to understand why, in a way I cannot quite seem to explain, even to myself.”

“Mmmmh.” Xaphrael nodded his head, slowly. “I see, Vashiel. Unfortunately, I think your instincts concerning your need to protect your brother may be entirely too reasonable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve sensed something, in recent days; have you not?”

Vashiel tilted his head. “No… No, I have not. What is it?”

“A presence, a feeling, like an omen… I can’t explain it; it feels twisted, corrupted, tainted.”

“A demon?” Vashiel’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a demon, and neither have you.”

“We should talk to my father.”

“Perhaps, but your father is very busy, investigating the absence of the Archons. We should not bother him with a half-thought-of uneasy feeling.”

Vashiel pursed his lips, and nodded. “What could it be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt the likes of it before, but it is powerful, Vashiel, and sinister. I have no idea how close or far it is, whether its presence is coincidence or not to us.”

“How powerful?”

“It’s hard to say, but I think it’s a match for an Angel.”

Vashiel’s eyes closed, taking a draw of his coffee. “Could it be Raechiel’s killer?”

“I cannot say. It’s possible, but my gut says no, it is not.”

“What should we do?”

“Wait, My Captain. Wait, and see. In truth, I am glad you are going to remain here, so that I know I’ve a reliable fellow on the ground, his eyes open and ears long.”

“I understand, Xaphrael. You want me to remain here and observe for you?”

“I do. I’ve already discussed the matter with your superiors; consider your ‘vacation’ to be an indefinite leave of absence until you feel you should return.”

Licking his lips, Vashiel drained his cup again, the hot, bitter liquid rushing down his throat, warming his guts. The fact that his old friend had gone to his superiors before discussing it with him perturbed him, but he forgave the indiscretion. “Very well. I’ll do as you ask, then.”

Xaphrael smiled. “I am glad, My Captain. I must wonder, however; is this Ash you speak of the fetching young female with brown hair who was in your brother’s company when I saw them on the Old Road?”

“No, that’s Amanda, a friend he met in New York. He helped her recover a lost child.”

“Ahh, I see. She’s a very attractive young woman, isn’t she?”

Vashiel blinked; his cheeks burnt slightly. “Er… Yes, yes she is.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“She’s staying with us for a while. Ash is out of town, so the Doctor offered her room to Amanda while Amanda was staying.”

“I see… Strange, that she would leave the place her family and friends are, so close to the holiday.”

“It is, yes.” Vashiel shrugged, and Xaphrael smiled. “Oh! On that note, I got you something.”

“You got me… You did?” Vashiel blinked in surprise, as Xaphrael reached into his coat, taking out a flat box, giftwrapped in glittering silver, about the size of his extended hand and an inch thick. There was a bow on it, and within the bow was a small scroll through the loops of ribbon. He passed it across the table to Vashiel, who took it, humbled.

“Xaphrael, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course not. I wanted to get you something, since you’ve been on my mind recently, My Captain.”

“But I haven’t gotten you anything.”

“No need to worry, Vashiel. If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll think of something before the next time we meet.”

“I may have to borrow the money from my brother, but I will, Xaphrael. I promise.”

“Borrow money from your brother? Wouldn’t that be the switch. Has he gotten a job?”

“No, he took it from someone in New York.”

“He stole it?”

“More or less. His friend Amanda told me the story, that he had seen a dealing of illicit substances in the park, and a fight broke out. He intervened by attacking the aggressor, and when it was done, the money was on the ground, so he took it.”

“He attacked a mortal?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can only imagine that he believed there would be death if he did not. My brother is not the kind of person to stand by and watch that happen.”

“Mmmh. This… upsets you, then?”

“It does worry me, Xaphrael, but… what am I to do? I’ve already composed the report, it’s in my pocket.”

“I’ll deliver it myself, then, My Captain.” Xaphrael smiled.

Vashiel blinked, smiled half-heartedly, and nodded. “Very well.”

He took the report out, handed it to Xaphrael, who put it in his own pocket.

“Do you think it was wrong of him to do so?”

“It was against the rules.”

“That’s not the question I asked.”

Vashiel sighed, licking his lips. “His friend said as much, too. I… I just don’t know. Was it wrong? Was it right? How can I say? We did what we thought was right, too, but we were so wrong. All I can say is that it was against the rules. Not terribly so, but it is an infraction, even if his intentions were pure and he felt just in doing so.”

Xaphrael chuckled softly. “Were we wrong, My Captain? What we did was against the rules, but was it wrong?”

“Agh…” Vashiel shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about that!”

“I understand, My Captain. Forgive me for bringing it up.”

“I forgive you. Please, just…”

“I shan’t mention it again, My Captain; but let us turn our attention to other matters still. Tell me, has Cassiel been a bother to you or your brother?”

Upton Residence, Tempest, 7:47 P.M.

“You ought to ask him, if it’s bothering you so much.”

“What am I going to say? Excuse me, Doc, but this picture feels very wrong on a supernatural level, could you explain it?”

“Of course not. Not if he doesn’t know, anyway.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Well then… just ask him who they are.”

“But we know.”

“Of course we do, that’s not the point. The point is to get him talking about them.”

Rumisiel nodded, licking his lips. He felt nervous.

“Do it, Rumisiel. It’s bugging you, and now it’s bugging the hell out of me, too.”

“I don’t know if I—”

“You can. Just put that dogged determination I know you have to work.”

“But… But he’s the doc.”

“What’s the worst he could possibly do? Throw you out of his house?”

“Well… yeah.”

“And if that happens, you’re always welcome in New York with me. But it won’t happen. I get the feeling there’s a story here, a tale that needs telling, looking for an excuse to be told.”

“Is it really important?”

“Well, you tell me. A picture so haunted that even I feel kind of creeped out by it. A picture of Edward as a boy, with an obviously pregnant mother, and you’ve never heard of Ash’s grandparents or an uncle or aunt. Yeah, I want to know, and I think you do, too. Besides, as long as we’re digging up the ghosts of the past…”

“All right.” Rumisiel said, as a chill ran through. “When I see the Doc, I’ll ask him.”

“Ask me what, Rumisiel?”

Rumisiel looked up; it was, of course, Dr. Upton entering through the garage door hallway next to the kitchen, and he groaned. “Err…”

Amanda’s elbow in his ribs got him to stand up straight. “This, well… You left this.” He held up the picture.

Dr. Upton scowled. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“We were just wondering, who are the people in this picture of?”

“That,” Dr. Upton said, taking the picture frame, “is none of your business.” He turned and vanished, leaving Amanda and Rumisiel staring at one another. Instead of going up the stairs to the top floor, however, he had gone down to the basement.

“Well, that’s not gone well,” Rumisiel said.

“Nope. I guess we have the answer, though, to what’s the worst that could happen.”

“Yeah…”

Rumisiel turned to the television, reaching for the remote. They turned it on, and Law & Order was playing. “He’ll be back. The Doc never misses this show.”

Twenty minutes in, as the detectives were closing in on an apartment wearing ballistic vests, Dr. Upton returned to the ground floor. Surprising both Rumisiel and Amanda, he picked up the remote and shut off the television.

“Doc?”

“Come with me.” Edward turned, walking up the stairs again; Rumisiel and Amanda followed. He led them into his study, where he hated being disturbed; Rumisiel had never actually been in the room. There was a long desk along one wall, and the walls were lined with wood paneling and bookshelves loaded with medical books. The room was lit by a jade-shaded banker’s lamp on the desk, with matching lamps of more normal pattern on small tables about the room. There was a small love seat and a recliner facing a wide-screen flat television hung on the opposite wall, and Dr. Upton walked to the recliner with his arms full. On the low coffee table in front of the love seat, he began setting clinking glassware.

Curious, Rumisiel and Amanda approached; he was setting out a whiskey set and set the picture on the table as well. “I need to apologize for that outburst, Rumisiel. You’ve lived under my roof; hell, you put on the roof, you’ve lasted the longest of any boyfriend my daughter has ever had… You have a right to know. Have a seat.” He indicated the love seat, and Rumisiel sat.

“Edward, do you want me to leave?”

“Don’t bother. You’ll just get it out of him anyway.” Amanda nodded and sat next to Rumisiel. Edward sat in the recliner, pulled the glass stopper from the large, square bottle, and poured himself a shot. He sniffed it and drank it quickly, his eyes closed.

For a long, poignant minute of silence, none of them said anything. Then Edward picked up the picture, looking at it carefully. “These, Rumisiel, Amanda… are my parents. Ash’s grandmother and grandfather, Amelia and Harold Upton. This is me… I was nine years old.” He let out a wry smile. “This was taken on my birthday.” Edward closed his eyes again, holding the picture to his chest.

“I’ve never seen either of them. And, uh… I don’t mean to pry, but your mom looks…”

“Yes, Rumisiel. She was pregnant; I had a younger brother on the way.”

“I didn’t think Ash has an uncle.”

“She doesn’t, Rumisiel. My mother miscarried in early September of that year. A few days later, the military informed us that my father had been shot down over Vietnam, and was presumed captured or killed.”

“Harsh.” Rumisiel regretted it as soon as he said the impulsive word, but Dr. Upton nodded.

“Yes, yes it was, Rumisiel. My mother did her best to hold on, to raise me. We were pretty well off. My grandparents had made good money and had survived the Great Depression with most of it. They were still alive then, so they helped us stay together, and when they passed on, they left it all to my mother and me. I was talking about Medical School, and they were so proud of me, they’d set up funds to get me through school. Things started to go downhill when I was sixteen. That was when the military told us they officially considered the chances of my father still being alive were nonexistent. The rumors had by then begun to surface; the POWs who said they’d met my father in prison. The military said they officially gave those rumors no weight, but… we knew. We knew what had gone on in that prison. My mother sort of gave up hope, gave up the will to live. She withered as I began college. She died when I was nineteen.”

“I’m sorry, Doc.”

“Edward…”

“That’s why Ash has never known her grandparents, Rumisiel. That’s why there was no uncle, and why I went into medicine, to prevent what happened to my mother from happening to anyone else. She was despondent after she miscarried, and she always said that losing my baby brother and my father at the same time…”

“Edward, I’m sorry.” Amanda reached over, touching his forearm lightly.

Edward didn’t respond, his eyes still closed. He set the picture down on the table. “She’d spend hours sitting alone, staring at this picture, sitting in my grandparent’s home, drinking… One day, when I was home from school on Christmas break, she asked me to come over the next day—she’d given me this house by then. That night, she wrote a note—”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, God.”

Edward let out a quiet sound, confirming the duo’s fears. “She… she took father’s revolver to the upstairs bedroom, and…” Doctor Upton’s voice choked out for a few moments, though there was no doubt what he meant. “I found her the next day, called the police… I was at a loss. Alone. The Vietnam War had claimed my father and my uncle, my grandparents were gone, my mother was gone, and no brother. I guess I didn’t know what to do, so I just… kept doing what I was doing. I sold that house, I went to Boston to med school, and I met a beautiful young model… You know the rest.”

Rumisiel worked his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. Every fiber of his being felt wrong, and he wished there was something to do.

Eventually, Doctor Upton broke the silence, saying, “I… haven’t told that story to anyone, ever. Not my college pals, not the partners in my practice.”

“Why us?” Amanda asked.

“You have a way of getting people to open up, and Rumisiel… Well, I’ve never told Ash. I’ve never told her about her grandparents. When she was younger, she used to ask where they were, but I never answered. I didn’t… I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. Maybe this was a dress rehearsal for telling her, but if I can’t, or don’t… I want someone to tell her, and you seem likely.”

Rumisiel closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Now, I… I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

Rumisiel and Amanda stood up as Edward poured himself another shot. They silently walked out of the room, closing the door slowly behind them.

Somber, Rumisiel and Amanda walked down the stairs. The grim story weighed on both of their minds, and each aware the other was mulling it over in their heads. Amanda slid her hand back and Rumisiel took it. He gave her a brief squeeze, musing at how her fingers were cold. He let go, and they slumped on the couch, Amanda leaning against him.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you,” she murmured.

Rumisiel turned his head, kissing her hair. “You’re thinking that you wish we could do something.”

“Yeah…”

“Me too. It’s kind of making sense, now, why that picture feels so wrong.”

“You think she’s still around?”

“I wouldn’t bet against it. Not even if the odds were good.” They sat together in silence, Amanda’s head on his shoulder; eyes closed, for a few minutes.

Rumisiel opened his mouth to say something, ask a question, but Amanda beat him to the punch. “Would you like to go to the library and try to find out where this happened?”

“Yeah… But how?”

“We know the year it happened in.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. Edward was nine in July of 1967. Add ten, you have ’77. We know it happened in December. So December of seventy-seven. Should be pretty simple.”

“All right. I just hope the library’s open tomorrow.”

“We might get lucky. If not, we could always pop back to the New York Public Library. They keep microfiche of like, every newspaper known to Mankind, and never shut.”

???

“No, n-no! Please, no! I—Ah!” Cassiel’s scream was cut off as a searing blade, which erupted into fire as it pierced her flesh, was driven through her chest. She was pinned to the wall by the massive blow. She tried to make a sound, to protest, to teleport herself away, to somewhere, anywhere, anyone who could save her, but she was powerless.

Powerless to do anything but stare helplessly into his eyes as she felt her immortal life draining away from her—the immortal, made to face immanent mortality. His scarred face, the white bangs hanging over his face, twisted with contempt, as his lips parted.

“You have failed me, Cassiel, for the last time.”

She trembled as he cruelly twisted the blade through her body, blackness overtaking her.

Cassiel’s House, Tempest, December 24, 2004, 6:04 A.M.

She awoke with a start, shooting to a sitting position. Her blanket fell from her body as her seals vanished, being undone in a blind panic. The light from Cassiel’s halo illuminated the room and she pawed her bare chest—small, firm breasts, smooth cleavage; no blood, no bone, no charred flesh, no gaping hole.

Trembling, Cassiel wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing herself uncomfortably tightly to reassure herself she was still alive. After a few moments, she sullenly pulled a pillow to her chest, hugging it tightly.

“I want an update, Cassiel. I’ll be dropping in tomorrow morning. You had better have some sort of news for me; my patience is growing thin.”

The words came back to her, and she held out a hand, tugging the scroll from her nightstand to her hand. She read them again. Three short sentences, unsigned.

But she knew who it was. She had found that scroll on the very bed she was sitting in now when she had returned home. She had thought of going and spying on the teenage bitches in Cape Cod, but after reading the scroll it went from her mind.

His threats came to her mind, unbidden: both the explicit threat to kill her if she made trouble for Rumisiel, and the implicit threats if she continued to fail in finding anything on Myrael. Three short sentences had brought it all back.

How he had come to her, shortly after his initial death threat, and ordered—ordered her—to begin an investigation into Myrael’s vanishing. How he had threatened her with nonspecific doom if she told anyone. Usually, he demanded that she come to Heaven, to his office, but this time was greatly unusual. She had searched—high and low. She’d even taken wing and tried a futile area search at night, but found no Angels other than Rumisiel and Vashiel. She had had to duck Vashiel, presumably doing the same thing, a few times, and was glad she was marginally better at stealth than he was detection, since it had let her evade his notice from long range.

But this? He had never come to Earth for her. She racked her brain for any shred of information that might appease him that she had overlooked the first time, even as she considered running. Even her quest to visit bitter vengeance upon her lout of an ex-boyfriend had taken the back burner to personal survival, and Xaphrael terrified her.

“Well, have you found anything?”

Cassiel’s eyes snapped up and she gasped—she hadn’t heard or felt his entry, she had been so concentrated on figuring out her next move.

“X-X-Xaphrael!”

“Yes, me.” The scarred one crossed his arms, staring levelly at her. “Why, you look like you’ve seen a demon. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for an Archon, though?”

“I-I-I have been,” she blurted. “There’s just nothing to find! I’ve looked high and low, and—” She felt herself yanked forward, the pillow falling from her grip and the sheets spilling away as she was tugged into the air. He was still sealed; she wasn’t. Gulping as she found her throat in his hand, chest rising and falling dramatically as she gasped for air, he slowly squeezed.

“And, you haven’t found anything, have you?”

“T-T-There’s nothing to find! I swear! Please don’t hurt me!”

Fear welled up at inside Cassiel. Though she might break his hold by drawing upon her full power, she wouldn’t escape, as it would only take him an instant to break his own seals—far less time than the moment she’d need to teleport away.

Xaphrael’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing to find?”

“He’s j-just gone! I swear, I haven’t… I can’t! I can’t find what’s not there, I—”

He choked her tightly, and she squirmed. “Have you been acting against the interests of My Captain or his brother?”

Cassiel’s mind had to work for a few moments to decipher to whom he was referring—he let up on her throat, and she gasped. “N-No! I swear!” Denial was the first thing that came to her mind; after all, it wasn’t as if he could have known what she was doing to Rumisiel; she hadn’t even revealed it yet. And it wasn’t filing reports against him—she wasn’t trying to get him in trouble with Heaven any longer.

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“So, you didn’t cause him to go to New York, to beat a mortal?”

“W-What?!”

Xaphrael took out a piece of paper from nowhere and read from it.

“My brother’s new friend Amanda disclosed to me that, on or about the morning of December Eighteen, my brother traveled to New York City, where he encountered a violent incident between two mortals. He intervened in this incident, resulting in, as described to me, the nonlethal incapacitation of the aggressor mortal. He is also known to have profited from this altercation to an unknown but seemingly significant sum of money. This is consistent with my observations of him seeming to have elevated access to mortal finances, such as brand-new clothes he was not in possession of when I last saw him. However, I believe that the material gain was incidental, and Rumisiel acted out of sympathy to the mortal whom he believed would have been killed. While the use of physical force against mortals is inappropriate and unacceptable, I believe that this incident, if isolated, is not indicative of any downwards trend of my brother’s ability to obey the laws, and request that he not be punished for this incident, nor his exile extended.”

Xaphrael squeezed again, shaking her. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Eyes wide, Cassiel shook her head, rasping, “No, no, I didn’t!” Her brain racked for the morning in question, she realized it was the day she had been caught by Rumisiel, snooping outside the bookworm bitch’s home.

“I don’t believe you! What did you do?!” Xaphrael shook her again.

Cassiel, fear welling up inside her, broke down, crying out and forcing out the words, “I-I-I might have talked to him th-that night! He was angry at me, but I swear, I didn’t know he was in New York that morning!” She regretted the slip, realizing that her words may have betrayed that she did know he was in New York at some point, and began to whine, “P-Please, don’t hurt me!” She truly felt terrified. Fear that her dream had been prophetic rose inside her, and she tried to avert that fate in any way possible, starting to cry. “I-I-I’m sorry! I’ll do anything! Please! Anything! ” She sniffled, trying to meet Xaphrael’s gaze, to make him feel sympathy for her.

He met her gaze, his eyes ice blue, and slowly looked down her body. She wanted to cover herself, realizing she was naked, but fought that urge, digging her fingernails into her palms; if he wanted her physically, it was one way to lessen the chances he’d hurt her. Even as she felt revulsion welling within her, his eyes traced down her curvy, lithe body, and back up; he met her eyes. “You’d do anything to save yourself?” His voice was low and thick.

She gulped, her throat working, “A-Anything.”

“Yes… I imagine you would.” With a flick of his wrist, she was sent sprawling to the bed, her wings clipping the bedposts and knocking the lamp from the table. “You pathetic whore, I bet you would. You disgust me.”

She whimpered, looking up into his eyes, realizing they were callous and hard—utterly uninterested.

Annoyed, he half-turned, looking over his shoulder at her. “Forget it. You’re completely worthless; useless. It was folly to even enlist your services in this search. You’re a waste of power and time; I’d have better luck getting some mortal to do it. Don’t ever mention I was here to anyone. And get rid of that damn ghost, why don’t you? That thing stunk yesterday, but now it’s really strong.” He snapped his fingers, and was gone; just like that, the source of her terror vanished, at least for now.

Cassiel broke down, clutching her pillow to her face, ashamed at how she had behaved, how she had acted. Where had her pride and dignity been? Had she not behaved as she had seen mortal girls, faced with violent men, behave? It had been exciting, she thought, then, but being the one actually in danger, she had broken down just as fast, attempted to bargain anything, even her very being, to not face harm or death.

She would have, she realized. She would have done anything, spread herself for the Sword-Angel if he had demanded it. It made her feel filthy. She felt glad he had held no interest, but gladness turned to worry that if he came for her again, she would not have even that chip to bargain with.

“Damn you, Xaphrael,” she whispered, softly, fearfully, but every bit as sincerely as she had condemned Rumisiel. “Damn you for making me say that.”

She crossed her legs, disgust washing over her. She wished for someone stronger, someone not like her, who could protect her from the overpowering avenger.

“If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. Are you an Angel, or are you a worm?”

Although the words were barbed, they were delivered without force, in a voice that was sympathetic, soft, female. Cassiel felt a hand—soft, thin, feminine, and warm—touch her foot, and she looked up with a gasp.

Standing beside the foot of her bed was a woman. Pale skin, with bright, ruby red lips, and pale red eyes, she was built like Cassiel, slender. She wore a black cloth mantle draped over her shoulders, a pink, broad wedge from the neck traced a chevron shape below, in bright, vivid pink to a tight tube top barely covering her small breasts in the same shade of pink. Her bare stomach traced a narrow curve to a tight tube miniskirt in the same pink, with a black bottom hem midway down her thighs. Cassiel took the intruder in through her reddened eyes, shivering. Although the interloper was not displaying any obvious supernatural power, Cassiel knew she was, and the beset Angel trembled, thinking to herself, “Why me?”

“W-W-Who the hell are you?” She was so rattled she didn’t even consider the blasphemy which slipped from her lips.

The stranger smiled, slowly squeezing her welcomingly warm fingers around Cassiel’s ice-cold foot. “Something like that,” the strange woman murmured, as she started to slide up, walking forward. Her footfalls made no sound, and her warm fingers left a tremble in Cassiel’s cold flesh as she traced up her legs. Cassiel’s lower lip trembled uncontrollably at the strange duality of this second assault: the impression that the woman was dangerous conflicted starkly with the comforting, if uncomfortably intimate, touch, and the impression she meant no harm.

“W-Who are you,” Cassiel repeated again. She gasped as the intruder’s hand brushed up past her knees, between her crossed legs, to her inner thighs. The other hand took one of hers, squeezing her four fingers together.

“A friend,” was the stranger’s answer.

Cassiel trembled. Not from fear, even though the fear was still in her, but from the touch and the soothing voice. The stranger’s hand slipped up her thighs, and Cassiel tried to protest, but her indignant murmur went unheeded.

“You’re soft, Cassiel, and that’s not bad, but you’re also spineless. That’s okay.”

Cassiel gasped, trembling strongly again, as the intruder’s fingers brushed up her pubic mound; long untouched by anyone but herself, Cassiel’s emotions were again assailed by an extreme duality. She had never considered herself bisexual or homosexual, never felt any attraction to a woman, and on some level the touch was deeply disturbing. But at the same time her body rebelled against those thoughts, her stomach tightening into a clenched knot. There was a burst of terribly strong desire and a subtle shift of her hips as the intruder’s fingers traced up the side of her labia, around her clitoral hood. So much sensation packed into a moment, Cassiel was only half-done comprehending the touch when it was over. The interloper in her house traced her fingers further up Cassiel’s stomach and smiled as her fingers slid smoothly over Cassiel’s tensed stomach.

“Ahh… You liked that.” The unknown stranger’s smile became a sly grin.

Cassiel shook her head in rejection. No more tears came, they couldn’t; she was drained, and the violating touch had provided her with a mild release. That made her writhe. She knew that she should feel disgusted, wanted to feel overwhelming disgust, but all that she could muster was a halfhearted uncomfortable squirming. “N-No… No! Go away,” she said, trying to sound assertive, but merely sounding weak.

“You called me,” the stranger murmured, shaking her head, letting pale red hair, short and fluffy, fly around her head. “And you want me gone so soon?”

“C-Called you? I did not!”

“You did.” She slid forward and down. She leaned over Cassiel’s body, pressing her breasts to the nervous Angel’s, only a thin layer of fabric separating them, and not even that much between their stomachs. Cassiel felt bad for feeling that she wanted to bury her head in the stranger’s soft, warm belly. She might have been more equipped to deal with a fight or struggle, rather than this bizarre violation.

“You called me,” the stranger repeated, her lips next to Cassiel’s ear. “You lashed out, alone and unloved. Called upon Hell to unleash its Wrath with terrible vengeance upon those you hate. You’ve done it twice: once for that scruffy lout, and just now for that massive brute who hurt you, Cassiel.”

“H-How do you know my name,” Cassiel whispered in reply, fear starting to well up in her again. She had, after all, done just what the intruding creature—a demon, she thought with fear in her heart—had said.

“I know so much about you, Cassiel,” she murmured. The fingers around Cassiel’s hand shifted; instead of squeezing her protectively, they laced with her fingers, squeezing comfortingly. “And if I wanted you hurt, you’d be hurt already, too. I will not do anything to hurt you.”

“W-Wha? W-Who are you?”

She got a soft titter in reply. “My name is Nariel, Cassiel.”

“A-Are you… a demon?”

“Not quite, but on the right track.” Nariel licked her lips and leaned back a bit, relieving the pressure on Cassiel’s torso. She closed her eyes, and Cassiel recognized the impression, albeit twisted, of an Angel’s seals being undone. When Nariel’s wings spread, Cassiel gasped: they were pale red, like her hair, and shaped just like Cassiel’s own wings.

“Y-You’re… a… a demon,” Cassiel whispered.

“No, I’m not.” She slid close again, kissing Cassiel’s cheek. “But what, exactly, I am is unimportant now. What matters is that I’m here. To help you get what you deserve.”

“Wh-What I deserve?”

Cassiel felt nervous again, but Nariel’s whispers were anything but malevolent. “Yes, Cassiel. What you deserve. What you crave. The prestige you’ve been denied. The power you should wield. The Vengeance that you demand.”

For the first time, Cassiel dared to feel hope—Nariel’s words were like a siren song to her self-righteous, wronged heart. Her eyes widened as the bed shifted, and Cassiel found herself rolled atop Nariel, who slid all the way in, the red-winged creature below her, staring up into her eyes, brightly. One hand caressed the small of Cassiel’s back, the other squeezed her hand, and bare warm feet pressed into her own. Cassiel’s body trembled strongly again, but with great relief—this was the contact she had craved when she had felt venomous envy in her heart at watching Rumisiel’s unfaithful girlfriend and her bookworm lover.

“This is also what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I-I…”

Cassiel gulped as she felt Nariel’s lips upon her jaw.

“Yes… I saw you watching those two girls. The envy was palpable.”

“I…” Cassiel squirmed slightly. “I’m not… not gay,” she murmured, quietly, and found her head gently tugged down by an invisible force.

“Does it matter? I’m here… I’m soft, warm… and I will give you what you want.”

That same invisible force urged her eyelids to shut. Though it was not painful or strong, Cassiel fought it, but only for a second. Then she relented and let out a soft sound of reluctant submission, turning her head, meeting her invader’s lips with hers. They were, as advertised, soft and warm, and Cassiel felt tears start to form under her eyelids at the betrayal of her body, craving that warmth and more from Nariel, pressing in, her wings wrapping around Nariel’s shoulders, and Nariel’s in turn wrapping around her lower torso.

The kiss ended, and Cassiel trembled, wondering if next was going to be her vagina, which was in truth quivering at the thought despite the mild horror she felt at that arousal. Instead, Nariel tilted, using her hand this time, Cassiel’s head to her shoulder.

“I called you spineless, Cassiel. But I know how terrifying it is to be threatened with destruction.

Relax, close your eyes… just let the tension fade away.”

“H-How?”

“Know that I’m here for you. I’ll protect you.”

“Why?”

“There’s time for explanations later. For now…”

Cassiel closed her eyes as directed, placing her head on Nariel’s shoulder. It was strongly comforting, which was exactly what she craved after the encounter with Xaphrael. She found herself clenching tightly around the intruding red-wing, and soon, sleep claimed her again, the stress of the intense encounters followed by the sudden, unconditional solace and comfort, even from such a source, quickly putting her to sleep.

Notes:

1. Due to the teleportative nature of Rumisiel’s travels, the time may seem to jump around. Time is expressed locally to the location specified in the header. For instances when Rumisiel’s travels take him to a nautical or aviation reference, time is expressed in terms of the 24-hour UTC/GMT clock, sometimes known as Zulu Time. In these instances, the word ‘Hours’ will be used to further differentiate the time from standard time.

2. It may seem odd that Rumisiel did not incinerate himself, pulling the de-orbiting stunt that he did, or that he didn’t explode from teleporting out of the Earth’s atmosphere, or something to that effect. The human body can easily withstand the rapid drop in pressure from 1 atm to 0 atm; the angelic body is if anything, more tough, and nigh-indestructible while unsealed, to boot. Rumisiel did not lose consciousness for the same reason. With his seals broken he doesn’t need to breathe, and can just as handily dance in orbit as at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.

He still did not catch fire, however. This is because he did not de-orbit from the velocity and relation to the ISS, a move from which he almost certainly would have incinerated his clothes at least. He teleported a hundred miles closer to the Earth before he started to fall, and in relation to the bright blob of light that is Manhattan, instead of a close relation to the ISS. So instead of moving at 15.55 orbits per day, he was simply dropping from the speed of gravity alone, not shedding the energy of multiple rockets expending themselves to put him into orbit. Therefore, he never exceeded terminal velocity, let alone by enough to incinerate the air in front of him as he fell.

3. Rumisiel, as a graduate of the armed forces basic training of several armies (and one army more than once), has had formal training in hand-to-hand combat. However, most of that training involved learning to beat someone upside the head with a club shaped suspiciously like the butt of a rifle, or else to stab with a bayonet, or to use a knife. Actual fist fighting was not taught much, and even further compounding the fact is that he never came to rely upon those skills. So while his memory of the training may be crystal, he never really developed it into a skill. It does give him a slight edge, but not much more so than, say, Ash has from getting into the occasional brawl at Tempest High. Even directing as much energy into his physical prowess as he possibly could without breaking his seals and revealing himself to be an Angel, he would still be defeated in a brawl by a trained martial arts master or his brother. His power may be mildly superhuman, but power alone is not a substitute for skill or speed when facing a master. However, street thugs are seldom masters of the martial arts, and if he undoes his seals, or fights using obvious telekinesis (one of the few supernatural arts he has a genuine talent for), all bets are off.

4. It may seem incongruous that Rumisiel and Amanda’s relationship proceeded as quickly as it did, to the point of seeming to stretch credibility in light of how long it took Ash and Emily to begin their sexual explorations. It does not escape my attention that some might believe that this element was incorporated simply to continue writing sex into the stories, and that it is somehow ‘cheapening’ of the writing process.

This is bollocks. The fact is that Rumisiel and Amanda are both adults, no matter how often Rumisiel may demonstrate traits to the contrary. Rumisiel is 437 (or 438) years old; for 50 straight years, he kept up an affectionate, active sex life with Cassiel, and before that he most likely had some prior flings. Amanda Jung is 22 years old; for the past seven years of her life, she has been sexually active and intelligently so (more or less). She gets regular sexual health check-ups (including full STD screenings), has had a hormone+ Inter-Uterine Device implanted, has both dated and had one-night stands with both men and women. Both are sexually mature characters who shared an extraordinary day after meeting one another; they hit it off, in other words, and neither of them is particularly shy about sex.

5. At various times, words of religious importance may be used. The capitalization of these words is usually not in error; when being used by someone with faith, they will be capitalized. When used by someone who does not have faith, they will not be. This is a stylistic choice.

Thanks to:

- The various soundtracks of The Matrix movies for fight music.

- The Ace Combat 06 OST.

- The Chrono Trigger OST

- The James Bond OSTs

- IllWillPress for Foamy’s Cow-Mouflauge rant, which gave me the idea for that joke.

- White Wolf for creating Exalted, without which I’d have a much poorer internal conception of what Angels are capable of.

- Google Earth, for giving me a bird’s-eye view of New York City.

- Law & Order, and Law & Order: Special Victims Unit

- (No thanks to Law & Order: Criminal Intent, which sucks.)

- Thanks to: Bails 5607, Griffon8, Harri, Kyeudo, Random55, Rhiannon, SarahDraco, Scotts 13, and Tim for being my loyal beta readers who read and review.

- Acknowledgement to Cheshire Cat, CyberRanger, Owncksd, and Shannon, who still receive the updates but no longer provide feedback.

- Thanks to SarahDraco for being my personal Napster.

- Thanks to Bails 5607 for having the balls to put himself in a position where he can be ordered to risk having them shot off in sunny, sandy Iraq.

- Griffon8 and Random55 for editing.

- My real buddy Eric, who never showed up this year, whose basement den of earlier college days inspired the Upton house basement’s décor.

- Thanks to my estranged friend Mark, who did not try to beat my friend Jamie, for inspiring the boyfriend who taught Amanda to fight and ultimately got the shit kicked out of him for it.

- Rhiannon S for putting her personal liberty on the line by emailing Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force and asking potentially awkward questions about their air defenses.

- Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force for being good sports and not revoking Rhiannon S’s personal liberties for asking awkward questions about their air defenses.

- Chris Hazleton (Peacecraft) for making Misfile and being a good sport about letting me play in his playground, as well as for accepting commissions to illustrate Misfiled Dreams.

- You.

Table of Contents

McArthur Residence, Tempest, Massachusetts, December 18, 2004, 2:45 A.M.

McArthur Residence, 3:51 A.M.

American Military Cemetery, Neuville-en-Condroz, Belgium, 10:35 A.M.

Outside Foy, Belgium, December 18, 1944, 8:45 A.M.

Outside Foy, Belgium, December 18, 2004, 11:20 A.M.

Closely Relative To The International Space Station, Low-Earth Orbit, 10:48 Hours

Central Park, New York, New York, 6:01 A.M.

Designer Military Clothing Store, 8:01 A.M.

McArthur Residence, 9:41 A.M.

Alleyway, New York City, 9:56 A.M.

Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan, New York, 10:28 A.M.

NYPL Branch Library, 2:25 P.M.

Approaching The Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan, 3:25 P.M.

In The Air To The East Of The Brooklyn Bridge, 3:35 P.M.

Brooklyn, New York, New York, 3:43 P.M.

Boarding A Subway Car, Lawrence St. Station, 3:58 P.M.

Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, 4:39 P.M.

Hell’s Kitchen, 7:47 P.M.

Central Park, 9:32 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, Flushing, Queens, New York, New York, December 19, 2004, 8:18 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:38 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:21 A.M.

Outside Alice McGowan’s Townhouse, Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, 9:58 A.M.

Under The Overpasses, Hell’s Kitchen, 12:02 P.M.

The Corner Of 12th Avenue And W 30th, New York, 1:05 P.M.

Grand Central Station, 2:10 P.M.

Manhattan, 4:11 P.M.

The Top Of The Empire State Building, 9:21 P.M.

Outside Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:51 P.M.

Outside An Abandoned Building, 10:21 P.M.

Robert Zhang’s Apartment, 10:30 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 20, 2004, 12:47 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 5:59 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:30 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 9:23 A.M.

Brooklyn Hospital Center, Brooklyn, New York, 10:18 A.M.

Outside The Designer Surplus Store, Manhattan, 3:37 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Apartment Building, 5:49 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 21, 2004, 4:36 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 6:01 A.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 7:08 A.M.

American Military Cemetery, Neuville-en-Condroz, Belgium, 1:39 P.M.

Flight Line, RAF Leeming, North Yorkshire, UK, 13:01 Hours

The White Cliffs Of Dover, Kent, UK, 1:15 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, 8:30 A.M.

Tempest, Massachusetts, 6:50 P.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 9:59 P.M.

Amanda Jung’s Loft, December 22, 2004, 7:45 A.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 7:50 A.M.

Cassiel’s House, Tempest, Massachusetts, 7:50 A.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 8:30 A.M.

Upton Residence, Cape Cod, 9:20 A.M.

The Old Road, Near Tempest, Massachusetts, 2:32 P.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, December 23, 2004, 5:55 A.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 6:23 A.M.

On The Highway West, 9:47 A.M.

Outside The Albany Mall, Albany, NY, 10:27 A.M.

On The Highway East, 3:55 P.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 6:13 P.M.

Tempest Diner, Tempest, 7:01 P.M.

Upton Residence, Tempest, 7:47 P.M.

???

Cassiel’s House, Tempest, December 24, 2004, 6:04 A.M.

Notes:

Thanks to: