The knife vanished. Dancer straightened slowly, with a careful precision that reminded me of someone uncocking the hammer of a gun. Michael came forward, and she backed away. "What's wrong with you?" I asked her. "I told you it was okay."
Dancer shook her head. "He's come for me already?"
"Who?"
Dancer pointed at Michael. "The angel of death."
The darkness shrouded Michael's features and gave his silhouette mass. The glass behind him glowed coolly.
I put my hand on Dancer's shoulder. "No," I said, "this one came for me."
"Okay. Good. But, can I have my fifty credits before you die?"
"Sure." I turned to Michael. "Pay the woman."
Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled out a credit counter. He held it out for Dancer to take. She stared at his hand for a long moment before snatching the card. I never saw anyone run so fast. Before I could say goodbye, Dancer melted into the warrens of the glass city.
"Poor girl," I said to the space where Dancer used to be. "You sure spooked her, Michael."
"With such a short life span I imagine they try to avoid angels." Reaching down, Michael picked up Daniel's Bible and slipped it into his pocket.
Stepping nearer to him, I scooped his hand into mine. His skin was cool and dry. I rubbed his knuckles with my thumb, trying to impart my warmth.
"I suppose they do," I said quietly, a tacit acceptance of all that he was. "Michael, Daniel is dead."
I half expected him to say "I know," but he just nodded slowly and squeezed my hand. He murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Did an angel come for him?" My voice sounded much smaller than I intended. "Tell me Danny is in heaven."
Michael hesitated. I saw the muscle in his jaw flex, but then he looked down at my hopeful face. His eyes softened, and he whispered, "Deidre ... of course he is."
I didn't ask Michael how he found me, or if he knew where we were going. We started walking, and I held on to Michael's hand as tightly as I held on to his lie.
The first silver light of morning was breaking the night sky as we reached Malachim headquarters. I didn't ask Michael how he knew where the new headquarters were or how he even knew that I'd been heading there. If it was one of his angelic powers, the truth was, I just didn't want to know.
The Malachim had regrouped in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the blast line, on the far side of the glass city from the stadium. The efficiency of Rebeckah's people amazed me. In the time it took us to engage a US Marshal and the cops, the rest of the Malachim had gutted the old headquarters and moved everything to a new location.
As Michael led me deeper into the complex, I saw the hollow sadness I felt reflected on the faces of Malachim passing us in the hallways. Soon I found myself avoiding people's eyes, afraid of the accusations I might find there.
"As soon as everyone gathers," Rebeckah said coming up beside us, "there will be a memorial service. Probably this afternoon." I almost didn't recognize her voice. Her usual commanding tone was worn and scratched.
"Rebeckah," I said looking up. Without invitation, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her stiff shoulders. "Thank God you're okay."
Over my shoulder, she said to Michael, "It's been a long time, Malach."
"Rebeckah, I ..." Michael started.
"Lots of people lose the faith. I understand. It's never easy to decide to die for a cause." Rebeckah's jaw muscle twitched. "Deidre, I have a lot to do, you understand. This memorial ... it's for Daniel, as well. I hope you'll stay."
"I will. I can never repay you. Thanks."
"We knew the risks," Rebeckah said. I could see a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
My mouth opened, but I wasn't sure what to say. I intended to start talking anyway, to try to bridge the gulf between us with nonsense, babble – anything was better than the nothing that hung in the air. Michael put his hand on my shoulder, and the half-formed words evaporated. Rebeckah turned and walked away.
"Was all this pain and death part of the plan, Michael?" My voice was hoarse from all the unspoken words. I turned to glare at him, anger rising in me. "I mean, is the end going to justify all of this?"
Michael looked me in the eye, his gaze steady. "I pray it does."
I shook my head. "But you don't know, do you?"
"No." Squinting at me, he looked as though he expected an explosion.
I dropped a bomb of a different kind. "Michael, am I pregnant?"
His mouth hung open. He looked stunned.
"You can't be surprised. You can't be." My eyes narrowed. I looked him up and down, searching for some clue that he was faking his astonishment. He just stood there in the hallway, looking stupid. "You set everything up. Morningstar implied that he could ruin your plan by killing me, remember? He meant us, in the bell tower. The dream. The lily. Are you with me, Mike?"
"You're pregnant?" Michael asked, a stupid grin forming at the edges of his mouth. "Really?"
I stared at him, my mouth twisted in something combining a grimace and slack-jawed confusion. I couldn't believe he didn't have anything to do with the dream I'd had or the vision Eion had seen.
"Well," I muttered, "all the 'signs' seem to indicate I am."
Michael nodded appreciatively, not getting my reference.
"Hey," I offered sarcastically, "we could name him Emmanuel."
"What if it's a girl?" Michael looked genuinely hopeful.
It was my turn to gape stupidly into his face. "What do you mean, 'What if it's a girl?' "
"You already know its gender?" Michael shook his head in disbelief. "People certainly move fast these days. So, you've been to the doctor?"
"No, I haven't been to a doctor," I found myself shouting. "I had a fucking vision!"
The Malachim stopped to stare at us. The far-off banging of construction was the only sound in the hallway. When I looked to Michael to make our excuses, I noticed all the blood had drained from his face. When our eyes met, I saw sudden realization dawning there. I nodded my head. "Yes," I said. "Eion had the same vision."
"Oh." His voice was nearly a whisper. "Oh."
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the middle of the hallway. Blindly pushing the nearest door open, I all but shoved Michael into the room. It was a control booth for a theater. I could see a glass-sheathed stage through the window.
Ages ago, someone had converted this warehouse to a small theater. Rows and rows of empty seats glittered like ice-covered headstones. Fortunately, there had been no audience when the bomb hit. The stage was empty, the set only half-started or half-struck. I imagined somewhere in the cavernous backstage there was a frozen body of the technical director, caught working overtime to finish scenery for a play that, now, would never see opening curtain.
"I don't think we need worry," Michael said. "It might not be what it seems."
At first I thought Michael was talking about the theater; it took me a second to regroup. "Oh, yeah? And what makes you say that?"
"This is not the usual route ..." Michael cleared his throat noisily. "Um, Jibril is the usual herald for these things."
" 'Herald'?" I laughed. "Is that an euphemism?"
"Yes ... No. Messiahs are complicated. Some are born, but most are made."
I nodded, agreeing to myself that I didn't really want to know how messiahs worked – not right now, anyway. I had more pressing concerns. "I don't want this baby, messiah or not."
Michael chewed his lip. Noticing the Malachim working in the theater, Michael walked over to the control panel and looked out over my shoulder at them. "Okay," he said.