I took a deep breath and shook my head. "Everyone has assured me that God isn't involved with this baby."
"I see." Morningstar sighed patiently. "I suppose, instead, those angel boys have been going on about freewill. Did anyone use the archer metaphor? I love that one."
My forehead felt hot. Hoping the chair was behind me, I sat down without looking. I lucked out, and my butt connected with the hard wood with a smack.
"Ah, I see they have," Morningstar said. "You do know, don't you, that Jibril was the father to your favorite prophet? Did you think the parallel was mere coincidence?"
My throat was dry, and I tried to swallow. "Everyone," I managed to say, "everyone told me that it wasn't important. That there were others who weren't messiahs."
"Yes. That bothersome reference to the 'Sons of God' in Genesis 6:2-4 taking mortal wives." Morningstar nodded reflectively. The greenish glow from the street made a sickly nimbus around his head and shoulders. "As in the later reference in Enoch, I'm afraid that's just my boys up to no good. We're still sons of God, even if we aren't his current favorites, you know. But, perhaps you can see why a certain bias was placed against the idea of their children becoming prophets."
I shook my head; I had no idea what he was talking about. My mind focused on one thing. "Why would Raphael lie to me?"
"It's not really a lie not to tell all the gory details."
"The sin of omission. Michael said he found it easier."
Morningstar nodded his head, and his eyes glowed warmly, compelling me to believe what he was saying.
I raked my fingers through my hair. I was beginning to feel like Morningstar was the only angel who didn't try to keep the truth from me. I rubbed the bridge of my nose with my finger. My instincts rebelled at the idea of trusting Satan. After all, hundreds of stories warned about allowing yourself to be seduced, and here I was falling for his act. I had to try to think this through. I shook my head.
"But, I don't get it," I said finally. "Why would they let me think that my baby was an accident? Wouldn't the archangels want me to know the pregnancy was part of God's plan?"
"Aren't you feeling betrayed? Used? Suckered?"
My lips thinned. With all of Michael's talk of freewill, I'd forgotten how angry I'd been when I first thought I'd be the new Holy Mother. All those feelings boiled to the surface at Morningstar's prompting. I took a deep breath trying to push down the bitterness, but a little bit slipped past my defenses. "No one asked me."
Morningstar pounced on my weakness. He stood up slowly, unfurling like a wing.
"Of course they didn't. It's passe. The whole 'appointed by God' shtick went out in the Middle Ages. Anyway, I suppose my dearest brother figured you'd be more pliant if you didn't know – less likely to do something rash, like throw yourself in front of a loaded gun."
"Ha." I didn't even pretend to find his quip funny, because my heart was sinking fast. "Why are you telling me all this? If it is all part of God's plan, there's clearly not much I can do about it."
"No, there isn't. I'm telling you because I want you to suffer the knowledge that God used you."
Used by God. I let the words penetrate me, fill me. Air left my lungs in a long, emptying sigh. From the moment I forced myself to realize that Michael was an angel, I'd feared this revelation. Pressing my forehead against the knuckles of my hand, I leaned heavily into the desk. Everything was out of my control; my whole life was reduced to being a pawn in some cosmic game.
Yet there was something strangely comforting about that concept. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Lifting my head out of my hands, I looked at Morningstar.
"Of course," I said slowly. "If I believed that, I have to believe God really does have some grand plan in mind. That would be more faith than I've had my whole life."
"Would it?" Morningstar asked, with a curiously serious expression on his face. Holding his body very still, he said, "Tell me, Deidre, do you? Do you believe? Are you a reverse Job? Are you willing to believe the worst and not the best? But, believe nonetheless?"
"You know what? I think so. Yes."
Morningstar stared into my eyes, saying nothing. His face still held an unnerving seriousness. The muted green light of the outside grew brighter, as though a storm were brewing. Cool wind kissed my cheek gently, and, from somewhere, I heard a rhythmical flapping. A white flash of paper flew past my face. Startled, I jumped.
The wind increased. The pile of tickets stacked neatly in the tray beside the wall fluttered and spilled everywhere. Made of heavy paper, the tickets crawled along the floor to swirl beneath Morningstar's feet.
"What's going on?" I shouted over the now howling wind.
My work here is done, A voice in my head said.
Shutting his eyes, Morningstar opened his hands, palms up. He looked like a supplicant. Wind battered him, whipping coppery hair around his head. His trench coat snapped in the barrage of air. The papers on my desk broke free of the blotter and swarmed around him like a miniature hurricane, with Morningstar as the eye.
In a thunder crash, Morningstar exploded. His body shattered into thousands of pure white pieces. The light stabbed my eyes, and I turned my head. Paper flew everywhere, slapping against my back ineffectually.
When I turned back around, Morningstar was gone, and my office was a mess of paper. I stared at the spot where Morningstar had been, incredulous. He was gone, just like that.
Moving out from behind the desk, I sat cross-legged in the spot Morningstar had stood and started cleaning up the debris. Residue warmth tingled beneath my legs. Collecting a stack of overdue tickets, I tried to decide if his disappearance was a good sign or a bad one.
I could interpret his last words in two ways. Either his work was done because I had been corrupted to his evil ways, or Satan really was an agent of God and was sent to bully me into some tattered semblance of faith. Forming a pile of all the papers I could reach, I concluded that I preferred the irony of the second option. An angel is still an angel, whether his message is pleasant or hurtful. Satan simply had the misfortune of always being the bearer of bad news.
The truth was, I did find it easier to believe the bad things about God, and my religion, than the good. Evil seemed possible and rational. It was not in the least bit fanciful to feel that dark powers lurked under the surface, ready to soil and destroy humanity. During secular times, Satan had remained a popular figure in the media despite the proclamation that "God is dead." Yet, Satan only exists if there is a God.
I had faith all along; my faith was just twisted, focused on evil. I, too, had fallen victim to the idea that goodness was just a myth, but that evil was powerful and real. Michael had been obvious in many ways when he first appeared to me, but I refused to see him for what he was. I had no faith that my life, or any life, was important enough to warrant the attention of an archangel, of God. So much so, it took the Devil to convince me that there was a God after all.
Pulling more papers toward me, I laughed. Michael was right about one thing. The problem with goodness was that it wasn't nearly as flashy as evil. Evil had the advantage of being dramatic and spectacular. It was easy to discount the goodness that wandered into your life wearing blue jeans and looking like something out of everyday life.
Too energized to be able to focus on the rest of the cleanup, I pulled myself to my feet. I wanted to talk to Michael. Tell him everything I'd realized.
As I reached for my backpack, my peripheral vision registered movement outside. A buzz vibrated at my temple, where the filament connected my LINK receptor to the armor. Strange, it was almost as if the uniform was trying to call me. But that was impossible, so I ignored the tingle.