The next thing I heard was an urgent, hushed noise.
It took me a second to recognize the sound of my name. "Deidre."
I opened my eyes to see Michael crouched low, peering under the car. His hair was only slightly mussed, as if pulled askew by a slight breeze. On my body, I could smell the sweat and wet trunk. With a snort, I realized the worst aspect of keeping the company of angels: compared to them, you always looked like hell.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Why do I always have to ask: where were you? I thought you wanted to tag along to the meeting with Mouse to watch out for me. Instead, Satan came to my rescue."
Michael smiled. "I distinctly remember you saying you were tired of me rescuing you."
"Hmph. That's not much of an excuse." Even though I scraped painfully along the rough floor, I let Michael pull me upright.
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I was on the roof. I saw the cops approach and was headed back toward you to warn you, when you came barreling down the road."
I smiled. Looking around, my eyes caught sight of a roving camera. "What about the security cameras?"
"We'll be all right."
"I thought miracles were too costly."
He smiled. "They are. I took care of things the old-fashioned way – I bribed someone."
We headed for the exit, and Michael held my hand. I shook my head, but gave him a smile. "My hero."
Michael squeezed my fingers tightly in response. Calluses I hadn't noticed before rubbed against my palm. There was something more solid in his grip, and I thought I felt sweat tickling between our entwined hands.
As we slipped through the gate, I caught a whiff of the smoldering smell of scorched metal. Someone, Michael I presumed, had cut the lock with a laser. The area where a guard normally stood just inside the doorway was conspicuously empty, and through the window I could see the blank screens of the video recorders. I wondered how Michael's friend would explain his absence and the destroyed chain.
"Where are we going?" Michael asked.
Pushing through the double doors, we entered an enclosed walkway. "To the Grey-Letourneau debate," I decided. "The page told me that Mouse is going to unleash your nemesis tonight at 0:00 GMT. That's when the debate is scheduled. Since the page told me that this Michael was a killer, my guess is he intends to assassinate Grey."
Checking his watch, Michael said, "It's after five o'clock now. That give us less than an hour."
I started to log on to the LINK to confirm, but, remembering the page, I stopped just in time.
"This is it then," Michael said quietly, sadness deepening his tone. Before I could ask him what he meant, Michael handed me a bundle of brown material he'd picked up when we passed the guard booth. "Put this on," he said.
Unraveling the cloth, I realized it was a trench coat. I shrugged into it, happy to be covering the stained and dirty uniform. One swish of the hem proved that the long material easily covered the bulky armor. "You've thought of everything haven't you?"
"Not everything. If we're going to save Grey from the LINK-angel, I'm going to have to contact the other archangels." Michael gave me another mysteriously sad smile as he pushed the button for the elevator.
"Okay," I said. "What's wrong?"
The door slid open with a ting. With a mock bow, Michael held the door for me. "It means I'll have to go back."
"Why?" I asked, stepping into the elevator.
"To assemble all of the archangels at once we need a miracle. If I go back, I can do that."
Cringing at the slight drop when Michael added his weight to the car, I held my breath as the doors swooshed shut. Michael pressed the button for the sixty-first floor, the public transportation level. From there we could catch a taxi, ride a bus, hop a bicycle, or take the El to Carnegie Hall, where the debate was scheduled.
"Can't you use another miracle without going back?"
"I could." Michael agreed, a sneer tightening his handsome face. "And become a dark one. I don't really think this is the best time for me to be switching sides, do you?"
"No." I watched Michael, who glanced patiently at the numbers scrolling on the display. The elevator slowed suddenly, and my knees buckled a little. "But, I don't get it. I thought your whole reason for being here was to stop this LINK-Michael. Why can't you use your powers to that end? Why does God make it so difficult to be good?"
"To make it worth it."
I rolled my eyes. We reached the sixty-first floor, and the door opened up to the public-transportation tube. The light was brighter here, augmented by fluorescent strips along the upper curve of the tunnel.
Shops lined the narrow walkway, and a crowd of people flowed around me. I was constantly amazed at the bustle of the city. Despite the fact that most people carried their offices in their heads, New Yorkers seemed to have an innate need to be on the move. After fighting our way to a city bus shelter, I plopped unceremoniously onto a bench and grumbled, "If being good means having to take the city bus, I can see why Satan is so much more popular."
Michael slid a credit counter into the ticket dispenser and punched in our destination code. His fingers jabbed at the keypad, and his face held a tight grimace. The machine spit out the tickets. When he moved away, other bus riders moved in to use the dispensers. Standing over me, he shielded our conversation from the gathering crowd. "I have struggled this whole time to be normal, human, mortal; all you seem to want is empty drama and quick fixes."
"That's not fair," I said. "I never asked for the LINK miracle or the one that healed me. What I want right now is to save Grey and come up with a way to stop Mouse. This is the first miracle I've asked for."
Michael's eyes watched the tips of his shoes, and the muscles of his jaw flexed. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced up at me. His eyes were full of guilt. "Deidre. I'm afraid to go back ... I think it would mean the end for me. ..."
A thrum reverberated in the shelter. I felt a pressure against my back and spun around to see a woman throwing herself against the shatterproof plastic. She was shouting; the muffled sounds were filled with incoherent rage. The woman stood in the middle of the walkway. Her hair was a mass of tangles, and her face crumpled into a tight frown. I would have thought her a relative of the Revelation preacher, but, despite her wild expression, her clothes were neat and trim. She wore a power suit of bright blue, but there was blood from her nose on her blouse. As she ran at the shelter again, I backed away.
"What the hell is going on?" I asked. People around me stared in horror and confusion.
I caught a businessman's eye, and said, "You, call the police."
Michael gripped my shoulders protectively. The woman crashed headlong against the plastic again, leaving a smear of blood. The plastic began to buckle, and this fueled her anger. The woman scratched and tore at the indentation she'd made like a wild dog.
People in the shelter screamed and scattered. A mother and child huddled in the farthest corner.
"Where are the police?" I muttered, looking around for another exit. "She's going to hurt herself."
An angry roar erupted at my side. Turning I saw the businessman I'd talked to clutching his head. Then, lifting his fingers from his eyes, he glared at me with pure hatred.
"I'm going to kill you!" the businessman screamed, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. He launched himself in my direction.
With a rush of air, Michael stood in front of me. One strong punch sent the possessed businessman sprawling backward. Another thrum echoed in the confined space, as the woman continued to beat against the bloodied plastic shield.
Ignoring his rapidly swelling jaw, the man in the business suit staggered to his feet. His eyes stayed locked on mine.