5: Who's Afraid of the Big Bald Monkey?

I woke up the next morning due mostly to the fact that I was being vigorously shaken. I shifted my head slightly, and discovered that the arm that had been supporting it was completely dead-numb.

"Lory, damn it!" It was Jack—a very pissed off Jack. I opened my eyes just as his hand connected with my cheek.

Surprised that he'd slapped me, I looked up at him, blinking. He looked furious. …But why?

"What?" I asked, sitting up and trying to move my numb right arm. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" he yelled, hitting me upside the head with the heel of his hand—hard. My ear burned where he hit it. "Airial's gone, that's what's wrong!" He looked about to hit me again, and I threw my arms up in front of my face.

"Quit cowering!" he said. "Take what you've got coming! What the hell were you doing sleeping on the couch, anyway? Did you have some kind of attack of Victorian morals? Put your goddamn arms down!"

He hit me again, and I cowered down farther—like Airial had done before me, even the night before.

"It wasn't me, Jack," I said—whined, really, was probably a better word. "Magdalena—she… I… It's not my fault! Don't hurt me!"

"Why the hell is it not your fault?" he roared. "Is it really so hard? I give you one goddamn thing to do, and you don't do it! She's halfway to town by now, Lory, and she knows where we live. She'll be back here this afternoon with a horde of Seraphim, or with Sachever, and his stupid sword will 'call' to him again, and we'll all be screwed!" He grabbed me by the shirt collar and dragged me up so that our eyes met. Then he shook me. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now, you worthless sack of shit. Give me one good reason—and it had better be damn good, Lory."

"Don't kill me," I begged, trying unsuccessfully to pry his hands off of me. "It wasn't my fault. Magdalena made me leave, and I… I thought she'd watch Airial. I didn't—"

He shook me again.

"Why would you even listen to Magdalena in the first place?" he asked, and then dropped me. I couldn't keep my balance. I fell off of the couch and sat crumpled at his feet.

"You're going to make this up to me," he said menacingly.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I will."

"At least she didn't get Gaudium Gladius," he said. "Or that… that disk thing. We can use that against them, somehow. I'd like to kill him with his own sword. …I'd like to kill him." He looked down at me again. "But you are going to make this up to me, Lory."

"I-I know."

"Do you know how?"

"Not yet. But I will, I swear. I—"

"Stop acting like a kicked dog. It's sickening, and I'm gonna get tired of it pretty quick. Stand up."

I got obediently to my feet. Jack had to tilt his head up to look me in the eyes, but it was still threatening.

"I'm sure you'll think of something, and it had better be good. …Look for her, on your way into work. How far can she possibly have gotten?"

"When… When did you know she was gone?" I asked, as he turned and started to leave.

He stopped, but didn't turn back to answer. He appeared to be thinking about it. He started to say something, but hesitated, sighed, and started over.

"She was gone this morning," he said.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Sure that she's not just hiding somewhere? How would she have gotten out? She had to go past me, on her way out. She couldn't have gone out a window."

"Needless to say, you're a pretty deep sleeper," he said dryly, turning around.

"You're sure that she's not hiding somewhere?"

"Yes. I looked."

"Why didn't you wake me up, then?"

"Damn it, Lory!" he yelled, waving his arms. "Quit pestering me about it! Maggie told me, after she went to check in on the stupid kid. She was already long gone, by that time!"

I didn't say anything, and it seemed to bother him. He turned, and stomped up the stairs.

"I know what you're thinking," he growled. "I know what you're thinking." At the top of the stairs, he turned toward me with anger in his eyes. "But you're wrong," he said, slamming his hands down on the balustrade. He glared at me for a moment longer before turning around with disgust. I winced as I heard the door slam.

After a few minutes I decided it was probably safe enough to go upstairs to get some clean clothes. I noticed that my bed was still made—slightly rumpled, but it hadn't been slept in. Similarly, I couldn't find the ropes that had bound her wrists and ankles anywhere in the room. Had she managed to somehow escape without getting them off? Or had she, for some reason, taken them with her?

…But Jack was right. She knew how to get to our house, now. She would be coming back, with someone who would want us dead. And, doubtless, this someone would be quite capable of delivering the fatal blow to us.

Unless she had frozen to death in the night, of course. But I was never going to count on that again.

I had to find her—find her, and maybe even kill her. Or, at the very least, blindfold her and drop her off somewhere in town. …She couldn't have gotten back to town, yet. I could still overtake her.

I dressed quickly with this in mind, and left without breakfast. There was nothing to eat, anyway—almost literally. Someone would have to scrape together some money to get to the grocery store. And hopefully they'd do it before I got home.

However, against all odds, I could find no sign of Airial on the road to town. Did she hear the car coming and hide in the woods? Or had she truly already made it back? Had she managed to get to the Temple already? To the Seraphim Headquarters? Already I could feel the knife pressed against my throat. She would have told someone where we were. They'd lock us up. Maybe even kill us. It would all end, soon—I could feel it. But all I could do was go to work, and suffer through the morning toward a lunch break that held no promise of lunch at all.

So, when it finally did roll around, I did the only thing I could think of: I went to Beatriz's house. Besides the promise of food that came with it, I had thought of something I could do, there—something that would make Jack happy. Not only that, but something that had the potential to keep me well-fed for longer than just today.

"Alister? What're you doing here?" Beatriz asked when I appeared in the living room. She'd let a servant answer the door—it wasn't like her at all, and this concerned me just a little.

"I just thought I'd visit," I said. "How's Ann-Marie?" She had been watching television with the baby held against her chest, and I moved into the room to get a look.

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks," Beatriz said. She stood up, and offered Ann-Marie to me as if the child was a mere doll. "You can hold her for awhile. My arms are starting to cramp up."

"Are you sure?" I asked, accepting the baby hesitantly, but secretly delighted.

"Yeah, I'm positive. Boy," she said, stretching as I sat down. "You sure picked a rotten time to show up."

"Why?"

"Edward is home, for one thing—"

"Well, actually… I… I wanted to ask him something, anyway."

"Oh, really," she said, arching her eyebrows. She seemed so much older, all of a sudden—so much more cynical. And she seemed so much less Beatriz. It frightened me.

"You'll have to wait," she said. "He's busy."

"It's fine," I said, smiling up at her, and shifting Ann-Marie a bit. "You and the baby are more interesting, really."

"Uh-huh," she skeptically. "Are you ready for the second bit of bad news?"

"I suppose," I said.

She sank back down on the couch.

"We just ate lunch," she said. "There's nothing left over. So you aren't getting any free meals. Sorry if you wasted a trip over here."

"You know I came to see you."

"You've always been such a horrible liar."

"You just know me too well. I'm serious, Beatriz. Lunch was second. …Although it would have been nice. Seeing you was first. I swear." I smiled at her. "I just wanted to make sure that my baby sister was doing all right."

My stomach chose that rather inconvenient moment to growl loudly.

"Okay, Liss," Beatriz said, sighing and getting to her feet. "I'm sure we can find something in the refrigerator for you."

In the kitchen, she took Ann-Marie back, and let me rummage around in the refrigerator. I found a couple of hard-boiled eggs that I deemed suitable fare. I also helped myself to cheese and crackers. They didn't seem to have anything much more filling around.

Beatriz watched critically as I salted the egg.

"Why don’t you get a better job, Alister?" she asked, after a time.

"What's wrong with my job?" I asked warily, stuffing the egg in my mouth.

"Look at you," she said. "You're starving to death. I've never seen you so skinny, and I thought that I could safely say that last time I saw you, too. Where on earth does your money go? Does that guy—Jack—charge you that high of rent? What are you doing with it? Gambling? You're not into… into drugs, are you?"

"God, no. None of that."

"So what, then? You aren't getting paid as much as you could be. You're smart. You always got good grades."

"I didn't get good grades."

"…Not in the home. But you always did before that. Better than me, definitely."

"I certainly don't remember that."

"Well, how would I know that? With you, it's always like some kind of weird game—what's Alister not going to remember, today?"

"It doesn't change from day to day, Beatriz," I said. "It's not a willful thing. I can't help it, Beatriz."

"You were all set out to be the golden child. The typical first-born son. So what happened? I mean, now you scoop ice cream for a living, and have to have your little sister feed you lunch. I want to help you Alister. I don't want you to die like this!"

"You're overreacting, Beatriz," I said. I put the other egg in my mouth. It was so wonderful—the sweet, fleshy albumen, and the pungent yoke. I wished that we'd have eggs more often, at home.

"You think I'm overreacting? Look at you! You practically swallowed that egg whole! 'But no,' you say. 'I'm not here for lunch. I'm not even hungry; what are you talking about?' I'm worried about you, Alister. I am."

"Honestly, Beatriz," I muttered, attacking the crackers. "Do you want to do this every time I come to visit you? I'm happy. Sure, sometimes I… I don't get enough to eat, but—"

"But nothing! In this day and age, nobody has to go hungry, unless they've got some kind of problem."

At this, I started to get angry.

"What?" I asked. "So now you're saying I've got a problem of some kind?"

"I think," she said, looking down and rearranging the blanket around Ann-Marie," that you've never quite gotten over being sent to the home. I think maybe you should see a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist?" I asked with cold disbelief. I pushed the crackers away and stood up. "So you think I'm crazy," I said, putting them away again.

"No, Liss, don't be like that—"

"And how in hell would you expect me to pay for this, when I have to come here and beg lunch off of you? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? Shall I rob a bank, Beatriz?—so that I can have someone tell me that I'm crazy? Would you like that?"

"…I would pay for it, Alister."

I felt like she'd shot me through the heart.

"Oh, would you?" I asked coldly. So she really did think I was crazy, then. "Well, I'm so glad, Beatriz. Then I'd be in debt to you—the idea is just thrilling."

"I'm really worried about you! I'm only trying to help!"

"I don't want—no. I don't need help. I don't need help."

"Don't get so mad, Alister—you'll scare the baby. Please."

"Don't use that as an excuse," I said, turning away from her and examining their refrigerator's magnets. "That's pathetic. Why don't you just say what you're thinking? Say, 'Alister, I'm scared to death that you're just going to go off the deep end any second.' Just say it, Beatriz," I finished, turning back to her. She looked afraid. Some other time—any other time—it might have hurt, to see her look like that. But today, she deserved it.

"No, I—"

"I know you're thinking it," I interrupted, leaning back against the refrigerator door.

"I—"

"Say it," I said lazily. "I want to hear the truth."

"I don't think you're crazy!" she yelled. The baby stirred, and she looked down at it, torn between her misplaced concern for me, and her desire to keep Ann-Marie calm. "I think… You're just angry. Even when you're not angry, you're angry. I can tell. You don't have to be a Deva to feel things like that, Alister. …And it bothers me, because you were never like this, before." She stood up suddenly and walked to the kitchen window. "I was wondering, the other day, if it really wasn't the… the lightning. Maybe that's silly. I don't know. But you always used to be more like mom—calm. Even-tempered. I remember, I was a normal little sister. I'd sneak into your room, and play with your things. It never really bothered you—not like it did with my friends, and their brothers. You never cared. But now… you're more like Dad. You just fly off the handle all the time, at anything. You can be so mean—just like him. And I hate it. And I was thinking… Maybe, Alister, it was the lightning. Have you ever thought about that? I mean, maybe it's something you really started out with—had in you all the time—and it just didn't start showing itself until you got older. Or maybe it is because you never got over being sent to the home. Or maybe… maybe the genes were always there, but they weren't used. They were latent. And maybe the lightning somehow… turned them on. Is that possible?" she asked, turning to me. "Is it possible that electricity could change a person like that? That it could turn on genes that were hidden—that you didn't even know existed, until one day—shoom!—you're hit, and they're there, at the front? You read a lot. Do you know? Is it possible?"

I looked at her. She seemed so desperate—so eager to help me.

"I don’t know, Beatriz," I said, suddenly drained. "I've never heard anything about it. I don't know. If lightning could make me… make me forget half of my childhood, then why not? Why couldn't it turn on genes like that? I don't know. …But I'm not crazy. Really, I don’t need to see someone, and that's all there is to it. I'm just a bit stressed out—that's all."

"For the last fourteen years."

"I'll get over it someday. Promise."

She smiled, but without really meaning it.

"Do you… do you want to hold Ann-Marie again?" she asked. Peace-offering.

"Sure," I said, holding out my arms for her. Beatriz gave me the baby, and then went and sat down at the kitchen table at me. She smiled at me. Ann-Marie stirred, and whimpered a little, and then settled down again.

"Sit down, Liss. Let's talk about something else. I'm sorry."

"Actually… Beatriz, could I see Edward?"

"Edward?" she asked, puzzled. "Why?"

I smiled, as if I couldn't tell her. I felt a bit bad, for the way I'd have to lie, but… The ends justify the means, and all that.

"It's going to be a surprise," I said. "Can't tell you."

She looked up at me blankly for a moment, and then suddenly a smile spread over her features.

"Well… He's in his office. Go ahead. Take Ann-Marie for a visit. I'm sure he needs a break, anyway, and so do I."

"Thank you, Beatriz," I said, turning and leaving the kitchen. I looked down at Ann-Marie. …She was so perfect. So holy.

"I hope you're lucky," I whispered to her.

No response. But then again, what did I expect?

I knocked twice on Edward's office door.

"What?" he asked, clearly irritated.

I slipped inside, and closed the door behind myself.

"Oh," he said, looking up. "Alister." He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "What are you doing here?"

"Beatriz said to bring Ann-Marie for a visit."

"Now isn't the best time," he said. "I'm up to my neck in paperwork."

"She's not going to be a week old forever. Or ever again, for that matter," I said softly, my dislike of him flaring up again. How could he say that he was too busy to see his own infant? …But I had to do what I'd come for. I had to make right with Jack for something that hadn't remotely been my fault, anyway—unless, perhaps, I'd driven her away with my advances. This thought struck me for the first time with a pang—what if it had been my fault? Had I repulsed her that much? I'd only meant to—

"Alister?" Edward asked, eyebrows raised. "Was there something else, or did you just want to come give me some unneeded parenting advice?"

"No," I said. "I did want to ask you something." I looked around nervously and noticed for the first time a picture of Beatriz hung on the far wall. I crossed the room to get a better view.

"Financial advice? Buy some Crimson Star. It's hot."

"No, no… Something else." The picture was a few years old—maybe even a school picture. Beatriz looked so happy in it. She looked so much different.

"What, then?"

I turned back to look at him. Ann-Marie made some small movement in my arms, and I wished that I could put her down somewhere. I tried to refocus on my objective, took a deep breath.

"About the other night," I started to say, but he cut me off.

"I hope you'll understand, Alister, that that conversation is to stay in this room."

"Oh, is it?" I asked, disliking him again, suddenly. Did he think I was so stupid? "Interesting."

"There's nothing interesting about it. I know you feel the same way. It's not a popular opinion. I don't exactly want word to get out."

"I understand," I said, freeing one hand and running a finger along the top of Beatriz's portrait. Dusty. I turned back to Edward. "But, you know, Edward, I actually did come here to ask you something about finances…"

His brow creased, and he steepled his hands in front of his mouth.

"Sit down, Alister," he said lowly, and so I pushed a chair up to his desk, and did so.

"So it's going to come to that, is it?"

I didn't respond, just continued to look at him levelly, trying not to give anything away by expression.

"I always knew there was a reason I disliked you—from the very first time I met you. You snake. So how much do you want, huh? How much is going to keep your mouth shut?"

"Now you're bribing me, too?" I wondered. "Oh, my, my." I smiled humorlessly. "That wouldn't sit well with your voters, I think."

His eyes went hard.

"I won't play with you like this," he said. "I won't. Your testimony wouldn't hold up. McToad would back me up, should it come to it. And now, about the bribery, it's your word against mine. I'm a respected politician and entrepreneur. You're a soda-jerk. You won't do this to me," he finished, standing up in agitation, and moving to the window.

"Who said I'm doing anything to you at all?" I asked, standing and turning to him.

He looked away from the window, back to me, a questioning look on his face.

"You don't want money, then?" he asked.

"I want money, yes," I said.

"I knew it," he muttered bitterly, turning back to the window, and staring out across their wide yard. Someday, I imagined, there would be playground equipment out there, and it would be sunny, and green, and I'd be standing here watching Ann-Marie on the monkey bars. It seemed like a nice thought—a nice picture.

"Just not that kind of money," I told him.

"What kind, then?"

"You said… you said that night that you'd donate money to… to a worthy cause."

"A worthy cause."

"Yes. As in, for example, the Hungry Ghosts."

"I remember what I said," he snapped. "What's your point? Does your degenerate lifestyle somehow count as a worthy cause?"

I swallowed. This was it. Now or never. Caution to the wind.

"B-based on that criteria… Yes. You agreed to it yourself," I said. "Just now."

He turned back to me. And he looked frightened—genuinely frightened.

"You're saying that… that you… you're one of… one of them?"

"Yes," I said flatly. "And we need money. It may very well be life or death before long. We eat, or we buy explosives. On one hand, if we choose to eat, we can't carry out our God-given mission. On the other hand, if we don't eat, we die, and there will be no one to do it at all. You said yourself that you'd give money. Here's your chance. I'm not going to beg you, because if you won't do it, then you're nothing more than a filthy hypocrite, and I wouldn't stoop to begging someone like that. But I'm asking you, right now, for your support."

"You're… you're one of them," he repeated. His expression had not changed at all. He had not heard a word I said.

"Yes," I repeated. "I am."

"You… you've killed hundreds of people. Hundreds."

"Not people. Devas."

"…Hundreds!" He started to wring his hands nervously.

"Hundreds. And you said you supported that."

"I… I would never… Elections are practically just around the corner. …You've killed hundreds. I… I want to be remembered, Alister. I want to be remembered. If I supported you—" He looked at me as if I were a complete stranger. "And," he continued, pointing at me accusatorily, "you're holding my baby! My child!" He swooped down on me, and grabbed her away. She began to squall.

"You've made her cry," I said, rather obviously.

"I can't believe…" he trailed off, looking down at the baby. Then he looked sharply up at me once more, with anger and still a bit of fear in his eyes. "I want you out. Out of this house."

"So you are a filthy hypocrite," I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

"I… I want you out," he repeated, voice shaking. He advanced on me. It wasn't horribly threatening, with a crying infant in his arms, but nonetheless I moved back.

Suddenly, Beatriz poked her head in the door.

"I heard the baby crying," she started to say.

"Take her!" Edward interrupted. She hurried inside and did so.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I want you out of this house," Edward said again, this time really advancing toward me. He drove me out of his office and into the hall.

"Edward!" Beatriz called sharply. "What's happened? Alister!"

"I never want to see your face again!" he yelled at me, but he was terrified, and it was obvious.

Nonetheless, he pushed me backwards roughly, and I stumbled back.

"Alister!" Beatriz cried, as the baby cried. She started to hurry to my aide.

"You stay away from that bastard!" Edward yelled, grabbing the back of her shirt and yanking her back. "You keep my baby away from him!"

I couldn't say anything. I continued backing up, toward the door, until suddenly Edward rushed me again, physically pushing me back even farther. He grabbed my coat from the rack and hurled it at me.

"Get out!" he growled. He yanked the door open and pushed me outside. I lost my balance on the steps and fell hard on the pavement of the walkway. "And stay away from here," he said out the door. "Next time I see your face, I… I call the Seraphim!"

"Alister!" I heard Beatriz call to me as the door slammed. I just sat there, stunned. I had thought… He had said…

How had it gone so wrong?

I passed the rest of the day at the soda shop nervously. Every time the bell at the door jangled, it was the Seraphim, coming to arrest me—because Airial had found her way home, because Edward had made good on his threat, because they'd tapped our phone and knew where we lived. Every customer who looked at me had a hidden agenda, and I was certain that they all knew exactly what I was thinking. They all knew who I was. They were all about to turn me in.

"My goodness," said Hugh at closing time. "You sure are jumpy today, Alister."

"It's one of those days," I told him nervously—because he probably knew, too, and was just trying to throw me off guard by being his usual perky self.

"You know, when I was little, what my nanny always told me to do?"

"What?" I asked cautiously, with the feeling that this was leading me down a road that I really didn't want to take.

"She always told me," he said, smiling conspiratorially and going back behind the counter, "to get myself some ice-cream."

Before I could stop him, he was scooping up a heaping cone of rocky road.

"Here, Alister," he said, thrusting the sugar cone at me. "On the house."

After a second of shock, I accepted it.

"Th-thank you," I said.

"No problem," he replied. "That's why I opened this place, you know—to make people happy. Go on home, now. I hope your day gets better."

"Thank you," I said again, leaving, thoroughly disarmed.

I felt stupid, stepping into the snow with an ice-cream cone, but at least it was food—at least it was something, even if it was cold. It had been nice of Hugh. It was just nice.

Or it was, anyway, until I approached my car, and licked it too hard, and the ice cream fell off. It bounced off of my leg and landed on my shoe. And all I could do was stare down at it—at the brown smudge it had made on my pants. They were a good pair of pants, too. And now it was sitting there on my shoe, staring snidely back up at me. Was everything against me, today, or did it just feel that way?

"God damn it!" I yelled, kicking the ice cream off my shoe and across the silent, empty parking lot. And as I did, a Seraphim patrol car slid around the corner and down the street before me. I froze, stared at it in horror. Inside, the officer looked back at me. We made eye contact. He did not smile. He also did not stop. He just looked at me and kept going. Then he turned a corner and was gone and I stood alone in the lot once more, heart thumping wildly.

"You're just being paranoid," I said to myself, aloud, but didn't believe it for a second. That look we'd exchanged had meant something. He knew. Airial had told him. Or Edward. Or… Or Gemma. The ghost of Thistle, I thought hysterically. The ghost of Ambrose. Someone had turned us in. Now the world could never be made right—they'd catch us before we were able to finish. We'd be killed in the attempt. My head hurt. I was hungry. I was getting cold.

I got into my car and started the drive home, and tried not to think about what would be waiting. But halfway there, I started to in earnest. Jack would still be angry for something that wasn't my fault. I hadn't been able to pay him back—and in fact, had no doubt given us away to the police trying to. Edward, too, would have told Beatriz by now, no doubt, and she would never speak to me again. I'd never get to see Ann-Marie again. Or Airial—unless it was to kill her and Sachever, as Jack wanted. …I hadn't found her, either, and Jack would be upset about that—more upset than before, perhaps.

Additionally—as I began thinking about the great number of things wrong with my life—my old home had been abandoned. My parents were quite possibly dead—I'd never really considered the possibility before. I'd always just thought of them as being somewhere out there in the vast sea of people. But they could be gone.

And what if, by some odd twist of fate, I'd done it myself? What if they'd been a couple of the unlucky Animals caught in an explosion? What if I'd killed them?

I began to slow down on the road. Why, after all, should I be rushing home? There was nothing for me there. There was no warm meal to look forward to, no pleasant comradery. …No Sidney.

No Thistle.

Nothing beautiful at all.

It had started to snow again, hard, and it was difficult to see. Which was, I figured, just perfect—just one more thing to add to the wonder of the day.

There was nothing at home for me, but then again, there was also nothing in the city. I had no friends to visit—really, I decided, I didn't have any friends any more, other than Jack. And Jack was, of course, angry with me. Besides being unable to visit friends, I couldn't visit Beatriz now, either. I didn't have the money to do anything else, and didn't have the energy to sneak into a movie. I had nowhere to be, in fact, except on the road.

That's what I was thinking, anyway, when suddenly the road turned on me, too. I lost control on the wheel on a patch of what was apparently black ice, and spun off of the road, toward trees. My headlights flashed wildly before me, and I was jerked around like a rag doll.

Nowhere to go, so I might as well just die, I thought clearly and strangely wryly, before the car crashed into something, and the world went dark.

The place where I woke up was no less dark than before, but a hell of a lot warmer—which was, I realized, a funny description to use if I was in fact dead.

"When you hit ice," someone very close to me said—a woman's voice, a voice I recognized, "You're not supposed to brake. You're supposed to steer."

"I know that," I said. I wasn't afraid of her, now. What could Gemma do to me if I was already dead?—which I must be. Dead, or dreaming, or hallucinating. What if, I wondered, I was lying in a coma, somewhere? What if I had been for days, weeks, and was just now aware of something once again?

"If you know that," she asked irately—the first time I'd heard her express real emotion of any sort, "then why didn't you do it?"

"I don't know."

"Gut reaction, I suppose, was it?" she laughed. "You're just a big bald monkey, after all."

"And is there something wrong with that?" I asked indignantly.

"Not at all."

There was silence. I tried to move my arm, but wasn't really sure of just what was my arm, in the dark. I was starting to feel tingly all over—like coming out of Novocain at the dentist's. The silence lasted so long that I began to wonder if she had left, and I was alone again, in the dark.

"This really won't do," she said, eventually.

"What won't?"

"I can't have you dying."

"Oh, can't you?" I asked. "Well, of course you can't," I added sarcastically. "Because if I died, whose life would you make miserable?" And then it sank in what she had said—that I was dying. Dead, maybe. But I had no time to really contemplate this, because she laughed.

"Is that what you think?" she asked.

"Well, am I wrong?" I shot back at her.

"Yes!" She laughed again, and suddenly it was the young girl's voice once more. "I thought you'd understand by now, Starry-Eyes. But then again, you aren't so clever as you once were. I don't take sides. I make Sachever just as miserable as I make you. But he doesn't know it so keenly."

"Oh yes?" I asked. "How? How do you make his life miserable?"

Suddenly, the tingling in my body grew sharper, painful. I drew in a sharp breath, but it was like breathing in bath water—warm, and too thick, and the voice that spoke next was an old woman's cackle.

"By making sure that you don't die today, Starry-Eyes."

I woke up cold, and stiff, and in pain. The clutch was pressed into my ribcage, and I felt as if I'd been folded over it. No, I felt as if I'd just been folded, period—like a map, like when we'd taken a car trip to the coast when I was little, and Dad kept insisting that Mom was refolding the map incorrectly.

I started to sit up and winced. It wasn't a good feeling. I forced myself up further anyway, and my head hit something.

A tree branch.

I turned, and found that the car had indeed been stopped by something—the backseat was a mess of shattered glass, tree limbs, and pine needles. The trunk of the car was ironically wrapped around the trunk of a fir tree.

A sudden, new pain along the side of my head kicked in, and I reached up to discover that my hair was caked in blood, and there was a still-oozing gash on my head.

"Thanks a whole bunch, Gemma," I muttered. I'd have to come back for the car later. I'd have to walk home, now.

But then again, at least I wasn't dead. My head could very easily have been skewered like a shish-kabob on that tree branch.

"I'll probably freeze to death, anyway," I muttered again, getting out of the car. I was convinced now that she could hear me, any time she wanted to. She could probably even hear what I was thinking—no point in speaking aloud.

The outside air felt odd against the gash on my head—uncomfortable. I didn't want to walk the few miles home. I was sore—bruised. Especially that spot on my side. I wondered if maybe my ribs were broken. I cursed the icy road. I cursed the fact that I'd left my phone at home.

My shoes were already soaked by the time I got back up to the road, and by the time I got home, I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to survive at all.

"Lory!" Jack roared as soon as I was in the door. "Where the hell've you—" He stopped short as he came into the entry hall and saw me. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked, almost worried, rushing up to me. "Are you all right?"

"No, I am not all right," I snapped weakly.

"God, you're bleeding like crazy. Maggie!" he yelled. "Maggie!"

"What?" she yelled back, following him out into the hall. She gasped when she saw me.

"What happened, Lory?" she asked.

"Hit a tree," I muttered. I dropped to the ground under the pretense of prying my sodden shoes off, and leaned back against the door, and tried not to jar my side too much. Breathing hurt. I felt like I was about to cry from the pain—but of course, that would hurt even worse.

"Don't just stand there, Maggie! Go get him a… a wash cloth or—or something!" Jack said, and she disappeared up the stairs. A few of the Newly Dead peered out of the living room at us.

"You hit a tree?" Jack asked.

"It was icy," I mumbled. "Is there… Is there dinner?"

"Yeah. Are you sure you're all right? How's the car?"

"I don’t know. No, I'm not all right. Jack, it was Gemma."

"What was?"

"I hit the tree, and she… She spoke to me. She told me she wouldn't let me die. Or not today, anyway. It was… I would have died out there, tonight. I should be dead. I'm supposed to be dead. But she intervened, because she wants me alive, Jack."

He stared down at me, and put a rough hand to my forehead.

"You're freezing. I wonder if you've gotten yourself sick. Did you hit your head?"

"Probably. But she spoke to me, Jack. It was real."

He sighed, and leaned against the wall.

"I'm not sure that I can disbelieve things like this any more. Maybe last year—or last month—I would've said, 'Man, Lory's lost it.' But now… glowing swords. Magical psychic hound-dog-girls with miraculous escape abilities. Disappearing priests. Life-energy lines. Goddesses."

"Goddesses?" I asked, looking up. "Who?"

"Gemma," he said, smiling. "Could anything less have saved you from a certain death? Don't tell me you never imagined—"

"'Demon' was closer to what I'd imagined than… than Goddess."

"Demon, angel… Deva… They're just words."

"But renaming something changes it."

"Renaming something changes your perception of it. The thing itself doesn't change. You're the same person, whether I call you Lory or Alister."

"No," I said stubbornly. "It changes things."

"It doesn't matter. She's powerful, and she's powerful whether you call her old woman, or Gemma, or Goddess, or Shekinah."

"Shekinah?"

"I don't know. Why else would she be interfering like this? Just because she feels like it? They're hiding in the Temple, Alister. She's hiding them in the Temple. You know, where sometimes you read those mystery books, and the character has all these facts right in front of him, and the reader knows what's going on, but the character doesn't add it all up until the last few pages? That drives me nuts. I'm making an assumption and working from it, so that we don't end up like that. But it won't matter if I'm wrong, because in the end, She is what She is. It won't matter."

"And we are what we are. …Sachever, too."

"The question is, maybe, what that is."

"I think," I said, smiling weakly up at him, "most people spend their lives trying to figure that out, do they not? It would be stupid and egotistical of us to expect to know by the time all this is done."

"…Guess so."

"It's human nature. 'Who am I? Why am I here?' Do birds wonder about God? Do you suppose cows ask themselves if they are who they think they are?"

"Next time I talk to a cow," Jack said amusedly, "I'll let you know."

"I don't think they do," I continued. "In the end, we're human. …We always have to take everything apart and look at the pieces. Half of us is destructive by nature." I let out a small gasp as something clutched up in my injured side—like a muscle contracting sharply. "But a lot of times," I continued anyway, "things don't make sense in pieces. You have to look at the whole, don't you, Jack?"

Jack looked down at me. Our eyes locked, and he smiled, and then laughed.

"You hit your head, Lory, didn't you?"

"I told that that I did, didn't I? …Where's Magdalena with that washcloth, anyway?"

"Just go take a shower. I'll put a TV dinner in the microwave for you."

"Really?" I asked eagerly, standing up painfully.

"Yeah! The kind with the little deserts, even. You probably don't deserve it, you dog, you, but I'm going to let you have it anyway. After all that blood loss, you could probably use a good meal. Now hurry up, those things only take eight minutes to cook. I'll start it in a little bit, just to give you some extra time."

"All right," I said, hurrying up the stairs and passing by Magdalena, who had a washcloth and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in her hands.

"Lory?" she asked.

"I'm taking a shower," I told her. "But thanks."

The warm water felt wonderful, but the meal was even better. The chicken was rubbery, the rice tasted like paste, the vegetables were a freezer-burned mush, and the desert had somehow managed to get scorched, but Jack had given it to me—me especially. He'd cooked it himself, even if that had only required punching a few buttons. But it meant that he was no longer mad at me—was no longer blaming me for Airial's disappearance.

And so, it was one of the sweetest things I've ever eaten.