"One of you. A Malachim." She gestured at my armor. Then noticing the helmet tucked under my arm, she asked, "How come the black wing? What does that say?"
"Vengeance," I read, showing her the helmet.
"Sounds bad." She said seriously. "What's the book?"
"It was a gift from a friend. It's a Bible."
"Oh," she said, but I doubted she understood the significance of the book. Then she stopped suddenly and stood more erect. Her whole body seemed to quiver, like a horse testing the wind. Her head snapped up, as her eyes scanned the sky.
"Helicopters?" I whispered. Perhaps Dancer's hearing was better than mine and she could sense the whirring motors where I heard only our tense, short breaths. "Should we look for cover?"
She said nothing, just continued to stare at the sky. I followed her gaze. The flat roofs of the glassed buildings cut sharp edges into the night sky. The earlier cloud cover had lifted somewhat, and I could see a few faint specks of stars.
"Someone on the roof?" I asked, growing uneasy.
From absolute stillness, Dancer collapsed to a crouch. In the sudden movement, the metal buckles of her combat jacket clanged against each other. Her attention focused on the corner. A knife appeared in her hand.
"Someone's coming," I narrated for the still-silent Dancer.
excerpt from LINK discussion alt.religion after the LINK-angel's first appearance:
"Emotions aside, there is something seriously wrong with the LINK-angels. For one, despite the fact that most people have come to believe it to be true, there is no biblical evidence to support the idea that angels, particularly archangels, have wings. Wings were based on a medieval presumption that heaven was up, a la Dante's Celestial city, and that in order to travel back and forth, angels needed wings."
"A clear thinker in the Vatican? Father, I'd watch your broadcast were I you. You're not likely to keep your collar at this rate."
"Doubting Thomases! How can either of you deny what all of us experienced? It was a miracle – plain and simple."
"Bryson is right. The angels are what they are. The time for arguing is over. Anyway, it's just as likely that the angels showed themselves the way they knew they'd be accepted."
"Oh just admit it, padre. You don't want to deal with the fact that your assumptions about God were WRONG. God is everything the common, unschooled, unwashed masses always thought, and that sticks in your pompous educated craw."
"Hear! Hear! Jesus was a champion of the common man. It's very possible that he would come back the way the common man would prefer to see him."
"Pardon me, but I don't think that Jesus has anything to do with angels. I have to agree with the Father. Angels have existed in traditions other than, and older than, Christian. But, what I'm most shocked to discover, if the LINK-angels are a true sign from above, is that they're all so white. The neo-Nazis and white supremacists are going to have a field day with this little tidbit. Made in His image, eh?"
Chapter 18
I tossed the Bible at my feet and jammed the helmet A down on my head. I touched the on button at my wrist to engage the holographic armor. The pinpricks of light came to life with an ozone crackle just as Michael stepped around the corner.
I was stunned to see him here, of all places. I wondered if he had somehow followed me in the ethereal plane or used a miracle to bring us back together. Despite everything, I was glad to see him.
"Michael!" I shouted. Michael turned toward the sound of my voice, but froze when he saw the Gorgon crouched in the middle of the street. I quickly powered down the suit. The hologram disappeared with a sizzling snap. I pulled off the helmet to show him my face.
"Deidre!" Michael started to step toward us, but stopped at the low growl in Dancer's throat.
"Dancer, he's a friend," I said. "It's okay. Relax."
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."