

### Chains of Prophecy

By Jason P. Crawford

Samuel Buckland Chronicles Volume 1
Chains of Prophecy

Jason Patrick Crawford

Copyright 2013 Jason Crawford.

Published by Epitome Press

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, please contact the author at jnewmanwriting@gmail.com.

Smashwords Edition

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Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon or your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

#

# http://www.jasonpatrickcrawford.com/landing-page.html

# Endorsements

"A complex and imaginative story." – Mina Khan, author of _A Tale of Two Djinns_

"Chains of Prophecy has great descriptions, action, and dialogue." – Ivan Amberlake, author of _The Beholder_

"Great story with fast-moving action." – C.L. Blanton, author of _Absolution's Curse._

"I took it everywhere with me." – Fire and Ice Book Reviews

Dedications

Special Thanks To:

Angelique Gunnels for inspiring me to start writing;

Patricia Hankins for cheering me on the whole way,

and my wife, Cherrie, for her awesome cover art and for never giving up on me or letting me quit.
Table of Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Bonds of Fate Preview

About the Author

#  INTRODUCTION

Writing is, depending on who you ask, an art, a craft, a calling, or a profession. For me, I fell into writing when my sister-in-law said that she was going to write a book, and she asked my wife and I if we wanted to join in on "writing nights."

_Sure_ , I thought. _I've always wanted to write a book. That sounds like fun._ And so we sat down and started writing.

And I've never enjoyed anything more.

I was swept away in the story I was creating – in fact, it didn't feel like I was creating it at all, but that it was being made around me, that I was watching it happen. I wrote my first novel, _The Drifter,_ but I wasn't done. Almost as soon as I put that down, I was working on my next book, _Chains of Prophecy._ I published both of them in July of 2013, and I'm still writing.

I think that the best thing about writing is that you get to be the first one to experience your story. You get to be the first one these characters tell their problems and their triumphs to, and you get to laugh and cry right there with them, in real time.

I hope that you enjoy your foray into a world where Angels and Demons war for souls and a simple accountant can become the savior of us all.

Jason P. Crawford
PROLOGUE

The bar upstairs was closed, with the liquor put away and the stools on top of the bar, but the basement was full of light and choking smoke. The stairwell, with its wooden guiderail, spiraled down into a bright room with oak tables and chairs of dark cherry and red velvet upholstery, and the cold January weather did not seem to pierce the room's boundaries. The walls were decorated with pictures of movie starlets; Greta Garbo, Jean Harlow, and Fay Wray smiled down on the mostly-empty room, baring flesh and teeth equally. Murmurs came from one table, the only one occupied. From a distance, a visitor could mistake the group of men - thin and portly, tall and short, a mishmash of wool pinstripes and plaids and greys and blacks – for gamblers around a card table, perhaps, or businessmen discussing a contract they are considering. It wouldn't be until the visitor pierced the circle and laid eyes on the table itself that anything would have seemed amiss.

The seven men wore masks representing monsters, such as ghosts, dragons, demons and other creatures of nightmare. The masks were carefully crafted and well-kept, as if cleaned and polished between each use.

The men were gathered around a leather-bound manuscript. The book was old but preserved, and the text within was indecipherable to any scholar of linguistics. Underneath the text was a great seal, a pentagram inscribed with sigils and markings to focus sorcery and magical power.

If passers-by could see into the world of the ethereal, they would see that spirits had been summoned to keep anyone who might invade the sanctified space at bay. The portly man with the largest mask, a horrific, snarling demonic thing, raised his hands and chanted into the air. The lights in the room began to flicker as the other participants joined in, holding hands, bowing their heads, and intoning the words of the ritual.

"Tonight, the age of the United States comes to an end. Tonight, we take power, with the magics passed down to us for centuries. Tonight, we bid goodbye to the old, and usher in the new."

A visitor would also have heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above the men, but their chanting covered it and they remained unaware. The footsteps began their descent, still unnoticed, on the stairwell as the ritual came to a crescendo, and a dark shape began to form in the center of the room, its nebulous, smoky body, undefined and shifting, stretching from ceiling to floor.

When the intruder called out, however, the ritualists did notice.

"Blasphemers!" No older than sixteen, the girl's black hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a close-fitting red dress; her sleeveless arms were covered by the woolen jacket she had borrowed from her father and her legs by newly-popular nylon hose. Her hands, one finger bearing a promise ring and another a family crest, were covered with script that mirrored the writings in the book the cabal had been using, and they were held out toward the group of men. Some of them had begun to murmur and pull back before the leader stepped forward, gesturing at the dark cloud, a cloud which had begun to form into a winged shape, possessed of multiple sets of red eyes and toothy maws.

"What are you doing here, girl?" His lip was curled up in a snarl, and his voice mocking. "You have no idea..." His words were cut off as ice began to form on his throat; his fingers clawed at the frozen water as his eyes widened, but he stopped when he saw the source of his torment. Materialized before him, its hand on his neck, was a wispy figure formed of roiling fog and cold rain in humanoid shape. The creature smiled at him, and, with a voice like booming thunder, laughed as it spoke.

"You should stand stronger creatures to guard your crimes, thieves! We are here to purge your evil and avenge those you have done wrong!" The strangled man tried to wheeze out a command, but his breath could not pass his lips, and, before the terrified eyes of his cabal, he fell, unconscious.

The sound of his head hitting the wood parquet floor seemed to shock the remaining six into action, and each began chanting his own spell; small, fiery imps joined the attack alongside great creatures of stone, or earth, or glass. Another mist-figure formed and attacked the first, who continued laughing as it fought.

The girl held her ground, her spine straight and her hands moving like a magician's. The imps dissipated in small puffs of smoke; the golems turned to fight each other and melted back into the ether they had been summoned from. Her face was tight, her grey eyes focused, her concentration absolute; her mother would have been surprised to see this in her teenaged girl, normally bubbly and cheerful, but now controlling powers beyond most imaginations.

The six summoners became more and more agitated, more panicked, as their creatures were defeated. Finally, their hands fell, and still the girl stood. There was sweat on her brow, but her breathing was controlled and her eyes were on her enemies.

"Hand over what you stole from my ancestors." There was a pause. "Hand it over now, repent, and I will allow you to live. Do not, and you die here."

One of the sorcerers removed his mask; he was a handsome young man, dark of hair and of eye, but his smile reeked of corruption. "You can't stop us. We will always return."

The girl's smile was sad, but her voice did not waver as she changed her stance. "Not after God's judgment."

"Now!" cried the unmasked man; the six others threw their hands, their spells, their will, at the demonic figure which had been watching the battle with a detached amusement. At the cry and command, it stirred, bellowing out its anger and its hatred as its form solidified into a creature of nightmare. It was a demon of flame, something which, many years later, J.R.R. Tolkien would recreate for a great wizard to die fighting.

The girl tightened her lips. Her eyes turned to the demon. She began her spell.

The unmasked man turned, grabbed the book off the table, thrust it at another member of the cabal. The other man's eyes were shocked under his piggish mask.

"Run!" He pushed the pig-man away. "Go now!"

As the fight began, the pig-masked fellow in the pinstriped suit ran past the demon, past the girl, up the stairs, praying to whatever powers that existed that he would not be seen.

He was in sight of the door when the bar exploded.

# CHAPTER ONE

Rich Mason, day-time talk show host, smoothed his hair as he addressed his guest. "Mr. Caitlin, you have such a collection of successes under your belt." The portly gentleman leaned forward in his chair. "Two years ago, you invested your inheritance into DelCo, a previously unknown software company. Within six months, you rose to their board of directors, and under your advisement they began producing products that, well, frankly, drove everyone else back to their holes crying." He laughed, and so did his guest. Mason brought up his hand and started ticking points off on his fingers. "Your company now controls over 65% of the market share in word processing, algorithmic software, database construction, and your interface runs on more than 80% of privately held computers in the world." The host shook his head, his thinning hair swaying. "Tell us, what do you owe your success to? How did you manage this?"

His guest adjusted his rimless glasses and flashed a bright smile. "Well, Rich, firstly, I would like to thank God; without His inspirations, His revelations, I would not be where I am today. Then, as always, one must credit one's spouse, family, for their support during difficult times, so, thank you Susan!" He looked toward the camera, and the audience gave an appreciative laugh. "And Mom as well, of course." He leaned in toward Rich. "You know, I promised Mom I'd mention her if I ever made it onto T.V." Another round of laughter.

"As for my specific inspirations, well, I'm sure that many of you know that I have invested a significant amount of my company's profits to charity work. We have constructed wells in Africa, bringing drinkable water to millions of refugees in war-torn areas. Very recently, I donated over 50 million dollars' worth of computer equipment to the beleaguered Los Angeles Unified High School District." Caitlin raised a finger. "And before you ask: no, I didn't do it for the tax write-off."

Rich Mason laughed; it wasn't every day that a celebrity like Gregory Caitlin came onto his show. Dr. Phil or Oprah back in the day, sure, but not Rich Mason's Coffee Hour. It was only local folks who appeared on his program – the top placer in the L.A. Fair's art exhibit, perhaps – and so Rich had jumped on his producer's offer to have Caitlin do a guest appearance to promote his upcoming events. Caitlin hadn't even wanted any compensation for the appearance, which pleased the bean-counters to no end.

"So, Mr. Caitlin..."

"Call me Gregory, or Greg if you prefer."

"Okay...Greg, then...I understand you have a special announcement that you wanted to make on our program."

"Absolutely. Now, I have a soft spot for struggling workers in a tough economy, you know – I remember what it was like to be one – so I chose this show to be the springboard for my political campaign."

Rich blinked. This wasn't a political show, and he hadn't been briefed on this announcement. He glanced off-stage at the director, who just shrugged and waved his hands back toward the guest chair. His meaning was obvious: _Who cares? Stay with him!_

Rich turned back to Caitlin and shoved his hands into his pockets. "A political campaign, huh? Hope you weren't looking for fundraising here – I'm fresh out!" He turned them inside out, demonstrating his point. Gregory shook his head.

"Don't worry; I plan to run my campaign without fundraising events. If people believe in my message and want to donate, fine, but I won't be hosting parties in order to raise cash." He nodded at the camera, smiling. "I don't need to, after all."

"What office are you planning to run for?"

"Governor." A gasp rushed through the audience. "I'd run for President, but I'm not old enough yet." Another smile, more laughs.

"Really?" Rich leaned forward. "Which party?"

"As anyone who has read my website recently knows, I am a registered Libertarian. I will be running on that platform – freedom, independence, tolerance, and principled consistency." He raised his left hand – his plain gold wedding band shone under the fluorescents – and added, "Before anyone laughs and says, 'You can't win unless you're a Democrat or a Republican, especially in California,' I say this:

"Take a look at my track record, my company's success, all the things I've managed so far..." The audience hung on the drawn-out pause before Caitlin continued.

"...and go ahead and tell me that there's something we can't do." This last was delivered with his eyes focused on the camera, and brought a raucous uproar from the crowd as they jumped to their feet and applauded. It was several minutes before the crew was able to restore order so that the taping could continue.

"Gregory Caitlin for governor!" Rich sat back in his chair, shaking his head and smiling. "I already know who I'm voting for!"

~~~

Sam Buckland shut his computer down, sighing. At least it was Friday, time to go home. He stretched in his seat before making sure his papers – client's documents, notes, detailed records of his recommendations to them – were in order, filed away, locked. He smoothed his tie over his shirt, waved goodbye to Philip, the other accountant in his office, then headed out the door to his car, pulling out a silver dollar that his dad had given him years ago as a good luck charm.

Sam slid into the leather seat of his restored black 1963 Ford Falcon convertible and knuckled the dollar, watching it flip from finger to finger on his left hand, dropping it into the door pocket. As he always did on Fridays, he cranked the top down and drove out of the parking lot, wind blowing in his hair and across his face. He smiled, remembering the days when he would ride in this very same car with his parents, before his father had given it to him as a surprise on his 21st birthday, three years ago.

"Really, Dad? You mean it?"

"It's a young man's car." His father had wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders. "I enjoyed it when I was young; now, it's your turn." Then, his dad had glanced around, making sure that no one else was listening. "Not to mention, you're a man now; time to go cruisin' for honey, if you get my meaning."

Sam laughed at the memory as he cruised down the 5, heading for Acton, where he lived. His dad hadn't been wrong, either; it wasn't three days into his new job that he had gotten a taste of what a classic car can bring a man who dresses well and knows how to keep himself. Amusing, however, because as much of a "typical man" Sam's dad had been in his youth, when it came time to get married he completely switched sides. Even took his wife's last name.

The road flew by at 90 miles an hour as Sam cruised home. His salary at his accounting firm was better than most novice number-crunchers. Sam had Mensa, the high IQ society, to thank for that; the vice-president of the firm, Mr. Gonzalez, was a member, and so was he. Sam's resume had mentioned the fact – just a blurb, really – but Mr. Gonzalez had picked up on it. It was never discussed, of course, but Sam was sure that was the reason that his starting pay was about 10k more than Philip's, and why Sam was getting the higher-profile clients.

Sam was not above using personal connections to get ahead. It wasn't dishonest, after all, and no one was getting hurt; it was just the natural reaction of humanity on humanity.

Sam pulled up to his three-bedroom cookie-cutter house in Acton. The garage door opened at his command, ushering his classic Ford into its warm bosom. He checked the mail, did his pushups, pullups. When the car was cool, he checked the oil – something else which had been drilled into his head by his father – and went inside.

The house was cool compared to the summer Valley heat outside. Sam took off his work clothes and changed into his casual jeans and T-shirt. He turned the treadmill in his living room to its warm-up setting as he flipped the T.V. on to his favorite talk show, Rich Mason. He liked Rich because the guy wasn't full of himself – he seemed to enjoy what he did, to be excited about the insights and the ideas that would come across his stage.

Today, his guest was Mr. Gregory Caitlin. Sam put in his Bluetooth headphones and switched the big-screen to transmit to them, then began his warm-up on the machine.

Gregory Caitlin was a big shot, all right. His graphic user interface had overtaken both Windows and Apple in a matter of months. It was so intuitive, so easy to use, that many reviews claimed that the users felt the machines were "reading their minds." Sam didn't know about all that, but he _did_ know that he had been able to process complicated deductions and exemptions in less than half the time using Caitlin's accounting software.

And now, it seemed, the man was running for governor.

_Why the hell not?_ Sam's steps quickened on his treadmill. _If he could just get past that irrational belief in God, he'd be set_. He punched up the incline. _Maybe he's just giving it lip-service for his electorate_... _No._

He glanced back up at the T.V., where Caitlin was shaking hands with the assembled crowd and staff. _If he's shoveling bullshit, he's a world-class crap harvester._ _Too bad._

As the show ended, Sam checked his wall clock. 6:05. _Time to wind down and get something for dinner_. He shut the treadmill off, wiped himself down with his towel, and headed to the kitchen.

The kitchen furnishings were sparse – a fridge, microwave, stove – without much decoration or embellishment. Sam opened the pantry.

"Goddamn it." He reached inside and brought out a box of Honey-Nut Cheerios. "Seriously, is this it?" He ducked down, peering into the dark space. A small spider scuttled across his line of sight, hiding in the barren wasteland of the cabinet.

"Cereal. And I'm out of milk." Sam sighed as he replaced the box. "Looks like it's either a night out or a shopping trip."

His stomach grumbled, and he looked down at it, a small grin playing on his lips. "Guess that settles it. How does Italian sound?"

Sam hopped in the shower to clean off the workout sweat. _Life is good,_ he thought as he soaped himself up. _Money coming in, people at work love me, and I can enjoy myself without worrying about living hand-to-mouth_. He glanced at his reflection in the tiles.

Not too shabby, Sam. Not too shabby at all.

~~~

Gregory Caitlin got out of his car, waved to his driver, and headed up the walk to his modest Northridge home. The grass was freshly cut but there was no sign of clippings or trimmings on the path.

_Glad we hired that gardener; he does good work._ Smiling at the smell of the rosebush near his door, Gregory turned his key in the lock. "Knock, knock, axe murderer!" he called, beginning a ritual he and his wife Susan had started when they were first married.

"Oh, no!" Susan raised her head from her book and laid it down on the table nearby. "Guess I'm a goner, then." She laughed and got up from the couch as Gregory took off his shoes and hung his keys near the door.

"How was work?" Susan smiled and locked her arms around her husband's neck. "Anything special?"

Gregory shook his head. "I'm waiting on a new product idea. Something that could put DelCo into the automobile industry, I think – computer systems for cars, you know." He laughed. "Same old same old. How's the home front?"

"Phone's been off the hook since you made that announcement today." Susan rolled her eyes, but her smile did not falter. "Email too. Your Twitter account and Facebook page have been lighting up nonstop with questions and ideas." She paused, bit her lip, smiled. "You know, I think I deserve a bonus for working so hard on this." She ran her hand down his chest, eyes locked on his.

"I think I can come up with something." He leaned down to give his wife a kiss, then patted her behind. "Head into the bedroom, love – I'll be there in a few."

"Don't keep me waiting." Susan thrust out a pouty lip. "Or I might start thinking that you don't love me." She winked, turned, and walked away, swaying her hips with each step.

Gregory stared after her for a few moments, then laughed to himself as he opened the door to his private office. Gregory had been clear on how this was _his_ space, how he needed a room to do his work and have things his way. At first, his wife had worried that there was something...untoward going on, that maybe this room was where he would stash his child pornography or something like that. As years had passed, however, she had come to accept the fact that, sometimes, a man needs a place to be himself.

Gregory sat down in his chair and looked at the pictures on the walls: Michael casting Lucifer into Hell, God touching Adam's hand in the Sistine Chapel. The great cross worn by the Crusaders, and overhead their motto of _Deus Vult,_ meaning "God wills it." He took a deep breath; in this room, he felt God's presence most clearly, felt closest to the Divine here.

He picked up a small earpiece, put it in. Pushed the 'transmit' button. "Go ahead." Listened for a few minutes, jotting notes down. He smiled.

"Ha! That should do it!" He kissed the earpiece and replaced it in its holder on his desk, then went into a frenzy of typing, sending notes and memos to his research and development staff. They would wonder where he had gotten these ideas, of course; they always did. No matter. One thing was for sure – this _would_ work.

Again, it always did.

Gregory signed off his machine and headed into the bedroom where his wife was waiting for him. He closed the door as he entered.

~~~

Monday morning. Sam had broken down on Sunday and gone on that shopping trip, restocking his house for another few weeks.

He shook his head and sighed. _Such a waste of a good weekend day._ He pulled up into his designated parking spot and walked toward the entrance of Ludwig and Von's Accounting.

"Hey, Sam! How was your weekend?" An older gentleman stood smoking a cigarette in the designated pavilion. "Hit it big?"

Sam grinned. "Hey, Philip. I headed to Vegas. Scored 12 million on roulette. Got married. You?"

"Meh. Penny stock I bought exploded; made about the same. Got three women in bed." He smiled. "At once."

Sam laughed and clapped his coworker on the shoulder as he passed. He nodded, waved, and greeted his way past the office functionaries until he reached his desk. There was a new packet sitting on it, with a note from Mr. Gonzalez, the V.P.

_Highest priority_. _We've taken you off your other clients until this is handled. Do us proud!_

Sam frowned as he scanned the note. _Why would they take me off my other clients_? _That's something you do for someone who is a fresh-faced newb_. He grumbled as he shuffled through the papers until he found the cover slip.

_Gregory R. Caitlin_. _Requesting a review of finances before campaign begins in earnest_.

Sam sat, stunned, for a few minutes. Sure, it wasn't uncommon for politicians, people under scrutiny, to send their tax records and such to be evaluated and certified again, just to cover their butts. But this...this was a chance to look into what made Gregory Caitlin tick, to put to rest the rumors on exactly _how_ much money he pulled in and where it all went.

And Sam had _never_ been able to let sleeping dogs lie.

Sam dug in, and hours passed as he reviewed the paperwork. It was organized, impeccable; every last cent of charity donations was backed by a receipt, every business expenditure, every service rendered. Caitlin's salary was modest compared to his company's profit margin, and it seemed that every I was dotted and T crossed. Sam cross-referenced Caitlin's personal returns with his business filing, and everything matched up. It was almost boring by the time he got to the end.

There was a business-related receipt to a Miss Martha Stone which caught Sam's eye, along with a photocopy of a check for $50,000. "Market research."

Then another. And another.

_Uh-oh_ , he smiled. _Looks like someone might have been using the company funds for a little bit of..._

Sam double-checked the records, looking for any further reference to Miss Stone, anything to suggest a regular payoff, perhaps. He glanced at the dates on the original checks.

October 27, 2010. November 3, 2010. December 18, 2010. This was before Caitlin had gotten into DelCo at all. Sam looked at the returns for that year; almost all of Caitlin's income that year had been from his wages – he had been a mailroom clerk – and from a $200,000 inheritance.

_He paid half of his inheritance to get laid?_ Sam pursed his lips. _That doesn't seem right...maybe it was someone who had something on him that he wanted to keep quiet._

Sam knew better than to poke too deeply into the affairs of his clients; after all, you don't bite the hand that feeds you. Everything was properly documented and legal, except for those $50,000 expenses three years ago that might _actually_ have been market research. There was no reason to investigate further.

Before he realized what was happening, he was bringing up his Google search engine and putting in Martha Stone, just to see what would come up. There were several – PhDs, owners of restaurants, even a Titanic survivor. Sam sighed. Dead end there.

Or was it? Sam dug back into the records for 2010. In order to claim this as a business write-off for the following year, Caitlin would need to provide certain information on the people he paid, to prove they were qualified. Not everyone did this, of course, and most of the time it didn't even get noticed, but the way Caitlin was...

There. Caitlin had filled out the proper form with Miss Stone's date of birth, contact information...and Social Security number. Never had Sam been so pleased to see someone who had actually followed directions. A few phone calls and mouse clicks later and Sam had an address, both work and personal, for Miss Martha Stone. A Doctor of Theology at the Los Angeles campus of Pepperdine University. 62 years old.

_What the hell?_ Sam's brow wrinkled and his lips stretched in a grimace. _Unless he's a major cougar-chaser_ , _it's probably_ not _a payoff for a hookup, past or present._

What could it be?

Sam knew that he should stop there. This was plenty; if Caitlin was paying some 62 year old theologian for market research, then that was that.

Right?

Right.

Sam brought up the Pepperdine University website again. Found Dr. Stone's office number and hours.

"Philip, can you cover for me for a bit tomorrow? I have something I need to take care of."

~~~

Gregory left the meeting room to thunderous applause, the door cutting off the sounds of approval from the other board members. He wiped his face; the proposal had gone well once he had outlined what he wanted the vehicle technology to do. In less than six months, he had promised, they would have the ability to produce voice-activated and locked vehicles, responsive to commands and able to analyze traffic patterns via GPS hookup.

And they would have it in the next year's models.

Gregory beamed his trademark smile as he walked through the office building, shaking hands with employees and asking about children, wives, surgeries, sports. He reached the door marked _President of the Board, G. Caitlin_ , opened it, stepped in.

The smile dropped off his face, and he leaned against the one-way glass of his office. _God, that is always so hard,_ He rubbed his hands together to still their shaking.

_You'd think I'd get used to this._ He gave his face a quick splash in the sink, and water dripped from his chin and nose onto the porcelain. He _was_ confident, of course; he knew that the designs would work, that the technology was sound. The other board members had learned some time ago not to question _where_ Gregory got this information or how he came up with his ideas; they worked, they made the company money, and that was all that mattered, right?

Gregory shook his head. Godless. They had so little vision, so little concern for the big picture, that it sickened him at times. That he had to smile at them, stroke their egos, turned his stomach; he wished that he could explain the will of God to them in a way they would understand.

Gregory Caitlin was not in business to make money. He was in business to change the world, to shape it into a form pleasing to God's sight. His political ambitions stemmed from the same goals. He had been given the gifts to do this.

And there was no doubt in his mind that he would.

" _Deus vult_."

# CHAPTER TWO

Sam shoved the copies of Caitlin's tax records he had made into his glove compartment as he pulled up to the Graduate School of Education and Psychology, an impressive building made from bricks with columns carved in the shapes of angels. As he got out of the car, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the hardships ahead; holding one's tongue in the face of religious fanaticism was always difficult, he knew, and if he lost control he would be forced to leave without the answers that he wanted.

He shook his head and laughed at himself as he approached the door. _Why am I even here?_ _Have I lost it? Am I just that bored?_

Office number 4232, Dr. Martha Stone.

Sam turned from the directory posted on the wall and pressed the "up" button for the elevator. The doors opened after the customary wait, revealing a small child, no more than 8 years old, with blond hair, blue eyes, and an LA Lakers T-shirt. Sam got in the elevator.

"Which way, mister?" The boy held his hand poised over the button panel.

"I'm going up, please," Sam's eyes held front; he did not turn.

"Are you sure?"

Sam's head snapped over, looking at the boy looking at him with mischief in his eyes.

"Umm...yes, I'm sure. 4th floor."

"Okie-dokie!" The kid punched the button, then smiled at Sam. "My name's Mikey; who're you?"

Sam sighed. "I'm Sam. How're you, Mikey?"

"Oh, pretty good, I guess. My family is out looking for my sister." Mikey's face fell. "We miss her a lot at home."

Sam glanced back and forth. Here he was, in an elevator by himself with a kid, and apparently one of the boy's siblings was missing? Great. _Hurry up, will you?_

The doors opened to the third floor. Mikey hopped out, turned, and waved at Sam. "If you see my sister, will you let me or my dad know? We're really worried, you know."

"Sure, Mikey." Sam did his best not to roll his eyes. "If I see her, I'll make sure you get her back. What's her name?"

"Gabby. You promise you'll look for her?"

"Sure, sure. Get out of the elevator door, Mikey; it's trying to close."

"Okie-dokie!" The boy waved to Sam, stepping aside as the door closed. "See you soon!"

_Great._ Sam rubbed his temples. _Just what I needed._

4th floor. Sam stepped out as the doors parted again, passing by a couple of college students heading into the elevator. It took only a few moments to find Dr. Stone's office. The door was closed, but he could hear her on the phone. He paused for a moment to listen.

"...yes, yes, Steve, I _know_ we're under pressure to stop teaching those subjects, but listen – if we don't educate our young people about the various servants of God and the Devil, then what's the point? Why are we even bothering?"

Sam gaped a moment, then shook his head, slapped himself across the face, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Stone? We had an appointment to talk at 10:30 today? I'm sorry if I'm a bit late..."

"No, not at all. Steve, I've got an appointment, I'll talk to you about this later, okay? God bless you, too." Sound of a phone being replaced on a hook. "Come in!"

Sam entered her office; the room was not very large, and it was cluttered by papers; several bookshelves were filled to bursting, and the walls were covered by religious icons, including a depiction of Christ's crucifixion in oil paints and a rendition of the fabled Veil of Veronica.

Noticing Sam's glance, the woman smiled. She pointed to a large picture, a painting, of an angel holding a spear, threatening a demonic figure beneath his foot. "Saint Michael." She crossed herself as she spoke. "When we die, he comes to us, asks us if we repent of our sins. He is the last one we have the chance to confess to, you know. The final stop for all our secrets."

Sam declined to comment. "Doctor Stone?"

"Yes, that's me." Dr. Stone refocused her sky-blue eyes on her visitor. "You're Sam, right? The one doing an interview for the school paper?" Sam nodded, the smile on his face covering any discomfort over the lie. "Have a seat, Sam."

Sam took a stack of papers off of the nearest chair and glanced over at Dr. Stone. She laughed as she put out her cigarette in the ashtray on her desk and motioned toward a table that was already covered in sprawling stacks. "Oh, just put those over there."

Sam winced as he did so, then sat down.

"So, Sam. What can I do for you today?"

Sam crossed his hands, tapped his thumbs together as he spoke. "I'll get right to the point. Do you know a Gregory Caitlin?"

The corner of her mouth upturned. "Greg? I sure do." She folded her hands together. "He's a wonderful man, true faith in God if I have ever seen it. He was a student here, you know. That's how I met him. Is he the topic of your article?"

Sam nodded. "I'm going to write a 'rags-to-riches' type story about him; alumni of the school and everything."

Dr. Stone's smile spread to her eyes. "I don't think you could have picked a better subject for that. I'll be glad to help."

"Did you hear his parents died a few years back?"

Sadness rippled across Dr. Stone's face. "Yes, I heard about that. Greg was very unhappy; he trusted in his family, in his parents."

Sam leaned forward. "How did that affect him?"

"Oh, he had the usual crisis of faith." She stretched her hand across her cluttered desk and grabbed a coffee mug, bringing it to her lips. "Even threw around some of that inheritance money trying to find an answer. 'Why would God do this?' he asked me. I told him that God has plans for all of us. That seemed to hit home for him, I think; at any rate, the next time I saw him, he had lost that hopeless, lost look in his eyes and gotten his feet back under him."

Sam was on the edge of his seat now, but trying not to show it. "You said he threw around the inheritance money...what was he looking for?"

Dr. Stone cocked her head. "Why do you want to know? Are you trying to dig up dirt or something? I don't want Greg getting hurt; he's a good man with a good heart."

Sam shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I'm just...interested in the history of someone who has become so prominent so quickly. I just want to know where he came from." He smiled. "Like I said, it's inspirational, really."

Dr. Stone returned his smile. "Well, I guess it won't hurt anything...he did what most people do – he reached out everywhere he could. He called psychics – you know that Sylvia Browne lady? – theologians, people who have had near-death experiences, everything." She nodded, remembering. "Nothing satisfied him until we had talked. Then he had more questions...but they were _real_ questions; at least, they weren't questions about psychics, if you get my meaning." She laughed, and Sam smiled, nodding.

"Always better to know, even if it hurts, right? Ignorance may be bliss, but the things you don't know about don't just _go away_ , you know?"

"Exactly! Anyway, he started to ask a lot of questions about Heaven – what it was like, who the Angels and the Archangels were, how God judged us. I think he really wanted to feel like his parents had gone to a better place." Dr. Stone was smiling; Sam did his best to return that smile.

"You know that he's running for governor now?"

"Yes! I think it's a wonderful idea; he'll be able to make a big difference there. Bring God back to California."

Sam's lips drew into a hard line. This kept getting more and more difficult. "You know that political candidates are often expected to release their tax records for the last few years, just as a goodwill gesture, show there isn't anything untoward?"

Dr. Stone nodded. "Of course. I've seen more than a few elections, dear boy."

"Good." Now he had to tread carefully. "When I was looking over Mr. Caitlin's reports, I saw that he had made some...rather expensive outlays to you from his inheritance money."

"Outlays?" Dr. Stone thought for a moment. "You mean...oh!" And she started to laugh. Sam blinked a few times, started to speak, then held his tongue.

"Were...were you thinking that...he and I...oh!" she managed, still laughing. "You _were_ looking for a scandal, weren't you, young man?"

Sam shook his head. "No, no, you've got it wrong. When I first saw the payments, yes, I thought maybe he was involved in something a little bit...unChristianlike, let's say that. After a little bit of additional research, however..."

"You decided that he probably wouldn't be 'hooking up' with an old lady like me?" interrupted Dr. Stone, between breaths.

Sam thought of several convincing lies, digressions, then he laughed as well and nodded his head.

"Sorry to spoil your fun, Sam, but there was none of that. It was a straightforward arrangement; I had written several papers on angelology and the hierarchy of Heaven that I hadn't published yet. He bought the rights to those papers from me. That's all." She smiled and spread her hands. "Nothing to see here."

Sam stared at her for a moment. "He bought...papers? On angelology?" A nod. "What was so special about these papers that he would spend over a hundred thousand dollars to acquire them?"

Dr. Stone shrugged. "No idea." She took another sip of coffee. "The papers weren't particularly well received by the people I had shown them to; there are a few ideas in them that go a bit against the mainstream dogmas. Nothing that hasn't been said before, really. But he ate them up."

"What didn't the others like about them?"

"I can't go into specifics, unfortunately; Greg bought all the rights to those papers from me. I'm not supposed to present the ideas in any way, shape, or form."

Sam grimaced. "So you can't tell me anything?"

Dr. Stone shrugged. "Well," she began as she was rooting through some of the papers on her desk, "I used a few apocryphal sources. Gospels that the Catholic Church doesn't recognize. Hard to get to, hard to interpret." As she spoke, she dug around her desk, looking in file folders and piles of papers. "Interviews with people who had seen or heard angels. All properly cited, of course, but... Here," and she handed Sam a bibliography page, "are the references I used. Track them down if you're interested. Or ask Greg for a copy of the paper, since it's his now. Either way, good luck."

Sam felt the shift in her tone, the ending of the conversation. He nodded, shook Dr. Stone's hand, and excused himself from the room.

All the way out here and I come away with a bibliography page for a stupid research paper on angelology? What the hell -?

"Hi!" A familiar child's voice came from behind Sam as he marched to the elevators. He turned to see the Laker's T-Shirt clad form of Mikey, sitting in one of the chairs in the hallway.

"Um..hey, Mikey. Where're your parents, anyway?" Sam looked around, but saw no one.

"My family is looking for my sister, remember?" Mikey narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Are you picking on me? I'm big enough to be out on my own, you know."

"Chill out, kid. I wasn't trying to make you mad." Sam took another look around the hallway. Still no one there.

"Well, good luck finding your sis, Mikey. I have places I need to be." He turned toward the elevator again.

"Have you ever read the Bible, mister?"

Sam froze. Something about the way Mikey said that chilled his blood, like a teacher asking if you had cheated on a test when he _knew_ you had, and worse, _you_ knew he knew. He looked back at the boy, who was now standing in the middle of the hall, gaze steady.

"I..."

"There's lots of things wrong in there, you know. Lots of things. Lots of mistakes. My daddy says that the real truth in the Bible – all those books, really – is in between the lines." He took two steps toward Sam. "My daddy says that the Bible speaks to you, that it can help you find what you're looking for when you need guidance. Maybe you should read it, mister. Maybe it would help you."

Sam shook his head and laughed. "What are you talking about, kid?"

Mikey shrugged, also laughing. "Just what it sounds like, mister!" He turned and ran down the hallway, calling "God bless you!"

Sam punched the elevator button and massaged his temples. _Feels like I'm on a goddam reality T.V. show; hidden cameras everywhere._ The door opened and he stepped inside. _Screw Caitlin. I'm going home and getting some sleep._

~~~

"He asked about that?"

"Yes," came Dr. Stone's voice from the cellphone in Gregory's hand. "I thought it was strange, so I wanted to give you a call, let you know."

"Thanks, Dr. Stone. I really appreciate it."

"How many times do I need to ask you to call me Martha?"

"Martha, then. Have a good day."

"You too."

Gregory hung up his phone and replaced it in his pocket. So this Sam was poking into his financial affairs. Referencing his tax returns. _Strange, considering I haven't released them yet._

He sat and began jotting down his thoughts on a legal pad. Only two places that this leak could have happened – the IRS ( _highly unlikely_ ) or the accounting firm he had sent the returns to for pre-campaign evaluation. Someone over there must have gotten a little overcurious, a little meddlesome.

Probably nothing would come of it, of course. Dr. Stone hadn't told this guy anything important, and there were no extant records of those papers anyway. Still, it worried him...what if...

Gregory laughed and dialed in to his special research division. His company's best people worked there, with the highest clearances.

"Hello?"

Caitlin tapped the end of his pen against the table. "I have a concern. Gentleman by the name of Sam Buckland. I need to know if he's going to be a problem." A moment or two of listening. "Right, just feed it in, just like normal. Shouldn't be an issue. Let me know when you get something."

Gregory hung up the phone again, stretched, then left his private office, locking the door on his way out. "What's for dinner, Susan?"

He heard a clang of metal from the kitchen – pots and pans being moved about.

"We're having goulash and broccoli. I hope you don't mind, but my parents said they wanted to come by and visit, and since it had been so long I said they could."

Gregory winced, then said a little prayer thanking God that Susan couldn't see him. "Sure, honey. It's always fun having dinner with your folks."

~~~

Sam opened the door to his house as he chased the last of his Quarter Pounder down with his orange Fanta, intending to just fall down on the couch and pass out. He walked over to the tan sofa and sat down. His eyes fell on his bookshelf.

_Don't do it._ His hand paused in mid-air, half-reaching toward the shelf. _Kid was crazy, just repeating what his old man had said. He wasn't really talking to you. Don't do it._ And then he was opening the brand new King James Version that his parents had bought him for his birthday last year. They knew he was a humanist, but his mother was religious and always worried about the "state of his soul."

He flipped through the book, Old Testament, New Testament, part of him wondering why he was bothering, the other part...well, he couldn't put his finger on what the other part was saying.

But it _was_ saying it.

_Read between the lines._ Mikey had told him that.

So Sam spent the next 4 hours reading the Bible.

It was as full of shit as he thought it must be.

_I mean, give me a break. A rainbow story?_ He closed the covers together. A bookmark slid out from the back cover, landing face down on the floor. He picked it up, read the inscription on the back. "Dearest Samuel," it read in his mother's script, "May God light your way when you are lost. Love, Mom." He turned the marker over in his hands; on the other side was a beautiful picture of the Archangel Gabriel, his trumpet in hand, delivering the news of Christ's immanent conception to Mary, with the verse "Hail, O favored one, the Lord is with you!" on a scroll beneath it.

_Should save this for a book I actually_ want _to read_. _At least it's got a nice picture on it._ He tucked the bookmark into the pocket of his robe before taking it off and hanging it up. He stretched, rubbed some of the soreness out of his legs from his marathon reading session, and then went to the kitchen to grab something to drink. As he closed his refrigerator and cracked open his 7-Up, his cellphone began to ring. Sam hurried to the other room to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Sam?"

"Mr. Gonzalez? What can I do for you?"

"Sam, were you out asking questions about Gregory Caitlin today?"

"What? I..."

"Sam, he's asked for me to take you off of his file."

"...Oh." _Not unexpected._ Sam's heart was beating a little faster. _I wonder how he found out..._

"And he also asked me to fire you."

Sam sat upright in the chair he had fallen into. "What??"

"Exactly. In return for that, he won't begin an investigation as to why one of our accountants was asking personal questions of his friends using confidential information we had access to. You know that those records _haven't_ been released to the public yet?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Sam, what the hell were you thinking? Why would you go asking old college professors about the ins and outs of their students' lives...especially if one of those students happens to be on his way to becoming one of the most powerful men in the state, and soon the country?"

"Mr. Gonzalez, I..."

"No, I don't think I want to hear about it. You have tomorrow to clear out your desk, Mr. Buckland." A pause. "I'm sorry, Sam." _Click_.

For a few moments, Sam sat, staring at the phone, his mouth agape. _Fired._ The word rang in his mind like a fire alarm. He had never been fired before. His life was on its way...he was successful, he was going down the right paths, doing all the right things... _fired._

And for what? To scratch a curiosity itch? Because he just couldn't leave well enough alone, he had to go prying into someone else's business?

Sam hung his head and held his face in his hands. _What have I done?_ He knew he could never get hired in accounting again. Word would spread; this job would be his only reference and would have to say that he was fired for snooping into private matters...a real desirable quality in an accountant. All for some insane urge to figure out a mystery that didn't need solving.

My daddy says that the Bible speaks to you...that it can help you find what you're looking for when you need guidance.

The thought, the voice, was so real that Sam looked around, half expecting to see Mikey poke his spiky head around the corner. He picked the book up again, looking at it as if it were some sort of strange animal that he had never encountered before. _There's nothing in here,_ he thought, he _knew_.

But something _had_ been in there, hadn't it? Sam reached into his pocket, pulling out the bookmark. The Archangel Gabriel. The Bible verse.

_Where have I seen that before?_ he asked.

The living room of his house. His mother had a metal fireplace decoration that looked almost exactly like that angel.

Sam gazed at the bookmark for a few moments, then laughed in disgust. _Am I seriously considering the idea that this bookmark has something to_ ' _show'_ _me?_ He looked at the 7-Up can in his hand, dropped it in the trash, grabbed the bottle of Merlot.

_It's gonna be a drinking night tonight_.

~~~

"Thank you, Mr. Gonzalez. I'm glad you understand. No, no, I don't hold any of the rest of you responsible; you handled the problem and I am pleased by the quick manner in which you did so. Thank you again. Good-bye."

Gregory Caitlin hung up his phone and went back to his lunch. He often ate in the office; sometimes the work would not let him go, sometimes he enjoyed the peace and quiet, and sometimes it was fun watching the others move around through the one-way glass of his office windows.

He looked again at his special division's report: Mr. Buckland could have turned into a problem. The avenues of investigation that he was pursuing could have led to questions Gregory preferred to leave unasked. Causing him to lose his job would end those risks. However...

For the first time since Gregory Caitlin had created his Special Research Division, there was an anomaly in the report. A possibility for error. The course of action recommended by the Division had a 100% chance of ending Buckland's investigation into those payments to Martha Stone.

It only had a 95.75% chance of ending Buckland's overall threat to Caitlin's plans.

Gregory shook his head. Reached for the phone again. Put it back down. It was unwise to use the Division's resources too often, too frequently. He took another bite of his sandwich instead.

_I need to make a visit down there_. _Perhaps something has gone wrong with her. Maybe it's something I can fix._

Gregory finished off his sandwich and told his secretary to cancel the rest of his appointments for the day. Yes, even the meeting with the Secretary of Education. Yes, we can reschedule.

He went down the elevator to the lobby, waved to the security guards on his way out, and got into his car. Driving to the tune of Bon Jovi, he headed toward the secure compound where the Special Research Division did its work. The signs said HAZARDOUS MATERIAL: CLEARANCE REQUIRED with large biohazard and nuclear symbols in yellows and reds.

"No entrance." The security guard at the gate adjusted his clothes, making sure that the approaching visitor could see the sidearm holstered on his belt. Gregory pulled out his DelCo employee ID. The guard took it, examined Gregory's face, checked the ID again.

"Good morning, Mr. Caitlin. Come in, please." And the guard backed off, waving Gregory's car into the compound.

The center building was squat, unobtrusive, small. Gregory flashed his ID once more at the door, then submitted to an electronic fingerprint scan and voice ID to enter the lower levels. When the elevator stopped at basement level 3, he inserted his custom-made key and the elevator continued to basement level 4. He stepped out of the elevator to a foyer – chairs, magazines, no TV – in front of a "clean" area. Gregory removed his suit, tie, undergarments, and went through the decontamination chamber (he always hated this part; it smelled like rotten eggs) and dressed in the specially prepared clothing provided for him on the other side.

"Mr. Caitlin!" A balding man in a lab coat was approaching; his eyes were so bruised that it looked like he had gone 3 rounds at the MMA championships.

"Doctor Francis." Gregory nodded. "How is she?"

"Readings are within nominal limits, sir." Francis paused, consulting the tablet he held. "There has been no change in ECG levels, vital signs, nothing."

"Then how do you explain the sudden inexactness in her data?"

Francis shrugged. "I don't know, sir. I might be able to postulate better if I knew _how_ she was able to do these things..." He glanced at Gregory's face, which hardened into granite, then picked his sentence back up. "...but as far as I can tell now, something must be interfering with the subject himself...this..." Francis paged through on his iPad for a few moments. "...Sam Buckland, right? There must be something she just can't account for."

Gregory shook his head. "That doesn't make sense." His eyes roamed the room as he searched for a solution. "She should be able to account for _everything_ ; she always has." He rubbed his forehead. "And you're _absolutely_ sure that there have been no changes in her physical condition that could have caused this anomaly?"

Francis shook his head. "None, sir. Her intravenous intake is normal, glucose levels are normal. Still sedated to constant REM sleep. I compared her readings this morning to those of yesterday, a week ago...almost no difference at all."

Gregory flopped down in one of the plastic laboratory chairs. "What's going on?" Then he turned back toward his companion. "Francis, could you leave me alone for a few minutes?"

Francis blinked a time or two, then remembered who he was addressing. "Sure, Mr. Caitlin; I'll just be in the monitoring room next door. Let me know if you need anything or if you're ready to leave, okay?"

Gregory nodded, watching as the technician slid his ID card and gave a fingerprint to get into the secured observation area. There were no cameras in this area of the facility; Gregory felt that the fewer records were kept, the better.

_I don't know what to do_. He had no problem admitting that to himself; before God had blessed him with _her_ , he often found himself at a loss. Whenever faced with this sort of situation, however, Gregory had a foolproof plan.

He got down on his knees and began to pray. _Please, God, help me understand. Give me the wisdom to use this gift well. Help me to see what I have not seen. Please._

Moments passed, then minutes, as Gregory knelt on the floor of the facility, listening for God's Word.

Then his eyes snapped open and he smiled. "Thank you, my Lord, for showing me the truth."

_If there was one, there have to be more. They wouldn't just leave her behind. Maybe she can't predict their actions, maybe they're too strong_.

Gregory Caitlin knocked on the observation room door. Francis cracked it open and peeked out.

"Yes, sir? Ready to go now?"

"Not quite yet, Francis. I have a few things to put on our research list." He put a hand on the scientist's shoulder. " _Deus vult._ "

# CHAPTER THREE

Sam blinked his eyes open, wincing at the bright light coming through his living room windows. _What the hell?_ He brought his arm up to shield himself from the glare. _Shouldn't be any light here till afternoon...what time is it?_

Sam sat up from the couch, head swaying, holding back the vertigo resulting from the sudden drop in blood pressure. His gorge rose, then fell, then rose again as he gripped the arm of the couch. Three empty bottles of Merlot and one of Jose Cuervo rolled off the coffee table as Sam's leg bumped into them. Bloodshot eyes stared at him from the television, the mirrors, the glasses on the counter in turn as he stumbled toward the bathroom, each step a battle with his gag reflex, a scorched earth combat where his brain was the battleground.

And the final fight, waged over the bowl of the porcelain god, was a brutal, bloody one.

Sam wiped his lips, grimacing at the sweet-sour taste in his mouth and glancing at the digital clock. 2:32. _Goddamn._ He bowed his head over the toilet again. _Guess Gonzalez is gonna throw my desk out on the lawn._ He rinsed his mouth out with peppermint Scope, spitting small chunks of his dinner from the night before into the sink with the blue foam.

A warm shower and a glass of orange juice had Sam feeling almost human about 45 minutes later. He scrubbed his teeth again before putting on his clothes for the day; his hand hovered over his work clothes, the ones he had set out for today, before passing them by and settling on a pair of sweats. As he dressed, there was a knock on his door.

_Who could that be?_ He settled his shirt over his head, ran his hands through his hair to tame it a little, and ran to his front door. His look through the peephole revealed a trim redhead smiling at him. Sam grinned. _Maybe my luck has changed_. He opened the door.

The redhead smiling at him was wearing a grey uniform, messenger hat emblazoned with a cute pair of angel's wings, and she was holding a small packet. "Telegram," she said, her voice lilting and musical. Sam laughed.

"Seriously? You guys still do those?"

The telegram girl nodded, giggling. "I just picked it up." She saluted him. "Part time job while getting through my senior year. Trying to pay for my class trip."

Sam's smile faltered. "You're...in high school?"

"Yep! Class of 2013, at your service!" She giggled again. "So, do you want your telegram?"

"Sure." Sam began rubbing his hand over his face as his headache crept in again. She held out the small packet, which he took. "Drive safe."

"Oh, don't worry; I'm on my bike." The messenger turned and jogged around the corner of Sam's garage. A moment later, she was pedaling down his driveway and out of his street.

Sam watched her leave, laughing at himself. _Nope._ _Shitty day from beginning to end._ His fingers worked the seal on the package, unwrapping the telegram. His eyes widened as he read the text.

MOTHER NEEDS YOU HOME STOP SOMETHING TO TELL YOU STOP ASK ABOUT GREAT GRANDMOTHER STOP GOOD LUCK STOP.

There was no return address, no signature, no indication of who this telegram had been sent by. Sam scratched at his stubble as he read the note again. _Great grandmother?_

As far as Sam could remember, his great grandmother had been a very strange woman; she was religious, like her daughter and granddaughter, and she would quote Bible verses in confusing ways whenever she had a piece of advice to impart to anyone, especially Sam, an only child. He remembered one particular instance that had occurred in her house in Oregon, during a rainy day as they both sat on the porch during the Thanksgiving holiday when Sam was 5.

"Exodus 22-18, Sammy; don't suffer a witch to live. But!" Here she had raised one of her calloused fingers, and Sam had seen it was covered in letters and markings, like some sort of strange tattoo. "Great King Solomon raised God's temple using spells to command the demons and the genies." She had laughed. "What do you make of that, Sammy? How do you make it make sense?"

Although only five years old at the time, Sam had still been possessed of a prodigious intelligence. He had thought about his great-grandma's question for several moments before answering. "I think it's because Solomon was using God's magic, but the witches were using bad magic."

More laughter from the old lady. " _Exactly_ what I thought you'd say." She had clapped her hands together before leaning in closer. "Don't forget this, Sammy; there is good and evil in the world, but all of that is in here," and she pointed at his head, "and in here," to his heart. "A rock can kill people, or a rock can build a house, but a rock can't be good or evil. Magic could hurt people, or it could help them; it was the magician, the sorcerer, who decided if they were working for God or not. That's what 'free will' means." She had raised Sam's chin with her fingertip, staring into his eyes. "Can you remember that, Sammy?" He had nodded.

"Sure, Gramma."

Sam wiped his eyes, the memory drawing tears. It had been over a decade since he had last seen his great grandmother; his mom had sent word a couple of years ago that she had passed away, but he had been busy with school and work and had barely noticed. Now that felt like a terrible shame. She had been eccentric, sure, even strange...but thoughts of her had the warm childhood fuzzy feeling of chocolate chip cookies in front of a fire.

Still, what could this telegram mean? Who could have sent it?

And how could they know about Sam's great grandmother?

Sam rubbed his temples, heading inside to get his extra-strength Tylenol. _What the hell is going on_? He opened the cabinet and shook out a couple of tablets. _It's like my life is...under attack...like everything is going crazy all at once._ He choked the gelcaps down with a swig of milk, grimacing at the feeling of the capsule sticking in his throat, chasing it with more milk.

Sam looked at the clock again. 3:38. Swiping his phone, he pulled up his mother's number. Hesitated over the "call" button. Pressed it.

Ring. Ring.

_She probably won't even pick up_. His heartbeat picked up and his hands were beginning to shake from the involuntary surge of adrenaline. _And anyway, who..._

_Click._ "Hello? Sam?"

"Hey, Mom. How's it going?"

"We're okay over here; your dad is getting over a cold. Won't stay in his bed, the stubborn louse."

A distant call: "Mary! How many times have I told you? I'm not stubborn!"

The reply: "So I guess you're just a louse, then?" Back to the phone. "He's all right, though, honey." A moment's pause. "So why are you calling, Sam? God knows you never call unless something important is going on, and I haven't heard from you in months."

Sam licked his lips, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks at the gentle admonishment. "Actually, Mom, I was just wondering if I could come over tonight for dinner. I don't feel like cooking and I haven't seen you two in ages."

Another pause. "Really? We'd love to see you! Gosh, I'll have to put out some good plates, get some more butter...hey, Herm! I need to run to the store to get butter!"

Unintelligible mumbles came over the line.

"Sam? Can we expect you at seven o'clock? I think I can have dinner ready by then, honey."

Sam nodded as he spoke. "Sounds good, Mom. Look forward to seeing you two. Love you."

"We love you too, Sam. Take care."

Sam pressed the red button on his phone's screen to end the call. _What am I going to say?_

He pondered the question as he got some nice clothes down, preparing the ironing board so he could spruce them up a bit. The repetitive motion of the hot iron moving over the clothing soothed his mind, like a moving meditation, relieving some of the stress of the last few days. As the seams on his shirt and pants hardened to crisp lines, he felt excited about visiting his parents again instead of nervous about it.

Before Sam knew it, it was six-thirty. He put on his clothes, belt, shoes, and hurried out the door to his car. The engine roared to life as he pulled out of his driveway, making good time as he headed toward Lancaster, about twenty miles north of his place in Acton.

Sam pulled in to his parents' place at 7:15; his mother was standing outside the garage wearing her favorite "Kiss the Cook" apron and her black-just-starting-to-go-grey hair disheveled and covered in flour. She was tapping her foot as he pulled up. "Sorry, Mom." He leapt from his car almost as soon as it had stopped and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I got caught up at home and didn't notice how late it had gotten."

Mary glowered at him for a moment or two, then her smile melted the ice and she hugged her son. "It's good to see you, Sam." She looked into his eyes as she pulled him down to her level. "Your father and I have missed you."

Sam faked a cough behind his smile. "Me too, Mom." He took an exaggerated breath in through his nose. "Is dinner ready? I'm starving!"

Mary beamed. "Of course it is! I cooked some meatloaf, and mashed potatoes, and asparagus with butter. You look like you could use a good meal, son." She poked him in the gut. "You're a bit thin, you know."

Sam laughed; he and his mom always had this conversation whenever he was over to eat. "I'm fine, Mom, really; I have a high metabolism and I exercise a lot. It burns the calories."

Mary shook her head. "I won't hear of it! No son of mine should be stranded without knowing how to cook. How are you ever going to find a girlfriend if you can't cook?"

Sam shrugged. "Good looks, nice job, decent personality?"

The two of them entered the dining room, where the dinner spread was laid out on the 6 person wooden table. "Herm, your son's home! Come eat!"

"I'm comin, I'm comin." Herman Buckland plodded through the entryway to the dining room, his purple-robe-covered stomach preceding the rest of him. Sam looked over to see his father, and his heart fell; Herman had gained at least twenty pounds since Sam had seen him last, and his skin was starting to get the papery texture and spotting of one you would consider "old."

It made Sam uncomfortable to consider his parents old, because if they got old...

Mary clapped her hands. "Now that everyone's here, we can say grace."

Sam sat on his mother's left, while his father sat across the table on Mary's right. Sam reached across the table and took his father's hand as Mary reached for Sam's.

Mary gave her son's hand a squeeze. "Sam? Would you like to say grace?"

Sam looked at her, saw the glistening in her eyes, the plaintiveness. _Please_ , that look said. He sighed and bowed his head; the others did the same.

"Bless this food we are about to eat, Father, and bless our family. Keep us in your arms and your warm, sheltering embrace. Protect your children and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. In Jesus' name, Amen."

"Amen," came the chorus from Sam's parents. Heads rose and smiles reappeared.

"Now then." Mary reached for the plate of meatloaf. "Who's hungry?"

~~~

"What did you think, honey?"

"Fantastic as ever, Mom." Sam belched as the last of the meatloaf was cleared away. "Makes me wonder why I ever moved out."

"Probably so you wouldn't have to worry about us comin' home while you were...occupied." Herman shook his head and upended the can he held, draining the dregs of his Miller Lite.

"Maybe I just didn't want to hear you and Mom going at it in the living room again."

"Boys!" Mary scowled as she returned from putting the dishes in the sink. "None of that while I'm around, thank you very much!" Both of the men subsided, grins playing on their faces as Mary finished wiping down the dining room table.

"So, what're your plans for the week, Sam?" Herman tossed his beer can into the trash. "Maybe we could make a game, or something...unless you're too busy at work."

_Busy? Not at all._ "No, not too busy, Dad. Let me know which game you want to hit and I'll see what we can do, okay?" Herman nodded, stretched, yawned.

"I don't know about you two, but I'm getting tired. Damn arthritis medication." He flexed the fingers of his right hand; the joints were swollen and red. "Anyway, Sam, make sure your mom doesn't overwork herself in that kitchen, you hear?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir; I'll get right on that." His eyes hung on the pictures on the walls, pictures of Herman and Mary's younger days: missionary trips to Africa, volunteering at soup kitchens, newspaper clippings. He smiled, then rose and headed towards the sink, which his mother was filling up with sudsy water.

"Goodnight, Herm!" Without turning, she addressed her son. "Sam, could you get that washrag over there for me? Thanks, honey."

Sam grabbed the green washcloth and turned back to his mother, lips dry, moving, but unable to make a sound.

She'll think I'm crazy! Hell, maybe I am.

"Sam?" Mary turned away from the sink. "Did you get lost over there?" Her eyes alighted on Sam's face, and the teasing smile was replaced with maternal concern. "Sam, what's wrong?"

There was a pause, and she reached for a nearby towel and began drying her hands. "Is everything all right?"

"Mom...I...I've lost my job." Her eyes widened.

"Oh, Sam! What...what happened? I thought things were going so well there..."

"They were, Mom, but..."

"Shh." She raised a hand, silencing him with a finger on his lips. "Come in the living room and talk to me about this." Mary led her son to the leather couch in front of the old-style wood-burning stove, crowned with an angel ornament on top that was blowing hot steam from its horn, and sat both of them down in front of the crackling fire burning within.

"Now then." Mary began patting Sam's back. "You just tell me everything, all right?"

So Sam did. He explained about the strange payments on Caitlin's tax returns, about the small investigation he had begun, about Mr. Gonzalez's call. Mary listened, nodding at the right places and tsk-tsking at others.

"And then," he finished, "today I got a telegram – a telegram, Mom – and it said that I was supposed to ask you about Great-Grandma Em. No signature, nothing. What the hell is going on, Mom? Who could've sent it?"

Normally, Mary Buckland would have come down on her son for using (to her mind, anyway) profanity. As he glanced her way, however, Sam saw that she wasn't looking at him, wasn't paying attention to him at all.

"...Mom?" She started violently, her eyes blinking and muscles tensing as if someone had come up behind her and hit her with an electric shock.

"Oh! Sorry, honey, I was just..." Her voice drifted with her eyes, lost somewhere in her own mind. Sam had seen this look before, and knew that his best option was to wait until she came out of it on her own.

About a minute later, she did, but her face no longer reflected a mother's concern for her child. Instead, it held a steely determination, fire in her eyes as she turned her head back toward Sam. She took both his hands in hers.

"Sam, honey, this is _very_ important. Please think, okay?"

"Sure, Mom, but..."

"Has anyone said anything strange to you...about God? Quoted Scripture? Since this thing began?"

"What?"

"The Bible, the Quran, the Torah! Told you to search for something, to find something?" Mary's eyes darted around her son's face, looking for some sign that he recognized what she was talking about. "Sam? Anything, no matter how small?"

At first Sam drew a blank; this whole situation was just so bizarre that he could not bring his brain to bear on the question.

Then, "There was this kid. Mikey. At the University...he said he was waiting for his family, that they were out looking for his sister. I remember thinking that that was very strange..."

"And?" His mother's eyes were hard, like flint or granite. "What else?"

"Um...and he told me that I needed to look in the Bible because I could find the paths I was looking for, that I needed to read between the lines." He shrugged. "Kinda got stuck in my head for a while, but I didn't find anything. Weird, huh?"

Mary put her hands to her mouth in an expression of shock and horror. She crossed herself and spoke a quick Latin prayer to the Almighty.

"Mom? Mom?!" Sam reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. "You're freaking me out here, Mom. What's going on?"

Mary opened her eyes again. They were shining with tears. "Stay here." She stood and rubbed her mouth. "I need to go, get something." Before he could respond, she was moving, rushing toward her bedroom. Sam heard a few mumbled words between his parents, then the door reopened, closed again. She returned, carrying a heavy...book? Sam took a second look as she placed the prodigious tome on the coffee table before them.

It was a book, yes, but unlike any that Sam had ever encountered. The covers looked to be a tarnished metal – silver, perhaps – with strange symbols embossed on its surface. Unable to resist, Sam ran his hand across the sigils, wondering what they could mean. As his fingers grazed the six-pointed star in the center, his mind was filled with

( _blinding rushing light_ )

a strange sensation which left him dizzy for a few moments. He glanced over to his mother, who was watching him, watching his face. The silence stretched.

"Mom...what is this?" His eyes strayed to the cover, fingers itching to touch it again. Mary licked her lips, searching for the words.

"This...these...are the Seals of Solomon." She paused, waiting for a response. What she got was dumbstruck incredulity.

"Wh...what?"

"The same magics that the Great King Solomon used to bind the angels, the demons, the genii are in this book." She patted the cover. "Handed down for thousands of years in oral tradition until it was transcribed in text form in the late 1000s AD." She smiled. "We have had it since, we Bucklands, caring for it, protecting it, using it when necessary."

"You...you're trying to tell me that my family is...what? Some sort of sect of holy wizards?" Sam looked from the book to her face, hoping to see his mother laugh at this ridiculous suggestion. To his horror, she did not – she nodded instead.

"Exactly. Each generation the Seals pass down to the eldest child. I was the eldest, as was your grandmother and your great-grandmother."

Sam looked down. Started to chuckle. "Seriously, Mom?" he asked between laughs. "You really think you're...we're...some emissary from God? That some omnipotent power needs us to do His work? That we're using 'holy' magic to do His will?" He leaned forward. "I hate to break it to you, Mom, but there _is_ no God."

The sound of her hand crossing his face was crisp, shattering the night air like a gunshot.

"You will _never_ say those words in my house again, young man."

Sam took three deep breaths and stood. He headed for the door, turning back as he opened it and stood upon the threshold.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry that you can't see, for the blindness in your eyes put there by your parents, and theirs, and theirs. I wish I could make you see that we don't need some sort of ephemeral God to be special – we're special enough the way we are."

"Get out."

Mary was sitting with her hands on the silver cover of the book, tears running down her face, leaving trails on her cheeks. Sam bowed his head, closing the door.

_Damn fool_. _What'd you say that for? You know better._

He looked at the door, wrestling with himself. Then he turned the ignition.

"I'll apologize tomorrow."

He put his car into reverse.

"Tomorrow."

~~~

Gregory Caitlin stepped out of the recording studio, sighing. Since he had announced his candidacy for governor, he had received hundreds of requests for interviews, talk show spots, radio programs. Although it strained his schedule to the limit – and his sleep as well – he did his best to make every appearance he could. Others thought that it was because he was fighting an uphill, probably hopeless, battle against an incumbent Democrat in California.

Gregory knew better. The Governor was competent, to be sure, but Gregory knew where his weaknesses were, knew exactly what he had to say, to do, to change the awe and reverence that most had for the rags-to-riches story of Gregory Caitlin into support and respect for his gubernatorial bid.

One of Gregory's phones began to ring. He recognized the tone immediately – this came from the Special Research Division.

"Caitlin."

A series of machine sounds as the line was encrypted, then – "Mr. Caitlin, this is Francis, SRD tech? Can you talk?"

Gregory opened the door to his Lincoln Town Car, rolled up the windows. Started the engine. "Okay." He hooked up his hands-free device. "Go ahead."

"Sir, we got an answer to one of your standing queries. It looks like the 'first copy' is 'in circulation,' and that it 'remains in the line,' although it has been 'rejected by the heir.'" A pause. "Does any of that make sense to you, sir?"

Gregory had a grim smile on his face. "Yes, it does, Francis. Thank you. I'll be contacting you later today with further instructions. Keep up the good work. _Deus vult._ "

"Thank you, sir. _Deus vult_."

The line went dead and Gregory let himself sigh in relief. When God had revealed to him the secret which he had used to catalyze his fantastic success, Gregory had been told that his copy had a "twin" somewhere. When he had received this revelation, the first thing he had asked his new research division was where he could find the other. The answer had been unclear, in contrast to the more basic questions which had been easily resolved.

The response had been: "Sealed by their Keepers, the Keys wait for the heir."

And nothing further.

Until now. Gregory drummed his fingers on the dashboard as traffic guided him to his exit, awaiting the telltale tone which would alert him to an email. It arrived as he was crossing 40th Street.

Pausing at the next light, Gregory opened up his secure mail to read two words.

Emily Buckland.

# INTERLUDE

"He isn't ready, Lord."

Why do you say this, my son?

"He actively rejects Your Word, Your Presence, Your very existence. He does not model heroism, or charity, or forbearance. He is afraid of what he has become, and of what must be done. How can we trust him to continue?"

The days of prophets have long passed, my son. There are few among humanity now who would accept such a destiny without hesitation. This cannot be held against them.

"His mother would have been a better choice. She would have served without doubt, without the same reservations in her soul."

Mary's time has passed. The legacy must pass to her heir; this is how it has always been.

"But he has always been overly concerned with material things, with himself. His pride is powerful, Lord; what if that pride drives him to misuse Your gift?"

Solomon was proud, but he was also wise. Wisdom is what must determine the worthiness of his heirs as well.

"With respect, Lord, I invoke my right as accuser. Allow me to go down and test the young man. Allow me to tempt him, to judge his worthiness to wield Your power."

So be it.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Sam looked around the strange room he had appeared in. It was dark, but he could detect a small amount of light filtering through the glazed glass high on the walls.

Sam's eyes were wide as he pivoted on the spot, taking in the computer banks against the walls, several monitors giving readouts of...well, it looked like a medical observation room, with EKG readouts, heart rate, temperature, blood pH and hemoglobin levels, everything.

As his gaze reached the third wall, Sam gasped, his breath and his reason lost in the horror of what he was seeing.

Upon the wall hung a young girl, maybe ten or eleven. Cloth that may have been whole once was in rags over her body, affording her little modesty. The girl was chained, held against the wall by manacles locked around her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were glassy and her cracked lips moved as if she were trying to speak in her semi-consciousness, but no sound escaped them.

Sam stepped closer, one footfall at a time, noting the IVs lodged in both arms, the shaved head covered in electrodes, the catheter disappearing under her rags and vials of blood being filled for analysis.

He stopped in front of the girl, looking at her chains for a way to release them, looking at her face for recognition. Her eyes passed over him again and again, her blinks languid and slow, no awareness on her face.

Sam tugged on the chains imbedded in the concrete blocks of the wall. "Who did this to you?"

"I see you've found my sister."

Sam spun to see the form of Mikey, Lakers T-shirt and ballcap, looking up at him from three paces away.

"You said you'd tell me if you found her, Samuel."

"H...how...what?" Sam's face turned one way, then the other, his mind reeling from the absurdity, the madness.

_I'm dreaming_. "This is a dream, Mikey. I'm dreaming."

Mikey nodded, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. "Maybe you are." He opened one hand, palm upward. "Prophets once saw God's will in dreams, you know. Did the fact that they were dreams invalidate their truth?"

Sam looked back as the emaciated figure on the wall took a ragged breath. "I don't need to indulge this, Mikey. You're just a figment of my imagination, probably because I feel bad about that fight I had with my mother last night."

Mikey seemed to consider this, eyes down, nodding at his own thoughts. His head came back up after a few moments.

"I'm sorry." A tear glistened in his eye. "We can't let you go. Not yet. She needs you." The boy laid a hand on Sam's, patting the back of his wrist.

"When you wake up, Sam...don't blame God." Then, as people in dreams do, he vanished. Sam blinked, turned, and then, as also happens in dreams, the room was bathed in fire. The fire consumed the space; the equipment went up, sending sparks flying. The girl seemed to smile as her flesh cracked and turned to ash, ash that was blown about in the heated air.

The flames reached Sam, who was standing incredulous, and a tongue of fire lashed across the back of his hand, leaving a burn the shape of a crescent moon on his skin. He shrieked in pain

( _dreams aren't supposed to hurt_ )

and closed his eyes as he felt the fire closing in on him, searing his flesh, singeing his nose hairs.

_Wake up, wake up, wake up!_ Fear flooded his brain with briny terror. _Wake up!_

The fire caught Sam in its fingers, and he screamed.

~~~

The sheets held him in place for several seconds after he awoke screaming; he was tangled in them, but after some effort he was able to escape. His muscles were coated in sweat, and the bed was soaked with it. His breath coming fast, Sam glanced at the clock.

7:18.

_No way I'm going back to sleep_ now. He rubbed his eyes, then headed toward the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. As he looked in the mirror, admiring the fatigue under his eyes and the sallow cast to his skin, he turned on the water and ran it over his hands.

"Ouch!" He yanked his right hand away from the water, surprised by the stinging which had hit him. His eyes were dinner plates as he looked at that hand, and he shook his head back and forth, mouthing No, no, no.

There was a crescent shaped burn mark on the back of his hand.

"It's...it's not possible." Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision, his sanity teetered on the edge of a chasm, a breath away from saying "Goodbye, cruel world!" and plunging down.

Sam tried to hold on to his fundamental beliefs, the idea that everything could be explained, that there was no metaphysical, no supernatural. He dug in his mind's fingers, but there was little purchase to be found – there was nothing in, or near, his bed which could have caused that kind of burn.

_Maybe I was sleepwalking?_ His mind was racing, scenarios playing out within, alternatives presented for approval. _And I turned on the stove...and burned myself on something?_

_Good thought._ The other voice in his mind was cynical, almost mocking his panic. _You don't sleepwalk. You key-lock your door every night. You were tangled in sheets, and this is a_ fire _burn, jackass, not a_ heat _burn._

But...but...

Samuel Buckland began to cry. It was too much. _This can't be happening. This really happened. I want to forget it. I can't forget it. Ever._

~~~

Somehow, Sam managed to dress himself, shave, brush his teeth. Even though the world within him was suffering its own form of apocalypse, the world outside had kept spinning, and habits and routines too far ingrained had taken over in the absence of rational thought. He was halfway to his car before he realized that he had been preparing to go to work...to a job he didn't have anymore.

Sam rubbed his open mouth, fighting back the panic and its accompanying nausea for the umpteenth time that morning. He was paralyzed by the contradiction in his soul – the burn was there (he checked again) but could not be, unless...but no, that was impossible. Except for the evidence in front of him.

He lost twenty minutes to this koan, this impossible quandary.

Then the slamming of a car door in the driveway pulled him from his reverie, fishing him from the oceans of madness like a life preserver thrown before him.

A portly police officer stepped out of his city cruiser, adjusting his tinted glasses in the sunlight. He shifted his pants and strode toward where Sam was standing.

"Sir? You all right?" The deputy looked him up and down. "You looked a little...out of it when we pulled up."

Sam shook his head, fighting the tears which had begun to sting his eyes. "I'm fine, officer. What's going on?"

"Are you Samuel Buckland?"

"Yes."

"Sir," said the cop, drawing himself up and dropping into the formal language of a bearer of bad news, "I am sorry to inform you that about two hours ago, your mother and father were found dead in their home."

Sam stared a second, then laughed. The cop blinked behind his glasses. "There something funny about your parents being dead, son?"

Sam shook his head. "No sir." He fought to suppress the manic giggling. "But at this point, if I don't laugh, I'm going to fucking kill myself."

The officer started to comment, then shrugged, opening the notepad he held. "I have to ask you to come in and identify the bodies, and to answer some routine questions – whereabouts, enemies, valuables, that sort of thing." He closed the pad, looking back at Sam. "Do you have any questions?"

"How did they die?" The tears had started leaking down one side of his face, although the smile still held its ground.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Buckland, but that information will have to wait until we reach the station. If you'll follow me?"

"Is it all right if I take my own...you know what? Never mind; I could use the ride."

The deputy opened the back of the cruiser, and Sam climbed in, leaning his head against the window when the door closed.

~~~

The ride to the police station was uneventful, or so Sam thought; he had fallen into a dreamless sleep on the way, only awakening when the car pulled in to the parking lot.

The questions were, indeed, routine; there were neighbors who swore that Sam's car, a rather distinctive one, had been in his driveway all night. None of the interrogators seemed serious about the idea of Sam's involvement. When they asked Sam if his parents had any enemies, anyone who would want to hurt them, however, he asked _them_ a question.

"When you searched the house...did you find...find a..." He rubbed his temples; he couldn't believe he was about to ask this. "...a silver book, kind of tarnished, embossed?" The interrogator, a young black detective with bad teeth and a scar above his left eye, glanced through his notes.

"No." His eyes pierced into Sam's. "Should we have?"

Sam sighed. "My mom showed me that last night. It was..." Sam paused for just a moment; he had been about to say _a book of holy magic_ , which probably wouldn't have gone over so well, so he diverted mid-stream: "...a family secret, an heirloom, something that was special to us. I think maybe that was what they were after, if it's missing."

The detective nodded, scribbling on his pad. "How much would you say this book is worth?"

Sam laughed, spreading his hands. "I don't know. A few pounds of silver in the covers, I guess. The designs were well done. A couple thousand dollars?"

Another nod. "Thank you, Mr. Buckland. You've been very helpful. If you come with me, I'd like you to identify your parent's bodies. It's just a formality, we have photo ID and such, so if you would rather not..."

"No, no." Sam stood, bracing himself on the back of the chair. "I think I should. There's something I need to say to my mother anyway."

"Very good." The detective nodded and rose, opening the door out of the interrogation room and motioning for the grieving man to follow him.

During the walk down to the morgue, Sam took no notice of the bleak walls or the harsh lighting, nor the police or investigators in the halls. His mind was blank, unable to hold a single thought long enough for it to register. Before he knew it, Sam was looking into the pale faces of his mother and his father.

His father looked to have gone quickly, with a single bullet in his forehead and his eyes closed. His mother, however, was a different story; she was shot in no fewer than 4 places that Sam could see, her face frozen in a hard mask of anger. He heard the question of "are these your parents" as if from a long hallway, and his head moved itself, nodding without his consent.

"She died fighting." Gum snapped in the coroner's mouth as she drew the sheet back over Mary's body. "She got some good burns on her hands; the CSIs said they found her collapsed next to the wood-burning stove. She crawled there after being shot like four or five times, I think." She glanced up at Sam, looking at his face for a reaction. "Hey, are you doing okay? I'd rather you didn't throw up in my morgue; it takes forever to clean up." Sam's head panned up to look at her, his eyes glazed, blank...dead.

"No, I'm fine." His head pivoted back to face his parents. "I think I just need some rest. Excuse me." Sam plodded out of the morgue, feet shuffling as he swayed side-to-side.

The aide watched him leave. "With a look like that on his face, you'd think that he killed her." The coroner shrugged.

"Nah." She spat out the gum into the trash can, then began putting on her face mask and preparing the tools for the autopsy. "Seen enough of them to know; the guilty ones never _look_ guilty, Maxwell."

~~~

Sam sat in one of the lobby chairs, mind spiraling in on itself. His mother and father were dead. Whoever did it was after that secret, the book. The book was gone. Mom said the book was magic. There was no magic. The burn was still on his hand. There might be magic.

He clutched his hands to his head and sobbed. "What do I do now?" The officers and civilians passing through the lobby made a point of looking away from him. "What do I do?"

_One thing at a time,_ the cold, rational part of his brain ( _wow, I still have that?)_ reminded him. _Funeral arrangements. The house. The inheritance._

Sam recoiled at the mercenary nature of that voice, the emotionless tone it spoke with...but he knew it was right. These things needed to be handled so that he could move on to other, deeper...but no, it was a bad idea to start thinking about _that_ again.

Sam pulled out his phone, stared at it, and called his lawyer's number. He answered after two rings.

"Hey, Sam! What can I do for you?"

"My parents are dead, Leo."

A pause.

"Oh...oh, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"They were murdered."

"You sure? Not that I want to cast doubt, but..."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Bullets kind of make it obvious."

"Okay then." There was a shuffle of paper on the other end of the line. "I can get everything started right away, if that's what you want."

"Yeah. If you could do that, I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem, Sam." A few moments hesitation. "Hey, do you need someone to stay with you for a few days? Take care of you?"

Sam laughed. "No, I don't think anyone can take care of me right now, Leo. Thanks anyway."

"Okay then, Sam. Be safe, all right?"

"Yeah. You too."

Sam hung up the phone, feeling the insanity of the day threatening to collapse in on him once again. He struggled to his feet, asking the desk clerk to call him a cab, then headed out the doors to the street. His legs refused to hold him anymore as he sat on the sidewalk, head between his knees, tears rolling down his face. He had forgotten to say he was sorry. He would never get that chance again.

Beep beep!

Sam looked up to see a taxi pulling up; a shiny new one, by the look, with a well-dressed black gentleman in the front. Sam stood on shaky legs and hobbled to the door, opening it and climbing inside.

"Where to, sir?" The driver glanced up at Sam's face in the mirror.

"Doesn't really matter."

"Didn't catch that."

"Home." Sam raised his voice. "17458 Walnut."

"No sweat." The cabbie flicked the turn signal on. "Do you want the radio, or are you just in the mood for vegging out on the way?"

"Whatever works for you, man. I just need to get home."

"You got it, boss."

The cab pulled away from the curb into traffic. Once again, Sam lost track of time, mired in his thoughts, mind splintering like sand dunes in a tornado. His left hand touched the burn on his right. Still there.

Could she be right? She says that there's magic and then I get this burn? Could there be a connection? Could there...

"Hey, Mister? We're here. Tab's eighteen-fifty."

A moment of lag before Sam was able to respond, pulling out a twenty and a ten. "Keep it,"

"Hey, thanks, Mister! You need me, you just give me a call, all right? Here's my card; name's George. George, you ask for me, all right?"

"Yeah. No problem, George." He waved off-hand to the cabbie, opened the door to his house, stepped in.

_Everything made sense when I went to bed last night._ He glanced at the clock. 5:16 p.m. _Less than twelve hours after waking up and nothing makes sense anymore._

Sam collapsed in his easy chair, arms splayed, hands dangling over the sides. One of those hands brushed something leather. Without looking, he picked it up, brought it to him.

The King James Bible.

Sam blinked. _Did I leave that here?_ He couldn't remember, wasn't sure. He thumbed through the pages, thinking of his mother. She always used to read him a verse or two before bed, then sit with him in the Lord's Prayer.

Tears again, a never-ending supply. Infinite regret that the last words she had said to him were "Get out." That they had parted in anger.

And then the dream. That girl...and Mikey, who showed up right when everything started. The fire. The burn.

Sam closed the book again. _If there is a God,_ _He needs to go fuck himself._ Then he giggled at the absurd image of an almighty deity committing impossible acts.

These images were still in his mind as he fell asleep in the chair.

~~~

Gregory Caitlin's campaign went well over the next week. He appeared on national news spots, toured important cities in California, held rallies all over the state. Despite what the political pundits were saying, the statewide polls were beginning to show Caitlin surging forward, commanding 22% of the popular vote. His likeability ratings were high, and trustworthiness rivaled that of the great politicians of old.

Gregory returned home from yet another successful rally; supporters had donated another fifty thousand at the event itself, and over one hundred thousand was pledged. His campaign manager, a normally soft-spoken woman named Stephanie Bartlett, had been hiring like crazy trying to keep up with the workload and expand the offices into new cities, new counties.

Susan greeted Gregory at the door with a "Happy Birthday!" Confetti flew as family friends congratulated him, tickled by the surprised look on his face as the shouts came down. Gregory smiled and hugged Susan to him; these were his friends, and these were the people he was going to be representing as Governor of California.

After a few party games – Blindman's Bluff, Pictionary, Taboo – Gregory called everyone to attention. The yard quieted down as he stood atop a poolside table outside.

"First off, I'd like to thank everyone for coming, but I'm sure the wonderful food that my wife has prepared did that for me." Laughs all around; Gregory waited a few moments for the crowd to settle again. "Seriously, though, thanks, everyone, for your friendship, your faith, and your encouragement. It's because of you that I'm doing what I'm doing; God gave me the ability, but you gave me the motivation, the purpose."

He raised his hands as well as his voice. "You need to understand that I take what I'm doing seriously. I have a bunch of stump speeches that I've worked on; I'm not going to give you one of them. Instead, I want you to know that I'm willing to do anything, risk anything, to give this state, this country, this planet, the chance at happiness that it deserves. Together we can do it. _Deus vult._ God wills it."

Applause and cheers erupted from the partygoers. As Gregory stepped down from his perch, he received thumps on the back, handshakes, hugs. Susan beamed at him as he came back up to her side.

"Nice work, honey." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's no wonder you're tearing this race up."

Gregory smiled. "It's easy when you know what to say."

~~~

# CHAPTER FIVE

Sam found himself in the same room as before – dark, computer monitors everywhere – and the girl on the wall was still there as well. If anything, she looked worse, more emaciated, her head rolling back and forth on her limp neck. Sam went to her chains, searching for a keyhole amidst the strange carvings on the metal, but he found none.

"How do I save you?" His fingers clawed at the bindings, seeking an answer in the steel. "What do I do?"

The girl's mouth continued moving. Sam leaned in as close as he could, trying to catch something, anything she was saying. He heard nothing.

"She can't talk to you, Sam." Mikey was, as always, standing next to the door to the room. "She knows you're here, of course, but she can't talk to you, can't say anything except what she's been told to say." He shook his head. "No one should be trapped like this."

"How do I help? How do I save her?"

Mikey frowned. "If you can't take the first step, then I can't show you the second."

Sam shook his head, fell to his knees. "Help me! I don't know what to do!"

Mikey leaned in. "You're asking the wrong person."

~~~

TWO WEEKS LATER

The same dream. The same dream for two weeks. Although it wasn't a dream, not really, was it, Sam? The actors may have been different, sure; dream figments over real... _things_...but it was real, wasn't it? Somehow, someway, it was real.

The funeral arrangements had been a blessing for him; they had enabled Sam to function in a manner accepted by society at large: grief-stricken, upset, but understood. Sam could move among people who _didn't_ know that there were dreams where you could burn yourself and see it when you woke up, where people spoke to you and told you things you needed to do and where you knew that they were right, that they were real.

Every night, Sam came home, and he knew what was coming. He would put off sleep for as long as possible, watching comedy films, reading books, exercising. Eventually, Morpheus would claim him, carrying him off to this Hell to spend his night. He had tried everything; reading books on lucid dreaming, controlling one's dreams. He had created blowtorches, metal saws, grenades; the chains were unscratched, the walls unbroken. He had created police, fire, search and rescue to find her. Even when right in front of her face, they failed to see her. He had tried to enhance himself, make himself stronger, give himself powers. They worked on everything _except_ when he tried to free the girl. And each time, Mikey was there, that kid, telling him in his sweet young voice that he needed to "take the first step."

Sam sat up from the couch. He was, as always, soaked in cold sweat; he had taken to sleeping in only underwear to keep his nightclothes from turning into laundry material every morning. He plodded to the kitchen, poured himself a bowl of Cheerios; he had no appetite, but he knew, intellectually, that if he didn't eat he would fall asleep more quickly.

His home phone rang. He ignored it. He finished his cereal and added the bowl to the growing mound of filth in his sink. He didn't see it.

Sam's mind continually replayed the dream, only stopping when something in the real world demanded his attention, as had the interment of his mother and father in the earth. He had already been having the dream by then, of course, and he would still lapse into periods in which there was no "real," only the dream playing itself out for him again and again.

This had happened when the priest was saying the prayers over the coffins before they had gone into the ground. Sam had lost track of the platitudes, the words meant to comfort with thoughts of the eternal life which awaited Mary and Herman Buckland, words that would have fallen on empty ears two weeks ago, and words that were simply unheard that day.

At the end of his sermon, the priest had asked Sam if he wanted to say anything. Sam did not hear him; it wasn't until someone else had nudged him in the stomach with an elbow that Sam realized that the real world still existed and came back to his senses. Still, just for a moment, he had seen Mikey, crouched on his mother's coffin, staring at him with eyes that should not have belonged to a child, deep and wise.

Then he was gone, and Sam could see no evidence that he had been there. If he had, someone would have said something, after all; even in a world as crazy as this one was, children didn't just appear and vanish, only seen by one person.

Did they?

Sam crashed back into his easy chair for what felt like the thousandth time in the last two weeks. He picked up the Bible which rested on the table nearby and leafed through it again. After his mother's death, Sam had thrown himself into the book, hoping that, perhaps, there was _something_ in it, something that would show him what his mother had meant, what Mikey had meant. Some sort of hidden message imbedded just for him, perhaps, or a piece of wisdom that would speak to him. He had found no such thing.

The previously brand-new book was now well-used, its pages dog-eared, highlighted, nonsense scribbles in the margins made during periods of sleeplessness as his beleaguered mind sought some connection to what had happened. Sam wanted, _needed_ for this book to make sense, for his mind to accept it, to find something to put his faith into so that he could just believe everything would be all right, but as he looked and looked deeper there was just madness, myths, legends, stories that could never be proven, attempts by mankind to justify atrocities like stoning and war with divine authority.

And yet...Sam sighed, pressing the cover of the King James to his head, closing his eyes. It _had_ to be here, something kept calling him here...

_Yeah, right_ , he thought for the umpteenth time since this had all started. _You mean it's because an eight-year-old kid told you to look in here. Because we all know how wise eight-year-olds are._

Sam was startled back into wakefulness by the doorbell. As he rose, he glanced up at the clock; he had just lost two hours, two hours since he sat in that chair. _I'm not just losing time_ , _I'm losing my mind_.

It was not the first time he had thought this.

He shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole to see Mr. Gonzalez, his old boss.

_What's he doing here?_ He opened the door. "Mr. Gonzalez, what can I do for you?"

Gonzalez gave Sam a once-over, then whistled. "You look like you've been to Hell and back, son." His eyes were soft. "I know it might seem a little...strange, coming from the man that gave you your walking papers, but I wanted to let you know that I'm here for you. That wasn't anything personal, you understand; just business." Gonzalez spread his hands and laughed. "I have bosses too, you know."

Sam laughed; it was a weak, wheezy sound, indicative of the weariness behind it. "I know all about that, I do. I'd invite you in, but the place is...well, let's just say I haven't really had time to fix it up since..."

Gonzalez shook his head. "No, no, Sam, that's all right. I understand completely. In fact..." He glanced from side to side. "A few years back I went through some...troubles like that, you know. Grief. Depression. Thought about ending it all."

Sam's interest picked his chin up a bit. "What stopped you?"

Gonzalez smiled. "I found a really good counselor. Good man. Understands what we're going through. Understands grief. He talked me down, helped me realize that I would heal, the heart heals eventually, you know? Showed me how to channel my grief into something productive, something useful." Gonzalez fidgeted, then cleared his throat. "I could...ah...I could give you his number, if you want. You could talk to him, schedule an appointment, see if there's anything he could help you with."

At first, Sam was about to say _No, thank you, but a shrink isn't really going to help me cope in this world where dreams can hurt you_ , but then he reconsidered. Maybe a psychiatrist would know something about this. Maybe there _was_ a rational explanation after all. Maybe...

"Sure, just let me get a pen." Sam dove into the pockets of his robe, looking for an inkpen that he may or may not have dropped in there sometime in the last couple of weeks (he just didn't know for sure, honestly), when his hand brushed something. It felt like a tassel.

Sam looked down at his pocket as he pulled the tassel out. An oblong shape. Laminated. He flipped it over to the white surface, where something was written.

"May God light your way when you are lost. Love, Mom." His blood went cold, then hot.

"Sam? Sam?"

Sam did not hear his old boss; his mind was keener than it had been in weeks, as if he had slept for days and awoke prepared, ready for an important meeting, an important performance, an important _something_ that had now arrived. He turned the bookmark over.

The archangel Gabriel, blowing his trumpet.

His trumpet!

Without a word, Sam pushed by Mr. Gonzalez and was in his car before he remembered that the keys were still inside. Mr. Gonzalez called after him. "Sam? Sam, what's going on? Are you all right?"

"Go away." Sam heard himself speaking as he walked through his door again to retrieve his keys. "Everything's fine. I have something I need to do now."

"But..."

Sam grabbed the keys off the shelf beside the sink. Turned around. Walked back out. Left the door open as he left. "It's all right, Mr. Gonzalez. I'll talk to you later." He got back in the car. Turned the key.

"Hey, Sam! You're scaring me...is everything okay? Really?"

Sam laughed, looked right at Gonzalez. "I said almost that same thing to my mom the last time I saw her. Nothing's been all right since."

He pulled out of his driveway, tires squealing as he drove off, toward the house that used to belong to his mother.

~~~

Samuel Buckland turned into the entryway to the home he had been born to. His parents had owned it outright, and he knew that when the will was settled it would be his. Not that he had ever cared before; he had his own place now, after all. Still, after what had happened, it was a sort of comfort that this place...

Sam shook his head. This house was where his parents had died, as well. No time for this, anyway. _Things to do._

He leapt out of the car almost before shutting down the engine. Ducking under the police tape, Sam pulled out the pocket knife attached to his keys as he approached the door. He sliced the "Crime Scene Do Not Enter" that sealed the door and pushed it open.

The house was still a mess. Because no one lived in the place anymore, the authorities had asked Sam if they could delay sending in the cleanup crew in order to have more time with it in its "original state." Sam had agreed, unable to deal with the idea of some stranger washing his parents' blood from the walls and the sheets. And lo and behold, there it was, and it stopped him in his tracks.

His head turned left and he saw the couch where he had left his mother, crying over her son's betrayal; there was something important she tried to tell him, but he had let his ego, his stubborn refusal to...not believe, not then, and not to let _her_ believe...get in the way.

_How would things have been different if I had let her say her piece?_ He walked toward that couch, fingers trailing over the cushions.. There were bloodstains here as well, covering the wall behind, coating the new holes in the leather. Bullet holes.

_She was shot sitting here._ In his mind's eye, he could see her, still crying, looking up as the attacker stormed in the house and leveled the gun. _How long after I left? If I had been here, would they have killed me too? Were they waiting for me to leave?_

Sam let his fingers run over the dried blood. "I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered. "I didn't want to hurt you. I never imagined that...that I wouldn't get to apologize." Tears dripped from his face, turning crimson as they hit Mary's last legacy. Sam wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, followed the bloodstains with them. Then turned.

Turned toward the wood-burning stove. The one with the angel figurine on it.

The figurine with a trumpet. Gabriel. Streaked bloody red, as if by fingers grasping him, holding onto him for strength...or leverage.

"May God light your way when you are lost." In his ears, the words had echoed with prophetic truth, with more meaning than their own. "And how does one light their way...?" He reached over, turned the handle on the stove's door, inhaled, and opened it. His heart sank.

There was nothing but ash inside. Soft and white, remnants of cheery fires once upon a time, never again to be lit by the two who had lived here, loved here, raised a son here. Sam shook his head, growling as he did so, shoving those thoughts from his mind.

"It has to be here." Anger swelled in his heart. "I know it is, something, something HAS to be here!"

Heedless of the mess he was causing, he dug his hands into the ash, scooping huge chunks of it, piles of it, out of the way, imagining his mother doing the same. Burns on her hands. Burns from the fire that was lit.

His hands hit metal. Smooth metal, with raised bumps. He wrapped his hands around its edges and pulled it out, dusting it off as he did so.

There it was. The book his mother had wanted to show him; the book that she had, perhaps, died for. What had she called it, again?

"The Seals of Solomon." He flipped some of the pages; they were not paper, as one would normally expect, but instead a soft, white cloth, with the writing and drawings painted on.

"Why, Mom?" His voice was a whisper, soft, subdued. "What was so important about this book? Why would someone want to kill you for it?"

Sam sat down on the couch, the very spot where his mother had sat with this book in the first place, and opened it to the first page. He looked on the inside of the front cover.

More of that fabric had been attached to the inside of the metal, and, upon it, there was a series of names. Each name had a birthdate next to it, and some were circled, about every fourth or fifth name. The inside cover was full of them, and, as Sam glanced over them, he saw something interesting near the end.

The fourth name from the end was Emily Buckland. His great-grandmother. Her name was circled. Then came his grandmother's name, and then his mother's, Mary. Neither of those were circled.

Then, in Mary's delicate hand, was Sam's full name, Samuel Laurence Buckland, January 20, 1990. Twenty-three years ago, his mother had written his name in this book, knowing it would one day go to him.

Without thinking about it, Sam reached over into the duck-shaped writing tray on the table beside the couch and retrieved a pen. Shaking, he put the pen to the inside cover.

And circled his own name.

Oh, God. Whatever this is, I guess I'm in it. I guess I've been in it all along.

Sam didn't know what he was expecting - a fountain of light, angels in a chorus, some sort of recognition from the Powers That Be that he had just taken a giant leap away from his good senses into the world of magic madness - but there was none. Instead, he felt a great calm, a peace fill his mind, as if what he had done was the right and proper thing, indeed, the _only_ thing, that one could do in these circumstances.

The feeling was so strong that Sam could feel his eyes drooping, his consciousness drifting away into sleep. He tried to fight it, tried not to succumb to the dreams again...

And then he was gone.

~~~

"What do you mean, 'going crazy'?"

"Well, sir." Francis licked his lips, wiped his glasses on his shirt and replaced them on his face. "She's just started repeating the same thing over and over and it has nothing to do with any of our queries."

Gregory shook his head, rubbed his temples. "What is she saying, then?"

"Just...hold on." He consulted his notes again. "Her exact words are 'Solomon's heir stands.' That's all she's said for the last twelve hours."

Gregory stopped, looked up, eyes widening. "But...they're all...unless..."

"Dr. Goldman?" came a voice over the intercom. "We're back to normal responses; everything leveled off all at once and data is nominal."

Francis stepped to the intercom switch and toggled it. "All right; I want detailed analysis of the hour before the event and I want us to keep close watch for at least the next twelve hours; I want to know what caused this and how we can keep it from happening again."

"Yes, Doctor." _Click._

Francis rubbed the balding spot on his head, wiping sweat. "I don't know, sir...it seems like, maybe, things are falling apart...maybe we should think about shutting down. Just for a while, you know? Just to check everything out?"

Gregory shook his head. "I can't afford that, Francis. There are too many things going on and I need her insight, I need her vision. She's helping me make a better world for everyone, Dr. Goldman, and I don't plan to sacrifice that. Not for anyone. Make it work; keep her online. That's what I'm paying you for, isn't it?"

Francis nodded, retreating back into the safety of his work station. "Yes, Mr. Caitlin. It's no problem. I should have an update for you in the next 6 hours."

"Good."

# CHAPTER SIX

Sam opened his eyes as he regained consciousness. The world swam before him for a few moments before falling back into cohesiveness, the blurry outlines of his parents' furniture hardening into solid figures again.

Sam stretched, a smile that had not been there for weeks playing on his face. He felt like he had just awakened from a nice long nap. Best of all, there had been no nightmares for the first time since the dream fire had burned him. It was wonderful.

Then his outstretched hand bumped into something on the couch next to him. It was warm and pliable. His head snapped to the left, looking for the unexpected object.

It was not an object at all, but a person. She smiled at him, her gleaming teeth matching the shimmering white dress and wrap she wore. Her face was gently lined, smile marks of a thousand thousand joys and just as many worries clearly mapped across her brow, her cheeks, and at the corners of her loving grey eyes.

"Great-grandma." Sam brought his hand up to touch her cheek. It was warm. "Is it you? Am...am I dead?"

Emily laughed, the sound ringing through the room. "No, Sam." Her voice was clear, without the scratching of age that it had held before. "You're not dead; far from it, in fact. I know that you have questions, and, unfortunately, I can't answer all of them."

"Why, Gramma?" He found himself reverting to the term he had called her in his youth. "I don't understand...what's going on here? Is...was Mom...telling the truth?" His eyes searched hers. She nodded.

"Yes, Sam; our family are the descendants of King Solomon's legacy, if not the man himself. We serve God as he did so long ago...with the same magic he used." She nodded toward the book. "All of which is in that text."

"But, why wasn't I told? Why did you, Grandma, my mom, keep this from me? Why didn't you tell me?"

Emily laughed. "You weren't ready. You weren't ready when we _did_ tell you, Sam; it took over two weeks to get you to the point where you were even able to consider the possibility. If you hadn't been called, Sammy, your mother would have told you on your twenty-fifth birthday; there would have been a demonstration, where Mary would have done a few conjurations, summonings, proven what this is about, then given you the history, and you would have passed it down to your children, and so on."

"If I hadn't been called? What do you mean, 'called'?" He turned in his seat to better face this vision of his great-grandmother.

"God has called you, Sam. He has sent messages which the learned," and here she winked at Sam, "meaning 'us,' recognized. He sent them to you, Sam, showing that it was meant to be you that fought for him this time." She laughed again, but this time the sound was tinged with sadness. "I would congratulate you, but you're going to be put through Hell before you can come out the other side, and, for that, I'm sorry, Sam."

"Do...do I get a choice?"

Emily leaned forward and covered Sam's hand with her own.

"You already did, Sam. You circled your name, you agreed to be God's agent." Sam began to protest, but Emily cut him off. "And don't say you didn't know what you were getting into, young man. You knew very well that you were handing this over to God."

Sam sputtered a bit, nodded. "But what if I walk away?"

She sighed. "You could do that. That would break the chain of succession, allow the forces of evil to take control of matters. Lead to...well, bad things, Sam. Bad things."

Sam shivered, despite the warm weather. "Gramma, I just...I just..."

"Shh...I know, Sam. I know. I can't tell you much more, except that everything you need in order to do this is in that book, and that you need to help Mikey."

Sam's head shot back up. "Mikey? The little kid?"

"He's not just any 'little kid,' Sam. He's...special. Keep him safe. Pay attention to what he says. Okay?"

Sam nodded. "Is this goodbye again, Gramma? Because if it is, I wanted to say that..I...I'm sorry." His eyes clouded with tears. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you..."

"When I died?" Emily smiled. "What're you worrying about, silly? As you can see, I'm fine. Dying doesn't end anything, not really." She leaned over and kissed Sam on the forehead. "Goodbye, Sam. I'll see you again, I promise."

"Good..." Sam's eyes snapped open again as he awoke. There was no sign of his great-grandmother, or that anyone at all had been there, but the Seals were still on the table; the silver color now gleamed as if it had been freshly polished, the embossing upon the surface new and ornate. Sam reached out to pick up the book, surprised at how light it was, and started to head out of the building.

The door opened, not into the front lawn he was so familiar with, but onto a landscape of Hell. The ground was fissured and cracked, lava boiled out of the earth alongside steam hissing from vents nearby. The sun was a fat, pregnant red orb low in the sky, casting long shadows of beaten, weathered buildings and vehicles. Creatures

( _My God what are those things how do they move like that)_

crawled over the splintered ground, some with four legs, some with eight, flesh hanging from their mouths as they pursued each other, screaming and wailing. One of the creatures looked toward Sam and he saw that the monster had no eyes, only barren sockets where eyes may have been, once upon a time.

Those sockets kept looking at him, and Sam knew that he had been seen. The creature loped toward Sam, snapping a tatter of flesh into its mouth as its six arms clambered over a chain-link fence about 200 feet out.

Sam shook his head, closed his eyes. Despite everything that had happened, his mind couldn't wrap himself around the idea of...this thing, this monster, this place. Couldn't be.

He cracked his eyelids open again. Hell was gone. The front yard he had grown up in, played in, was back.

The demon was still there, though, and the ground around its feet boiled.

Sam's heart raced as he watched the monster. He would have died there if the shock had not caused him to drop the book onto his foot.

"Ow!" The tome fell open, revealing sigils, pages with instructions.

And, before Sam's eyes, the pages decoded themselves into perfect English. Incantations, gestures, a ritual to bind a demon and send it back to the Abyss. His mind absorbed the information before him, and he cast his gaze upward for a moment.

_If you_ are _up there, God, thanks._

The thing began charging at him, faster and faster, monstrous teeth bared and spittle dribbling on the earth, searing grass and stone alike. It grew claws and screamed at Sam like a thousand damned souls would scream in the pits of fire spoken of by the Bible.

Sam looked up, gauged the distance. There wasn't time to finish the spell he was thinking of; maybe if he knew more, was more practiced - really believed that this would work, even - he could have made it on time.

_What now?_ He looked back toward the book, hoping for another bout of divine inspiration. He received none, or, if he did, it drowned in his fear. He could hear the ragged breath of the demon as it neared him.

As the demon jumped, claws tearing up chunks of dirt, Sam threw his hands up in the air.

" _Get thee behind me, Satan!_ " A circle, forged from white-gold light, appeared in the air before the demon, searing its flesh as it slammed into the diagram protecting Sam, a commanding circle, a warding spell. The creature screamed, its essence boiling away under the power of the Divine channeled through the Seal, God's will manifest, the force thrumming through Sam's heart, his arms, his eyes, until he felt it would destroy him before it destroyed the monster.

The demon's skin flaked like burnt paper in a harsh desert wind, blasted apart in the wake of God's might, flesh and bone alike peeling away. One last scream crawled from the creature's throat, assaulting Sam's ears as the monster that made it shattered into a thousand pieces and fell apart.

The grass browned, withered, died where the pieces of demon fell upon it. The sun dissolved the few fragments that were left, and within seconds, there was nothing but the evidence of the monster in the dirt, the tracks on the ground where it had run and the blast zone where it had perished. Sam looked at his hands, the hands which had channeled the smallest amount of God's power, and saw that there were symbols written upon them, circling the knuckles, the fingers, like ornamentation. The symbols were sharp and angular, like some sort of ancient writing, perhaps.

Just like those on his great-grandmother's fingers that he had noticed that day so long ago.

Sam looked up again, his eyes wide. What had just happened? He knew that everything his mother and great-grandmother had said was true; this book, his heritage, God, everything. And if that was true, then...

_What was that demon doing here?_ He stared at the spot the creature had occupied before vanishing. Maybe opening the book, accepting this...burden...had drawn some sort of attention, kind of like a road flare or a beacon, and now the creatures of Hell

( _You didn't even believe in Hell two weeks ago)_

would be looking for him, coming for him. What...

"Hey, Sam!" A balding man with a soft belly and an equally soft voice waved to Sam as he headed to his car to go to work. "How's your day going?"

"Fine so far." Sam waved back. _Yeah, demons chasing after me. Great start to the day._

"Glad to hear it. Damn shame about your folks. I'm sorry, Sam." He glanced at Sam's feet. "I'll get you the number for a good lawn care specialist, if you want. Don't need the grounds going to Hell just because the folks have passed, am I right?"

Sam nodded. "Thank you, Lewis. You take care, all right?"

Lewis smiled. "Can do." He ducked his head into his car and turned the engine over.

Sam glanced down, leaned down, grabbed the book. It was still very light, warm in his hands. He flipped through the pages, eyes moving over diagrams, instructions, symbols and sigils. He smiled.

_Maybe this won't be so bad after all._ Studying was, after all, something he was good at. Then the smile dropped off his face and his brow furrowed. Gramma had said something...what was it...right! Mikey.

_Last place I saw him...hell,_ only _place I saw him, down in LA._ He slammed the covers back together and tucked the book under his arm. _Guess I'm heading that way._

Sam headed toward his car, and as he stuck his leg in through the door, he looked back up at the house. He paused, wet his lips.

Then he looked heavenward.

"...God?" His voice was that of a small child who had misbehaved. "Could...could you make sure that my mother and father are okay? And tell my mom that I'm sorry...and thanks for everything." He bowed his head for a moment, a tear falling down his face, and then got behind the wheel and drove off.

~~~

Gregory Caitlin paced up and down in his office. His face was tight, and sweat beaded on his brow.

"No, no." He put a knuckle to his mouth, almost chewing on it. "I won't let it happen. No." He wiped his face, stared at the liquid on his hand. There was a knock at his door.

"What?!" One of his aides peeked his head in.

"Mr. Caitlin? You're scheduled to give a speech at UCLA today in three hours; we're ready to go if you are."

For a moment, Gregory couldn't remember what the aide was talking about; his mind was too clouded, too angry. Things were unraveling too fast, and he would not... _could_ not...let them go any farther. He shook his head to clear it.

"Sir? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, Jeremy, nothing's wrong." Gregory put on a false smile. "I'm fine. Just a little stress, you know?"

Jeremy's face lit up with relief. "Sure! Sure, Mr. Caitlin, I understand that, why, just last week..."

"Tell me about it another time." Caitlin's eyes were unfocused, his mind somewhere else. "We have to get to UCLA, don't we? Let's hurry, then; don't want to be late."

The aide nodded and hurried out the door. As Gregory went to follow him, he looked toward the safe, where the ancient words were hidden.

The spells of summoning. Demon control. The spells Solomon used.

The secret of his success.

"No, Samuel Buckland." His voice echoed in the empty room. "You will not undo me. God has a mission for me, and I will not fail Him. _Deus vult._ " He closed the door as he left, and darkness fell upon the office.

~~~

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Sam stepped onto the grounds of Pepperdine University for the second time in a month. The air was still clear, fresh; the sky was bright and college students, such as Sam was until a few years ago, milled back and forth on their way to one class or another.

Something was different, however. Very, very different, and Sam wished to God that he could unsee it.

There, on the corner, two coeds talking. On the boy's shoulder stood a small imp, pink, winged, whispering into his ear, speaking words of lust, of passion. _Take her._ Its whispers were soft, soothing, a sharp contrast to its appearance. _She wants you no matter what she says. Bring her home. Take her._ Sam could see these words taking hold in the boy's mind, saw it in the glint in his eye, knew that he would see them as his own thoughts.

There, a girl with books curled to her chest. Sam knew the type – glasses, hair drawn up, staring forward so she didn't have to look at anyone as she passed. He had seen girls like this before, and boys too, countless times.

This time, however, there were others walking with her, dark reflections of the girl herself, with blood streaking from their eyes, their teeth gnarled and black, mocking her, catcalling her name. _Sally,_ _why so sad? You're just the ugliest girl in school, that's all, right? Just because no one wants to hang out with you, go out with you...who cares, right? They aren't worth your time anyway, are they?_ Sam could see the girl agreeing, in her mind, in her soul, see the partitions forming, the barriers that would separate _her_ from _them_ forevermore, leaving the envy buried beneath so far she wouldn't be able to find it.

And here, in the parking lot, sat a creature with four arms, naked, skin rubbery like an eel's. It held in its hands a mirror, and, as cars went by, it flashed the mirror at them, aiming for the driver's eyes, meaning to blind them. Sam walked that way, and the creature's head snapped up. Its eyes met his, saw him seeing it. It hissed at him, made as if to lunge, and Sam held the book in front of him.

The demon's eyes widened and it squealed, backpedaling as fast as it could, sprinting into the street where Sam saw a Chevy pass right through its form as if it were made of mist, incorporeal. It faded from sight as it ran, and no one else saw it go.

Sam closed his eyes. His hand rubbed the burn scar which graced its twin. _Mikey_. _I have to find Mikey._ He looked around the campus, trying to ignore the terrors, the monsters he saw, the seducers, the tempters. He didn't see Mikey; where the Hell would he be, anyway?

Sam fingered the cover of the book. Maybe there was something in here that would help find the kid...

He shook his head. No. First off, he didn't know enough about what he was doing; second, the Bible said that Solomon was prized for his wisdom. Gramma Em had taught him that, as had his grandma and mother. No way he was going to use this just to find a child, no matter how special the child may be. However...

Sam glanced once more at the book. Found what he was looking for. A simple spell of exorcism, to drive possessing entities away from humankind by calling upon their God-Given right to free will. One word, with the right gesture. Sam slammed the book shut and jogged toward where the monsters were taunting poor Sally. She looked up at him, arms drawn up to her chest, and the demon doppelganger mirrored her action, the latter baring its teeth as it recognized the Keeper of the Keys.

Sam stepped forward and touched his fingertips to the young woman's forehead. His eyes locked on those of her tormentor. _"Begone."_

The doppelganger screamed, its form misting, shifting, the blood beneath its eyes blending into its new, ruddy flesh. The creature shrank, withered, deformed into something resembling an inside-out pitbull, muscles flexing as the creature flailed on the ground. It began to melt, steaming into the ground, spilling away like lava into a fissure in the Earth.

Sally looked up at Sam, confusion in her eyes, and she hurried away from him, glancing over her shoulder at the strange man, then shaking her head as she moved on.

Sam smiled. _At least she won't have a demon whispering in her ear._ He jogged toward the building where he had met Dr. Stone and put his hand to the door. The door seemed to vibrate under his fingertips, resonating with some force, some power. He pushed it open, eyes adjusting to the change in lighting, sunlight to fluorescents.

He approached a student-made billboard, eyes flickering from one notice to another. Imbedded in the inane announcements, each held a sigil, a rune, an angelic symbol protecting this place from intrusion by Hell...or those who served it. Sam's fingers traced over the runes, paper crinkling as the symbols within them luminesced.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Sam smiled as he turned around. O _f course he's here. He has to be._

"Hello, Mikey." Sam's gaze rested on the kid with the Laker's cap who returned his look with deep, soulful eyes. "What a surprise."

Mikey grinned. "Come on, Sam. Sarcasm? Not after everything you've been through." He laughed. "Hell, I was hoping that by now I could have appeared in three different places and you would have taken it in stride!"

Sam returned the laugh. "Maybe so, Mikey. Maybe so. It has definitely been crazy." His smile dropped off his face, and he shook his head. "A little too crazy." He ran his hand through his hair and sank into one of the chairs which lined the hallway. "What am I supposed to do? Why me, Mikey? Why me?"

Silence. Sam's eyes were plaintive as he turned them on the boy. "I didn't even believe in God, before. Why did He choose me?"

Mikey came and sat in the chair opposite Sam, dwarfed by its size yet his presence still dominating it. "Only He knows, Sam. No one else knows the mind of God. But the fact remains that you _were_ chosen, and you have to help. You must serve."

Sam put his head in his hands, wiping his eyes. "Did my parents die because I didn't listen to my mother?" He looked Mikey dead in the face. "Did they?"

Mikey nodded, gaze unflinching. "Yes. If you had taken the book, learned from your mother that night, you could have protected them."

Sam's tears began to flow as he looked at this child, this boy who seemed to be so old, so strong. "Who are you, Mikey? Who are you really?"

Mikey smiled again. "Doesn't matter, does it? What matters is _you,_ and what you need to do." He began enumerating points on his fingers. "First, you need to find out who is using Solomon's arts against you. Somehow, several hundred years ago, knowledge of the Seals was stolen, and the agents of Heaven have been unable to recover it." He grimaced before continuing. "We haven't heard from them since your great-grandmother destroyed the cult which they had spawned with their 'miracles.'"

Sam leaned forward. "Gramma Em did that?" Mikey nodded. "Why didn't she say? How come I never knew?"

"How could it have been of benefit to anyone if she _had_ told you? You were only a child when you would have believed her, and, afterward, you lacked the faith necessary to accept the knowledge." The child spread his hands wide. "She passed on the knowledge when it was time, as has been necessary since the Arts were given to Mankind." He shrugged.

Sam bowed his head. "You said that was the first thing." Two breaths. "What was the second?"

"Somewhere, the forces you seek have imprisoned an agent of the Lord. You must find her and free her."

"Who is she?"

"Gabriel."

Sam blinked. "Wait...what?"

Mikey spread his hands like a potentate addressing a crowd. "The Archangel Gabriel, Herald of the Almighty, holder of the Trump of Doom, divine prophet, giver of the Quran to Muhammed and responsible for the visitations to Mary, mother of Christ." He looked once more at Sam, eyes serious. "She has been taken, Keeper. You must save her. This is more important than anything since the Crucifixion."

"But...but..." Sam fought for the words. "Isn't Gabriel...a guy?"

Mikey stared at the young man for several seconds, then burst out in a belly-laugh. "Really, Sam? The Herald of God, restricted to one gender?" He shook his head. "No angel is, really; some of them have preferred ones they use, of course. Gabriel chose a female form before she was taken. A young girl, maybe 12 or so."

Sam tapped his fingertips together as he thought. "Wait, wait. You said that it was your sister that was taken. You called her Gabby." He looked to Mikey for confirmation, and the boy nodded. "If Gabby was Gabriel, and she's your sister, that would make you..."

Mikey rose from his seat and bowed from the waist. "The Archangel Michael, at your service, young descendant of Solomon."

Sam's brain disengaged. Sure, a lot of shit had happened in the last couple of days, weeks, and he thought he had been getting a handle on it, but...

"You...you're really him? Saint Michael? The one who threw Lucifer into Hell?"

"Do you want proof?" His eyes held no more of the childish innocence he had pretended, and the wisdom of untold millennia echoed in their depths like ripples on a dark pool. "I don't think the flaming sword would be appropriate, here." He sat back down. "Yes, Sam, I am Michael. Mikhael to the Muslims. Protector of the Chosen People and Leader of the Hosts of Heaven, if you're keen on long, impressive-sounding titles."

Sam fell to his knees, genuflecting before the meek form of the Archangel. Passing students laughed as they saw the grown man on the floor in front of a kid in a chair.

"Get up!" The Archangel's face twisted into a mask of anger. "Do not bow down before me, man!" He bent down and, with strength belying his slight form, hefted the former accountant to his feet.

Sam stumbled to his feet. "I...I'm sorry...it's just..."

"I know, Sam, but there are more important things going on than who I am. You need to find Gabriel."

"Right." Sam gathered himself up. "I guess I'll..." He paused. "Wait a minute. If you're Michael...why don't you just go handle it yourself?"

Mikey sighed. "Always the first question. 'Why do you angels need humans, if you're so powerful?'" He pointed at Sam's face. "Don't forget what I'm about to tell you, Samuel Buckland; angels are servants, not kings. Not rulers. Those that forgot this are in Hell, and no longer counted among us." He shifted his gesture to the Seals which Sam held on his lap. "Within that book is the means to command the genii of earth and flame, the demons...and even the Host itself, as did King Solomon under God's command. Could God remove the power from these spells? Yes, He could, but He does not, as to do so would abrogate free will. You noticed the sigils in this building?" Sam nodded. "They shield me. This is my Earthly outpost, for now; the spells of Solomon cannot find me, cannot bind me, or I may have become as my sister."

"So...you're hiding?"

Mikey's face turned red, and his hands grasped at something that was not there, something at his waist.

"I do not _hide_ ; I _wait_. Once you have done your work, I will be free to do mine; until then, if this unknown adversary had control of both myself and Gabriel, the results could be catastrophic. As it stands, Gabriel knows all which the Father knows, although the information comes in visions and waves and cannot be commanded easily. Free Gabriel, Sam. Free her before someone does something terrible with her."

"All right." Sam stood. "Do we have any clues? Anything you can tell me?"

"Just one." Mikey resumed his seat. "The person responsible for this has cloaked him- or herself from the sight of Heaven, to be sure, but indirect influences can be seen. This person has touched your life in some way, and recently. Before the deaths of your parents, and including them."

Sam nodded as he took this information in. "You...you mean that this person killed my parents?"

"You expected otherwise? I know that wrath will tempt you, Keeper; keep your eyes on the ground, as it were, so that you do not fall as you rush toward your enemy."

"Umm...okay, yeah." Sam extended his hand, then paused. "So...what's the proper etiquette for saying goodbye to an Archangel?"

Mikey smiled and slid off his chair, taking Sam's hand. "How about...God bless."

Sam nodded, returning the grin. "Then God bless, Michael."

"And you, Samuel. Have faith."

Sam turned and headed back to the stairs, glancing back once at the young boy in the hallway.

He was gone, swirling orange blossom smell and the fading thrum of the harp left behind.

~~~

"Another great event, sir!" Gregory's limo driver pulled away from the curb. "Where to?"

Gregory checked the messages on his phone again. One from his wife, wishing him luck; several from people who wanted to talk to him about campaign particulars, donations, whatever...and one from the Research Facility.

"Sir?"

"Just drop me off at the corner, Charlie."

Charlie glanced in the rear view mirror at his boss with his phone on his ear. "Say again?"

Gregory grimaced. "The _corner_ , Charlie. Where the two roads intersect. Right up there."

"Right, right, just...sorry, Mr. Caitlin."

Charlie pulled the car over and began unbuckling so he could let Gregory out, but the aspiring politician was already out of his seat. He handed Charlie a hundred through the driver'swindow.

"Go for dinner, Charlie. I'll call when I'm ready to be picked up."

"Umm...sure, boss, you got it. Be safe, all right?"

Gregory smiled, pulling out his cell phone. "Of course, Charlie. _Deus vult._ "

~~~

The taxi pulled up in front of the Research Division. Gregory paid the cabbie, but not too well, and waved goodbye as she drove off. He liked cabs; treat a cab driver just right and they would never remember you.

After the security protocols were taken care of, Gregory found himself in front of the head researcher, a scientist originally from Germany named Dr. Hermstedt. The research team liked to call him Dr. Herm, much to the man's chagrin; he took himself very seriously, and the agitation would cause his jowls to shake like Santa's belly. He ignored Caitlin's outstretched hand.

"I can no longer work on your project, Mr. Caitlin." Hermstedt was shaking his head as he and Gregory moved into a private office. "I do not find your work suitable for my talents."

"Really?" Caitlin leaned against a bookshelf, sipping a bottle of water. "I thought that this would interest you greatly, given your faith and research into neurotechnology."

"My faith is exactly why I cannot work with you anymore, sir." Hermstedt had puffed himself up like a bullfrog. "You have subjected...her...to terrible torments, entirely ignoring what she is, where she came from."

"Ah." Caitlin stood and began to pace the room. "I suppose I probably shouldn't have told you; I thought it would be best to make sure at least one of my researchers knew what was going on in case something went terribly wrong." He stopped in front of the shelf again and turned toward it, eyes moving amongst the tomes held there. "My mistake."

"You have taken an angel of God and turned her into a...a...a Magic 8-ball!" Hermstedt's face had gone a deep purple in the throes of his emotion. "This is blasphemy on the deepest level! You should be sharing this with the world! A true angel discovered! Why do you keep her to yourself, if not for your own lust for power and wealth?"

Gregory turned his head without moving his feet. "One of the first questions I asked her was 'How do I keep the world from tearing itself apart now that I have proof that angels and God exist?' You know what she said?" He opened a drawer, put an out-of-place book into it. "She said, 'Don't tell them.' So I didn't."

Dr. Hermstedt sputtered. "Mankind deserves to know this! You can't hide it forever! You cannot make these decisions for everyone! You are not God!"

In one smooth motion, Gregory Caitlin turned, leveled his pistol at Dr. Hermstedt, and discharged the weapon. Hermstedt's mouth had only just begun to widen as the bullet penetrated his rib cage, rent his heart into a puree, and left a baseball-sized exit wound with bloody chunks on his back.

"No, I'm not." He toggled the intercom. "Francis?"

"Yes, Mr. Caitlin?"

"We need to change our query protocols. Put this in exactly the way I tell you, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Ready when you are."

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Sam didn't go home. If Mikey was right (and Sam had no reason to doubt the Archangel) then this adversary of his knew about him and probably knew where he lived. Best not to tempt fate and keep his head low until he figured out what to do. He checked into a Motel 6.

In the sparsely furnished Motel 6 room, Sam looked over the book left by his mother. The pages were cloth, that much he had determined, but incredibly tough; the writing was painted on, but had not flaked off in the centuries since it had been put there. Once he was done admiring the aesthetics of the text, he dove into the contents.

The spells within described the use of sigils and gestures to command the ethereal spirits; demons, genii, and angels. There were warnings beside each type of creature: demons can be forced to follow the letter of a command, but are apt to pervert it if at all possible; genii can be violent if not controlled or appeased, pitting their will against the summoner; to command an angel is to invoke one's status as heir to the Kingdom of God, and to misuse this power can be devastating.

The spell he had used against the demon was a basic warding spell; the demon had been weak, and throwing itself against the magics had completely dispersed it. Such a spell would not suffice for larger or more powerful beings, however, and would have no effect against anything that _wasn't_ a demon. They were very specific.

"All right." Sam licked his lips. "I'm supposed to be looking for Gabriel...I bet there is something in here that can help me find her." He smiled. "I'm sure that God would approve using the Seals to save an Archangel."

As he spoke, the book in his hands began to flip its own pages, settling on a large diagram showing a summoning circle and detailing an invocation to locate and summon an angel that walks the earthly plane of existence. Sam read the directions carefully; he would need incense, which he could buy at a local store. He would need silver as well. _I can get that somewhere, I'm sure_. One last thing...

He needed the angel's name. Her True Name.

_What the hell is a True Name?_ He scanned over the text, looking for the answer. On the next page, the term was neatly defined for him: "The name given to a being by God; a True Name cannot be uttered by a manifested ethereal creature on Earth as the power will cause the being to be thrown back to its plane or destroyed. Only a human can utter a True Name, as the portion of the Maker in their souls protects them from the backlash."

_Great._ _I can't ask Mikey. How the hell do I find Gabriel's true name?_ He ran both hands through his hair and snorted through his nose. _How did the person who captured her find it...?_

_Angelology. Dr. Stone._ Sam's head snapped away from the book, and he had to stop himself from tossing it aside and hurtling out of the room.

Slow down. Think. Don't get ahead of yourself.

It was the only way; Dr. Stone had done some unorthodox research on angelology, and someone had paid a whole lot of money to get his hands on those papers, hadn't he? Someone who had recently come in to a lot, a _lot_ , of money, of power, of influence. Almost miraculously, in fact.

Someone like Gregory Caitlin.

Sam ran out the door, keys in hand. His mind raced with the possibilities; how did she find the names? Did she even have them, or did Caitlin piece them together? How was he going to get them, anyway? The doc had said that all of the copies and the rights had been turned over.

_Doesn't matter_. _It's the best lead I've got right now; I need to make sure that it's him._

Sam sped through traffic, feeling the time pressure. If Caitlin was the one, the one who had Gabriel...what would he do with her? What _has_ he been doing?

He didn't notice the police lights behind him for several moments, until the red-and-blue flashed him in his rear-view, and he pulled over, cursing at himself for his idiocy. _Didn't think I was going_ that _fast..._

A female police officer, blonde with indeterminate eyes behind her sunglasses, stepped out of the patrol car, noted the license plate number, make, model. She put the notepad in her back pocket and approached the driver's side door; Sam was careful to keep his hands on his steering wheel as he cracked his window.

"In a hurry, there, sir?" The officer's eyes flickered from Sam's face, glancing inside the vehicle.

"Wasn't trying to be, ma'am." _Of course, it had to be a woman._ He had never been able to talk his way out of a ticket if the cop was a woman. She always seemed to think he was trying to flirt with her when he tried.

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

He laughed. "Honestly, not really; I had my mind on some things, and I guess the foot had its own ideas." He glanced upward, saw that she was smiling, and his heart lightened just a bit.

"You were doing 80 in a 65. Fortunately, traffic was light, so there wasn't anyone who was likely to get hurt by your recklessness." She looked at him over the sunglasses. "I guess I could let you off this time, but I expect that you'll keep an eye on that speedometer, won't you?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you so much. I really appreciate it."

The officer smiled at him. "Get going before I change my mind, all right? Drive safe." She headed back toward her patrol car as Sam started his engine and flipped the turn signal on, merging back into traffic and breathing a sigh of relief.

~~~

"Explain it again." Gregory stood with his arms crossed, looking at the imprisoned form on the wall as he spoke to the technician beside him.

"Well, it's...she's answering the questions, but the answers are constantly changing, like...like there's some variable that she can't account for, something fouling up the interactions. It's like we saw before, with that Samuel character, only much worse." Francis considered for a moment. "Have you ever read the Twilight series?"

Gregory blinked, turned to face him. "What?"

"Well, there's a character in there, Alice, who can see the future...but she only sees what is going to happen until people change their minds, change their paths. This kind of reminds me of that – like someone is doing things that change the paths of probability, but she can't see that person...or thing, I suppose."

Gregory nodded. "I have a pretty good idea what the variable is." He turned to face his employee. "What's our current result?"

Francis consulted the spreadsheet on the tablet in his hands. "Looks like the critical point is connected to a Dr. Martha Stone. Do you know a Dr. Stone?"

Gregory sighed. "Yes. Excuse me, I have work to do." He walked out the door, shoulders slumped. Francis stared after him.

_Poor guy_. _It's like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders sometimes._

~~~

Back to the University campus; Sam wondered if the parking permit guy was going to start thinking he was a student here with how often he was stopping in. As he drove down the avenues, he noticed a crowd of emergency vehicles – police, fire – clustered in and around the lot where he usually parked. His eyes turned toward the building and he saw the firemen deployed, ushering people out of the Graduate School of Education and Psychology. He pulled in to the parking spot closest to Dr. Stone's office and stepped out of his car, shouldering his backpack and looking toward the hubbub. Glancing around (and hoping not to see any more crazy creatures today), Sam crossed the street to the doors of the Graduate School, but was stopped by a campus security officer before he could enter.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there has been a fire here; we can't let you in."

"A fire? When? What happened?" His eyes were glued to the building, searching for some sign of what had gone on within.

"Office fire. Accident; looks like a cigarette got tossed in the wastebasket still lit. Almost everyone got out safely; there was only one death, but she was caught in the middle of the blaze, so it's not surprising that she didn't make it out."

"'She'? Was it...Dr. Stone?"

The officer's eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Do you know anything about this, young man?"

Sam shook his head, backing away. "No...nothing, I just had an appointment with her and...well, I just had a bad feeling when I left home, I guess."

"Maybe you should listen to your bad feelings more, kid. Did you know her well? Did she have any enemies?"

"None that I'm..." Sam stopped, his attention captured by the red-and-white spirit, wrapped in living flame and laughing with a voice like a roaring forest fire, as it erupted from one of the windows, showering the lawn with glass. People shrieked and firefighters began to pull up equipment to deal with this sudden rekindling of the blaze, but Sam tracked the creature across the sky as it flew away in a streak of flame, its laughter echoing in his ears far after it had left.

Sam was versed in the classics; he had read the stories of Scheherazade, Aladdin, and the rest. _That was a genie._

A genie had killed Dr. Stone. He was sure of it. And who could summon a genie to do this? According to Mikey, to Gramma Em, he could...and so could the thief, the other who possessed the Arts. And now Sam was sure that it was Caitlin; who else would need to assassinate this _particular_ college professor? Especially with a fiery genie.

Sam stepped away from the crowd, ducking around a corner into a small, deserted courtyard. He reached into his bag and retrieved the Seals, silver cover still warm in his hands as he laid it on the ground.

"Okay. If he wants to use genies, then so can I...I hope." He flipped through the pages for a few moments before finding what he was looking for: how to summon the Djinni, air genies, grantors of wishes in stories. "I need to be higher up." His eyes scanned the campus until they alighted on a tall clock tower.

"Perfect. Now, just need something..." Sam patted his pockets, and his face fell. "Goddamn it." He flinched and cast his gaze upward. "Sorry." His eyes skipped around the ground, the debris from Dr. Stone's office that had been thrown out by the explosion, and he saw what he was looking for.

An intact piece of chalk. Sam glanced around to ensure that no one was watching, then he slipped it into his pocket.

Atop the tower, he drew his circle. He wrote the ancient summons for the north winds, for the cloud-riders, servants of the sky. Sam stepped into the middle of the circle and raised his hands to the air.

"Appear, in the name of Great Solomon; I hold you to the oaths you swore to Almighty God Himself. Appear!"

The air grew cold and misty. Fog began to fill the focal point of the diagram, a binding circle to keep the spirit contained until its disposition could be determined. Glowing blue eyes blazed from the mist, staring at Sam as the rest of the creature's body became apparent.

The djinn was wispy, almost transparent; although humanoid in shape, its skin was blue and it wore no clothes. Its outline was blurry and its voice sounded like a blustery wind in early February.

"Who summons me?" The form pulsed and expanded in its prison.

"I am Samuel Buckland, Keeper of the Keys of Solomon, and I have need of your service."

The djinn cocked its head at him, and its eyes bored into Sam's. "What do you offer me, Keeper? Why should I serve you? Are you worthy, as those who came before you, as your mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, or are you a fool, weak and unfit for the gifts bestowed?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You...you knew my mother?"

"I knew your ancestors, those who wielded the powers you do now. I have been summoned by them before, called to serve them as I am called now to serve you. As I reminded them, young Buckland, I remind you now: a servant displeased is a servant that cannot be trusted. I ask again, do you offer me recompense, or do you command me by God's authority alone?"

"Umm.." Sam pursed his lips, trying to come up with a proper gift, a payment for this creature. He pulled out his Samsung cell phone. "Would you accept this? A gift to allow you to communicate with others from great distances without traveling to them?"

The djinn snorted. "I am a djinn, boy! A creature of the wind! Traveling is my joy, my comfort, my reason for being!"

"Ah!" Sam opened up his music app. "Great djinn! This device also allows one to carry songs with you on long journeys and to watch recordings of events from most anywhere in the world!"

The djinn scratched its face, leaving contrails of cloud behind its fingertips. "Is this true? Has mankind truly created such marvels?"

Sam nodded. "Indeed, and I offer it to you in return for your aid."

"Done!" A thunderclap boomed as it reached misty fingers through the circle, no longer bound by the diagram but instead by the agreement. It took the phone, which turned as ephemeral as the spirit itself was. "The offering is good, Samuel Buckland, and I am pleased to offer you my service. What do you wish of me?"

"I have two requests, if I may – one is a question only, the other is assistance."

The djinn nodded. "Ask, then, and I shall provide if I can."

"Before I summoned you, I saw another spirit, a genie of flame. I know very little about your kind..."

"That was not one of _my_ kind!" The djinn turned dark, a thundercloud roiling at ground level. "That was an efreet, a creature of chaos and destruction. You do well to stay clear of their eternal fires, my friend; they rival myself in power and strength but are always unpredictable."

"Thank you." Sam paused, trying to phrase his request. "For your assistance, I ask that you bring me, unseen, into that room." He pointed toward the window of Dr. Stone's office. "Can you do this?"

The genie sighed. "In times gone by, the heirs of Solomon would call us to do great things – battle with powerful demons, transport them across the Earth in seconds. Emily Buckland called me before she stormed the headquarters of cultists bent on the destruction of your world." The djinn shook his head as he spoke. "Now, you want me to bring you into a room. I suppose." A quick nod and it reached around Sam, chilling his skin with sudden condensation droplets.

"Very well. It is done."

"What do you..." Sam stopped as he saw that, indeed, he was inside of Dr. Stone's office – the religious paraphernalia was still present in the main, although damaged by fire and water, and the room smelled of burnt paper and wood. The genie was hovering over him.

"Have I discharged my duties, young Buckland?" What passed for its mouth curled into a vaporous smile.

"Umm...yes. Thank you, djinn."

"If you are to be the Keeper of the Keys you should know my name. In your tongue, it translates to Sky-King; in mine, you would find it unpronounceable."

Sam laughed. "Try me."

"Very well, young Buckland; you may wish to cover your ears." The djinn inhaled, frost forming on its ephemeral lips, then spoke. The words erupted like a close-range thunderclap, a sonic boom, and the sky outside rumbled and roiled in response; clouds boiled from nowhere as the djinn's name echoed from the mountains.

Sam pulled his hands from his head. "Alright then. Sky-King it is."

Sky-King laughed. "It was good to meet you, young Keeper. I hope that you come to a better end than some of your ancestors." Before Sam could reply, the genie was gone, leaving only a light mist in its place, dissipating and fading.

Sam looked around the room, searching through burned papers, scorched electronics, seeking something, anything, that could be connected to what was going on. His eyes lighted on the desk, where an ancient answering machine was still plugged in, light indicating a message. He pressed the button and continued his search as the message played.

"Dr. Stone?" came a hushed male voice. "I don't have much time, but I had to warn you. You're in terrible danger. You need to get out of there before something happens. Don't try to contact me. Hurry!" Then the line went dead.

Sam shook his head. Whoever had sent that message may have been more right than he knew...or maybe not. He looked over the desk again; the papers, ruined, burned to cinders. Nothing useful, nothing useable.

"Damn it!" He swept the charcoal off the desk onto the floor, then knocked over a burnt, wooden chair, kicked at the wall.

That hurt.

Limping, cursing, Sam propped himself up against the wall. _Think_ , came the internal voice. _If you were a professor, wrote a paper you believed in, you wouldn't get rid of it. You'd keep it somewhere. Probably somewhere hidden, a place for 'lost dreams.'_

Sam opened his eyes again. He looked at the wall, the religious icons. They had survived the heat of the fire much better than the papers had; most were intact except for some smoke damage, others had their frames blackened and maybe some paint peeling. Veronica's Veil looked a bit worse for wear, but Saint Michael just seemed a little battle-toughened, the carbon on his face reminding Sam of combat-paint, perhaps. He smiled, thinking of Dr. Stone's reaction if she had known that Michael himself was actually hiding out in this very building.

The smile flew from Sam's face. He walked over to the painting, pulled it from the wall. Behind it was a safe, protected, untouched. The smile returned, larger than before.

"What better place to keep your secrets, than behind the one who you will tell them to when you die?" He tried the safe door, which was, of course, locked. Sam stepped back, considered.

_Most people, if they aren't too paranoid, don't like unlocking their own stuff...they try to make it easy for themselves..._ He moved back to the safe, closed his eyes, turned the knob to the right, number by number.

He had gone four numbers down when he felt and heard the _click_. The safe door cracked open. Sam laughed.

"Good thing I'm one of the good guys. Otherwise I might think I was turning into a burglar – safecracking, 4th story jobs..." He flipped on the light on the desk and beamed it into the darkness of the safe.

Sam's heart fell; the safe was empty. He cast his light on the sides, the floor - there has to be _something_ \- and then he saw it; a flash drive, black like the walls of the safe, lying on the side. He snatched it up, looked at it, pocketed it.

"All right." Peeking out the window, he hissed through his teeth. "Oh, right...cops. Four stories. Crap." He paced around the room, mumbling to himself, racking his brain. "No...not a T.V. show...no, too many witnesses...no, not enough room..."

He headed to the stairwell, opened the doorway...and headed upstairs, past the fifth and sixth floors, to the roof. He began to leaf through the book again; maybe there was something in here, an incantation, a spell, that could get him down...

He did not notice the small creature, the impling, that was watching him from a nearby rooftop, ears dripping pus and blood but still keen.

# CHAPTER NINE

Gregory Caitlin had not been home for three days. He had not even left the Special Research Division's headquarters; he had sent his wife and campaign manager a short text, telling them "not to worry," but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

It all felt like it was coming apart.

The genie he had sent had burned the papers, the room, left no survivors (Gregory was still pained by this, but he had had no choice!). Yet, according to the latest data, the "obstacle" had managed to acquire something important, despite Gregory's best efforts. The angel was constantly updating her predictions on what this man would do next, but Gregory hadn't been able to react fast enough, or well enough.

Yet.

He cracked his knuckles as he thought about what his servant had brought him. This Samuel was on the rooftop where Dr. Stone's office had been, looking like a treed raccoon. Okay. That bought him a bit of time, gave some breathing room to figure something out.

How had this man become so proficient with the Arts so fast? Able to defeat the demon that Gregory had sent after him, summoning an air genie...

_Is it because he has the complete text?_ _What is mine missing, then? Or is it something else?_

"Doesn't matter." He took a sip of his water. "Just have to put the bastard out of commission, get that book from him before he can undo all my work...but how? How will I do that?"

_Knock, knock_.

"Sir?" Francis peeked his head into the room.

"What is it, Francis?"

"Sir...I...I really wanted to talk to you about giving her a break. Her vitals are starting to become a little erratic and her brain wave function is spiking; we're needing to use more sedatives to keep her under, which is having a negative effect on her heart rate and blood pressure."

Gregory nodded, rocking back and forth in his chair. He looked up at Francis. "You're right."

"I...I am?"

"Yes; she's not helping me much in this case anyway. Go ahead, take her off the protocols for a few hours or so, see if her signs normalize, then put her back on the previous list. I need to handle this trouble the old-fashioned way." He stood, picked up his cell phone. "Let me know if anything starts to look bad or changes, all right?"

"Sure, Mr. Caitlin, thanks!" Francis seemed giddy as he ran to give the angel some relief.

Gregory chuckled, then dialed a number, put his ear to the phone. He looked at the map spread out on his desk, where he had marked the hotel the demonling had traced Samuel to.

"Yes, officer? I need to report a crime..."

~~~

Sam woke, stretched out the kinks from the terrible Motel 6 bed, and headed to the bathroom. He rubbed the sore spots on his arms and legs from the stupid stunt he had pulled a couple of days ago, trying to get off the roof of Dr. Stone's building; yesterday had been bad enough that all he had done was soak and read the material from the flash drive.

"At least the other window was open," he thought to himself as he put his clothes on, grimacing as the cloth brushed against the bruises and cuts. Sam flipped his laptop open, brought up the paper again.

Dr. Stone's research was interesting, to say the least. She had not only delved into the apocryphal Christian and Jewish testaments, she had interviewed dozens of people who had claimed they had encounters with angelic beings, transcribing each word they had said to her and trying to discern some common link amongst the experiences.

On Sam's first read-through, he was disappointed; there were no angelic True Names written in the paper, although there was a whole section on the conjectured existence of archangels, who they might be, their responsibilities, et cetera, much of which Sam had heard about or read in college classes and at his mother's house. Gabriel's duties were in line with the qualities Mikey had assigned her; Gabriel was supposed to herald the end of the world with her horn, the Trump of Doom.

But no names, other than the standard English ones. So, Sam started a second read-through. Then a third.

Nothing.

At least, nothing until he hit the bibliography. One of the sources listed in Dr. Stone's paper was another professor of angelology, now retired – Kurtis Birch, Oregon residence – and the information she cited came from his book, published in 2007, _The Language of God and the Angels Revealed!,_ as well as a personal interview. He flipped to the relevant section of the paper. Here it was: a whole section describing how the conventional names for things were inadequate, and how angels would be able to speak the language of God Himself, the language of the creation of the universe.

Was it possible? Could he have actually been right? Actually figured out the True Name of the angels, or, at least, of one in particular? Sam changed over to his Safari browser, hit the Barnes and Noble website. Was the book available?

Not in print, but digital copies could be purchased. Sam logged in to his account, confirmed payment information. _I'll just read it on my Nook application._

His hand went to his pocket to grab his phone.

It wasn't there, of course, and Sam groaned; he had given it to Sky-King, the genie, as incentive for his service. Crap. He shrugged, laughing at himself; there was nothing for it, was there?

_Just need to download the app on my laptop, then._ He started the download, then rubbed his stomach as it growled in distress. _Guess I should pick up a snack real quick, too._

He grabbed his keys, wallet, put the Seals into a bag. Reached for the doorknob.

At first, Sam didn't know exactly what had happened; it felt like a boxer had just punched him in the nose and laid him out flat on his back, but as his vision stopped blurring, he saw that the door had been bashed in and there were several SWAT officers leveling assault rifles at him.

"Don't move!" Sam nodded, keeping his hands clearly visible. Another officer stepped forward and wrapped handcuffs around Sam's wrists.

"Samuel Buckland, you are under arrest for the theft of confidential records and intellectual property," said the first officer. "You have the right to remain silent..."

# CHAPTER TEN

Sam sighed to himself, stretching out in his cell, staring at the ceiling. There was no choice but to confess, of course; they had the evidence, the testimony from Gregory Caitlin, from Ferdinand Gonzalez, Sam's old boss. They had confiscated the flash drive, the computer, the book.

And his trial date had yet to be set. Naturally.

Sam sat up on his bed, rubbing his face. _What now?_ He had prayed, asking God for a miracle, to free him, but no such luck; apparently, the descendants of Solomon were supposed to help themselves first and foremost.

But what could he do?

Days had gone by; Sam knew that he was lucky if the book was actually still in the evidence lockup at all. With Caitlin's influence, he could easily have 'convinced' someone to pull it out of there, deliver it to him. Sam had a good memory, to be sure, but not a photographic one; he couldn't remember the exact wording of the Seals, the exact structure of the diagrams. It was as much as he could remember to draw a few warding symbols on the window with his split peas; he hoped he remembered them from the University building accurately enough.

Sam rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Who was he kidding? He had really started to get caught up in it; the distraction, the quest...

_Maybe it was just because I didn't want to think about my parents anymore_. He sighed. _Maybe doing this, trying this, was a way to make it up to them._

He didn't know. All that mattered right now was that Gregory Caitlin had imprisoned an Archangel, and was using her connection to God for himself. And he had won. Sam had lost.

Lost? Really?

The words stirred in Sam's consciousness, but he did not think them; at least, he did not believe he had. In fact, they sounded like...

"...Gramma Em? Is that you?"

Isaiah 43:2, Sammy: Daniel in the lion's den. His friends in the furnace. God protected them because of their faith. Have faith.

Sam sighed again. "It's hard, Gramma; it's _hard_ to have faith when you can't do anything."

_Having faith_ is _doing something, Sammy. It's trusting in God._

Sam sat in the middle of his cell, pushing away his plate of food as he did so. "All right. Faith. Trust." He sat in the lotus position, meditating.

"God will provide. God will provide."

~~~

"Gregory, when are you coming home? What's going on?"

It was the third time that his wife had called today. Gregory had been away from home for over a week now, and the worry showed in her voice. Gregory sighed, pulling his attention away from the silver-clad book before him.

"I told you, honey, I'm doing important work and I'll be home as soon as I can. Just be patient; I promise that what I'm doing will change everything for us."

Susan started to cry. "Gregory, I don't _want_ everything to change. I just want _you_ , the man I married, the man I fell in love with. You're scaring me, with your secret emails and phone calls." There was a pause on her end of the line. "I went into your 'special' room, Greg."

Gregory's eyes had drifted back to the book; now they snapped away, and his head came up. "What? You did what?"

"I thought you were cheating on me. You were acting so distant, so strange, since a few weeks ago...so I went to see if there was something in those private emails." She sobbed before continuing. "All that 'special research' department stuff...it sounded really scary, Greg. Who are these people? How do they come up with all those things?"

Gregory's face had turned red; veins stood out on his neck and face. His pulse pounded in his ears, almost blocking out his wife's voice. "I told you never to go in there, Susan. You promised you would never go in there."

Susan started crying louder. "I know! But I was so worried! You need to come home; we need to talk this out, work it out. I miss you, I need you...I love you. Come home, please, Greg. Come home."

Something in Susan's voice touched a corner of Gregory's mind, dulling the fury that clouded the rest of it. He loved this woman; he hated to see her suffering, to hear her upset, sad like this. And she was right, he had been acting differently.

And, after all, he had won, hadn't he? Samuel Buckland was in jail, the book had been 'lost' from the evidence lockup, and the angel had begun responding as expected again.

For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile was stretching across Gregory's face. Susan's voice rang on the other end of the line.

"Greg? Greg? Are you there? Did you hang up on me?"

"No, love, I'm still here. You're right; we need to talk. I shouldn't have hidden anything from you. When I get home, I'll tell you everything, okay? I'm on my way right now."

There was a muffled sniffle on the other end of the connection. "Okay, Greg. I'll be waiting for you. I love you, you know."

"I love you too, Suz. See you soon."

Gregory grabbed his keys, wallet, phone...and the Seals under his arm. One thing to attend to before leaving. Still smiling, he headed out the door toward the main research chamber.

~~~

Sam opened his eyes after what felt like hours, hours in which he had focused on two words only: Trust. Faith. Trust. Faith. He didn't open his eyes because he was tired of meditating, though; on the contrary, it was relaxing to focus on a single thought, and he had practiced meditation and trance before.

It was because he smelled honeysuckle.

As his eyes opened, they fell on a verdant field, grass waving under a cloudy blue sky, nature's sounds and smells all around him. A bluebird sat on a fig tree nearby, and the breeze played on Sam's face.

Is this...am I dreaming? Is this a trance? I've done that before, but it's never been so real...

Sam stood, feeling the grass under his shoes give way, the moisture in the air and in the ground a sharp contrast to the prison cell he had just been in. All the aches from the uncomfortable prison bed were gone, and he wasn't even hungry.

"Hello, Samuel."

Sam nodded his head; he was starting to get used to random people appearing and talking to him. He turned to see who was speaking.

It was her.

Emaciated, bleeding from holes in her arms, her face bruised, hair untamed and tangled. Her eyes were wide, blue underneath the blood in them. Sam walked toward her, hand out, but stopped before reaching her, his eyes tearing.

"...Gabriel?" He closed his outstretched fingers into a fist. "Is...is it really you?"

The girl nodded, the smile on her face out of place amongst the widespread evidence of torture on her body. "It's good to meet you, Samuel. I hope to see you in person soon."

"How...how is this possible? I thought you were trapped."

"Yes. Your enemy has a less than perfect understanding of the arts of Solomon, and the bindings on me are weak. Unfortunately, I am weaker; only your open state of mind allows me to speak to you, and how long that will last, even I cannot say."

"Where are you? How can I help you?"

"By remembering that you are the Keeper of the Keys, Samuel. Remember that God has granted you these gifts; He has not forsaken you. Call on the Keys, Samuel. You will find that they still recognize you."

"But if I don't have the book, how..."

Sam was unable to finish speaking before Gabriel's form began to waver. The smile on her face disappeared, to be replaced with a sullen sadness.

"What's going on?" Sam reached for her shoulder, but his hands moved through her like mist. "Where are you going?"

"He has sealed the weakness in his bindings, using the knowledge he stole from you." Her voice was weak, thin, far away. "I wish you well, Keeper, and hope that your newfound faith can carry you through this trial. God have mercy on you, Samuel Buckland."

And then she was gone, evaporated into thin air, along with the entire meadow. Sam was sitting once again on a hard, tile floor, pains in his butt forcing him to stand. He rubbed the sore spot as he considered what had just happened. Caitlin had the book, that was certain now, and he had already figured out how to use it to make his own traps better. Fantastic.

Gabriel...God, she looked awful. What was that bastard _doing_ to her? _She looked like a concentration camp experiment victim_. And obviously Caitlin knew what she was, knew that she was an angel...did he know she was Gabriel? No way to be sure.

"The Keys..." He clenched his fists in anger, despair; he stared at them at the writing which covered them...the writing which, looking closely, he recognized for the first time.

As the Book itself had responded to his needs, to his thoughts, so too did the writings on his hands, forming themselves into symbols, diagrams, sigils.

A summoning circle, created in perfect miniature detail, inscribed on his palm. Just like the one he had used to conjure the djinn. Sam bowed his head, murmuring.

"Thank you, Almighty God, for your deliverance and your faith in me."

~~~

"Sir, she's acting up again."

Francis looked over the shoulder of the junior tech at the data. She was right; the subject's brain wave patterns had started to normalize into much more "awake" waveforms, although there was no way she would regain consciousness with the sedatives she was being subjected to. Francis tapped at his chin for a moment, then brought up his browser on his tablet. In a few moments he had found what he was looking for; an article on brainwave patterns. It confirmed what his first impressions had told him: the subject had gone from her normal REM sleep beta waves, in which the researchers were able to "extract" the answers to preprogrammed queries they had inputted, to a slightly more regular, more "awake" version of those waves. The differences were subtle, but present, and so it was obvious that she had gone from a sleep state to a state of lucid dreaming, exerting control over her dreaming self.

This was the first time Francis had seen this happen since he had joined the project. He looked at the tech who had reported the anomaly, then back at the data.

What is she dreaming?

Francis glanced over at the phone; he knew he should call Mr. Caitlin, let him know something was going on...and yet, Francis hesitated. He was curious, yes, wondered what exactly could be going on in that little girl's mind that was so special, so important, that it gave her the ability to predict stock market shifts, determine the necessary adaptations to jump technology forward by twenty years in computer software systems, and report on particular individuals.

Such as Samuel Buckland. Paging through his tablet, Francis looked over the notes he had reported to Caitlin when they had last spoken about Buckland. The inputted query was: _What will Samuel Buckland do next to stymie my goals?_

The answer: _He will converse with Dr. Martha Stone, a woman you know well. She has the information he seeks, and can put him on the path to throwing you down._

Francis drew his hand over his mouth, considering. He knew that Caitlin was up to something...untoward...down here; after all, how often do you dope up an eleven- or twelve- year old girl to extract visions of the future from her brain? And have them be _right_?

And then this Buckland. Was he trying to stop Caitlin from...well, whatever he was doing? Caitlin had sure seemed frustrated by his inability to figure out what Buckland was doing, what he was up to...and then, that worry had vanished just today, and Mr. Caitlin was all smiles, no wrinkles but laugh lines on his face and a great cheery greeting for all. He had spent most of his time holed up in his office, reading (at least, as far as Francis could tell through the windows).

For the first time, Francis wondered if he was on the right side. For the first time, Francis realized he was _on_ a side.

"Anything new?" Francis started, and spun around.

"No, no, Mr. Caitlin." Francis flushed. "Everything's nominal. All readings are fine." The assistant glanced up at Francis' face, but did not speak.

"Good, good." Caitlin adjusted the large, heavy-looking book under his arm and smiled. "Can I go in there for a moment? There are a few things I need to take care of."

"Umm...of course, sir. Go right ahead." Francis reached out and pressed the red door release button; the hydraulic locks disengaged and Caitlin walked down the ramp toward the room where the girl was imprisoned.

_Why isn't she at least on a bed?_ Caitlin approached her nigh-crucified form. _Does she have to be hanging on the wall like that?_ _Why..._

What Francis saw next stopped his thoughts short. He could not believe his eyes.

Caitlin stepped behind the girl and pulled down the curtain from the window she had been stretched over. Sunlight flooded into the room. Francis saw the window now; it had been painted on in black, with strange sigils and circles and stars, like something he had seen in a movie once...or maybe it was a comic book.

Caitlin was referencing the book in his arms, glancing back at the diagram and making corrections to it, adding a symbol here, amending a line there.

"Sir?" Francis tore his eyes away from the strangeness before him to see what the young lady had noticed.

The girl's brain waves had begun to slip back into true dreams, almost as soon as Caitlin had begun his work with the diagram. As the politician-to-be continued, Francis could track his activity with the decrease in awareness recorded on the readout.

_Whatever that is,_ _is what's really holding her here. Not those restraints. How is this possible?_

Caitlin replaced the dark curtain, and the dimness returned. He nodded, satisfied, then returned to the doorway; Francis buzzed him back in.

"Have a great day, everyone!" called Caitlin as he marched toward the complex's exit.

Francis wiped the sudden outbreak of sweat from his brow.

What the hell is going on here?

~~~

"This is a most unusual request, young Buckland." The voice of Sky-King cut through the stale air of the cell like a sharp knife.

"I know." Sam stood, addressing the miniscule form of the genie floating over the circles on his hands. "I just don't have any other options; I'm trapped here otherwise. Can you help me?"

Sky-King seemed to consider this, rubbing what passed for his hands together as vapor steamed from his eyes, nose, and ears. Sam interjected, "And if you're worried about payment, I promise that I will find something to repay you with, but I obviously don't have anything right now."

Sky-King laughed, ice crystallizing on the prison bars. "Young Keeper, you amuse me. I am the Sky-King, Prince and Heir to the Dominion of Vapors; I cannot be bribed! Your first gift was an act of respect, and I do not expect another. Instead, my friend, allow me to repay your respect with my own." The genie floated over to a nearby wall outlet, out of the cell. Sam moved to the bars to watch, snatching his hand away from the icy metal.

"Hey, guard! Turn that A/C off, willya?" called a prisoner in a neighboring cell.

The genie seemed to funnel himself, transforming into something similar to a tornado, channeling his essence into the wall socket and disappearing into it. Electric sparks flew from the plug as he vanished.

A minute passed. Then two. _What is he doing?_ He trusted the genie, although he also recognized that the djinn's idea of helping may not exactly coincide with what he himself would have done in the same situation. Nevertheless...

The outlet exploded in a shower of light and Sky-King reappeared, thunderclaps of laughter echoing off the prison walls. "Your enemies are ill-prepared, Samuel Buckland." Snowflakes fell from his lips. "Your records were easily found; I was able to overload the machine they kept them in as well as destroy the paper copies."

"Had they sent the information on? To the FBI, or anyone?"

The genie cocked his head, looking at Sam. "I do not believe so; one of the guards exclaimed that he had 'just been about to send this shit upstream' after the machine was destroyed. Without that information, I think that it will be difficult for them to send you to the tribunals for judgment."

Sam started to laugh, but then he remembered something. "Wait...the cops are still going to remember who I am, the ones who arrested me. What can we do about that?"

"Solomon used many spirits in his spells, young Keeper, as have his heirs since then." He spread his hands. "Do not interfere with God's plan. Be wise. These are your commandments, as they have been for every Keeper before you. Follow those commandments and your actions will be blessed by God." Sky-King bowed in mid-air to Sam, who bowed back.

"Again I bid you fare-well, Keeper. Try not to get imprisoned again, for your enemy has had this time to prepare. I cannot stay; my dominion calls to me, commands me to move onward. Goodbye, Samuel Buckland."

"Goodbye, Sky-King. And fly safe."

Another crack of thunder as the genie disappeared into the winds he sailed. Sam smiled for just a moment, then set to work; Sky-King had told him that there were many spirits that he could call. Maybe one could do what he needed...maybe one could help. He stared at his hands.

The images shifted, changed...and settled in gibberish. _Damn it._ _I must need a clearer image. Make a decision._

All right then...a demon. A demon...of sloth. That should do it.

As his attention refocused on his hands he saw that the sigils had already prepared themselves. He read the annotations as best he could; demons of sloth were powerful, but ill-used to exerting that power. As long as one did not anger them, they did not tend to fight the summoner too strongly.

Sam looked around for an appropriate space; the demon would take a physical form, and if the circle was too small, he would be unable to bind it. Ah!

_The bed_. _Perfect._

Squeezing out the ketchup packets from his uneaten meal, he drew the symbols surrounding the bed, then stepped back.

"Argol, I conjure you from your sleep. Break from your rest to do the will of Solomon's heir, then return to your slumber. Argol, I conjure you..." he chanted. As he began the second verse, the lights began to flicker, and a great sense of lassitude began to creep into Sam's mind. He shook his head; the demon was coming, and if he fell asleep during the summons...

After the fourth chant, a dark cloud began coalescing over the bedframe, but Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from drifting into dreamland.

After the sixth, Sam felt like he had been on a 36-hour roadtrip _sans_ coffee or Monsters.

After the seventh, the fatigue suddenly washed off of him and imploded into the middle of the diagram, over the bed. The demon stretched and yawned, shaking the remnants of smoke off of its claws and dull grey skin. It yawned, showing five or six rows of cavernous, tooth-lined mouths, then blinked its eight eyes open onto Sam.

"Why do you call me from my bed, Keeper of the Keys?" Its voice was that of a half-sleeping child. "Speak your command, and be quick so I may rest again."

Sam shook the last of the sleepiness off and stood before the demon. "When the police come down here to interrogate me about what the destroyed records said, I need you to make them not care about doing their jobs, at least for the day. Make it so that it's too much trouble for them to question me, and they might as well let me go. Do you understand?"

The red pupils in the demon's eyes expanded, contracted. "Do I have to move?"

Sam almost laughed. "No, you may stay there until you do as I have asked, then you may leave."

"Very well." The demon waved its clawed hands at Sam; it was only now that the young man saw that the demon's hands were on backwards, fingers bending the wrong way as they curled. Sam shuddered. Footsteps sounded on the stairwell.

"Samuel Buckland?" The officer who had arrested him was coming in, flanked by two others, another man and a woman.

"Over here!" Sam grasped the bars and nodded toward the demon, who only yawned again. "What is it?"

The police stepped up to the door of the cell, one of them inserting the key and turning it. "Keep your hands where I can see them, if you please, sir." The door slid open. "We've had a...malfunction with some of our records equipment, and we need to retake the official statement you made earlier; we're also going to have to recontact the gentleman who charged you...Caitlin, I think his name was. Come along, then."

"Of course." Sam took a step, then, hissing, he turned his face to the demon. " _Now!_ "

The demon stirred a bit, blinked its eyes open again, then focused on the police officers, its eight red eyes burning within its head as it whispered, its words unintelligible to Sam.

"You know what?" The officer shook his head and let go of the keys. "None of this shit matters, man; no matter what I do, they're just letting you guys back out on the streets with a slap on the wrist and a stern talking-to. What's the point of even trying anymore?" He slumped against the wall.

"I know what you mean, _mon ami_ ," said one of the others, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. "Last week I get home from a car chase, my heart's all pounding, and then my wife tells me she's leaving me because I'm not ambitious enough. What the hell! I joined the force because I wanted to make a difference, you know, do something worth doing. Guess I was wrong."

The third cop's knees buckled; she tried to stay on her feet, her eyes meeting Sam's, something akin to realization in her face. "Y...you..."

Then she was out, snoring upon the floor.

"Vanessa's got the right idea, you know," said the first cop. "We're just wasting our time here, anyway...there's nothing worth waking up for." Sam started to tiptoe out of the cell, trying to avoid their notice. It was easy; the two conscious cops didn't seem to _want_ to notice him.

As he reached the end of the hallway, though, he heard a gunshot.

"Sorry to ask, Frank," said the voice of the first cop, but slurred, like something was wrong with his mouth. "My aim's a little off. Would you mind? I'll do you; it's hard to do m'self."

"Sure, Trev."

_Bam. Bam._ Simultaneous shots.

Cops went running by Sam, none taking any notice of him. Tears filled his eyes as he hurried out of the station.

_Fucking demons._ The wind outside was harsh, wiping the moisture from his face before it could stick. He had _known_ , he had been _warned,_ the book had _told_ him that they were cagey, that they would only follow your literal instructions. Why hadn't he been more careful?

_Lesson learned, bastards._ He wouldn't forget that one anytime soon...nor would he forget what this power could do. Two good cops, dead...and he, Samuel Buckland, had caused it.

For the first time, he was a bit afraid of his newfound power.

_Good._ _I_ should _be afraid of it; fear of fire teaches one respect for the flames._

He set his face and ran. _Because the flames can come back and burn your ass if you're not careful._

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gregory Caitlin sipped more of his wine, staring across the table at his lovely wife, Susan. He had surprised her with this dinner date the day after what he would always term "The Crisis."

The two of them had spent all night talking about it. The breaches of trust on her part. The sudden obsessiveness and distance on his. How he had almost forgotten _why_ he was doing this, running for office, working so hard on his company.

And then, of course, the hugging, the make-up loving, remembering what it had been like when they had been younger, before they were married.

So Gregory had wanted to treat her like he had back in those days, show her that he hadn't forgotten the wonderful woman she had been then, and that he still thought she was that woman now, only better.

"Your numbers are looking great, honey." Susan glanced at her iPhone. "Latest poll has you with 34%; political pundits are going crazy. 'He always knows the exact things to say, the exact moves to make,' they say." She beamed a great big smile at him. "It's about time someone worthwhile got voted in."

"Suze." Gregory reached across the table to remove the phone from her hand and clasp it in his, "I didn't come here to talk about work; I came to spend time with you. It's something I haven't been doing enough of lately, and..." A buzzing came from Gregory's pocket.

"Liar." Susan favored her husband with a small smile. "Go ahead; I'll just head to the ladies' room. Be back soon!" Susan's blue dress caught the lights as she stood and headed toward the restrooms. She turned on her way and blew Gregory a kiss.

Grinning, Gregory glanced down at his phone. The number was blocked, which made him smile more; either it was someone he didn't care about, and he could hang up, or it was Francis down at the research division with some new data for him.

"Caitlin."

The waiter who came to clear some of their dishes was unable to explain to Susan what happened; he saw Gregory's face fall, then his brows knit together, then the man just screamed into his phone, screamed unintelligible obscenities at whoever was on the other end. His cheeks were red as he knocked glasses and plates onto the floor, and before the manager or anyone else had the chance to ask him to leave, Gregory Caitlin stormed out of the building, the eyes and ears of the other customers still tracking him.

~~~

Sam parked the rental Honda in the driveway of a small, slate-colored, two-story house with a very sad, overgrown lawn. A pink flamingo stood, but off-kilter, like someone had kicked it in a fit of spite and no one had ever reoriented it.

Getting out of the car forced a stretch in the man who had written his name as "Solomon Smith" when he had paid cash for his rental. He had known that Caitlin would probably try to track him again as soon as he found out about Sam's prison break, so he had done what he could to make things a bit more difficult for him. The air smelled metallic here, like rust, like copper. Sam glanced around the yard, saw an oxidized tricycle, pipes strewn about, sticking up through the grass like pikes.

_What is up with this guy?_ He paused for a moment, taking in the surroundings, before he began to step forward on the path. He had taken two steps when the flamingo next to him exploded. The roar of the shotgun blast forced him to cover his ears in surprise and shock.

"Get the fuck off my property!" The voice sounded like it was coming from an upstairs window. Sam looked up at the second floor, but saw no one.

"Mr. Birch?" called Sam, holding his hands high and trying his best to look nonthreatening. "I'm just here about a paper that you were interviewed for a few years ago? By a Doctor Stone?"

Sam heard the cock of the shotgun. "What about it?"

"Um...well, I read it and I was really interested about your ideas on the true language of the Angels." Sam winced. _God, that sounds lame._ He took stock of positions he could dive to if the shotgun poked its head out of one of those windows; a broken metal fountain was closest, but his best bet might be to jump back toward the car. "Could we just talk? I'm not here to cause trouble."

"Fat chance, sonny boy." The voice had moved, shifted to another window. "Someone else came asking about that, and I talked to him...next thing I know, I've got phone calls from all over, asking me about where I am, and will I come down to see their 'specialists', and that people are after me and I should meet with some agents for 'special protection.' Fuck that." Despite himself, Sam couldn't stop a bemused smile as the rant went on. "I've got second amendment rights, son; the right to bear arms, and if anyone thinks that they're going to have their government spooks come and take me away just because I've been spoken to by angels, well, they're going to have to do it with a couple slugs in their chest."

Sam suppressed a laugh. "Um...Mr. Birch? I'm not with the government and I'm not someone who wants to laugh at you...and, well...I'm certainly not someone who wants to get shot." There was no immediate response. "I just need your help. You were right, Mr. Birch; you were right about everything, and the angels are in trouble."

Finally, a salt-and-pepper head peeked itself out; the face underneath it was well-groomed, lined, and had the added thickness that often comes with age. The dark brown eyes blinked a few times behind their glasses.

The shotgun was still in his hands.

"Who did you say you were, again, son?"

Sam smiled. "My name is Sam Buckland."

"And what is it that you wanted, Mr. Buckland?"

"I just need to ask you some questions. You see, I've spoken to the angels too."

~~~

"Gabriel? Really? The bastard's got Gabriel?" Kurtis Birch handed a bottled beer to Sam and cracked another open for himself. Sam glanced at the bottle but didn't recognize the brand, a blue shield logo labeled "Weihenstephan," then nodded as Kurtis sipped from his drink.

"Yeah. It's crazy, I know, but she's spoken to me, in a...vision?" Sam laughed and opened his own beer. "You know, a month ago, I would have laughed in your face if you had told me that you had talked to the angels."

"Really?"

"Well...maybe not. I would have wanted to, though. I thought that people who believed in God were 'weak,' looking for some kind of Father-figure to justify all the horrors of the world, and denying that humans were capable of doing true good on our own, without a God's intervention." He shook his head, tears beginning to sting his eyes as he remembered his last words to his mother.

"Believe it or not, I believed the same thing." Sam's head jerked back upright.

"Wait. Weren't you a professor of angelology? Like Dr. Stone?"

"Never got the doctorate, but I did a few tours. Lectures. Spoke at the Vatican." Kurtis smiled, sitting back in his rocking chair, pink bunny slippers on the ottoman. "That was fun; John Paul II was the Pope at the time. Good man. Always wanted to know how much of it he bought into, you know?"

"You're telling me you didn't? At all?"

Kurtis shook his head. "Nope. I was in it for the money, son...well, the money and the girls." He smiled at Sam, but it was a regretful smile, a smile mourning the man he had once been. "See, research is easy, and it's fun and all...but no one can prove or disprove anything about the angels, right? So, as long as you're doing work and publishing papers, you get paid, you get grants, you get lodging. Takes work, sure, lots of work...but you can't really be _wrong_ , and so there's very little _risk_ in it. First met Martha on one of my lectures, about twenty years ago." His eyes glazed as they began visualizing Memory Lane, leaving Sam and the living room behind. "She came right up to me afterwards and started asking all sorts of questions, about my sources, my inspiration. One look in her eyes and I could tell that she really believed it, and that she thought _I_ did too. I almost said something," he continued, shaking himself out of his reverie, "but her earnestness was compelling, and I felt myself almost believing right along with her."

Kurtis glanced back up at Sam. "Almost."

Sam's eyes were bright as he listened. "What changed things? What made you believe?"

Kurtis laughed and took another swig of his Bavarian brew. "Well, like I said, the angels spoke to me. Or spoke _at_ me, or _around_ me..." His voice turned wistful, a bit confused, as he continued. "Never figured out why they wanted to talk to _me_ , you know, given that I hadn't believed in them up until then, had been using their names and such for my own gain. Or even if it was meant for me to hear at all, maybe just an accident." He nodded to Sam. "You know what I mean?"

Sam returned the nod. "Yes. I know exactly what you mean."

"So, do you know about September 11th, son?" Sam nodded; even as young as he was at the time, he could remember where he had been when the planes had crashed into the Twin Towers; he had been riding his bike outside of his home when his mother had called him in to watch the news.

"Happened right after that. I was sitting in this very chair, remote control in my hand, flipping through channels; I just couldn't believe it. I bet a lot of people felt like that back then, you know, thought that we were invincible, that something like that only happened to 'other countries.'" Sam acknowledged this comment, motioning with his hand for Kurtis to continue.

"Anyway, I was watching the TV, then, suddenly, I could see them. All over, flying to and fro, in and out of the flames, over the crowds; angels, everywhere."

He paused, laughed to himself. "They didn't look anything like I thought they would." He spread his hands wide, holding them in front of him. "Not like people with wings, not exactly; they were more like...luminous, undefined...they didn't exactly have a shape, or maybe it was just that I couldn't figure out what shape they were. I don't know.

"So there they are, and I'm so stunned, right, that at first I don't hear it. Then I realize that the sound of the broadcast was being drowned out by something. Took me a second, then I realized it was music...but it wasn't. Music has this quality, you know? Rhythm, meter, anything that a qualified music student in college could tell you about and that I don't even know the words for...but language has a different rhythm. This was language...but it was language that WAS music."

Sam sat forward like a shot. "You mean...the angels speak in songs? Their language is musical?"

Kurtis wobbled his right hand back-and-forth in a "so-so" gesture. "I don't think it's so much that they speak in songs. It's more that...this is how our universe interprets their speech. They aren't really part of us, you know; God made them separate, made them different from us. Before He made the universe itself, before He made matter, time, space, all that, however that worked, there were the angels, doing His will."

"That's pretty clear in the classical literature." Sam rubbed his hands together, took another sip of his brew. "And I can definitely buy that, given the little bit I already know about them. How did you figure it out, though? Your book said..."

"Ah, the book." Kurtis laughed and upended the bottle, polishing off his beer. "That book was written while I was high on caffeine and stimulants, staying up for days on end trying to make sense of it. See, by chance, I had my TiVo going and I caught the broadcast. I showed it to family, friends, wanting to see if they saw it, they heard it. Never. Nothing.

"After I figured that out, I went to work. Well, okay, let's be fair." He pointed a finger to his head, tapped his temple. "I first spent a few months talking to psychiatrists, soul-searching, trying to figure out if I had lost it, gone crazy, or what. Eventually I had to decide that I wasn't crazy."

"Why?" Sam was rapt. This exact question had occurred to him, many times, and he wanted to know how this man who had no concrete proof other than his own senses had handled it.

"Because I had seen it, heard it. If I was crazy, I'd have to start doubting everything _else_ that I had seen or heard. I wasn't prepared to do that, so I decided that, for the sake of argument, I wasn't crazy. Doing that let me move on with life, let me try to figure things out." He sighed and sat back in his chair.

"I ran that tape over and over, trying to isolate the notes. Learned a fair bit about music while I did so, Sam, including exactly how much I _don't_ know; there's nothing like an obsession to help you learn things, am I right?" Sam laughed, and stretched a bit; the clock read 4:50; he had been here over two hours already, and the sun was shifting outside.

"The language is just that, Sam. It's a _language,_ and it expresses _concepts_ , just like ours, just like every other language on Earth. Anyone who heard it and had a mind for patterns could figure it out. Wasn't easy, though; like breaking through government computer security...every day. For five years.

"Their language is dense, high context. A few notes, with proper accompaniment, can say volumes. It's how they say so much in so little time; it's why revelations...you know, when they speak to humans directly, impart the Divine will?...are so frightening, so easy to misinterpret. Imagine your brain trying to translate a language that, in three syllables, just quoted the entire works of Shakespeare. That's how this works." Kurtis took another sip of his drink, his eyes distant, remembering.

"Even their names are crazy. They would always start a name with a particular sound...I still don't know what that sound means, but it comes before every name every time they would say it."

"Wait," interrupted Sam, holding up a hand. "You heard them say names?" Kurtis nodded. "And...did you happen to figure out what any of those names were?"

Kurtis shook his head. "That's the thing about proper names and language, son. There's no way to translate it, unless it's a cognate. Just is what it is, but if you can figure out the way a language works, you can figure out something about its naming conventions."

"And do you know how those conventions work?"

"No way in hell," Kurtis laughed as he saw Sam's face fall. "Way too much bound up in those names, I'll tell you that; if three syllables of normal talk would be Shakespeare, then one of their names is the entirety of the English language. In conceptual form. It's mind-boggling." He began to rake his salt-and-pepper mane with his hand, but stopped when he noticed that his empty beer bottle was still in his grasp. He chuckled and threw it into the kitchen, where it dropped neatly into the trash can.

"So how did Gregory get Gabriel's name?"

"Must have been one of those on the tape." Kurtis shrugged. "When Martha came back a few years ago, she was doing research for a paper of her own. A big one, she said. She had read my book and wanted to know more. I sat her down, a lot like this, and told her what I had figured out so far. She asked about the names; I gave 'em to her. She was all smiles when she left. So far as I figure, your man Caitlin must have gotten those names from her and used them to trap our angel."

"If he got the name from your information, then I can undo it with the same data. Do you have the notes? The names?"

"Of course I do!" His smile threatened to overreach its boundaries. "I'm still working on this, you know; just playing a few of their words...it shakes the Earth, man, just does something to you to hear it." Still smiling, Kurtis got up and headed deeper into the house, leaving Sam alone to think for a bit. For the first time in a while, he felt optimistic; it wasn't just faith that things would work out, but it actually _seemed_ like they would. Even losing the Keys that his mother had left for him hadn't stopped him; he had done it. Gabriel was going to be safe.

Kurtis came back into the living room carrying a sheaf of papers. He was sorting through them as he walked, mumbling to himself, looking for something in particular. His eyes lit up as he found it, grabbing a sheet from the pile and pulling it out with one hand. Sam reached out for the paper.

Then the world exploded.

Great fires raged across the living room, shattering the windows, melting metal into slag, incinerating plants, furniture, everything. The orange-white flood spread in moments, far faster than anyone would have expected; the investigators who came later would attribute this fire to arson, although there was no sign of an accelerant.

Kurtis screamed as the fire raced up his legs, turning jeans to ash in seconds and crisping flesh like bacon on an overheated pan. He dropped to the ground, shrieking, beating at the flames which seemed to laugh at his pathetic efforts in their feeding frenzy. They moved with a malevolent will, diving towards the humans in the room, passing up tasty combustibles in order to sate their hunger on mortal skin and bone. Within seconds, the scream had ended, and Kurtis Birch was just a charred hunk of meat on the floor.

Sam was closer to the window than his unfortunate companion; as the fires streaked his way, he dove through the glass in an adrenaline-fueled leap, shards of the window shredding his forearms as he protected his face. His tuck and roll was not elegant, but it sufficed to get him to his feet, to allow him to observe the madness before him.

A spirit of pure flame, the efreet he had seen outside of Dr. Stone's office, circled the building, cackling; its laughter caused the flames to reach higher, its gestures made them burn faster. The building became a seeming cyclone of flame, hotter and hotter, as the genie of fire indulged in its artistic destruction. Its maniacal laughter grew, and then its gaze fell on Sam, eyes burning in flaming sockets, and the cackle seemed to scorch Sam's ears.

The efreet raised its clawed hands and dove at Sam, a streak of star-fire streaking toward him. Sam had no time to react.

Then he was thrown clear by a 40 mph gust of wind.

"Stand back, young Keeper!" The form of Sky-King materialized in a swirling blizzard, dropping the surrounding temperature by dozens of degrees. The efreet hovered in place, staring, hissing at the intruder.

"Begone, djinn, or perish here!" In contrast to the sharpness of Sky-King's voice, the efreet crackled and hissed.

Sky-King expanded and contracted, roiling within. "If Samuel Buckland dies today, lowborn scum, it shall not be because I abandoned him!"

The two ephemeral beings lunged at each other, sending steam and snow spiraling around the front yard where Sam stood. Gouts of flame and mini-hailstorms whizzed through the air; grass froze over, then was scorched in a flash-fire a moment later. The combatants expanded into the sky, filling the air over the burning wreckage of Kurtis Birch's house.

Sam could not make out the exact course of the battle; one moment, Sky-King had the upper hand, pummeling the fire spirit like a pugilist from another age. Immediately after, the djinn would be at the mercy of the efreet, struggling to loosen its hooked claws from around his throat.

To a mortal's eye, if it could be seen, the battle would have taken less than a minute, but to Sam, whose eyes could watch the interplay between these two incarnations of natural forces, it went on for far longer. Two opposites strived against each other, neither conceding, neither surrendering, until the stronger was determined.

"Sky-King!" Sam as he climbed to his feet. The raging inferno had begun to overcome the snowstorm, and the djinn's struggles seemed to be weakening. Sam ran toward the site of the battle, and, stretched out on the grass, he saw the defeated form of his friend, melting away under the heat of the victorious efreet; a small whirlwind whipped up as the icy orbs that were his eyes vanished.

The veins in Sam's face stood out. His fists clenched, and his teeth ground against each other in fury. Caitlin had done it again, used his connections, used Gabriel, to find where he was...and send this monster to stop him. No. No more.

Sam rolled up his sleeves, stretched forward his hands. He concentrated on binding the genie before him, binding it to his will, taking control of it from its current master. He chanted the ritual words, anger pounding through his bloodstream like the flames the genie commanded.

Nothing happened.

The efreet laughed once more as the house collapsed, and then, its mission complete, it flew off into the sky, leaving another trail of fire behind it, the red streak dissipating as Sam watched, confused.

_What the hell just happened?_ He looked at his hands, where the sigils had been written by his contract with God.

They were not there, either.

Sam's heart dropped like a stone; he sank to the lawn, now oblivious to the dying inferno before him. God had abandoned him. God had taken his powers away, left him, left the world to the mercies of Gregory Caitlin. God had let Kurtis die and kept his death from being avenged.

Tears coursed down his face like twin rivers. His chest felt hollow, like it had when his parents had been murdered.

God had turned away from him. God had abandoned Gabriel.

"Well, how about that." He spun his head around; on the grass, looking up at the flames, was a trim redhead, someone who had once told him that she was only a senior in high school.

He was looking at the telegram delivery girl. Complete with grey uniform and bicycle.

Sam stared for just a moment, then laughed. _Of course_.

"You're the only one involved in this who hasn't died, revealed themselves as an evil politician, or been some sort of celestial being. I should have known something was going on."

The woman did not look away from the blaze. "You forgot yourself; you're not dead, a politician, or an angel, are you?" Her blue eyes turned to him, and a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

"Not so far." Sam bowed his head; weariness weighed him down. "Are you here to kill me? Stop me? I'll tell you, right now I don't have a whole lot of fight left in me."

The delivery girl sat down next to him. "Tell me."

"Well, first, this damn secret gets my parents killed...and it's my fault, you know, because I didn't believe my mom's craziness about 'holy wizards'...but how _could_ I? I mean, I didn't even have the background for it, no history...it's like I was punished for not believing in invisible mud, you know? Just because it happens to exist doesn't mean I had any real idea it _could_!"

The girl nodded, pulling her legs to her chest and laying her head on her knees as she listened to Sam.

"And then, everything I do, this bastard is one step ahead of me. He kills Dr. Stone, he gets me sent to jail – where, I might add, I accidentally end up getting two cops to kill each other – and then he murders Kurtis." Sam punched at the ground, ignoring the pain twinging up his arm. "People never did anything to him except know something he didn't want others to know...and if I hadn't been looking, they'd still be alive."

Again, the girl nodded, but Sam didn't notice; he was too busy giving his diatribe, venting the pressure on his chest.

"And now, just now, God turns away from me. I tried to help, tried to do what He wanted me to do...and the power is gone. The magic is gone. What am I supposed to do if He's going to take that away from me? What does He want from me?" A pause, and his words turned plaintive, seeking answers. "Why did he leave me?"

Sam sighed, tears still in his eyes, and looked over at his companion. "So, then, who are you, and why are you here _now_?"

The girl raised her head, smiling. "I'm...well, I'm sort of the Lord's fact-advocate. I check things out, make sure everything's running the way it's supposed to...and intervene, if necessary, to fix the things that aren't."

Sam forced a laugh and wiped his tears. "Well, I don't think things are 'running the way they're supposed to,' since Caitlin has Gabriel trapped and Michael's afraid to come out of his hidey-hole because he might get grabbed, too." He stopped as he saw that she was shaking her head. "What?"

"Michael isn't afraid. If the Lord hadn't given him express instructions, he would have already stormed the place and tried to take our sister back by force. No, the Creator's plans are complex, multi-layered, and not even the highest of the Host are privy to them all."

"All right, so God 'has a plan.'" Sam could hear his anger beginning to show in his voice. "What does that have to do with recruiting me and letting innocent people die?"

"Funny story, actually." Blue eyes twinkled. "Turns out that...well, you're right."

Sam hadn't really felt "right" about anything in so long it took a few moments for the words to sink in. "I'm...I'm what?"

"You're right. It's not fair. Moreover, it's not what God intended at all; He planned for your mother to take up this burden, take the Keys, fight the evil."

The first of the fire trucks rolled up, deploying its crew and gushing water onto the crackling inferno. Sam didn't notice.

"You mean...it wasn't supposed to be me at all? Mom got it wrong?"

The girl nodded. "Exactly. Giant 'whoops' on our part."

"So...so..." began Sam, hope blossoming in his heart, "...you're going to bring her back? Change things?"

"I'm sorry, Sam, but this isn't _It's a Wonderful Life._ I don't have that kind of power; we're not even sure if the Almighty can reverse time, change history. Humanity's free will is precious, after all, and if we were to violate it...well, we wouldn't be angels, would we?"

Sam's face fell. More emergency workers arrived; police and fire personnel stormed the building, set up roadblocks...and ignored the two on the lawn.

"So...what then?"

"I'm offering you the chance to cash out, Sam. I can't change history, but I have a lot _,_ and I mean a _lot,_ of influence over the present. I have strings I could pull, get you your life back." Sam began to say something, but she held up her hand, silencing him. "Well, most of it, anyway. Your old job, or a new one, if you would prefer. Pay raise. New house, new girl. I could even let you forget, wipe your memories of all this so you didn't have to live your life wondering if a demon was on your shoulder." Her eyes gleamed as she leaned toward Sam. "You've fought God's battles for long enough, my friend. Longer than most would have. And it wasn't even meant to be you. Let it go, get your just rewards; you've earned them."

Sam was stunned. Since this had happened, he had begged for normalcy, then hoped for it, then resigned himself to the fact he would never have it again.

"...You can do that?" It was like his mind had locked up. "Really?"

The girl looked into his eyes. "Tell me I can't."

What Sam saw within those eyes defied description; if he had been pressed, he would have called them supernovae of power, said that all the possibilities of the world spun within them. He would have spoken of the rise of kingdoms, the accumulation of infinite wisdom, the achievement of world peace...or conquest. He would have seen the simple joys of family side by side with the heated passion of a lover and melded with the cold, clean happiness of money.

But there were no words for him, only a feeling, only the knowledge that, yes, this girl, this emissary from God, could indeed do as she had promised.

"I...I thought that God didn't care about me anymore." He was lost, trapped within her eyes. "When the power..."

"Shhh." Her voice was resonant, sonorous. "God loves all His creations. Each and every one, brothers and sisters to each other under the Lord."

Sam wanted to say Yes. He was about to; his mouth opened to utter the syllable, and his tongue prepared to shape the sound. Freedom, peace, normalcy...

( _Ignorance_ )

...What?

When King Solomon was given this opportunity, what did he wish for?

...

He wished for Wisdom. He didn't ask God to make his problems go away, he asked for the ability to solve them. He asked for the knowledge and ability to do God's work.

...But it's not supposed to be me! I'm not...

"...Sam?"

_But it IS you, Sam! Are you going to run away? Take the blue pill?_ _What happened to "it's always better to know?"_

God wants me to quit! He wants me to...

"Sam? What's wrong?"

He wants you to abandon Gabriel? To leave her in Caitlin's hands?

The realization rocked Sam. He hadn't even considered the fate of the captive Archangel. He slowly spun his eyes back up to meet the blue ones before him.

"...What happens to Gabriel?" The smile on the girl's face turned into a quizzical frown.

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I can't see the future, you know. I'm sure that the Lord would intervene, make sure that she was saved, somehow." Another shrug. "Does it matter? You don't have your magic, anyway; you've lost the Keys. You couldn't save her if you tried."

Sam was wary, now; the messenger's seeming indifference to the fate of someone she had called her "sister" struck a false chord. "Maybe..." He met her gaze. "...or maybe you're lying to me. Maybe this wasn't a mistake after all, and you just want me to give up. Maybe..."

Understanding struck Sam so hard that he stumbled, almost falling to the ground. "I know who you are."

"Really?" She stood up from the grass and smiled again. "Do tell."

"You...you're the Devil, aren't you? Or one of his demons. You're trying to tempt me away from...from doing the right thing! From what I'm supposed to be doing!"

By now, the fire was out; police were interviewing witnesses. It still seemed as though no one had noticed the two of them. The girl tilted her head.

"One out of three, Sam. Not bad, though; you did better than I thought you would." She spread her arms out as she spoke. "I am indeed the Great Accuser, God's advocate, the one who tests mankind through temptation. In English, my most common name is Satan."

"I knew it!" Sam backpedaled away on his hands and feet. "The Devil!"

Satan dropped her hands and shook her head. "No, no. Weren't you listening? I am God's advocate, not the leader of Hell! I am not Fallen; I am an Angel, in service to the Most High! Do not compare me with...that...that...thing!"

Sam stopped. "Wait. You're...Satan? But you're NOT the devil?"

"Exactly." Satan brushed a fallen leaf off of her shoulder. "Never have been, never will be. That was a mistake by Christian theologians who conflated the two of us. I was the tester of Job in the Bible, and the one who offered Christ the kingdoms of the world."

Sam held his head in his hands. "And...and you were here to test me?"

Satan nodded. "To be worthy of wielding Solomon's Arts, you had to demonstrate yourself before the Lord. Most of your predecessors had done so sufficiently before they were ever called, so a test was not necessary; I had no question about their qualifications."

"...But I had not?"

"No, Sam." She licked her lips as if trying to decide what to say. "You were not a bad person, not cruel or especially sinful, but you had not distinguished yourself as an upstanding moral figure, someone who could be trusted to make Solomon's choice of wisdom over power or wealth. I doubted you, so I asked the Lord if I could test you. He agreed, and here we are."

"And...and what now? I passed, didn't I?"

Satan smiled, filling her mouth with teeth. "Yes, you passed, although the day may come when you wish you had not, Keeper. I am pleased with you, though; I am always pleased when I am bested, for it is not often. Good luck." She took Sam's hands in her own, filling his nostrils with the smell of cherry blossoms, sweet and fragrant. "God is with you."

Sam blinked, and then she was gone, leaving only her scent and the fading sound of a piano chord behind. Sam looked around and saw the police officers running toward him.

"You! Sir!" The young man stopped as he noticed the scorches on Sam's clothes, the ash on his skin. "Are you all right?"

Sam waved, stretching out his hand, and something caught his eye.

The tattoos, the Keys, had returned to him, marking his hands like a roadmap.

"Are you all right?" came the voice again.

"Yes." Hope filled Sam's heart. "Praise God."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Gregory Caitlin ignored the seventeenth call from his wife today, as he had all the others; he was sitting in front of a terminal at the SRD, watching as the information, God's information, distilled from the mind of an Archangel, scrolled across. On any other occasion, the information about how to process electronic waste so that it could provide a source of energy or his political opponents' plans to discredit him to the California unions would have his undivided attention.

Not today. Today, he stared as Samuel Buckland reemerged as a threat.

Gregory ran his hands through his hair and scratched at the stubble on his chin. It had been several days since he had been home at all; basic hygiene concerns were beginning to go out the window as he worked hour after hour, staring, querying, awaiting the responses.

_No,_ he kept thinking as solution after solution was refuted by the angel. _I won't let him stop me. I have to save the world. I'm the only one who can!_

Assassination? INEFFECTIVE.

Bribery? INEFFECTIVE.

Armed assault? INEFFECTIVE.

The technicians had begun to avoid entering the room; after the first three had their eyebrows singed off after they asked Gregory if he needed help, word had gotten around.

Committing to an insane asylum? INEFFECTIVE.

Back alley kidnapping? INEFFECTIVE.

Distractions? Keeping him busy? INEFFECTIVE.

Not for the first time today, Gregory pushed himself away from the keyboard and started pacing. He grabbed a bottle of water from the desk without realizing it, chugged it down, tossed it into the growing pile, sat back down.

Get an APB out on Buckland? INEFFECTIVE.

Alert Homeland Security? INEFFECTIVE.

Gregory's eyes were hurting and he felt on the verge of tears. _Why?_ _Why, God? Why are you doing this to me? Have I failed you somehow?_

Without warning, the computer screens began to flicker, back and forth, on, off, on, off. The lights in the facility followed suit, resembling strobes more than standard fluorescents. Gregory looked about in a panic, eyes darting about, searching for shelter.

Is it an earthquake?

The insanity stopped as suddenly as it had begun; Gregory hurried to the window to peek at Gabriel's inert form. She seemed to sigh, shifting in her bonds, but nothing further. He glanced over at the monitors; a brief increase in mental activity, slight drop in blood pressure...then normal.

Normal.

Gregory sat down at the station again. _What am I doing?_ he asked himself, for the first time since this journey had begun over two years ago. _Am I really doing what's right?_

YES.

Gregory's head snapped over to the monitor. There it was, written as if he had asked the question. He wet his lips, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"Wh...who is this?"

I AM THE ARCHANGEL. In her prison, Gabriel shifted again, her head rocking back and forth, like a child saying "no." YOU MUST NOT FALTER; YOU ARE FULFILLING OUR LORD'S WISHES.

"What do I need to do? Samuel Buckland...he won't stop...I don't know...I don't know how to stop him...people keep dying..." Gregory finally lost the battle with his tears, the weight of the deaths he had ordered, brought about in order to stop Buckland, crashing down on him. The answer was quick in coming.

YOU MUST USE THE KEYS. SUMMON AZRAEL. SEND HIM TO DESTROY BUCKLAND.

Gregory blanched. "...Azrael? But...he..."

HE WILL SWEEP BUCKLAND AWAY. NOTHING CAN STAND BEFORE HIM. SUMMON HIM.

"But...what about all the others? The innocents?"

INSIGNIFICANT; A FEW DOZEN COMPARED TO MILLIONS, PERHAPS BILLIONS.

A pause.

SACRIFICES MUST BE MADE.

Gregory stood, walked to the window, looked at Gabriel. Pressed his head against the cool glass.

"Sacrifices must be made."

~~~

Sam tipped the cabbie and headed toward his own car. The full moon shone over the metal, glistening in the darkness. A tear threatened to form as the sight of it in his driveway made him remember his father, who had given it to him, and who had died because of him...

He shook his head. No. It wasn't his fault; it was Caitlin's. Caitlin, who was misusing the Lord's power for his own purposes. Caitlin, who had summoned the efreet which had destroyed Kurtis' house and records.

Caitlin.

Sam got behind the wheel of his car and opened the glove compartment. They were still there: the tax papers he had put there a few weeks

( _a lifetime)_

ago. He flipped through them, scanning over the front pages of each return.

He was looking for Caitlin's address. He found it. A neighborhood in Northridge, about an hour away.

If Caitlin is going to hit me at home, maybe there's something I can find out at his. Maybe...

Sam realized he was already driving, turning out of his street onto Avenue B. He glanced at his gas gauge. Half a tank. _Better fill up,_ he decided, pulling into a Shell station. The car stopped at Pump # 7, and Sam swiped his Mastercard, punched in his Zip, popped the gas tank and punched the octane 93.

The machine flashed its message: _Begin fueling._

Sam pulled the handle on the pump, looking around as he did so. It was midday, with several people crowding the station. An older gentleman was having an argument with the kids in the back of his grey van; three guys who _couldn't_ have been older than 18 were walking out of the store with 12-packs of Budweiser. The captain of an old Volvo was leaning in close to the readout, trying to understand the numbers.

And the demons were running.

Sam cocked an eyebrow, wiped a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow, and looked more closely; he had begun to get used to seeing them, minor imps and lesser shedim standing on people's shoulders, poking at them, whispering to them. Most of the time they were ignored, people considering their words to be all-too-human impulses to pettiness or vice.

Sam stared; the scene resembled that of rats and a sinking ship. Each and every one of these demonlings was sprinting, flying, crawling, or squirming away from the gas station as fast as possible.

_What the hell?_ His pump gave the _click_ that meant he had filled his tank. _What would make them...._

Then he realized how hot it was getting. Perspiration had coated his chest, his back, his neck; his hands were slippery with it. Others around him were looking around, dabbing sweat from their faces, wondering if their air conditioning had broken or what.

Sam looked around at them. Then he looked up.

The sky above the gas station was _boiling_ , the grey of the clouds warping as if viewed through a revolving prism. Sam could hear the faint sounds of birds screaming as they changed course, could see the very vault of the heavens pulsating.

Another glance at his fellow gas-station attendees; no one else was looking up. They didn't see this, which meant...

_Oh, no._ _Caitlin...what now?_ Sam braced himself; he drew a hurried protective circle around himself with a pink highlighter from his car door pocket.

"What the hell are you doing, man?" A teenager in a pickup truck squinted, trying to see what the other was drawing. Sam glanced his way, perhaps to give him a warning, tell him to get the heck out of there.

He didn't have time.

With a sound like the metal of two colliding cars shrieking as it buckled and gave way, the sky above the Shell station was rent, a huge rift forming as its very fabric was pulled back, revealing a great void, something too dark to be called black.

But this void was not empty. Not at all. Sam had to shield his eyes from the radiance of the figure within; it was humanoid, but with six arms, five clutching a different weapon – sword, spear, axe, bow, rifle – and the sixth with a great horn, a warrior's bugle. It was huge, standing easily fifty feet tall if not more, and its hairless body shone with coruscating golden light that cascaded off its form in great, crackling waves of power. The molten orbs which made up its eyes turned toward Sam.

"Run!" Sam waved his arms, trying to attract someone's attention, someone who would care that an ex-accountant standing in a highlighter circle was yelling at them. "Run! Before it's..."

The figure floated down toward the gas station; the trees and grass which fell under its shadow withered and died, leaving the land looking as if it had been barren for decades. It raised its sword, a great blade of ice and fire, and howled. Sam almost crumbled under that sound, a sound which shook the very foundations of the Earth to their core. In a near panic, he returned his gaze to the creature which had appeared before him.

It was then that Sam noticed its arms. Rather, he noticed what was _on_ those arms. Great, glowing runes encircled them, almost like armbands...or chains.

_I have to free it._ Sam stared at the giant celestial figure. _Caitlin has it, and I have to free it._ Sam looked at his hands, hoping, praying that something would appear, something he could use.

The great celestial sword came down. It cleaved the station in two.

Gas pumps began exploding, and the fire came alive. It seemed to chase the screaming patrons, leaping across gaps and riding streams of gasoline to find them, to incinerate them. Hysteria broke out as children and adults tried to escape from their vehicles before they too were destroyed by the impact of the creature's weapon...and failed. One after another, the people who, moments ago, had been working, pumping fuel, or talking, curled up as the life left their scorched, charcoaled bodies and left pithed shells behind.

Sam's eyes could not tear themselves away from the destruction around him, the chaos that his shield had protected him from, the death that his adversary had visited upon this place simply because he, Sam, was there.

"Damn you!" Sam turned to face the figure as it pulled its sword back up. He glanced again at his hands, saw the spell he would need to wrest control from Caitlin. It was long. It was complicated.

It was his only hope.

_Unless you count on divine intervention_. He shook his head as he began the ritual. Contrails of light spiraled off of his hands; he intoned assertions of power, of control, of authority.

The authority of the Almighty.

The gigantic figure was not idle, however. Its burning eyes stayed focused on Sam's as it took a step forward, causing the earth to shake and car alarms to sound in a five-block radius. Great golden wings stretched forth from its back; three pairs of wings matched its three pairs of arms...but unlike the arms, each of these wings dripped with blood, ever-flowing down the feathers and staining the ground below with screaming silhouettes of lives taken long ago. Like a titan out of Greek myth, it brought its horn to its lips and blew. The sound which emerged from the massive bugle was no clarion call, no rallying cry on the field of battle. This sound was a deep, sonorous vibration which shook Sam to the core; the shockwave splintered concrete and brought the remains of the Shell station tumbling down, resulting in yet another explosion. Sam fought to keep his feet under the attack, trying to concentrate, to continue with the spell. In the chaos, his eyes had lost track of his adversary for a moment; when he brought them back up, he saw something in the monster's face.

The corners of the creature's mouth were turned down, and its eyes as well. The face reminded Sam of a child who has been caught in the act of doing something wrong and now deeply regrets his actions. Sorrow. Guilt.

Its mouth moved again; this time, Sam could understand it. Its voice was lilting, musical, elegant. "Keeper. I beg you, flee. Run. Save yourself, for I will end your life. I am compelled by the Keys and can do nothing to help you. Run."

Sam shook his head as he continued his incantations. He was tired of running, tired of letting Caitlin get the upper hand. If he could wrest this creature free of his enemy's control...

The giant reared back, brandished its spear. A veritable plague of horseflies, hornets, cockroaches, and other forms of crawling, creeping life sprung from the spear-point as it thrust into the ground. The flying horde blackened the sky as they descended upon Sam; the crawlers carpeted the ground and brought trees down by sheer weight as they advanced upon him. The insect swarm crackled and sparked as they tried to cross the pink highlighter barrier, thousands upon thousands of tiny bodies bursting into flames and ashes; this was small comfort to the man inside, however, as the sounds of exploding bugs combined with the relentless drone and chatter of the ones still outside in a maddening chorus.

The terrible sound forced Sam to his knees, covering his ears, closing his eyes; he could not blot it out, could not think, could not...

Suddenly a cacophony of thunder cut through the chaos and light lanced through Sam's closed eyelids. He cracked them open, afraid to see what new thing was here to destroy him. What he did see brought him up to his feet and took his breath away.

Standing up from the impact crater of the lightning bolt, in the midst of piles of insect corpses, was an androgynous figure; its features were beautiful and radiant, but not easily classified as male or female. It wore gleaming red and gold armor and held a spear in its hands, a sword gleaming at its waist. Gigantic in comparison to Sam, it seemed miniscule next to the monstrosity before them both, yet outstripped the other in presence and radiated authority. The new arrival leveled its spear at the great gold creature and sang.

"Stand down, Azrael. Leave this one; he is under the Lord's protection."

The fifty-foot-tall angel knelt, one knee on the ground. "Great Michael, I cannot. I am bound by Solomon's Keys. I must destroy Samuel Buckland."

Sam started at the mention of Michael's name. "...Mikey? Is that you?"

Michael did not turn. "Then I will fight you, brother, and when you are defeated, you will return to Heaven and away from the evil wielded against you."

Azrael stood and bared all five of its weapons. "Thank you, Commander." Its song lilted in sharp contrast to its form. "God be with you."

"And with you, Azrael."

_Guess that divine intervention came through._ Sam stood in awe as the two angels clashed. Azrael seemed to be the obvious victor; it swung viciously with sword and spear, parried with its axe and bullets _rat-tat-tatted_ from the machine gun. When one threw in the gross size disparity, Michael more resembled a child fighting a professional boxer.

Except that he wasn't. Michael was the Commander of Heaven's Hosts, the angel who had thrown down the Lightbringer. He had no match.

Michael had unsheathed his glittering blade and hurled himself at Azrael with both weapons before him. He seemed to be everywhere at once, his weapons spinning, slicing, jabbing faster than Sam's eye could follow. Each attack seemed designed to draw Azrael farther out of position, luring the larger angel into tiny mistakes which Michael's unparalleled skill widened into gaping holes; each successful blow that Azrael struck led Michael into a deeper, more telling attack. Within two minutes, Michael, bleeding shimmering light from a hundred different minor wounds, had Azrael disarmed and defeated. His face set, Michael reversed his sword, held it aloft, and thrust it into the heart of the gigantic form of the other.

The angel's dissolution was not a gentle process; lightning crashed and a momentary windstorm kicked up shattering nearby windows and swirling debris in a wide circle. Sam covered his eyes to protect them from the radiance that Azrael's body was giving off. Then it was gone, and the only evidence that Azrael had ever been there, besides the destruction he had left behind, was the fading glow inside of Sam's eyelids.

Michael turned, panting, to look at Sam. He smiled when he saw that the Keeper was unharmed.

"What are you doing here, Michael?"

"You could not have survived Azrael, Sam." The Archangel sheathed his blade. "You are too important. I could not let him..." Michael's words trailed off, and his eyes widened.

"No." He held up his arms, and Sam saw chains of red light begin to form on them, words which he recognized.

They were the same words that were on Gabriel's chains. The ones from his dream.

Sam lunged out of his protective circle toward Michael, but the Archangel shook his head.

"You cannot save me this way, Samuel Buckland." The runic script crawled up his upper arms, onto his neck. "Run. Gabriel needs you."

"But..." began Sam.

The sigils had begun to illuminate Michael's face with a hellish red glow. "Go!"

Then he smiled.

"And God be with you, Keeper of the Keys."

Sam stood a second longer, then nodded. He turned around and, sprinting off, he spun his hands to invoke the janni, genies of the Earth itself, minor compared to efreet or djinn but still useful.

"Sam!" Michael's voice came as if down an echoing hallway. "I am no longer my own; if you can still hear me, then run! Run!"

Sam's spell was complete; he sank into the desert soil as if it were quicksand, wrapped in darkness...but the earth around him did not impede his breathing, did not crush nor constrict him. He was wrapped in the embrace of the jann, secure and safe unless someone took a shovel to this spot and dug six feet down. Still, Sam's breathing was fast as he tried to calm his heart, his mind.

He felt something like a sonic boom shake the ground which served as his shelter. _Just another couple of minutes_. He took a deep breath. _Just to make sure he's gone._

Then he was asleep.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gregory Caitlin stared at the angry Archangel imprisoned within the warded room in the SRD building.

He could see Michael pacing back and forth, unable to come within six inches of the walls or door because of the spells placed on them. He seemed a caged lion or tiger, leashed ferocity held at bay only by the bars and the locks placed on them. From one end of the room to the other the angel walked, searching the walls with his eyes, seeking a weakness, a vulnerability.

_And if he finds one_ , _then I'm dead._

Gregory headed into the restroom, splashed water on his face. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced now, evidence of his sleeplessness and worry. His wife had finally stopped calling, and so had his work. This bothered Gregory, on some level; he knew that he _should_ care, but every time he started to, something...came up. Distracted him.

"What's going on?" He stared at his reflection. "What am I doing? What have I done?"

What you needed to do.

Gregory froze. This was the first time he had heard the voice in his mind; it had only been on the computer screen before. How he knew it was the same voice...he wasn't sure.

But it was.

"Why?" He wiped his face, looked in the mirror again, asked once more. "Why? It was _Michael_ , for God's sake! And I...I trapped him, captured him! Why?"

A moment's pause while the words hung in the air...and then Gregory's reflection moved of its own accord. A smile stretched across the tired face, and the eyes seemed to glitter.

"He wouldn't have let you destroy Buckland." Gregory thought that he saw the end of a forked tongue behind the shining teeth, but on his second glance, it was gone. "You have a mission, Gregory. You are going to bring peace, prosperity, wonder to all of mankind. Remember?"

And that was the worst of it. Gregory did remember; he remembered the stories that he was told as a child of how God loved all his children and wanted only what was best for them. He remembered how his faith in the Lord got him in trouble as he grew older, because he was willing to fight for it. Fights at school, in the churchyard...just kid fights, of course, no one really got hurt, but he had been serious.

He remembered that day three years ago when his parents had died. Both of them, within an hour of each other, had just fallen over. The autopsies had revealed no apparent causes of death; their bodies had just...stopped working. Gregory had almost gone crazy then; the arbitrariness of it all had nearly destroyed him. He hadn't been sure that he could live in a world where good people, people like his parents, could just... _die._

In his despair, he had reached out to many people; many of them took his money and left him feeling the emptier for it. Then he found the old man. Easily seventy years old and maybe more, this man had looked like he was down on his luck, homeless, hungry.

The scene replayed itself in Gregory's mind: there he was, walking out of a Denny's diner after spending hours drinking coffee and trying to deal with his latest disappointment. A dirty, almost clawed hand reached out, grabbed him by the arm. Caitlin recoiled, looking to his side; there stood the old man, teeth jangling in his mouth like yellowed piano keys.

"You need a miracle, son?" The young man had gasped; the other's breath reminded him of forgotten refrigerator leftovers.

"Let go." Gregory tried to pull his arm free without hurting the old man.

"I know how to make miracles, you know." The man let go of the other's arm and tipped him a wink. Gregory shook his head, started to walk away, afraid to make eye contact.

"Thanks, but..." He turned away, trying to avoid the crazy man's glare. He had just reached the corner when he bumped into someone who he hadn't seen before. "Oh, I'm sorry..."

The "person" he had bumped into was not human. Caitlin was looking up about two feet into a face made of stone, with eyes made from azure sapphires and teeth of violet amethysts. The figure was unclothed, but had no anatomy to hide; its body seemed to be made of chiseled marble, granite, and sandstone.

Caitlin stared for several moments, then turned back toward the Denny's door and the old man still standing beside it.

"I told you I could make miracles!" The old man laughed as he hobbled over to where Caitlin was.

"H...how did you do that?" Gregory's eyes kept straying toward the stone form.

"With _this_!" The old man reached his hand into his backpack,, pulling out a burnt book.. The book looked like it had been bound in leather, but the binding was frayed, and many of the pages were scorched and black in places, unreadable in a few.

"These are the Keys of Solomon, young man." The old fellow held Caitlin's gaze, his eyes now bright, devouring Gregory's face as he spoke. "You know Solomon, don't you?"

Gregory nodded, unable to speak, looking at the book, then back at the figure. "My family had it for a few hundred years, I guess," continued the old man, "but...something happened a while back. My uncle managed to get away with it, and when he passed it came to me." The man laughed, startling Caitlin out of his reverie. "I don't have kids of my own, you see; I've been worried that I'd have to just give this away to someone just to keep its secrets alive when I'm gone. But you." He pointed at Gregory's face, smiling. "You need it, don't you? You need miracles. You need God's power."

Gregory shied away. "I...I don't think..." The old man interrupted him.

"I can't just give this to anyone, you know." He crossed his arms. "I need you to promise me, Mr. Caitlin, that you'll only use what's in this book to help people. Help all of humanity, like my dad did, and his before him. Can you do that?"

Caitlin looked at the book, then at the stone giant behind him. _If I had that kind of power,_ _think of how much I could do! I could help so many people, fix so many things!_

Make it so arbitrary tragedies didn't hit good people. Or their parents.

"All right." Caitlin's words thudded against the air like a hammer. "I'll take the book."

Tears left Caitlin's eyes as he came back to the present. The atmosphere of the SRD building seemed to press in on him, the contrast between the sunny street in front of the Denny's stark and jarring.

_The Greater Good_ , Caitlin, came the voice. _The Greater Good_.

~~~

Francis retreated down the hall from the restroom. He had been worried about his boss's sanity before; now he was sure of it.

He hurried into his office, locked the door, and wiped the sweat from his face. He didn't know what it was that Caitlin had come back with today; the scene when he had arrived had resembled the stereotypical "black-shop" deals he'd read in King novels and such: a big van, blacked out windows. No one allowed in or out until the van had left. Caitlin himself had been in the cordoned-off area for hours and had just come back out.

Francis pondered for a moment, then leaned forward to his computer terminal and started searching.

"What's going on here?" His fingers raced as he cleared passwords, accessed top-level clearance files. Caitlin had offered him this position personally two years ago, on the strength of his research into dreams and brain activity. He had been excited about the research project, especially when he had heard about its goal of interpreting dreams to predict the future. Francis had believed in "psychic" phenomena since he was young, despite his exposure to the scientific community and its general disdain for such ideas.

His hackles had been raised when he had first seen the environment that Subject G had been put into. Human experimentation had always been an issue with science, and organizations had put regulations into place in order to limit just the sort of thing he had seen that day. The experimental setup was...garish, medieval; the equipment was there but there was no attempt to make her comfortable...or even keep the setting sanitary. Caitlin refused to let anyone into the experimental area once all of the monitors were set up. Francis was up late that night, wrestling with himself, until he came to a decision. He was going to walk out, despite the pay, despite the chance the research offered to prove his ideas...

Until she had been right.

When the first predictions had started rolling in, and each one was letter-perfect, Francis had been standing in the doorway of Caitlin's office with his resignation in hand. These were not the vague predictions of Nostradamus, requiring interpretation to possibly fit into events; these were crystal-clear, exact, precise in every detail. The place had been abuzz with excitement; 100% accuracy was a dream that even hard-core psychic believers never dared hope for.

And here it was. Francis' resignation had gone into the shredder, and his conscience had gone with it. Two years had gone by, and Francis had managed to distance himself from what was going on, relegating the girl to her designation.

Forgetting that she was a person.

Then Samuel Buckland had come, and the cracks had appeared in Gregory Caitlin's armor. The Special Research Division had become something other than just a business and political operation; Caitlin had pulled its resources into something resembling a war.

_Loading_ , came the prompt on the screen. Francis took a drink from his Yale University water bottle, drummed his fingers on his desk. Hearing that someone was working against Caitlin, actually opposing him directly in some way, had shaken Francis' ability to ignore what was happening.

"Prophetic dreams be damned." He wiped the water from his lips. "This needs to end." He looked back at the computer screen.

Password required.

"Goddamn it!" What would Caitlin use as a password? Birthdates, important people...what?

_I can't try it if I'm not sure._ Sweat beaded on his forehead, running into his eyes. _It'll lock me out; he'll know I was here...damn, what is it?_

Francis stared at the screen, cursor blinking in the password field, licking his lips, trying to get into Caitlin's head. His collar stuck to his neck as his fingers stretched out to the keyboard.

"God." Francis' head knelt in prayer. "If You're up there, and this is what You want, then fine. Let me get caught. All right. But..." and here Francis shook his head. "...but if this Buckland is really on your side, and this is all wrong, then help me, God. Give me a sign. Help me do this."

Francis' fingertips brushed the keyboard, then typed nine keystrokes.

_Deus vult_.

Logging you in, Gregory...

Francis broke into a smile, the fear washing away from him in an instant as the two typed words unlocked the deepest secrets of Gregory Caitlin and the Special Research Division.

~~~

Sam opened his eyes, then rubbed his hand over them to make sure that he had, in fact, opened them. The darkness he was in was total, complete; he reached his hands out and they felt as if they were passing through water. Panic did its best to settle in.

_Where am I?_ _What's going..._

Then the memories hit him: Michael. Azrael. The jann. Hiding in the earth. Where he was now.

Sam shook his head to clear it, then stretched forward his hands. _Rise_ , came the command, and he felt his body floating through the dirt, sand, and finally asphalt before cresting above the street's level once more. The sun blinded him as he rose, and he blinked his eyes several times as they adjusted.

Then he wished he had not.

The place was devastated; the explosions had left whole blocks decimated, the McDonald's across the street from the Shell had suffered a direct hit from an airborne gas pump and the building had cracked in half. The piles of dead insects were still on the sides of the street, although most of them had been swept off the road proper by now. The onramps to the highway were cracked and collapsed in places. Emergency sirens screeched through the air, bystanders gaped and pointed at the destruction, in awe of the chaos, unaware that it was caused by a _battle royale_ between two Archangels.

Sam tore his gaze away from the carnage. He had to find Gabriel's name...and now, Michael's, he realized. Michael was a prisoner of the enemy as well. Sam chuckled a bit to himself, laughter the only defense in the face of the monumental absurdity of the tasks before him.

_I'll need a ride_...He stopped, a genuine smile creasing his face. Underneath the Shell sign, hidden beneath a ramp of twisted metal which had, by chance, formed a lean-to as it fell, was his car.

Unharmed. Unscratched, almost, except for the insects still in it. Sam walked over, examined it more closely. All the bugs were dead, but they had gotten everywhere; it would take a few hours to clean them out...but he didn't have a few hours. He pulled out his keys.

_Please, God. Please,_ he thought as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over...then caught, exoskeletons coughing out of the exhaust pipe as the car roared to life. Sam jumped in joy, cupped his hand, then scooped as many insects off of his seat and out of the driver's side area as he could. When he could see the floorboards and pedals again, he nodded, sat down (ignoring the _crunch_ from the remaining corpses), and drove out from under the shelter his Ford Falcon had found.

Sam noted the road closure signs leading back up to the 14; he would need to find a back road, an alternate route. A grim smile crossed his lips; at least he had filled up on gas before this shit had gone down.

_Where do you go now?_ It wasn't the first time he had asked himself that question. _Still to his house? What if he's there? Maybe that'd be a good thing, actually..._

He found another onramp to the 14 and turned south, heading toward Northridge. Traffic was slow until he made it past the site of the attack again, rubber-neckers and people parked on the side of the street to look over the bridge clogging up the lanes. As he drove, he flipped the radio on to listen to 103.9 FM. _50 Ways to Say Goodbye_ was just ending.

"...And we have a special announcement today, folks," came the announcer's voice over the speakers. "This is for a Mr. Samuel Buckland, a Mr. Samuel Buckland." Sam groaned and reached over to turn the radio off...but what he heard next stopped him. "The announcement says, 'The girl told me you'd be listening, Mr. Buckland. Find the nearest computer. Open your email. Good luck.' Cryptic, isn't it? If you know what this is about, let me know!"

Sam stared at the radio, then brought his head up and turned the wheel to avoid hitting oncoming traffic. Returning to his own lane and flicking the music off, he considered what had been said. He knew that Caitlin had access to Gabriel's knowledge, and Gabriel was supposed to know pretty much everything God did.

_This could be a trap_.

Still, the voice hadn't asked anything of him except for getting to a computer and checking his email. Could they track him that way? Did Gabriel know exactly what computer he would stop at, if he did?

Making a decision, Sam turned off on the next exit and headed for the nearest hotel, a Best Western. His Falcon was very distinctive in the parking lot next to the Toyotas and Hondas which most people had stored there.

Sam walked to the desk, tapped the bell. A few moments later, a pock-marked teenage boy with sallow skin and shallow eyes walked up. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Do you have a computer room?"

"That depends on if you're paying for a room, sir." The employee's boredom and job dissatisfaction was evident in his voice. Directly to the right of the desk, the sign _Business Lounge – Internet Available_ called to Sam.

"How much is a room, then? One night."

"What size? Double, queen, king..."

"Double. Double is fine. How much?"

"One bed or two?"

Sam had to fight back the urge to punch this kid in the face. He clenched his teeth "Just one. How much?"

"That'll be $49.99, without tax. Pay-per-view movies will be extra. Could I use this same card in order to charge room service, emergencies, anything out of the ordinary..."

"Yes, yes!"

"Can I have your card, sir?"

Sam reached into his pocket. His wallet was gone. The police had taken it. Of course.

"Umm...hold on. I left my money in my car."

The young man sighed. "Of course you did, sir." His head bobbed. "Go on, go get it. I'll be right here."

Sam rushed out to his car and opened the glove compartment, found the spare I.D. and MasterCard that he kept there for emergencies.

"Where the hell you been, son?" came a voice from behind him. Sam turned to see an older lady, black, with spectacles magnifying her eyes as she looked behind him at his car...and the piles of locusts, flies, and scarabs that were still in it.

Sam just shrugged. "Here and there."

The old lady laughed. "They might not want you back then, they send you off like that." With another chuckle, she turned away, heading toward her hotel room.

_It's easy to forget there are still_ normal _people in the world._ Shoving open the door, he reentered the lobby. The pizza-faced clerk was still there, absorbed in the digital world of his iPhone. "Get lost?"

"You have no idea." Sam dropped his I.D. and card on the desk. The clerk rang up the transaction, printed up a parking pass, and handed Sam his room key without looking at him.

"Room 224. Put this pass on your dash so security doesn't give you a ticket. Checkout is at 11:00 a.m.; breakfast starts at 7 and goes till 9." The boy glanced up from his Facebooking.

Sam was already gone.

"Goodbye to you, too, sir." He began to compose a post about the rudeness of customers.

~~~

Sam sat down at a desk in the "business lounge" area of the hotel, turned on one of the PCs. A helpful display nearby informed him that his login information was his room number and the password was "business19."

"Real secure, guys." He leaned forward toward the screen, opening up his Gmail account. Several emails from people offering condolences for his loss, some spam mail...and one from an encrypted account, subject line, "Top Secret." There was an attachment. A big one.

The mouse pointer hovered over that email for a few moments. _This could still be a trap,_ Sam thought. _Maybe I should just...walk away._

As he was considering that course of action, his finger double-clicked the message.

_Mr. Buckland,_ _I work for Gregory Caitlin on his "special project" that I think you know about. I found this data and I wanted to send it to you. I swear that I had no idea when I signed on. It started out almost normal, but I think that something is deeply wrong here, and I hope that you're the one to fix it. He just recently brought something else in, and I'm worried that he's going to break soon._

Whatever you're doing, you need to hurry. Good luck. God bless.

"That must have been Michael." His shaking hand opened the attachment. It was a collection of several files put into one pdf, including dates, research notes, occult symbols. The entirety of Dr. Stone's paper was included, as were many others from various authorities on angelology and theology. At the end there was a sheet of music, with a particular section highlighted. The notes were dense, rich; Sam was not a musician, but he could recognize the complexity of this segment, with several accompaniments required to correctly perform it.

He cocked his head for a moment, staring at the screen. Sheet music? Why the hell would Caitlin care about -

"Music." Realization flooded him like SoCal sewers after a rain. Kurtis had told him that angels spoke in music, or something like it, anyway. He had heard Azrael and Michael talking to each other...their words had been songs, but he had understood them so he hadn't realized until now what that had meant.

Heart racing, Sam searched for and downloaded _Sheet Music Player_ , a program created by DelCo, Caitlin's company, that could take scanned sheet music in pdf form and perform it through the system's installed media player. Sam had thought it was a novelty when it had come out; now he was blessing its very existence.

A few heartbreaking minutes later, the download was complete, and Sam moved the musical transcript into the playlist.

Analyzing file...

Sam drummed his fingertips on the desktop.

File analyzed. Playback?

Yes.

The room was suddenly filled with exultant, crystalline music; if there had been a violinist there, he would have wept in despair that he could never achieve this. Played back through the speakers of a midrange computer system, losing at least half of its depth and tone, and still a composer would have felt the presence of the masters before him, and even the coldest heart would have been brought to tears. The notes, the songs, were themselves a work of art...but there was something beneath them, something deeper, which spoke to the soul but went unheard by the mind.

Except for Samuel Buckland's mind. He heard every word.

_This is from Kurtis' recording._ He heard the angels cry over the horrors and rejoice in the heroics of the day the Twin Towers fell. Each life saved and lost was recorded forever in the Book of Heaven; the celestial guardians ferried souls away from their Earthly prisons with trembling tones like the vibrating of harp-strings and stood vigil over those still trapped in the deep, resounding cords of the drum. The victims and victors alike were watched over by the Heavenly Host, and the songs collected the sum totals of their lives within their notes.

And then, the name. _Gabriel has come,_ they sang. _Gabriel bears witness. Gabriel brings the Word of God._

Gabriel has come.

With trembling fingers, Sam pressed the pause button on the media player. Rewound 30 seconds. Listened again. And again.

One of the hotel janitors poked his head in, checking on the business suite. For a moment, he had time to wonder _What is wrong with that guy?_ before the music swept over him, threw him back into the almost-forgotten days when all he had to worry about was what fishing hole to visit today and if they were going camping this summer. The sheer glory contained in that sound drove him back, out of the room, and, the next day, he would quit his job and begin his missionary career, trying to bring people back to God.

Sam traced over the highlighted area of the musical score as it played through Gabriel's name. _This sound_. He brushed his hair back from his face. _This is it. I can find her now. Thank you, God...and you, whoever you are._

All fatigue gone, Sam rushed out of the business suite, heading to his car to run down to the nearest store.

He needed some chalk.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Francis packed up his work clothes, his utensils, the usual. He tried his best to look normal, to smile and wave like he always would as he readied himself to end his day, tried to keep the sweat from beading on his forehead or his upper lip. He almost jumped through the roof when his relief tapped him on his shoulder.

"What's with you?" The young lady looked him up and down. He smiled a mollifying grin.

"Been up too long." He rubbed his eyes. "Need some sleep tonight...not so much caffeine." He gave the giant coffee cup on his desk a shake. She laughed.

Now he was walking, walking toward the security door. Once he was through, it would be just a few minutes to his car, then he could drive away, find a hotel, empty his accounts in the morning, and get the hell out of here before Caitlin realized what he had done.

He pulled out his I.D. from his chest pocket. Went to swipe it. Dropped it instead. Bent over to pick it up.

"Francis."

He froze. For a moment, his mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Francis, can I see you for a minute?"

With agonizing slowness, Francis turned to the man who had been his employer, whom he had betrayed...and who was probably going to kill him. Francis swallowed, then nodded to Gregory Caitlin.

"Sure. No problem."

Caitlin returned the nod and motioned for Francis to follow him into the big office which served as Caitlin's command center. He moved behind the desk, sat, typed on the computer for a few moments while Francis stood and waited. After an agonizing two or three minutes, Caitlin swung his chair back to look at Francis. It was only now that Francis could really see the effects that this time had had on Caitlin; the circles under his eyes went beyond dark, his skin was sallow, sickly, and his emerging beard left him looking more like a street-side soldier preaching about how the end was nigh than an up-and-coming leader of industry and politics.

_He's really crazy._ _My God, he's lost it entirely, hasn't he?_

"Is there anything you would like to tell me, Francis?" Despite his appearance, his voice was smooth, soft, encouraging, just like always. Francis felt relaxation spreading despite himself as Caitlin spoke. "Anything at all?"

_He knows_. Francis swallowed. _Might as well..._

"Yes, sir, actually." The researcher paused, drawing himself up as much as he could and looking his companion in the eye. "I think that you've lost sight of what's right here. I think that you've let yourself be consumed by...by whatever power you're using to keep her trapped here. You've gone too far, Mr. Caitlin." Francis' nerve broke for a moment, and he looked down, wrung his hands. When he glanced up, he thought he saw a shadow behind Caitlin's seat, stretched out where no light could shine. A blink and it was gone before he could be sure he had seen it at all.

"Go on." Caitlin's eyes were level and his face smooth, and his hands moved to fold in his lap. Francis shook his head before continuing.

"So...so I emailed Sam Buckland. I sent him all of your files, gave him everything. I hope he can stop you." Again, Francis summoned his courage to look into the imposing face of the other. "You can kill me if you're going to, Gregory, but I did what was right, and that will follow me to Heaven. The angels exist, God exists, and what you're doing is _wrong_."

There was no response from Caitlin.

Francis walked forward a few steps, standing before the desk. "Mr. Caitlin, please. Let them go. You still can, you know. You can fix this. You can set them free again."

Caitlin looked up at Francis and Francis could see the war within the man. The flesh around the eyes trembled; the bottom lip quivered. The calm certainty which Caitlin had worn the entire conversation unraveled like an unfinished sock, and he was on the verge of tears.

Francis was shocked, confused; he had not expected the man who had orchestrated these terrors to...to _weep_ , to cry like this. He came around the desk to comfort Caitlin, perhaps to help him realize how wrong all this was.

But all he found was the pistol Caitlin was holding in his lap. All he heard was the gunshot as the pistol fired. All he felt was astonishment and fear as he crumpled, first to his knees, then to the ground, his own blood pooling around him in a crimson lake. His fading eyes floated back up to his murderer.

Caitlin was staring down at him, his eyes almost blank, his face almost smooth. Entwined about his shoulders was a snake, glistening golden and black scales, easily a man's wrist wide. The snake's face hovered near Caitlin's right ear, and its silver tongue slipped in and out of its mouth as it whispered to him.

Then it was gone, and Francis had one more thought:

I hope the angels forgive me.

TWO HOURS LATER

"He's coming, you know." These were the first words Gregory had spoken since Francis had come in, blustering, screaming about how he had gone insane, how he had sold them all out to Samuel Buckland, and then taken his own life with Caitlin's pistol. Gregory's shock had been total; he had never suspected either betrayal or insanity from his head technician.

_It's better this way_. As always, the voice was soothing, comforting. _At least now you don't have a traitor watching you...unless he's gotten to someone else._

Gregory shook his head. "I don't think so." His eyes misted as they wandered over the pallid corpse on his floor. "He wasn't very social; I don't think he would have told anyone before..." He trailed off.

Better safe than sorry, don't you think?

Gregory's face scrunched like a child confronted with bitter medicine. "I...I suppose." He tapped his index fingers together. "I could lock down the facility, keep anyone here from getting out. Sever the hubs so no emails or phone calls can leave."

_Good. That way, no one can warn the Buckland boy_.

"Is he really going to be able to find us?" He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I mean..."

You have the book now, but the Keeper is connected to it, its knowledge, through Solomon's power. Destroy Buckland, sever the line, and then the power is yours to do what you must with it.

Gregory shook his head. "I don't want to kill him." Each word felt like a thousand pound weight being lifted by his tongue. "There...there have been too many people who have died already. I'm...done with it."

The voice chuckled. _What about your grand plans, Caitlin? Your schemes for improving humanity's lot? Have you given up on them_?

"No, but...there has to be a better way than this! I mean, capturing angels, sending genies to kill innocent people? Is this how it's supposed to be?" Gregory was crying now, forgetting to speak softly as he argued with this nameless, shapeless voice.

_Power must be wielded to have any use, Caitlin_ , replied the voice. _Imagine what the consequences would be if the power fell to another? They might not be as...discerning...in its use as you are, as you will be._

Caitlin's head sunk into his hands as the voice continued.

_Destroy Buckland._ _We can do this together, and then you'll have everything you ever wanted. Peace. Happiness. Justice_.

"What if I don't?" It was a whisper, inaudible.

_I think you know what happens if you refuse._ Images flashed before Gregory's mind: implication in the murders of Martha Stone and Kurtis Birch. Himself behind bars. His wife driven to drinking and drugs. The collapse of California, then the United States. Civil War.

Gregory sighed.

"What should we do?"

He thought he heard a light hissing in his ear before the answer came.

_We need to_ _prepare_.

~~~

Sam Buckland pocketed his new phone and pulled out the materials that he needed from his Wal-Mart bags: incense, chalk, a small brazier, a map of the world. He spread his hands, and the images, tracings, and writings reappeared for his examination as the door closed behind him.

Sam's face hardened as he stared at the tracings around his fingers; this would be a difficult ritual. Angels, it seemed, were no easy customers to command, or to track. _Nothing for it._

He squared his shoulders and set to work.

About three hours later, Sam was washing the chalk dust off his hands. The entire room, floor to ceiling, was decorated in Solomonic script; symbols for the constellations were in the proper places, and the channels were drawn to focus the energy onto the map, to find where Gabriel was, where her energy sang to Heaven.

"One more thing." He pulled out the silver dollar he had received from his father, and his eyes shed tears again as he knuckled the coin one last time, finger to finger. His father had many faults – nosiness, a short temper, and a loose sense of morals were a few – but Sam had loved him for the lessons, for the trips, for the constant support when he had been younger and the evident pride in the man Sam had become.

"Thanks, Dad." His voice croaked as he dropped the silver dollar onto the center of the map. He stood, raised his hands to the ceiling, and began his spell.

"Heavenly Hosts, guide me. Heavenly Hosts, protect me. Heavenly Hosts, hear me and show me the way." He reached into his shirt pocket and turned his phone on. A few button pushes later and the segment of the song that was Gabriel's name was echoing through the room.

The sound seemed to rebound off of the drawn lines and symbols; it was all Sam could do to keep himself standing as the music seemed to pull at his soul, trying to draw it from his body, send it

( _to heaven)_

elsewhere. He found himself singing with it, weeping as he did, unable to keep himself from joining the melody even though he couldn't hear himself at all. Then the sound from the phone stopped, its time over, and Sam could see/hear/feel the cascading echoes as they collected above the map.

_Can sound pour?_ It was a question that Sam would ask himself later, when he had more time to think about things. For the moment, he simply observed the song, Gabriel's name, flowing down and running over the silver coin. The silver turned orange from the sheer power it had been subjected to, melted, then began to swirl around the map. It ran in concentric circles out from the middle, faster and faster, until it stopped and shaped itself into a perfect metallic model of Gabriel.

She was standing right where Sam was, or near enough. Northridge.

"Damn it!" Sam thrust his hand into his hair. "It's not close enough! I need..." He trailed off as he saw the map begin to _zoom_ , the picture changing from a worldview to a close-in look at Northridge itself. Within moments, Sam could see a building tucked away in a corner of the city, nondescript, alone.

A good place to hide an angel. Or two.

He wrote the address and plugged it into his phone, mapping out the route to his destination...and, he hoped, the enemy he needed to confront.

He tore out the building, ran down the stairs, hopped back in his car. More beetle shells crunched under his feet. The late afternoon sun was starting to redden, casting shadows over the parking lot. Sam suppressed a yawn as he turned the ignition and turned the engine over.

He pulled out of the parking lot, checked the GPS on his phone. "Less than 45 minutes away." Sam yawned again as he turned onto the highway. "I need some caffeine...maybe I'll stop and grab a soda at the next..." Another yawn; Sam's eyes were feeling heavy. "...gas station. Damn, I'm tired."

Sam shook his head from side to side as he drove, trying to keep from drifting off; he opened the window so the air blew in his face, bit his tongue, popped some gum in his mouth. The road seemed to stretch out in front of him, and he began to fall into micronaps, only rousing when his head started to dip. After shaking himself awake again, he checked the time.

Two minutes had gone by.

"What the hell?" _I need to pull over, sleep._ He engaged the turn signal. _Won't be any...good..._

The honking from the semi truck in the other lane woke him up. Sam jerked the wheel to the right, ended up back in his own lane, avoided a collision with the railing.

The adrenaline pumping through his body at 175 beats per minute banished the sleepiness for a few moments, but Sam soon felt it creeping back up on him. The lights of oncoming traffic blurred in his vision; the deep red light of the setting sun felt warm and soothing. Sam's head began to drift down again...

He caught it, brought it back up. _Yeah, I need that..._ and as he thought about his nap, he glanced up into his rear view mirror.

Lying on his backseat was something with half-lidded red eyes and grey skin. When it saw him looking at it, it raised one of its backwards hands and waved, smiling with its cavern of teeth.

"Nighty-night."

Sam felt a massive wave of sleepy vertigo bearing him down, forcing his head to drop, his eyes to close. Fighting his way out of the fog as best he could, he clicked the hazard lights and turned the steering wheel to the right, his foot coming off the gas and letting the car drift.

He didn't know where it ended up, because by the time it had stopped, he was asleep.

~~~

_In the fantasy novels, the dream sequences always seem...so dreamlike,_ Sam thought as he pulled himself out of his car. Fingers on plastic, then on metal. Door slamming shut, sound reverberating through the air. Totally normal.

Normal, anyway, if Sam couldn't just look into the driver's seat and see himself still there, mouth agape, drool trickling down his chin.

_I wonder how long I've been down_. He turned his head to survey the landscape, his eyes taking in the oranges and pinks of the sunrise. _Few hours, at least._

Sam took a moment to check out the condition of his car. The engine was still running, and the gas was down to less than a quarter of a tank. _If I don't wake up soon,_ _I'll be out of gas._

Then he couldn't help it anymore. He burst out laughing, the clear tone of it ringing out into the desert sands. "Okay, really?" He raised his hands, as if addressing a crowd. "This is the best you can do? Putting me to sleep? What's the point?" Sam shook his head, still chortling. "Not the brightest move there, buddy."

" _Oh, really?_ "

Sam's eyes widened, his laughter stopped, and he turned toward the highway. The awkward form of the sloth demon was lumbering down the hillock, its eyes bright and with no trace of lassitude about its features. Its mouth grinned that terrible, toothy grin, and its hands reached out toward Sam as it moved.

" _You are trapped here, Keeper. Trapped in_ my _realm. None can escape here without my consent._ "

Sam gathered himself together. "We'll see about that, demon." He summoned his will.

_Fly._ Sam felt his feet leave the ground, effortless and weightless, and he sped toward the sky, aiming himself toward Northridge and Caitlin's secret base.

The demon chuckled and flicked one of its backward fingers.

Sam fell out of the sky like a marionette with no strings. The ground came up on him fast, and it was as much as he could do to force himself to slow before he impacted the sand. As it was, the landing knocked the breath out of him, and he rolled around on the dirt, wheezing.

The demon kept coming. _"I am the God here, little one._ " The creature's voice was petulant, angry, a child's voice roused from sleep. _"This world is mine."_

Sam focused, concentrated, summoned tornado-like winds to blow the demon away. The black clouds spiraled down, swirling around the monster.

Then they parted, and the demon was still moving toward him, its grin larger now. _"Keep trying, Sammy."_ It laughed, spittle and foam flying from its six mouths. _"Don't make it too easy for me to_ eat _you..."_

Sam's eyes darted to one side, than another. _What now?_ His breathing quickened; his heartbeat thumped like a drum solo at a concert. _I can't panic, something, think of something_...

" _Go on, Sammy, think of something._ " The demon sped up as it came within twenty feet of him. " _Think of something before the big scary sloth demon finds you, before it tears your heart out and feeds it to you, before it eats your entrails while you scream, before it..._ "

" _Shut up!"_ Sam conjured a sword in each hand and lunged at the demon. He flew at it with the speed of a Hong-Kong action film star, but the demon was even faster.

A greatsword, a full handspan wide in the blade, materialized in one of the demon's hands in time to block Sam's desperate strike. The demon's breath smelled of saccharine and bleach, stale air, and hopelessness. The demon exhaled the fetid air of a nursing home filled with invalids and cripples as it laughed in Sam's face.

" _It's been a long time since I've been summoned to eat someone's mind._ " One of its tongues licked out toward Sam's face, dribbling stinging spittle on his cheek. _"I'm going to enjoy it, Keeper...I'm going to make it nice...and...slow."_ With impossible speed, the sloth demon struck back, throwing Sam off of its blade and slashing at his face. Sam was able to parry this blow, but it kept at him, its multiple arms wielding the huge sword like a child's toy as it advanced, pushing him back, back, until he was trapped against his car, the demon's weapon pushing against his own.

Sam had no more room to fall back. He could not even raise his weapons to defend himself, as the demon was pressing against him, almost pinning him with its sword. Its grin was sickening; at this distance, Sam could make out gobbets of flesh trapped between them, and the bleach-saccharine smell was overpowering. Sam grimaced.

" _Submit, Keeper._ " Another of its tongues ran over and through its rows of teeth. _"Submit and I promise that it will be over in a few decades instead of centuries..."_

Sam's own teeth were bared from the effort of holding the massive sword off of his throat. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto the car with a metallic _ting_.

Then he smiled, and the demon's own grin faded.

"I think you forgot who you were fighting, demon!" The tattoos on Sam's hands shimmered as he passed through the car, its form suddenly ephemeral to him. The demon's sword _swooshed_ through the space he had just occupied, splitting through the metal of the car but passing behind Sam's sleeping body. The demon stumbled, off-balance, and its head banged into the steel.

Sam wasted no time. Before the demon could gather its wits, he dove over the body of his father's car, swords gone, hands outstretched, and wrapped them around the creature's throat as it looked up at him in surprise.

" _By Solomon's Power, in the name of Almighty God, I cast you out!"_ The power of his words was like an explosion across the desert. The syllables cratered the ground, knocked over Joshua trees, and caused car alarms to go off on vehicles that were still in motion. The sloth demon began to unravel under Sam's fingers, its flesh smoking and dripping onto the ground. It writhed, trying to escape, but Sam held firm.

" _Noooo!!"_ The sloth demon reached its arms over to Sam and gripped him, trying to push him, trying to dislodge him. The hands could not reach the young man's body; when the demon touched him, Sam's skin radiated a golden-white light that scorched the monster's fingers and threw it off of him with a howl of pain.

Sam repeated the exorcism over and over, his hands glowing brighter, the demon shrieking in agony as its ethereal form dissolved and collected in a murky, foul pool on the desert floor. When the last bit of the solid demon had run through his fingers, Sam took a step back and shouted a single word at the puddled mass.

" _Begone!"_

A hollow scream emerged from the dissolved demon; the scream was echoed many million times over by the souls and creatures trapped in the chasm which Sam's words revealed. The chasm glowed with a great red and purple heat, and, just for a moment, Sam saw masses of teeming human figures reaching for the surface, reaching for freedom from their torment.

"There is no God except God, monster." Sam spat into the crevice and turned away.

Then the demon was through, and the rift closed. Silence. Stillness.

And Sam opened his eyes to see the baby-blue sky through the giant slice in his roof.

"Goddamn it."

~~~

"He's only going to gain further confidence in his powers." Gregory turned away from the imp who had just given its report.

_That's what we want_. _Overconfidence is a weapon we can use against our adversary. Reliance on Solomon's magic can lead Samuel Buckland to his ruin. We must be prepared for him when he arrives._

"...Should I summon anything else? Try to stop him again?"

_No_.

Caitlin turned his head toward his right shoulder, forgetting for a moment that he could not see whatever the creature was that was riding it. "Why not?"

The voice that replied was rich, full of suppressed laughter. _Because I want him to make it here. I want him tired, angry, and ready to kill you._

A month ago, this would have made Gregory worried, would have made him rebel, made him question. Not today. Today, he just nodded.

"All right, then." His eyes were barren, empty.

Dead.

"Sounds like a plan."

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_You know, at least it was a convertible in the first place._ Sam pulled his car into a parking spot near a chain-linked gate. _Not such a big deal._

He looked toward the complex that he had arrived at. The buildings gave off a "creepy secret organization" vibe, with almost no windows visible and the guarded gate at the front. His rage built as he stared at the place; here was where Gabriel and Michael were captured, held hostage. Here is where a mere man dared imprison two Angels of the Lord for his own aggrandizement. Here is the man who killed Sam's parents, killed Martha, killed Kurtis.

_This is it._ He took a moment, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead. He wiped the last remnants of his cheeseburger from his stubble and strode toward the fence line; the security guards moved to stop him, one leveling a rifle and the other putting up a hand.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm afraid you'll..." The guard never finished. Sam made three quick gestures with his left hand, and janni from the earth trapped the guards' feet in their embrace while air spirits wrapped around their mouths. A few seconds of muffled struggle later, the guards were unconscious on the ground, smelling of honeysuckle, their legs bent at awkward angles. Another wave, and Sam was lifted by those same sylphs over the gate. His face was set as he began to jog toward the building's main entrance.

Sam burst through the door to the front lobby. A single researcher was there, sipping coffee; he looked up in surprise as Sam bore down on him, spilling the coffee over his pants and shoes, lifting the man up by his coat and slamming him against the vending machine.

"Wha? Who..."

"Shut. Up." Sam's eyes were blazing fury, his voice a cutting knife. "You've been experimenting on someone. I'm here to let her out. You're going to tell me where she is and how to get there."

"Ummm..." The researcher looked back and forth, trying to find a way out, hoping for help.

None came. The only person here was Sam, leashed anger burning in his face as he leaned in closer.

"Where. Are. They?"

"They...they're down that way!" His glasses slipped off his face. "You'll need my badge...but there's a retinal scan and fingerprints! It'll never let you in!"

Sam's lips tightened. "Then you'll be coming with me."

"What? But I..." Sam let him down and began dragging him toward the door the man had mentioned.

"What were you _thinking?_ " Sam shoved the terrified scientist to the ground as they reached the first checkpoint. "I mean, how could you be part of this? Didn't it seem _wrong_ to you?"

"Well...I mean, yes, yes, but..." The researcher was almost jabbering now, trying to keep some sort of composure as he stood up, dropped his keycard, and bent to retrieve it. "You have to understand...it was amazing." He slid the card and the door opened. "She was always right! Every single time! It was..."

Sam clenched his fist, brought it up. The researcher flinched from the blow, but it did not come.

"Bastard." Sam lowered his hand. "You tied up, tortured a girl because she was _right_? Because she could see the future?" He pushed the man down the hallway once more, knocking him from his feet, then helping him up, only to push him again to make him hurry. "That seemed worth it to you? Seemed like a good thing to do?"

The technician had lost his ability to put together a cohesive sentence by this time. He was blubbering, afraid for his life. "Mister, I'm sorry, please don't kill me, mister, please, I'm just..."

Sam pointed at the fingerprint and retinal scanner. It took the terrified employee a few seconds to realize what Sam was doing, and then several more as the retinal device could not read the man's eye because of the twitchy teardrops pouring from it, but the door did open.

"See? See? It's open, I opened it, please don't kill me, please let me go please please..." the researcher continued, begging, pleading in near-gibberish, staring at the floor and wringing his hands.

Sam did not respond; he walked forward, stepping over the outstretched legs of the man on the floor. Another push-to-open door led into the main thoroughfares of the building, with scientists and technicians moving from place to place, monitoring data, tracking changes. Most were so absorbed in their jobs that they didn't even notice Sam was here, and the few who did gave the angry man a wide berth so as not to draw his wrath.

Sam looked down the hallway to his right, then to his left, then back. _Now where?_ A feeling, a pulse. _This way!_ He followed the biggest corridor. _This should take me to some sort of command center or something...maybe I can find where he's keeping them. Maybe..._

But there was no further time to think. An announcement came over the loudspeaker, startling Sam. "Good afternoon, Mr. Buckland."

"Caitlin."

"I know you're looking for me, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be here to greet you on your arrival. Fortunately, I managed to leave behind the two subjects that you are interested in. You are welcome to have them, if you wish, as a gesture of good faith."

The voice chuckled, but the chuckle was without humor, dry and papery. "Of course, you'll have to fight your way through these perfectly ordinary citizens to get back out." A moment's pause. "And you might want to clean up the aftermath before you leave; after all, blood on one's clothes tends to attract attention. Good luck, Sam. I hope to see you soon." The PA cut out, and Sam stood in shock. He glanced from one corner of the room to another. No one seemed to be acting like they were about to attack him; in fact, people were moving _away_ from Sam with urgency and haste.

_He must be trying to throw me off, confuse me, distract me._ Keeping his guard up, he proceeded down the hallway to the central station. It was not long before he arrived at the array of monitors tracking blood pressure and heart rate, and the windows which looked down at the imprisoned Archangel in the next room. No technicians were here, and Sam felt safe in taking a second to see, for the first time with his own eyes, the horrors that had been visited on the corporeal form before him. Gabriel's eyes looked even more sallow, her skin jaundiced. Her breathing was rapid, and her head was lolling back and forth on her neck.

Sam scanned the monitors, found the one that was controlling the sedative dripping into Gabriel's veins. With a few button presses, he had shut the dripline off.

"I hope this means she'll wake up soon." He went to the door, but something on one of the screens caught his eye as he was leaving.

Reams and reams of text were on this screen. Sam read for several moments, eyes widening as they moved.

_This is where they were reading her thoughts. Her dreams._ He paged up and down and saw his own name repeated over and over again. Caitlin had asked Gabriel hundreds of different questions aimed at stopping his interference. Sam almost laughed; all that time wasted and no dice...

Then the last few lines chilled his blood. After a long list of queries about how to stop, slow down, thwart Sam, the text suddenly changed. Instead of the simple black bold text that Gabriel's responses had always come in until then, the text turned spidery. Sinister. It seemed to drip blood inside the computer screen, and the words it drew were unintelligible. Sam could almost hear a whisper in his ears as he stared at the monitor, and the spindly lines of text began to draw themselves together, the whispering getting louder and louder as Sam's eyes watched.

"No!" He ripped his tearing eyes away from the screen, holding his head in his hands to make sure he didn't look again. The whispering subsided, fading away like a sound echoing through a long tunnel.

Sam stood, keeping his gaze off that particular monitor, and, hands shaking, opened the door down to Gabriel's prison. His hand on the doorknob, he took one more look around to make sure that no one was following him or about to attack him. Seeing no one, he sighed and took the step through. He felt a shudder, like a diver passing through a temperature shift in the water, and then he was on the other side of the doorway. He ran to Gabriel, and reached up. Unlike in his nightmares, the chains came loose easily under his spells, and he was soon holding the waif in his arms, setting her down and removing the IVs and electrodes which covered her body. Sam reached into his pockets for something she could eat when she awoke, but he found nothing.

_Do angels even eat?_ The absurdity of the thought made him laugh, the stress of his journey and of the expected confrontation making the laugh louder and stronger.

Sometime during the course of this laughter, Sam glanced down to see the open eyes of Gabriel looking up at him. His levity vanished and Sam knelt down next to her. "Are you all right?"

Gabriel smiled up at him, then realization seemed to hit her. "Samuel?" Her speech was sleepy, slow. "Is it you? Am I dreaming again?"

Sam smiled. "No, Gabriel, this isn't a dream." The Archangel relaxed, then her body stiffened and her head whipped around, looking at the doorway Sam had used to enter.

"No. No! No!" She struggled, rolling over as best she could and trying to stand; unable to gain her feet, she crawled toward the entryway until Sam helped her up and supported her on his shoulder.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

"No. Trapped. Tricked. No." She repeated the same three words over and over again until the two of them reached the door. Gabriel reached out her hands toward the door, running them on the invisible barrier that prevented her from leaving. Sam shrugged.

"Of course you're trapped, but I can just break the binding sigils and that should get you out, shouldn't it?"

Gabriel's head began to roll again like it had when she was up on the wall. "Can't. Can't." Her eyes spun in her head for a moment, then she closed them and made an obvious attempt to compose herself. "Samuel." She ran her hands through her hair. "Those sigils...look at them."

Sam did. As always, the script unraveled itself before his eyes, translating into his native English instead of Qabbalic Hebrew. Still, understanding the words was different than understanding the concepts, and he scratched his head. "It says these are...sephirot? Sounds like a character from an old video game. What're sephirot?" He turned back toward Gabriel.

"Eleven of them." She hugged herself, hands on her upper arms. "Eleven symbols, eleven sephirot, all concepts to link the Creator to the Created. Reversed. Perverted against you. These do not keep _me_ here; other bindings do that." For the first time, Gabriel's voice steadied, and she leveled a meaningful stare at Sam.

"These are here for you, Samuel Buckland. My jailer has trapped you here as well."

"What?!" Sam reached for the door. A flash of white light threw him back a full ten feet, banging him against the wall and causing him to skin his elbow. He shook himself off, jogged back over to where Gabriel stood, leaning against a wall, and examined the doorframe.

Sam could now see the sigils that Gabriel was speaking of. They were small, and there were eleven, as she had mentioned. They were carved in a repeating pattern on the door and, as he looked further, the window frames as well. A moment's testing showed Sam that, yes, the wards on the windows were just as strong as the one on the door, and, by the way, some ice would probably be good for that swollen shoulder.

This is not in Solomon's book.

Sam returned to the door and spun his hands in the air in a quick counterspell, seeking to bring down the wards so that he could pass. A few seconds later, the magical energy washed over the doorway...and left the inscriptions unscathed, physically and magically.

Sam blinked, then rolled up his sleeves. "Okay." He spread his feet and braced himself. "If you need more, then..." He began a complicated spell, invoking Solomon's authority over all ephemeral creatures and demanding that they break the wards. Wind spirits, fire spirits, and those from the earth came and flung themselves against the barrier on both sides, sizzling and sparking as they vanished. Jann pulled on the door frame to break both it and the sigils; efreeti appeared to burn them in the frame itself. None of them succeeded. Sam ran his hands over his forehead in frustration; sweat covered his fingers. What could he do?

Then he heard a cough from behind him. He turned to see Gabriel suppressing more coughs.

Then he saw what was behind her: most of the place was on fire. In his haste, Sam had relaxed his control of the efreet and they had run wild before disappearing, spreading chaos and burning as flame spirits do. Flames crackled through the experimental laboratory, creating large plumes of billowing black and grey smoke. While there were ventilation systems open to the outside, the smoke was still thickening in the room itself.

"Damn it!" Sam whipped his hands around to summon the undines, spirits of water...but there was no water here to form them. He wrapped his face with his shirt to stave off the suffocation while he tried to figure this out. _There has to be a way. God wouldn't have let me get this far just to fail now! There has to..._

A cough from the side distracted him. Gabriel had sunk down again, and was holding her mouth against her shoulder and the ragged cloth that still hung from it. Sam swept down and pressed his shirt against her mouth, ignoring the intake of smoke into his lungs as best he could.

Gabriel shook her head and said something in the shirt, probably trying to protest, but Sam shook his head. "You... _cough_...you need it more than I do. Now hold on... _cough_...I'll get us out of here."

Gabriel was weak; her eyes said _no_ but she couldn't act on the feeling. Sam squinted through the smoke and carbon monoxide, trying to breathe as little as possible while he tried to think of a way out. The heat was making it more difficult to think; the flames were getting closer. Spells weren't working, the doors and the windows were warded...

Sam's eyes were drawn to the ventilation system. _We could hide under there._ He saw the smoke flowing through the vents and heading outside. _That's probably the freshest air..._

Wait a minute.

Ventilation system.

Would Caitlin have warded the ventilation system?

_God, I hope not!_ He stumbled his way to the nearest vent. It was up in the ceiling, and the smoke was being drawn through it. Sam pulled a smoldering, but not burning, table over and stood on it.

_Damn it!_ Sam could see the signs of the Sephirot carved into the plastic around the vent shaft. _He covered all his bases, the bastard. What do we do?_

Gabriel shook with her coughing. Sam spared her a glance, wishing she could transform into her angelic glory and save them both...but no. The other wards kept her human, here. It was up to him.

Leaving Gabriel where she sat, Sam ran to one of the flaming curtains. Grabbing a wooden table leg, he wrapped the curtain around it to create a makeshift torch.

"What...what are you..." Gabriel was hit by another bout of coughing and couldn't finish.

"Magic fire doesn't work." Sam leaned, holding the torch underneath the plastic which held the Sephirot. "But maybe plastic..."

Sam's eyes were watering, but it looked like, maybe, just maybe, it was working; the plastic was melting, dripping down onto his face, making small burns like chicken pox on his skin. He scrunched his face against the pain.

Once one of the symbols was gone, Sam felt something like a metaphysical wind rushing out through the ventilation shaft. He dropped the torch and raised a hand toward the grate.

His fingers touched it.

A coughing fit paralyzed Sam for several seconds, but he swallowed the last bits of the cough down and stood again, knocking the vent cover off the ceiling.

"Come on!" he called. "We... _cough..._ we need to get out of here _now!_ "

Gabriel hobbled over to Sam's makeshift escape route. She uncovered her face to ask, "What if it doesn't lead out?"

Sam laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. "Then we're dead. But we're _definitely_ dead in here. You first." He put her hands on the girl's slender waist, boosting Gabriel up through the opening in the ceiling.

_Cough cough._ "Move fast!" He hoisted himself up. "Smoke's... _cough cough_...probably pretty bad... _cough_...in here." He could hear Gabriel hacking as she struggled through the narrow ventilation shaft. The smoke made it hard to see, stinging the eyes and the throat and obscuring vision.

Sam had no more breath left for directions; he kept his head low as the shaft turned toward the outside walls and inhaled as shallowly as possible. His muscles were weak and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he pulled himself along the warming metal. He couldn't even hear Gabriel ahead of him anymore, and the thought crossed his mind that, if she didn't make it and he came across her body stuck in the pipe, he wouldn't have the strength to push her out of his way.

Sam's vision began to swim, such as it was; strange colors seemed to float out of the grey billows of smoke, and figures formed in the mist before being consumed by it. Sam's thoughts were similarly distracted.

I wonder if Gabriel's going to tell God that I got her killed? Hope not; He might be angry at me.

I wonder if anyone's going to eat me after I'm smoked. Seems a waste if they don't. Hope I'm not too greasy.

Hey, looks like it's sunny out...hey, ow. Who put this metal thing...

The metal thing swung outward. A gust of fresh air hit Sam's lungs.

Outside.

Sam pushed his hands through the aperture, gave one last pull...and tumbled down into the grass 10 feet below him.

It hurt.

Sam didn't care. He hacked for what felt like hours, his body clearing the bronchial tubes of smoke and making way for life-giving oxygen. Black ropes of mucus poured from his mouth, and his red eyes stung in the breeze. He squinted his eyes and looked upward at the building he had just fallen out of.

The SRD complex had turned into a pillar of flame straight out of the Bible; easily a hundred feet high, the inferno raged, consuming the buildings in their entirety, leaving no trace of the blasphemies worked there. Sam was in awe; never had he seen a fire so...so self-directed, so purposeful. There was no random flickering, no chaos here. Only the fire and its obvious intent to destroy.

"Come on," croaked a female's voice. Sam's weary eyes glimpsed the frail form of Gabriel as she took him by the shoulders and began pulling him away from the building as it began to collapse in on itself. Sam had time to marvel at her strength for a few seconds before she set him, propped, against a tree and sat beside him.

Sam gave her a tired smile, then his eyes widened, which only hurt them more. "Michael!" The effort of speaking set off another fit of coughing which he tried to talk through. "We need to..."

Gabriel shook her head; her eyes had cleared, Sam noticed, and the whites were a sharp contrast to the soot coating her face. "My brother is in no danger from a fire. His physical body was not restrained as I was. And I believe that his prison was in an underground portion of the facility; I have already released him."

"Shouldn't we..." started Sam, but his coughing interrupted again and he could not continue. Gabriel, however, nodded as if he had finished his statement.

"Michael cannot help you now." Sam's eyes narrowed and he searched the Archangel's face. "He has returned to Heaven already, as will I once I leave you. Your concern is your enemy and the Seals."

"I...I...I need..."

Gabriel's eyes widened and she ran off. Sam looked at her go, confusion

( _did I say something wrong?_ )

giving way to understanding as he saw her open the trunk of a small blue car and grab several of the water bottles that were kept within. Returning to his side, the 12-year-old Archangel opened a bottle and handed it to Sam, who drank it down, tossing it aside to take a second, and then spending several moments coughing his lungs out again before sipping the other more slowly.

"My enemy?" Sam wiped his mouth. "Not yours?"

Gabriel shook her head, her mouth drawn tight under the soot. "Humans are not the enemies of the Host."

"Not even ones that trap angels and use them like...Magic 8-balls?"

Gabriel cracked a smile. "There are those who disagree, but most fell with Lucifer in the beginning times. Myself, I do not hate Gregory Caitlin for what he has done, nor for what he may still do. I simply know that it is the Almighty's will that he be stopped."

Sam pulled himself up; his strength was beginning to return and he could hear the now-too-familiar sound of emergency vehicles speeding to the fire's location. A few murmurs and the air spirits drew a shimmering barrier around the two, shielding them from sight.

"What's it like?" He stared into her eyes, trapped by the wisdom and the veiled magnificence within them. "Receiving His Word? Being that kind of...conduit?"

Gabriel laughed. "Might as well ask the mountain what it is like to be heavy." She shook her head. "It is what I was created for, it is who I am."

"So...it's just normal? Just 'no sweat I know what God is thinking?'"

Gabriel licked her lips, grimaced, drank a sip from a bottle herself. "No. It is...consuming. Most of the time, I simply _know_ what I need to know, and that is, as you say, 'normal.' When the Creator has need of me, however, then the Divine Fire sparks in my mind, and there is nothing else. There is no Gabriel, only the Word of God."

Sam watched as the firefighters began to deploy their hoses and police cars cordoned off the area. "Sounds like quite the burden to bear." Gabriel shook her head, and Sam added, "No? Why not?"

"Angels do not desire 'social upward mobility." She reached over and took a dandelion in her delicate hand. "The Lord created us to be His servants, and so we are. Those that disagree with this idea fall."

"So you do have free will? You can disagree with God?"

"Another point of debate amongst the Host." She glanced sidelong at her rescuer. "I believe we do; I must, for the idea that the Creator _chose_ for Lucifer to betray us and take one-third of our number with him is..." Gabriel grimaced again. "...distasteful. Yes, we can disagree with the will of God. Most of us see no reason to do so. My purpose is that of herald for the Divine; I bring God's revelations to those who need it." She shrugged. "Just as you received tax documents from your superiors, I receive the Word from mine."

Sam stared off for a moment. "I think I get that." He tried to stand, but his legs would not hold him for more than three or four steps, and so he sat down again, laughing at his own weakness. "A few more minutes, Mom."

Gabriel scanned him with her eyes.

"I am not allowed to heal you; this is another part of your trial. However, I can tell you that, barring further injury, you will recover fully from this ordeal."

Sam smiled at Gabriel. "Is this...just the stuff you 'know?'"

"Yes."

"Oh." Sam pulled his knees to his chest, chuckling at the state of his clothes, turned black by smoke. "If it's not too personal...how did Caitlin trap you?"

Gabriel cocked her head at Sam. "You already know this. He found my name, used it in a spell to compel me to where he was and bound me there. He forced me to explain how one could interpret thoughts from the dreaming. Then I was drugged."

"What was it like?" Sam licked his lips, spat the soot onto the grass. "When you were trapped?"

For the first time since he had gotten out of the building, Sam saw a negative emotion flash across Gabriel's face. Was it fear? Anger? He couldn't tell.

"...It was as if I was being bled dry but could not die." Her lip trembled. "I was aware, you see, aware of everything around me, aware of your denial of your gift and then your acceptance of it, aware of my brother's capture, everything the Lord would show me. But I could not act on it. They had effectively paralyzed this body and placed my physical brain into a perpetual dream."

"A dream? Do you remember it?"

"Yes, I remember it." She sighed. "I dreamt whatever they asked of me. At first the dreams were only nightmares because I could not stop them; I dreamt of computers, and electronics, and automobiles. Petty things, small things."

Gabriel turned her gaze back toward Sam. "Then you arrived, and I could not see you clearly. Your destiny was too entwined with mine; too many forces strove to change your course for me to see through my own suffering. My dreams became worse, tortured reflections of your life, unable to contact you, to warn you when Gregory Caitlin was planning against you."

Gabriel bowed her head. "I am sorry that I could not protect your parents. They did not deserve to die. The Lord has brought them into His arms, and they are at peace."

The mention of his parents caught Sam's breath, and his eyes, only now cleared from soot and smoke, began to water again. He took one, two, three deep breaths to compose himself. "You don't need to apologize. It wasn't your fault."

"No less than you feel it was yours." Gabriel put a hand on Sam's. "You feel guilty because they would not have died that night if you had accepted your gift; I feel guilty because it was my knowledge that led Gregory Caitlin to them."

Sam checked his watch, then stood. His legs seemed like they could hold him now. "I'll make a deal with you." He held a hand to help Gabriel up. "I'll forgive myself if you forgive yourself."

Gabriel looked up at Sam, her face inscrutable, then a sunny smile burst from behind the black of the sooty smoke. She took Sam's hand.

"But before we go anywhere, we need to get cleaned up." He gestured at the semi-scorched rags which were draped over his body, then at Gabriel. "Can't save the world looking like this."

Gabriel's face was serious. "Samuel Buckland, more than this world is at risk. There is much you must know before you confront Gregory Caitlin. He is a greater danger than you understand. Solomon's Arts must not be misused again."

"Wait." Sam stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, again?"

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sam slipped on the shirt from the bag in his trunk and slammed it shut. Gabriel's clothes had reconstituted themselves, and she was once again the picture of health.

"So the stolen Keys are what led to the Black Death in Europe?"

"Among other things." Gabriel ducked her head as the two of them got back in Sam's car. "The Arts were only meant for the incorruptible. Solomon demonstrated his worth to God and so was granted dominion over the Earth; each of his heirs has done the same."

Sam had to ask. "Including me?"

Gabriel glanced sidelong at Sam. "Satan tested you. You passed. Satan's judgment is final."

"Still strange that Satan isn't the enemy."

"Something which he struggles with daily."

"Wait, wait." Sam waved his hand. "Satan is a guy? Why did...he? appear as a girl, then?"

Gabriel cracked a smile. "Angel. Remember?"

Sam nodded, tapping himself on the head. Gabriel continued.

"So the stolen Keys are extremely problematic for the Host, because they give unproven, unworthy wielders the power to control and command the forces of Earth, Hell, and Heaven. We cannot move directly against them, for they could set up traps, defenses. You saw Azrael. You saw Michael. Imagine having angel fighting angel because of an assault against a corrupted Solomonist. Turn right at this exit."

Sam did so. "Michael said that my great grandmother eliminated some cult? Did that have to do with this?"

"Yes." The angel adjusted in her seat. "Emily Buckland defeated a group of sorcerers who sought to use the Solomonic Arts to give themselves control of the Earth through wealth and power. Their opening move was the Great Depression; Emily was called early in her life, but she rose to the challenge and drove the sorcerers out. She thought she had destroyed them all. So did we."

Sam stopped at a red light, pulled out a Snickers bar. "Are we sure this time that Caitlin has the only copy? He's the only one?"

Gabriel nodded again as they pulled away. "When he came into my presence, his thoughts were unshielded. I knew then that he was the sole remnant of their legacy, a misguided man given powers too great for him to handle."

"Was he sincere? When he started out, I mean; he was just trying to help?"

"It would almost be easier if he hadn't been."

"Yeah." There was a moment of silence. "Where _exactly_ are we going again?"

"The California Science Center. Caitlin is waiting for you there."

"He knows I'm coming."

"Yes."

"Fantastic." Sam gritted his teeth, adrenaline pumping in his veins. "I hope he doesn't run again, leave a trap for me this time."

"I don't think so. He cannot have free rein as long as you live. You have no heirs; if he destroys you, the line ends. Lucifer will be victorious."

Sam winced. "It's that bad, huh?"

Gabriel smiled. "Don't worry, Sam." She patted him on the back. "God has not allowed the Keeper to die yet without an heir to the power. I'm sure that you won't be the first."

Sam laughed. "That's...almost comforting, Gabriel. Anything else you can warn me about before we get there?"

Gabriel turned her head to look out the window. "...No." She licked her lips and her eyes went down. "There should be nothing else to concern you. Trust in the Creator and have faith that you will succeed."

Sam nodded, turned his attention to the road. "Not so hard when you know for a fact that He exists."

Gabriel shook her head. "Sometimes I think that it's harder, Sam. Sometimes I think that it's harder."

~~~

Gaining entrance to the California Science Center was easy; the doors were wide open, no admission fees. The crowds were an inconvenience, but Gregory welcomed the press of humanity, the sound of conversations merging into white noise.

_Why here?_ The voice in Caitlin's ear was annoyed as they entered the main lobby.

"I've always liked this place." Caitlin sighed. His voice was muted, low, with none of its former authority or confidence. He sounded more like a lost child explaining himself than the assured politician of old. "Science...is mankind's potential. Trying to get closer to God."

_Yes_. _And the mistakes made on that path..._

"I wanted to fix those. Stop the mistakes, keep everything in God's plan."

_A worthy goal_... _but, is God's plan worth safeguarding_?

A bit of the old fire ignited in Caitlin's eyes. "Of...of course it is! How could you..."

I was there when God told us His plan. I was not overly impressed.

"Y...you've spoken to God? You've met Him?"

The Father and I did not see eye to eye. I have not seen Him for some time.

Realization hit Caitlin as he realized who his partner was. "The Devil." His head shook of its own accord. "That's...you're the Devil, whispering to me. The King of Demons."

Yes, I am. Or, at least, that's what I have been made out to be; lord of demons but not one myself, much like God is the "Lord of Creation" but stands outside it.

"Why should I listen to you? Why should I believe you? You're supposed to want us all destroyed...you hate us because God loved us..."

The voice was smiling. _Propaganda. I don't hate mankind, or hate God; I just thought that God's plan for man needed...a bit more troubleshooting, shall we say. Some collaboration. It was not well thought out. The Creator should have outsourced it. Formed a committee._

Caitlin sat down on a stairwell overlooking the main entryway. Passers-by shot him questioning glances; parents shielded their children from the man in the middle of the steps. "You...you're not evil?" Again he was the child, begging to believe that he had not been betrayed.

_Of course not, Gregory_. The voice in Caitlin's ear dripped, sugary-sweet and condescending. _"Evil" is such a limiting term, as is "good." There are no such things, not really; those terms are defined by men and women, not by any objective reality_.

"So nothing really matters, then." Gregory dropped his head into his hands, tears running from between closed fingers. "Everything I've done...trying to serve God...none of it mattered at all."

_That, as in all things, is a matter of perspective, isn't it? You want to help your fellow men and women; I want you to have command of Solomon's power. Our goals coincide. Isn't that how this world works? Isn't that enough_?

Caitlin's mouth worked. His tears flowed. His strength ebbed.

_Besides_ , _what would happen if you left? Renounced the Arts and turned yourself in? What would the world say? "Another fallen politician," they'd think. "Another example of how goodness never triumphs over evil." Another bit of hope gone, and tomorrow dawns a little dimmer._

Caitlin deflated. The voice was right. There was nothing he could do; he had come too far, done too much, committed himself too deeply.

He looked up from his hands at the door he had come through. The door which his adversary, the man who had started all this, who had caused Caitlin's careful plans to come falling down around his ears, would come through.

The hopelessness in Caitlin's soul was replaced by rage, by hatred. Everything was going fine, until Buckland interfered. Everything would have been _perfect,_ if Buckland hadn't stuck his nose where it didn't belong. Caitlin bared his teeth as he sat.

Exactly. Turn your anger where it belongs. He'll be here soon, and you need to be ready.

Caitlin felt the anger rise up, felt it blind his eyes, his ears, until there was nothing but the rage.

Buckland would get what was coming to him when he came through that door. Oh, yes.

~~~

Sam pulled in the parking lot of the California Science Center. The glass and metal stretched skyward, and men, women, and children bustled in and out. Some were eager to learn, some had nothing better to do, and in just a few, a spark lay hidden under leaves, waiting to be fanned.

None of them, however, wanted to die this day, and this was Sam's first concern. "How am I going to get these people out of here?" he asked Gabriel. The Archangel shook her head.

"There are many possible ways, Sam, but I cannot tell you which to select; the choices are now yours once again. I must leave you."

Sam started. "Why? What's wrong?"

"This is not a battle to be waged by the Host; if it were, God would have sent the Powers, or the Virtues, and they would have cleansed the city in holy fire. Do you remember the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? Laid to waste. So too would have happened here." She motioned in the direction they had come from. "That is why Michael could not be here."

Sam went white. "Could...could that still happen?"

Gabriel shook her head. "The Creator has sworn not to subject humanity to such wrath again. The Hosts of Heaven do not fight your battles for you, nor do they discipline you like a parent with a switch. No, you must fight on your own, Samuel Buckland, and accept your success or failure as lasting, as historical."

Sam shuddered. "No pressure, right? Just the fate of humanity, and maybe Heaven, riding on me. No big deal."

Gabriel smiled, and it lit up the car. "God bless you, Keeper. I hope to see you survive. Have faith."

Sam had to blink as the perceived radiance from Gabriel's smile became real, light flowing from her and threatening to consume his senses. Through squinted eyelids, he saw Gabriel's emaciated form expand, unfolding great wings and growing to ten feet tall. Her hair flowed out, casting a shadow on Sam's face, and the bruises disappeared as her face matured into that of a beautiful woman. She was still smiling.

Then she vanished in a chorus of violin and piano, leaving only the smell of honeysuckle behind.

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In the end, getting the civilians out of the Science Center was as easy as a summoned sylph tugging on the fire alarm. The spirits giggled and tittered as they garbled speech, drove people into panics, and then flew off to distract the firemen before they arrived.

Two people did not move during all this. One stood in the doorway, shielded from sight as the crowds "calmly" evacuated the building past him. The other sat on the stairwell, also unmoved by the rush of people.

The two pairs of eyes found each other for the first time since this had all begun. Both pairs were filled with anger. Neither noticed, nor cared, about the other people passing by.

Gregory Caitlin was the first to speak.

"Are you happy?" His face was dark, his eyes burning, sunken, swollen and bloodshot from lack of sleep. The stubble on his cheeks coupled with the fire in the eye reminded Sam of an insane street preacher proclaiming that "the end is nigh."

"Not yet." Sam stepped forward as the last of the crowd vanished through the doors. "But when you're beaten, I'll be a lot closer than I have been in a while."

Caitlin's answering smile was sick, the smile of the Joker. The surrounding light seemed to waver over his right shoulder.

"Beaten?" He stood, looking down at Sam from his perch. "You mean killed, don't you, Sammy boy? You want me dead for what I've done to you, want to see my face beaten, my dreams crushed. Isn't that right, Sam-I-Am?"

Sam stopped at the base of the stairs, holding Caitlin's gaze. "No." He shook his head. "I don't want you dead, Caitlin." A moment's pause. "Death isn't good enough for what you've done. All the people you've hurt, killed. Doctor Stone. Kurtis Birch. Those people in Acton." Sam's voice caught in his throat; he swallowed hard, forcing the lump down before continuing.

"My parents."

"Oh, poor Sam; his parents are dead." Caitlin tilted his head one way, then another. "I'll never know what that's like...oh, wait!" Caitlin brought his head back up, and his jovial tone suddenly reverted to the sound of a snarling beast. "I DO know what that's like!"

Caitlin leveled a finger at Sam as he marched down the stairwell. "I wanted to make it right! I wanted to make their deaths worth something! How many good people die meaningless deaths? How many good people die so that bad people can live? I wanted to stop the injustice, stop the arbitrariness, make it so that God had to listen, had to protect the people who loved Him! And you..."

By now Sam and Caitlin were standing close enough to smell each other's breath. Sam laughed in Caitlin's face, causing the other to recoil. "So to make the deaths of good people meaningful, you killed good people? People who trusted you? Innocent people?" He shook his head. "Help me out here, great savior of mankind; how was this supposed to work? How was death, how was _murder_ , supposed to solve anything?"

Caitlin took another step forward, his face inches from Sam's, his forefinger pressed into Sam's chest. "Because that was how it _had_ to _be_! God's prophets, God's warriors, have always been opposed by those who could not accept the truths that they had to give. God gave them the means to strike down the obstacles in their way. Are you so naïve as to believe that none of your 'innocents' were killed in the wars fought to create Israel? That there were no holy people in Egypt? That innocent people don't die _every day_ to serve God's plan?"

Sam refused to back down. "No, Gregory, I am not that naïve. These deaths are _not_ God's plan; they're _our_ doing! Humanity does these things, not God!" Sam shook his head, and his voice dropped. "Sometimes...we do terrible things. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes by mistake." His head came back up. "But it's _our_ fault, not God's. God _loves_ us, Caitlin, no matter who we are."

Caitlin's head reared back with his laughter. "God plays favorites, Samuel Buckland. God turned His back on His first creations, the Angels, when He made humanity. God had a 'chosen people,' the Israelites, and He sided against the Egyptians to free them. Since when has God been 'fair?' Since when has God really shown that He loves everyone? I just wanted a level playing field; I just wanted good things for good people, Buckland! And you fucked it up!"

Caitlin's fist came up, catching Sam across the chin. Sam's reflexes were good enough that he was trying to dodge out of the way, and so, instead of being laid out on the floor, Sam was left stumbling, trying to get his feet under him as Caitlin advanced.

Caitlin's teeth were bared as he took up a boxing stance, going for the knockout, aiming for Sam's head; Sam backpedaled, parrying blows, spinning, rolling backwards.

"You! You! It's all your fault!" Caitlin's eyes were manic and his voice shrill as he tried his level best to take Sam's head off. "Why didn't you just leave me alone? Why didn't you just butt out?!"

Sam's only response was a grunt and a sidestep. Caitlin was fast, and Caitlin was strong; in the back of his mind, Sam knew that he would be hurting tomorrow morning if he managed to make it through this in one piece. Hatred burned in Caitlin's eyes and coursed through his veins, fueling his muscles, powering his screams.

_Got to do something._ Another blow grazed his ear. _Can't keep fighting like this..._

By now, Sam was backed up against the wall, with no more room to retreat. He was feeling like he had just gone five rounds with the heavyweight champ, and Caitlin didn't seem to be slowing down at all. Sam's breath was coming deep and he almost didn't see the right hook soon enough.

Sam threw up his left forearm, trying to deflect the shot that would have taken him out of the game if it had connected. His arm screamed in protest, enough that he had a moment to wonder

( _is it broken?_ )

about it before Caitlin's fist collided with the wall of the Science Center.

And went right through it.

When the dust cleared, Sam was staring at Caitlin's elbow, as the portion of his arm below the joint had been lodged into the plaster and concrete of the wall, leaving a great hole. Caitlin's face, contorted, stretched in a sick, ear-to-ear grin, looked over at Sam.

Sam could smell roses.

"Oops." Caitlin yanked his arm out of the wall. "Guess I got a little...carried away, didn't I, Sammy?" He moved his arm, flexing his fingers. As Sam took the opportunity to put a few more yards between himself and Gregory, he saw that the limb was covered in cuts, including one large incision running from the upper wrist toward the bicep. Blood flowed freely, but Caitlin did nothing to stem it.

"Where were we, little man?" Caitlin advanced on Sam once more. "I think we were about up to the part where...you die." Gregory's teeth shone in the sunlight, gleaming white, a sharp contrast to his skin.

"What...what's the matter with you?" Sam looked to both sides; nothing. He brought up a hand in a warding spell, but Caitlin stifled it with a gesture. "You're insane, you know that, don't you? You've lost your mind."

"Have I, Sam? Have I? I wonder if your mom said that to your grandma? To her mother? Didn't you think that when your mom told you about your power?"

"How did you..." Caitlin kept talking over him, his voice rising in pitch and speed.

"I bet they even called Lucifer insane, challenging God like he did. Standing up for what he believed in. Is that so insane? Is it so crazy? To not blindly follow my...your father just because he's bigger than you? To be abandoned by those whom you called 'Brother?' 'Sister?' Why have we come to call that evil? Wouldn't you have done the same?"

Caitlin's verbal stumble did not go unnoticed by Sam. He narrowed his eyes, the pieces coming together: the enhanced strength, the immunity to pain, the knowledge he shouldn't have.

The strange glimmer over Gregory's shoulder.

"And it's so _easy_." The bleeding madman continued to advance. "All you have to do is tell people what they want to hear, let them convince themselves that you're right. So easy to drop hints here, suggestions there, until not listening becomes impossible. Easy," he repeated, pausing to laugh. Sam would have thought that laugh cliché, straight out of the movies, if the situation weren't so dire.

Sam drew himself up, his aching muscles protesting, and began to make signs in the air. Caitlin's eyes widened, and a fire seemed to light in his gaze. "No." He moved into a run, a sprint over to where Sam stood.

Sam's fingers continued to move as Gregory Caitlin closed in, hands reached out in a choking grip, aiming for Sam's throat. Sam didn't flinch even as Caitlin launched from the ground to cover the last few feet more quickly.

Sam felt Gregory's fingers on his neck as he finished his spell. One of the first he had ever learned. A simple acknowledgment of the free will of humanity.

The exorcism.

" _Begone._ "

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For a moment, the spell seemed to have no effect; Gregory Caitlin's fingers continued to clamp down on Samuel Buckland's neck, hatred still burning like gas flames in Caitlin's eyes.

Then it hit.

This was no gentle dissolution of an ethereal being; there was no soft wailing or crying. This was an atomic explosion of power, the concussive force of the exorcism throwing the two men apart from each other. Sam was hurled into a metal pole, his back slamming it and the pain causing him to cry out, while Caitlin tumbled into a nearby wall.

Sam's eyes blinked, tearing from the pain, as the creature was torn from Caitlin's unconscious body. Golden lightning arced from Caitlin's eyes, ears, and mouth and formed into a shape. At first, the shape was the outline of something sinuous and thick, reminding Sam of the python he had seen at the zoo when he was younger. The figure began to fill in, gold and black scales surrounding a silver forked tongue; the snake rose up and hissed at Sam, who scrambled backwards on his hands and feet. Sixty, seventy, eighty feet long, the snake coiled up, towering over Sam, electricity and power coursing over it. Its fangs bared, and Sam stared into its black eyes.

Then the snake seemed to collapse in on itself, the flesh boiling, shrinking, changing shape. Sam's mouth was agape as he watched the serpent's shape reform into that of a seven-foot tall angel, resplendent in a robe of rainbow colors, his golden hair shimmering and his face shining with glory.

_If this is not God,_ _how can the universe allow for something to be more beautiful than this?_

The angel's features were twisted with anger, and a scimitar of shimmering flame appeared in his hand. He stepped toward Sam, raising the blade.

"L...Lucifer." Sam was defenseless; he could not raise a hand to this.

"Yes." The angel's song lanced into Sam's ears, his mind, his heart, burning it with the rage contained within. "You dared cast me out, mortal man? Dared to cross me? I will see you brought with me into the caverns of Hell for the damned souls to feast upon for eternity for your insolence."

Lucifer stood over Sam, and the latter felt scorched by the angel's eyes. "Insolence?" Sam could feel the shock wearing off; Lucifer's visage was solidifying into a singular vision – still glorious, but manageable. "Trying to stop you from using Gabriel as a pocket Ouija board? Trying to keep you from killing innocent people?"

Lucifer swelled up, gaining a foot in height and filling the room with radiance. His voice began to echo off the walls and reverberate through the air as he spoke.

"YOU ARE DIRTBORN SCUM!" Sam covered his ears to protect them from the onslaught. "ALL OF YOU ARE BENEATH THE NOTICE OF MY GLORY! NONE OF YOU ARE WORTHY OF FATHER'S LOVE!" He swung his scimitar toward Sam, who dove out of the way as the blade carved a flaming crescent into the floor where he had been sitting. "I WAS THE FIRST, GOD'S FIRST CHILD, AND THEN HE SET YOU ABOVE ME? YOUR FLESH IS WEAK, YOUR MINDS ARE WEAKER, AND YET HE SET YOU ABOVE ME? ABOVE US?!" Once more, the blade came, and again Sam dodged, but this time he was not fast enough; the tip caught his right shoulder, searing the flesh and causing Sam to scream. Lucifer raised his sword high, and Sam looked into his glowing eyes, and saw his death.

"NOW YOU DIE, MEWLING, PATHETIC, AND MY PUPPET WILL RULE EARTH IN MY NAME, AND GOD WILL SEE WHAT A MISTAKE HE MADE IN UPLIFTING WEAK CREATURES SUCH AS YOU."

The sword began its descent, a descent which, for Sam, seemed to take hours to complete. Sam closed his eyes and prepared for the blow to come. _I'm sorry, Mom, Gramma._ The fear vanished, and he felt only the warmth in his shoulder. _I'm sorry, Gabriel. I did my best. I only hope..._

_Wait._ He opened an eyelid to survey the scene. _I'm not dead yet._ He glanced over to where Lucifer stood.

The angel's sword had stopped about a foot above Sam's head. Anger, rage, and...fear?...warred on Lucifer's face as his muscles strained against something. The angel screamed, his frustration evident in his voice. Sam looked at the titanic figure, eyes narrowing, confused.

Until he saw them.

There were runes on his hands and arms, glowing red, restraining him much like the ones that Sam had seen appear on Michael after the defeat of Azrael.

Sam's eyelids opened fully as the realization hit him: Lucifer had been trapped by a spell.

_Not my spell_. _That only leaves..._

Sam looked behind the bound form of Lucifer to see Gregory Caitlin, standing near the wall of the building with a bad lump forming on one side of his head and blood trickling from his nose. His sleeve was stuck to his arm, soaked in red. His hands were extended, and his teeth were visible. He panted with the exertion of his magic.

"You shouldn't...turn your back...on someone who can use the Keys, you fucker."

"RELEASE ME, CAITLIN." Lucifer strained to turn toward his former tool. "OR I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING YOU CARE FOR BEFORE COMING BACK FOR YOU!"

Caitlin laughed. "You already did that, damn you. You led me down the wide and easy path, you bastard, and I followed you gladly. Now there is only one road left for me."

Gregory turned his face to Sam, who was now standing, cradling his shoulder, looking on in awe. "I'm sorry for what I did to you and to the others, Sam. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I hope that you can grant it to me anyway."

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes, stinging, biting; the memories of anger, of loss, filled him and defined him, tensing his muscles and clenching his fists.

Then he remembered Gabriel's smile, and her words. _I do not hate Gregory Caitlin for what he has done, nor for what he may still do._

The anger in his soul became hollow, pithy, empty. He sighed.

"If Gabriel can forgive you, then it's the least I can do."

Gregory smiled, the first real one in a long time, and nodded. "Your book is in my trunk. Make sure that this never happens again, Sam. Don't let anyone else get hold of it. Keep it safe."

Sam nodded, taking a step back toward the front door. "I will, Gregory. Take care of yourself."

"NO!" Lucifer struggled against his metaphysical bonds. "THIS WILL NOT BE! YOU WILL RELEASE ME!"

"Go on, Sam." Sam complied, bolting out the door. Gregory stepped in front of the angered angel, who ceased his efforts to escape and turned his burning eyes on his captor.

"What now, Caitlin?" Lucifer returned to a more normal voice. "You have beaten me, Lucifer, Lord of Hell. I am at your mercy." Lucifer spread his hands. "What would you ask of me, what service must I render, for you to set me free?"

Caitlin didn't hesitate. "Go to Hell, monster."

Lucifer did.

~~~

Samuel Buckland ran as fast as he could out the door of the Science Center and toward the Town Car parked in the driveway. He could hear the emergency sirens whining in the distance, and could sense the air spirits releasing the drivers from the illusions they had been held under. His breath came hard as he sprinted, looking back, expecting some sort of explosion, fireworks, something cataclysmic and indicative of the epic being he had just left behind.

Instead, Gregory stumbled out of the building and sat down on the front stairs, his shirt torn and the fragments wrapped around his arm, as Sam made it to the Lincoln. Sam popped the trunk, grabbed the book, and got into his own car. The police and fire departments rolled in just as Sam was pulling out, and Sam saw the officers draw on Caitlin, yelling at him to put his hands up and lay on the ground.

The ride home in the sliced-up car was a long one for Sam. His thoughts were consumed with what had just happened, what had been happening these past few weeks. How his life had changed. His parents dead. An amazing and costly gift given to him. A new purpose in his life.

Sam's attention turned to the radio as his car pulled in to his driveway. "...Caitlin was arrested in front of the California Science Center this morning. He was taken to a hospital for treatment of a severe injury to his arm, and, according to an anonymous source, he confessed to involvement in the deaths of a Dr. Martha Stone and Mr. Kurtis Birch. We made an attempt to contact his wife, but she has not returned our calls. Representatives from Mr. Caitlin's political campaign have submitted a formal withdrawal from the race, citing concerns about Mr. Caitlin's physical and mental well-being.

"At two, we will have political analysts Mr. Deacon Fox and Mrs. Megan Fitzgerald on to discuss the ramifications..."

Sam exited the car, began to walk toward his door, then tossed his keys into the grass and sat down next to them.

_This wasn't how I expected things to end_.

"And what, exactly, were you _expecting_ to happen, Samuel Buckland?"

Sam snapped his head up to see the luminescent form of the Archangel Gabriel, restored and standing before him, dressed in flowing samite robes and with her silver-tipped wings extended behind her.

"Gabriel?" A warm glow filled him as he soaked up the angel's radiance. "Don't you have more important things to be doing than to check up on me?"

"I had a few minutes." She nodded toward Sam. "And the Keeper of the Keys is certainly worthy of attention from the Host." Her smile disappeared and her light dimmed as her wings folded behind her back. "Are you all right?"

Sam stood up, shaking his head. "I don't know." His mouth opened and closed as he fumbled for words. "One minute, the whole thing feels like a dream, like I'm going to wake up and just be plain Sam Buckland, working at an accountant's firm. Then I remember his face, Lucifer's face...and I wonder if I will ever see anything that beautiful again. And that terrifies me."

"You are not the first who has despaired at the loss of the Lightbringer's beauty. We all mourned when he left Heaven."

"And then I wonder what's next." Tears began to form in Sam's eyes, and Gabriel bowed her head as he spoke. "I mean, things can't go back to normal, can they? I'll never unsee these things, unknow what I know. How can someone go on with just normal life when they have to deal with all these things that no one else can see, hear, know?" He shook his head; Gabriel nodded. "What does God want me to do, Gabriel? What's supposed to happen now?"

"You do your best, Samuel Buckland." The Archangel came over to Sam and took both of his hands. "Heaven trusts you, or you would not have been allowed to keep the power of Solomon. Be the man you wish to be. Use the power in ways which feel right to you."

Sam laughed. "You aren't afraid I'll misuse it? Go power crazy?"

Gabriel shook her head. "It has never happened. None found worthy once have ever been proven unworthy later. Satan's judgment is without error; this is his assigned function. As my revelations are always correct, so is Satan's estimation of character."

"So I should, what? Become some sort of super hero? I don't think spandex would suit me, Gabriel."

Gabriel's mouth turned in a crooked smile. "Some of your ancestors did that, and became legendary magicians of great renown. More recently, with the waning belief in magic, most have chosen to use their powers with discretion, in secrecy, to shape the destiny of mankind for the better. I believe that you will do great things, Samuel Buckland; more importantly, I believe you will do _good_ things."

Sam smiled again, but the sarcasm was gone. "Does God believe that too?"

Gabriel laughed. "You have no idea, do you, Sam?" She let go of Sam's hands and placed her right palm on his chest.

"What..." began Sam, but the sensations invading his mind cut short anything he had to say.

In a single breath, Sam felt his perspective expand across the Universe; he could see, feel, the outer reaches of every galaxy, the minute specks of dust in the nebulae, the fiery hearts of the stars. The soul of Creation thrummed in his heart, and he drank in the beauty and power of all of it.

Then his viewpoint narrowed to a blue sphere orbiting a yellow star. It was so lovely, this gem, this glimmering orb in the midst of the darkness of space. He had to look closer.

Again, his perspective narrowed, but it expanded as well; all the life on Earth was known to him, from the blue whales and redwood trees to the insects and bacteria. Each breath, each birth, each death came to him, and he rejoiced in all of it.

Then there was Humanity. Something different. Something capable of choosing to do wrong, of choosing to do evil.

Each evil act, each thoughtless, selfish, rash and hasty action which hurt others, present and future, he felt, and it stung him as if he were the victim. Each murder killed him, each theft deprived him, each taunt bit into his sense of self-worth. Wrath, anger, and pity roiled within him, and, for a moment, he considered what Earth would be like if there were no men, no women. Peaceful. No hatred.

Then he shifted his glance, and the wonder of humanity's goodness swept over him. Charity, forbearance, tolerance and hope crushed in upon him in a million different ways over a billion different lives; each kindness echoed across time to affect people who would not even be born when the act was committed. Sam felt himself weeping with joy, unable to stem the tears of love he felt for each and every person, the love he felt for the goodness hidden within each. In some, it was hidden deeply; in others, not, but in every soul, it was there, and he loved it.

Sam blinked, and it was gone, and he was on his knees in his yard, next to an archangel. "W...was that...?"

"Yes, Sam. It was." Gabriel knelt down next to him. "I showed you how God sees you. The smallest fragment of His omniscient perspective. The unbounded love He has for you. All of you, from the great to the meek. God believes that _all_ of you will do good things, Sam. That is why it hurts Him so much when you fail; He expects much because He knows what you are capable of." Gabriel took Sam by the hands again and helped him return to his feet. "Trust in God, Samuel. In all things, trust in God, and you will find that everything else falls into place."

Sam wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Will...will I ever see you again? See Michael again?"

Gabriel smiled. "No. The Archangels do not travel to Earth lightly. Unless the Lord demands the birth of a prophet or commands the Host to war, neither Michael nor I will return in corporeal form again."

"Wait a minute." Sam's brow creased in thought. "I know Michael was here to find you, but...why were you here in the first place, Gabriel? What was so important?"

Gabriel tilted her head. "A worthy question, Samuel. But one I shall not answer today. Suffice that there was reason enough, and that that reason has passed."

Sam's face fell. "Oh." He put out his hand. "Then...goodbye, Gabriel. Thank you for everything."

Gabriel laughed; the music echoed in the garage as light began to flow from her form once again. "Thank me? Samuel Buckland, you have saved me from an eternity of servitude at the hands of Lucifer himself. I think that, as you would say, I owe you one." She took his hand, pressed her lips to it; the warmth tickled Sam's skin. "I look forward to seeing how your life plays out, young Keeper, and await your arrival in Heaven."

"I hope it's not _too_ soon, though."

"Goodbye, Sam." Gabriel stepped back as her luminescence grew, and Sam shut his eyes to keep out the glow as it reached its apex. A moment later, it was gone, and, again, there was the smell of honeysuckle left behind. Sam shook his head, then looked at his hand. There, on the spot where Gabriel's lips had touched it, was a stylized version of the Moon in a crescent-shaped cradle replacing the burn that once occupied that space.

He smiled. Gabriel's name, in Angelic form.

At least I'll never have to doubt whether this all really happened or not, will I?

Samuel Buckland, Keeper of the Keys, went into his house to take a long-delayed shower; after that, he planned to curl up in bed and sleep for about 3 days.

_Then_ he could figure out what to do next.

What would it be? He didn't know.

But whatever it was, it was going to be good.

END

# SNEAK PREVIEW OF _BONDS OF FATE_

Please enjoy this peek into the future with the upcoming second volume of the Samuel Buckland Chronicles!

THE INVADERS

Jambres crowed, his laughter and jubilation echoing over the luminescent landscape of the Heavenly city as he flew through the air. He pointed his swarthy hand at the retreating backs of the defeated Archangels—bleeding golden light, their radiance flickering as they withdrew—and dark energy began to swirl about his fingers.

"Enough." Another hand closed about his, with the same skin. Both men's robes flapped in the warm breeze of the celestial sky. "They are defeated, brother. Do not forget why we are here."

There was a moment of silence; Jambres stared into his brother's determined eyes, and the only sounds were the tinkling of their ensorcelled amulets in the wind.

"...You're right, Jannes." Jambres lowered his gaze back to the two Archangels, who had stopped their flight and landed near the stairwell leading upward into the realm. "We have more important things to do."

Jannes clapped his brother on the shoulder and pointed upward. Amongst the stars of the Heavenly sky, a subtle ripple distorted the twinkling lights. Jambres nodded and the two raised their hands, drifting upward toward the disturbance. Each man clasped his hand around one of the pendants at his neck as they entered the vortex.

There was a shocking sensation, a swimmer hitting an unexpected pocket of cold water, and then they were through. At once, the pair had their hands up in defensive posture, waiting for the inevitable attack.

It did not come.

"Where are they?" Jambres cast his eyes around the new terrain; instead of the levels of city the pair had passed through, they stood in a single, vast room, lit by ever-burning candles and effusive sunlight filtering in through the ceiling. Gentle music wafted in through great archways and windows, and there was a small table in the middle of the room, with a steaming pot of tea and setting for three.

Jannes and Jambres approached the table. Jambres ran a hand over the hardwood of the chair in front of one of the settings.

"What kind of trick is this?" Jannes put one arm in front of his brother. "Touch nothing."

Jambres pushed the other's arm aside. "It's a chair, Jannes. We have fought angels. Why should we fear a chair?"

"Indeed."

The voice echoed off the walls and floor, a deep, sonorous sound that startled the two Egyptian sorcerers.

"Who are you?" Jambres' hands flared once again with magic. "Show yourself!"

"Of course."

Standing across the table from the brothers was a slight figure—beautiful, as all angels were, but lacking the stature and magnificence of the defeated Archangels. He wore a soft, shimmering robe of samite cloth trimmed with golden and silver embroidery. His lips were curled in a gentle smile, and he had extended a hand towards the two men.

"Please, sit." Two spirits resembling winged children materialized and stood behind the other seats, pulling them out from the table and waiting. "I think we have many things to discuss. It is not often that Heaven is graced with powerful sorcerers such as yourselves."

Jannes sneered. "Do not think to deceive us, angel. We will not be fooled by your flattery."

The angel shook his head and took a seat. "I do not flatter. Deception is impossible in Heaven. It has been made apparent to the Father that force of arms will serve no further purpose." He laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, eyes appraising the two standing before him. "As you can see, I have no weapons. Please, sit. I know you are thirsty."

There was another pause as the two brothers looked at each other. Jannes licked his lips and his head turned just a bit from one side to the other. Jambres cocked an eyebrow at his brother, then threw himself into the seat before him, grasping the mug of steaming tea.

The angel's smile grew broader, and he motioned with his hand for Jannes to join them. Jannes moved more slowly than his brother, easing himself down and breathing in the vapors of the tea before sipping.

His eyes widened.

"This...this is amazing." He took another sip and looked toward Jambres, who had already drained his and was reaching for the pot to refill it. "What is it made from?"

The angel held up a hand and one of the attendants moved in to fill Jambres' cup before he could do so. "Manna. In Heaven, it can take any form, and nourishes both flesh and soul." The angel sipped his own cup and moved his eyes from one to the other of the men.

"I suppose it must be asked. Why are you here? Why have you climbed Heaven and fought through Archangels?" He glanced behind the brothers, who followed his gaze to a great opaline stairwell stretching up through the ceiling. "Do you seek audience with the Father?"

Jannes opened his mouth, but Jambres was quicker. "Your prophet, Moses, defeated us in a duel of magic several years ago before our Pharaoh. We have spent those years seeking out lore and spells from all over the world that would allow us to overcome the power he showed that day." The sorcerer sat back, his smile triumphant. "And we have done so."

"So it would seem." The attendants refilled more cups. The warmth of the tea revealed itself in the two men's faces, which began to sweat as they drank. "What does this prove? You cannot defeat the Father. He is beyond worldly challenges, beyond any attempts to overthrow Him."

Jannes's smile was smaller than his brother's, but no less proud. "That is what Moses told us then, about your God and the angels, but we have proven him wrong." He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Your best warriors have fallen before the magics we have learned and mastered. Even if your God destroys us, we have still done what none have done before—reached the throne and challenged His power."

"It has been done, once. The outcome was not pleasant." The angel motioned again and the two attendants stepped up behind the magicians. "Gentlemen, I can see that the tea is making you too warm. If you would hand your cloaks to my servants..."

Both Jannes and Jambres glanced at the children standing behind them, then slipped their hands up to the collars of their red-brown cloaks. Their fingers ran up over the chains of the amulets they wore under their collars, and they reached back to unfasten the clasps.

The angel watched them, his eyes steady, his countenance pleasant.

Jambres took the heavy golden amulet, set with a great ruby and inscribed with mystical symbols, and placed it on the table before him in easy reach. Jannes stretched forth his hand as well...

And his face blanched.

"Jambres! Put it back on! The spells –"

The angel rose, expanding to a full twenty feet in height with giant purplish wings. He waved his hand, and, in a flash of golden light, Jambres was hurled from his seat and through the wall, his screams dwindling as he plummeted through the celestial plane toward Earth.

Jannes held his amulet out toward the monstrous angel, who turned toward him, eyes full of Heavenly fire. His words shook the air and the ground as he spoke.

"Go with your brother, sorcerer. Go now and you may yet save him from your folly. There is only you here, now, and you cannot stand against the Voice." The angel's hand clenched and another golden blast detonated against Jannes. He coughed and blinked his eyes, but his pendant had taken the worst of it, the edges blackening and cracking.

"Go now."

Jannes' eyes danced between the angel and the hole his brother had made. His head dropped, and he nodded, rising into the air and flying along Jambres' path. Angels and spirits watched as the sorcerer fled, and a great cheer went up through the first four levels of Heaven.

The Metatron, the Voice of God, sat back in his chair and sipped his tea.

THE KEEPER

Samuel Buckland rubbed two fingers against the bridge of his nose, took a breath, then addressed the young man sitting across from him.

"All right Vincent. When you're ready, tell me about...what happened."

The teenager nodded, licking his lips. He glanced at his questioner from behind his unkempt blonde hair, smoothing it back, fidgeting, taking a drink of water.

"Well, Mr. Buckland, it went like this." The boy rubbed his hands over his wrists, where the ghosts of several angry, straight-edged wounds were visible. "I...I was just looking out the window, you know, and..." Another sip, a clearing of the throat. "And I saw Ilianna downstairs. She was...was..."

A momentary flash of irritation crossed Sam's face, but he mastered it quickly. The hand that Sam placed on Vincent's was covered in black runic tattoos, a script that a scholar might recognize as reminiscent of ancient Hebrew text. His gaze drifted from the boy's face to his left shoulder as he spoke. "It's all right. Take your time."

Vincent nodded, running his hand across his mouth. "She was just...just making out with this other guy, you know?" He clenched his fist. "She was my girlfriend, man. At first, I got mad. Real mad. Wanted to go down there and..." He hesitated, eyes flicking up to the man across the table.

"You wanted to kill them, didn't you?"

Vincent's eyes were wide, gazing into his water glass as if it were a scrying pool. "Yeah. I did. I could see the look on her face as I choked her, man. I could see the other guy turning and running before I smashed his head in with a rock or something." His fingers wrapped around the glass, his knuckles turning white. "I mean, I could see it...and, goddamn it, I wanted it so bad."

Sam nodded, his eyes still looking over the teen's shoulder, toward the doorway. "What stopped you?"

Vincent laughed, but did not raise his head. "I'm not sure. I was standing there, seeing it, wanting it and then..." He waved his hand, dismissing the statement. "I don't know, man."

Sam turned his face back. "Did it feel like someone else's idea for a moment? Like someone was whispering in your ear, that they weren't your thoughts?"

Vincent's head jerked upward, his eyes wide, lower lip trembling. "Y...yeah. Yeah, that's what it was like, like a snake in my ear. I freaked out, slammed my hand against the window, cut myself to shit."

"Try again, Vincent."

Vincent nodded, rubbing his upper arm with his uninjured hand. "Cut myself bad. When I felt the pain, it was like it went right through the anger, and I started crying, man. That's when everyone came running in to the classroom."

"I see." Sam reached to his side and grasped a small notebook, taking a few moments to jot down something. He didn't look down at the paper, his eyes still dancing between Vincent's face and left shoulder as his tattooed hand drew the pen across.

God, how many of these are you going to send me today?

He laid the pen down and leaned forward again.

"Vincent, I think that it's important to know that this was not your fault." He put up a finger to quell the start of the teenager's protest. "There isn't anything wrong with you. You'll need some more counseling, someone to help you work through these feelings."

"Mr...Mr. Buckland?" Vincent looked away for a moment, then back at his companion. "How can there be nothing wrong with me? You know...you know that this isn't the first time something like this has happened? I've –"

"You've hurt people. I know, I read all of it." Sam gestured with one hand to the file folders on his desk nearby. "But I also know that you won't be doing anything like that anymore." A glance at the clock on the wall. "All right. I know it sounds like the stereotypical shrinks in the movies, but our time is up. I hope I'll see you again next week, but I expect you'll be feeling much better by then." He stood, and the child followed. Sam extended his left hand.

"See you then, Vincent."

Vincent scrunched his eyes, cocked his head. His hand came halfway up, then paused, quivering, in mid-air.

Sam waited.

Vincent's eyes reopened, but their color had changed to a smoky-red, the whites cris-crossed with blood vessels. "Mr...Buckland...I..."

Sam took another breath, then lifted his right hand, palm toward the boy. "It's okay, Vincent. It's okay."

His face turned to the boy's left shoulder once more.

"Begone."

The demon, the scabrous, four-armed and no-legged imp that was clinging to its host's head and spewing vile poison into his mind, shrieked as its flesh began to bubble and dissolve under the force of the exorcism. It spat and hissed, its ethereal fingers searching for purchase in the flesh of the boy's neck.

With a faint odor of sulfur and a last wail, the creature was gone. Vincent shook his head like something was caught in his nose.

"Vincent? Are you all right?"

Vincent's eyes were their normal brown again. "Yeah." For the first time since he had come into Sam's office, he smiled. "I'm...I'm actually feeling a lot better, Mr. Buckland. I think you're right. I think everything's going to be okay."

Sam returned his smile, but his was wan, weak. "That's right, Vincent. Take care of yourself, and let me know if you need anything else, all right? You have my number and my email."

Vincent nodded, patting the phone in his pocket. With another wave, he was out the door, and Sam waited for the click before collapsing into his chair.

He shook his head, rubbing the fatigue from his neck and sighing. A glance into the glass pane of the coffee table revealed the deep black and blue circles under his eyes. "Am I even making a difference?" He cast his gaze upward. "There's just...there are so many. Always someone new."

He stood again and dragged himself to the cappuccino machine standing in the corner of the office. He punched in the buttons that would deliver his caffeine-laced nectar and returned to his desk. His email was lit up with new messages—queries about patients, appointments, departmental meetings—but he closed the window and navigated to a folder titled "Journal." With a few button presses, he opened up a new document and titled it "October 27th—Day 771."

As he typed, he let himself drift away from his keyboard, his mind translating the press of letters into speech. His office dissolved, faded, until it was replaced by a grassy green field, clear, blue sky, and a gentle summer breeze. He sat on a checkered blanket, talking.

As he spoke, Gabriel smiled, listening, comforting.

I hope you can hear me...well, you know what I mean. Has it always been this bad? This many people? He laughed. Did Gramma ever have bad days like this? Where she didn't know if she was making a difference or not? I almost hope so. It would help me feel like I wasn't alone.

Sam stared for several seconds at the blinking cursor on the screen before his fingers moved again. Would you believe that part of me is wishing for another apocalypse? Another threat? At least then I'd be making a difference. His typing grew faster, more frenzied. It's like I'm beating my head against the wall here—I know that small things add up but I'm not getting to see it, I'm not getting to celebrate their successes. They're here and they're gone, and I know it'll be important in ten years or so but –

The imaginary Archangel's frown brought him up short. No. That's wrong. It's important now, and this is selfish of me. I just need to keep pressing on.

Sam's eyes panned back over to the huge list of appointments and conferences that he was due to attend. He closed his eyes and pressed the intercom button on his desk.

"Yes, Dr. Buckland?"

"Greta? Can you bring in the schedule for tomorrow?"

She hesitated. "Dr. Buckland..."

"Thanks."

He released the button and allowed himself to go back into his imagination. Every one is a small victory. Every one a small triumph for Heaven. I think...

"Dr. Buckland?"

He opened his eyes again, focused on his secretary's face. Greta held the appointment schedule under her arm, but made no move to deliver it into his outstretched hand.

"What's wrong?"

"Sam? Can I...can I talk to you for a minute? As a friend?" She fidgeted in place.

Sam furrowed his brow and leaned forward. "Of course you can."

"Good." She tossed the schedule on his desk. "You've been booking yourself solid for the last six months, if not more. I can't remember the last time you didn't spend a vacation at the office." She crossed her arms and shook her head. "You even came in for a few hours last Christmas!"

He held up his hands. "You can't fault me for that one. Don't you remember? It was Caesar Rodriguez. He was having symptoms of dissociative—"

Greta slammed her hands down next to his, forcing him to suppress a startle. "They're all special, Sam. I've been at this longer than you have, and I know what it does to people. You start off as an idealist, a crusader, thinking that you can change the world...and then it wears you away until there's nothing left but someone who's coming in and prescribing medicine so they can keep getting paid." She pulled up and sat in the chair, staring into his face. "You're the best damn psychiatrist that I've ever seen, Sam. You have a great success rate, your patients have nothing but praise for you. You even manage with cases that everyone else has given up on." She reached out, her dark red nails a sharp contrast to her light skin, and took his hand. "But you're killing yourself. I see it, everyone else sees it. You need to take a break." Her hand released his and she leaned back in the chair. "And don't tell me that you're fine. Because I know you're not."

Sam shook his head. "I don't get that luxury, Greta. If I don't help these kids, no one else will."

She barked a laugh. "Who do you think you are, Superman?" He looked up, startled. "Even he took time off, you know."

He bowed his head. Maybe she's right.

"So, where do you want to go? I've already cleared it with the other doctors and Social Services; they'll cover your caseload for a week or two."

"You did, did you?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "What if I said no?"

Greta crossed her arms, matched his eyebrow with her own, tapped on her upper arm with her index finger.

"Fine, fine. I'll go." He rocked back in his chair. "You twisted my arm into it."

"What a fantastic idea, Sam. Do you want me to set up the travel arrangements for you, or not?"

He shook his head. "No. I kind of want to play it by ear, just go where the winds take me." He felt a pang as he spoke, and his memory brought forth the image of a creature of mist, with booming laughter and a generous nature.

I miss you too, Sky King.

"All right." The twinkle came back into her eye, along with her stunning smile. "Enjoy your vacation!" She turned and walked out, and Sam sat back in his chair, eyes still shut. His fingers ran across the arms of his seat before settling, and he let out a great exhalation, filled with accumulated stress.

I hope that this helps. I hope that I'll come back and be like I was when I started. I hope that...

He was still listing off hopes when sleep draped a soft blanket over his mind and took him, leading him to a picnic in a grassy field while his cappuccino cooled in the machine.

THE CHILD

"We're going where?"

Sam suppressed his irritation as his adopted daughter scrunched up her dark-skinned face like she had just tasted something rotten. "We're going to Jerusalem, Sara, for a visit. To see the sites of ancient religions, like the Holy Temple." He smiled to himself as his mind sketched the itinerary. "We might also head to Mecca and Medina, see the Ka'aba."

Sara scratched her head and flipped off her iPod, removing the headphones from her ears. "Um...why? I mean, not that I mind the time off of school or anything, but it's the middle of the semester, Sam. It's not even break time yet."

He sighed as he took his laptop bag from his shoulder, hung it on its appointed place on the wall, and began removing his shoes. A golden pendant slipped out of his shirt as he bent down, and he tucked it back into place. "Do you really want to head to another country over the Christmas break? I figured you'd want to stay home, hang out with your friends, that sort of thing." He crooked an eyebrow in her direction. "If you'll recall, last year I tried to get you to go to Italy and you shut me down." He padded over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. "So you get to miss school this way, and you won't even get in trouble."

Sara pursed her lips and tapped her foot. "I did not shut you down, Sam. You just forgot that I had other things already planned." She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "Besides, you were going for some sort of meeting. When I asked if we would have time to go see anything, you told me..." Sara brought her hands up to make air-quotes. "And I quote, 'Probably not.'"

"I..." He took a deep breath as he poured his juice. Patience. "Well, this time there's no meeting. So, do you already have something planned?"

"Well...no."

"Okay then."

"So it's a real vacation? Like, us going, looking around, seeing new things?"

Sam nodded.

Sara's smile burst forth. "When are we leaving?" She took a seat at the kitchen bar. "All of my friends are going to be jealous when they hear."

Sam winced, his muscles and joints aching as he sat down at the kitchen table. "Our flight is for tomorrow afternoon. Get yourself packed because I'm going to be picking you up after school and we'll be heading straight to the airport."

"Is there a reason we're going?" Sara cast an appraising eye over her adoptive father, who glanced up at her from his downcast face. "Not that we need one, but...well, you don't usually take time off yourself, you know. You're always rushing off to some conference, some event..."

"Yeah." Sam sipped his juice and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe that's why I need to go. Been trying to do too much, even for me."

"Oh, please not the 'genius' thing again." Sara rolled her eyes and turned, grabbing a tangerine from a nearby bowl. "I know my friends laugh every time you say that, but seriously. It gets old. You don't need their attention that badly."

Sam took a sip of his drink. "Trust me. I'm not looking for the attention of teenage girls."

A moment of silence stretched before Sara spoke up again. "Well, anyway, guess I'd better get packed. I don't want to forget anything I might want while we're in the Promised Land."

Sam nodded and leaned back. This is going to be good for us. He closed his eyes and cast his mind back, back to when Gabriel had touched his heart with that moment of divine vision. The overwhelming, desperate love that had engulfed him then echoed back at him now, and tears trickled down his face.

"...Sam?"

Sam blinked his eyes open; Sara was watching him from across the table, her brow wrinkled, concerned.

"Oh, sorry." Sam wiped his face and eyes. "Just remembering something from a few years ago."

Sara got up from her seat. "In the immortal words of Qui-Gon Jinn, keep your mind here and now where it belongs."

"And who am I to argue with Qui-Gon?" Sam polished off his juice and stood up, stretching his arms in front of him.

"So when are you going to tell me about your days in the voodoo cult?" Sara pointed at the tattoos on his hands and forearms.

"When you're old enough to not have nightmares." Sam adjusted his sleeves so the markings were mostly covered.

Sara's eyes widened and her mouth dipped in a scowl. "Fuck you." She stormed off, slamming the door into her room. The sound echoed through the house, a gunshot in the silence.

Sam didn't even look up. Instead, he rolled the glass between his hands.

"That was fantastic, Sam." Light reflected off the moisture beads. "Way to go."

She doesn't need to know. It'd be too much for her. She's just a child.

"And you would have reacted real well if Mom or Dad had told you that when you were her age, huh?" He stood and brought his glass to the sink, running water over it and putting it into the dish rack. Wiping his hands on a nearby towel, he turned to face the hallway that led to Sara's room.

A stray thought brought a smile to Sam's face. Funny how this is harder than facing down the Angel of Death. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and headed down the hall. Before knocking, he leaned in and put his ear to the door.

Nothing.

He rapped his knuckles on the wood. "Sara?"

Something hard slammed into the door on the other side and thumped onto the ground.

"Right." He sighed, rubbed his forehead, put it against the door and closed his eyes. "Sara, I didn't mean that exactly the way it sounded. You'll hear all about it one day. Just...just not yet. It's not time yet. All right?"

No answer.

"I'm sorry." Sam turned from the door and began his return trip down the hallway, but before he got halfway through, the door opened.

"Apology accepted." Sara leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed again. "But only because you're bringing me to Jerusalem."

Sam laughed. "Fair enough."

~~~

"I remember when airlines let you check two bags free per passenger." Sam shook his head as he and Sara walked away from the counter, taking a bite of his napkin-clad chocolate donut before continuing. "Now it's fifty per."

"You shouldn't say things like that, Sam." Sara hitched her small carry-on backpack up on her shoulders as her eyes roamed the airport. "It makes you seem old."

"I feel old." Sam's eyes also took in his surroundings, but what he saw was not the same as what Sara did. To his left, several scuttling spider-demons, about a hand-span in size, scrabbled toward a nearby line. Ahead, a security supervisor berated an employee, holding her in place with his authority as his taunts and insults lashed into her soul. Sam could see the tears leaking down her freckled face...and the barbs on the tongue of the fat man before her.

He paused, watching. The air around the supervisor shimmered, a heat-wave undetected by everyone else, and, as Sam's attention focused in, he could smell rotting flesh and brimstone.

Dammit. Even when I'm trying to go on fucking vacation.

"Sam? What's the matter?" Sara turned around, looking at him stopped in the middle of the walkway, people flowing around him like water in a stream. "Sam?"

"Just a second, Sara." Sam watched a moment longer. A taskmaster. Hate those bastards. Making abusers out of people. He set his shoulders, then began walking toward the pair, tossing the donut in the trash, unfolding the napkin, and scribbling on it with his pen.

"What are you doing?" Sara's eyes flicked from Sam's face to the TSA man, whose face was now red with his anger. Everyone else in the crowd was doing a fantastic job of pretending to be deaf, turning their eyes away from the spectacle going on in the airport lobby.

"No, Sam, you can't. Just let them—"

"Stay here, Sara. Don't move." Sam put out one hand to block her, then stepped up to the employee and boss. The woman was fully weeping now, babbling apologies, and Sam's heart broke for her.

"Hey, it's going to be okay." He clicked his pen shut and returned it to his pocket, then put that hand on the young woman's shoulder. She looked up at him, her face a war between anger, fear, confusion, and embarrassment, and the big man in front of her rounded on Sam.

"What the hell is your problem, asshole?" The supervisor rose up on his toes, trying to look down into Sam's face. The barbs on his tongue were clearer, now, and Sam flinched at the sight of the sick, green ichor which coated them. "This isn't any of your fucking business! Why don't you just—"

Sam put his right foot back, widening his stance. "You know, you should really watch how you talk to people." His left hand gripped the napkin. "You never know when someone is going to turn out to be more important than you thought."

The TSA man reached out and shoved Sam, rocking him in place but failing to dislodge him. "Shut the fuck up! I don't give a rat's ass who you think you are; there's fucking work to be done and this bitch—"

Sam shoved the napkin into the man's face.

Scrawled on the thin paper was a complex diagram, a series of pentacles, circles, and other symbols. The other man's skin blanched, going from red to white in a moment, and his next word emerged as a whispered hiss.

"Keeper." He tried to withdraw but his muscles were locked in place. Sam stepped up to him.

"No shit, asshole." He brought his right hand up, two fingers extended toward the demon.

"Begone, taskmaster. Your term here is ended. Return to Hell, where your feet bleed and burn and the whip you hold tears open your own flesh." He placed the napkin on the half-bald head in front of him.

"Begone."

The thick thorns on the man's tongue melted into the same green fluid which Sam had seen, pooling, running out of his mouth and up his face, soaking the napkin through until it was a sodden green rag. Sam plucked it from the now-speechless supervisor's face and flicked it into the air, making a sharp gesture with his left hand as he did so.

The napkin burst into flame, eliciting a gasp from the surrounding crowd, many of whom had stopped to watch the interaction between Sam and the supervisor. Sam glanced around, smiled, and touched the girl's shoulder again.

"Wh...what's going on?" The supervisor rubbed his head, as if he still felt the wet napkin on it. "I...I...Greta, are you okay?" He moved toward the young woman, who recoiled from him.

Sam shook his head, and turned to walk away. The onlookers whispered as he went past them back to where Sara stood, her eyes wide as an owl's, staring up into his face.

"I just explained to him that he should be nicer to his employees." Sam's words interrupted Sara's attempts to form any sort of question. "Come on, we need to get to gate six."

The rest of the trip through the airport was quiet, with Sara stealing glances at her father every chance she got. It's not her fault. Sam tried not to look back, to return the stares. You'd be curious, too. You'd be staring.

"Ummm...Sam?" Sara's voice was meek, quiet. "What the fuck was that?"

"Can it wait until we get on the plane?" Sam did not turn as he spoke. "I really don't want to miss it."

"I guess." Sam spared his daughter a look; she had retreated into the classic posture of self-defense, her arms crossed across her chest as her eyes held to the ground. The stone walls he had erected to keep out judgment and whispers crumbled, and he stopped, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey." Sara stopped, still not looking up. "Look at me for a second, okay?"

Sara did so, her brown eyes meeting Sam's. They were wide, shaking, searching his face.

"I promise, I'm not crazy. There was just something that I had to take care of, and I did."

Sara licked her lips. "Then what the hell was that?"

"Sara, do you remember that show we watched together, 'Mind Control?'"

She looked up at Sam from the corners of her eyes. "With that Darren Brown guy? Where he made people do all sorts of weird shit."

"Exactly. He was using psychology, tricks of how the mind works." Sam felt the bite of the lie in his chest, but he forged ahead. "When you need to get someone in a suggestible state, you do something that throws their mind off track. Something unexpected."

"...Like throwing a napkin on their head?" Some of the tension had left Sara's muscles, and her posture was loosening.

Sam smiled. "Exactly." God help me, now I feel like Caitlin, grinning in front of a fawning crowd. "It shook him up, let me talk to him for a second, give him a suggestion."

Sara's eyes had become saucers, all fear and confusion gone in the wake of this new revelation. "You can hypnotize people? Why the hell didn't you tell me about that before?" Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Have you ever hypnotized me?"

Sam laughed, and this time it was genuine, a rich, warm sound from the happy places in his heart. "No." He waved one hand as he spoke in an attempt to calm her down. "Now, can we keep moving? I don't want the security people coming by and telling me that we shouldn't be blocking the walkways or something."

"Okay, okay." They resumed their walk. They had been moving for about thirty seconds when her voice came again. "So...can you?"

"Hypnotize people?"

Sara nodded.

"In a fashion, but I prefer not to." Sam stood up and he and his daughter began walking again toward their terminal. "The skill does come in handy during therapy, though."

"I bet. Must be nice." As she walked, Sara grasped hold of an imaginary clipboard. "Yes, all this deep-seated abuse from your childhood is gone. You'll walk out of here as sunshine and roses. Congratulations."

Sam shook his head. "No, Sara. That's not quite the way it works in psychology. I'd be wasting my time and theirs if I tried that kind of treatment for most of them."

The two arrived at the boarding area for their flight and sat down. "What do you mean, 'wasting your time?' Why would that be wasting it?"

Sam laid his bags on the floor in front of him. "Solving people's problems for them, doesn't help them get any stronger. He pursed his lips. "I try to...to remove the obstacles that are getting in their way and then let them figure it out. Not to take the easy road, you know?"

Sara cocked her head. "Whatever. Just seems like you'd be able to help more people that way."

"Yeah." Sam laughed, shaking his head. "It does seem like that, doesn't it?"

THE AWAKENED

Jamila Al-Nour stepped out of her tent in the Egyptian desert. The stars twinkled above and she shivered as a cool wind cut through the light jacket she wore. She hitched up her garments and turned to look at the unearthed structure. It was long, but low to the ground, a silhouette of solid black against the diamond sky on the horizon.

"We did it." She pulled out a small cedar box from an inner pocket, running her fingers over the smooth lid before opening it. From amongst the metal compass and a roll of ancient Arabic writing, she drew out a small photograph of a middle-aged man of Middle-Eastern descent with a little girl perched on his shoulders.

"We're here, Dad. You were right."

Replacing the box, Jamila looked around the sleeping campsite. Most of the lights were off and the workers down for the evening, but she could hear a few night owls still up, murmuring about the day's work, or the last hand of their card game. She pulled on her shoes, zipped up the tent flap, and headed toward the building, doing her best to keep hidden.

Too easy. She suppressed a giggle as she moved into a full run, her feet sinking into the sand with each step. The structure grew larger as she approached, until she stood at one of the three doors leading in. She traced a finger across the hieroglyphs that guarded the entrance.

"Enter and your name shall be forfeit, food for the Gods in Duat, and your soul shall fall into the vaults of Ammit the Devourer." She stepped away, moving toward the walls again. "Powerful threats, whoever you are."

It's so well preserved. Jamila reached out, her hand brushing off some of the remaining earth to reveal the marble underneath. It was pitted in several places, worn by moving sand, but still whole, still recognizable. And why marble? No one ever used that for a mastaba, not that I remember. Excitement coursed through her spine like an electric shock. This must have really been someone special.

She took her first steps in, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness like a spear. The workers had broken through earlier that day, clearing the dirt and rubble that had overlain the tomb.

Jamila smiled at the memory of the crowd of workmen making way for her and her team to investigate the ornate doorway, to take rubbings and photos before breaking the long-held seal.

Never heard of a curse like that one, either. She glanced back at the dark shapes behind her that led into the chamber, then refocused on moving forward.

Can't touch anything or they'll know I was in here. Step by step she advanced, the beam lingering whenever she found an artifact or inscription. But I had to see it first, before everyone else got in.

She stopped in front of an ornate vase, decorated in hieroglyphics and drawings.

What is this? The pottery depicted two men, throwing fire from their hands at what seemed to be...

What are those? She knelt closer. The other figures were also humanoid, but with great wings stretching from their backs. One held two flaming swords, while the other carried a mighty horn, curved into a circle, at his waist. Her fingers stretched out, reaching for the vase, caressing the contrast between pottery and paint.

A small fragment flaked off.

Oh, shit! She scurried backward, running the flashlight over her fingers. Her flight sent her into the arms of an imposing statue, its ibis-beak curving over her head. She turned and wrapped her arms around it just in time to keep it from tipping over and crashing to the ground.

"God, that was close." This time she backed away slowly until she reached the wall, then let out a great exhalation. "I wonder what they'd say if they walked in here with that thing falling over." She laughed, shaking her head. "All right, get it together. And don't touch anything!"

She moved her flashlight beam around the rest of the room. The whole chamber was filled with artifacts, but there didn't seem to be an exit other than the one she had come from."

There's no way this is the only room. It's not big enough. There must be...a hidden door or something. She examined the wall opposite the entrance, peering into the cracks between bricks, searching for a fissure.

She found it.

Her fingers sank into a groove in the wall, and, with a hiss, the wall rumbled, a weight deep inside the stone rolling and grinding as it pulled the six-inch-thick slab aside. She turned her light inward.

Her eyes turned into saucers.

"Wow."

# http://www.jasonpatrickcrawford.com/landing-page.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jason Patrick Crawford is a father of three rambunctious boys, one beautiful baby girl, and has been happily married for over twelve years. He lives in sunny California, where he constantly laments the lack of rain. He welcomes your feedback and hopes you will take the time to  review this novel. Thank you for reading!

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