 
# Continuity

A Novella

### C. Allen Brown
Copyright

Copyright © 2013 by C. Allen Brown

All rights reserved. Except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 or other applicable law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

First eBook edition: January 2013

The characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any similarity to real people, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover art by Richard K. Green, http://www.richardkgreen.com

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# Contents

Prologue 5

Chapter 1 6

Chapter 2 7

Chapter 3 8

Chapter 4 9

Chapter 5 10

Chapter 6 11

Chapter 7 13

Chapter 8 14

Chapter 9 16

Chapter 10 17

Chapter 11 18

Chapter 12 20

Chapter 13 24

Chapter 14 25

Chapter 15 27

Chapter 16 30

Chapter 17 33

Chapter 18 36

Chapter 19 39

Chapter 20 41

Chapter 21 42

Chapter 22 44

Chapter 23 46

Chapter 24 47

Chapter 25 49

Chapter 26 50

Chapter 27 52

Chapter 28 54

Chapter 29 55

Chapter 30 56

Chapter 31 57

Chapter 32 59

Chapter 33 60

Chapter 34 63

Chapter 35 66

Chapter 36 67

Chapter 37 70

Chapter 38 72

Chapter 39 74

Chapter 40 76

Chapter 41 78

Chapter 42 81

Chapter 43 83

Chapter 44 84

Chapter 45 86

Chapter 46 87

Chapter 47 90

About the Author 91

#  Prologue

Three-thousand, one-hundred and thirty-seven. That was the magic number. No one knew why, or even if, it had significance, but since the beginning of time, there had always been exactly 3,137 everlasting human souls in the universe. Never one more; never one less. Everywhere and everywhen. Until now.

#  Chapter 1

To Billie, everything about him was perfect. His lines were sculpted, but not too sculpted. He was muscled, but not too muscled. He was handsome, but not at all pretty. _Rugged without being ragged_ , she thought. She drew her gaze over him, admiring him; she found nothing that she might wish to change. Nowhere on earth was there a specimen more suited to her tastes. He flinched and gave a primitive grunt as her nails scraped down his stomach. She felt flush as the guttural sound washed over her, and she paused, considering for a moment before pulling herself up to peer into his eyes.

Almost immediately, his empty stare filled with depth and emotion; he looked at her—into her. In his eyes, she could see everything he'd become. He was smart—M.I.T. smart—but his training with the U.S. Navy had imparted a good dose of humility. He had a kind and generous nature, but when necessary, he also had the capacity to snuff out a life. Having grown up in a house full of women, he understood them as much as any man could; nevertheless, he was masculine and stoic—not to the point of indifference, but very much the strong and silent type. He could carry his half of any conversation, but he could also listen to her, with intent and attention, when that was what she needed. Best of all, according to him, if he was any of these things, it was only through her that he had the strength to be them.

She was sad for a moment when she thought about how the demands of his job ate away at him, but this just couldn't be helped. If not for the job, they wouldn't be together. Without it, he'd be nothing. Nevertheless, killing tends to take a toll on a thoughtful man. She smiled a little as she purposefully remembered his confession; her being with him always made everything right. She liked making him feel better. She loved that she was _the one_ who made him feel better.

He pulled her close, and she didn't resist. She knew that this was wrong, so very wrong, but she didn't care. Right now, she only cared about what she wanted—what she needed. Everyone and everything else could go to hell. Tonight they were for each other.

#  Chapter 2

Mason Fiske paused his video game when he heard the deep rumble of a muscle car stop in front of the trailer next door. Craning his neck to look out his dirty bedroom window, he winced a little and watched the unrequited love of his life steal one last, long, open-mouthed kiss from her dirt bag _du jour_. Apparently, night passed too quickly for feral youth; Mason had no idea for himself.

It was clear from Mags' wild hair and disheveled clothing, hanging sloppily to her lusty curves, that she'd won again in her rage against the boredom of the day and celebrated with a little nocturnal debauchery. Mason wasn't oblivious to what Mags had been doing in the backseat of Clinton Jones' black Chevy Nova, and it wasn't that he didn't care; he just didn't feel that it spoiled her. _Someday_ , he longed.

Mags was barely clear of the car before it squealed away, and with a drunken startle, she wobbled about and kicked into the air where the car had been. "Asshole!" she shouted, oblivious to the hour. Mason cringed, hoping that Mags wouldn't wake her mother, who had nasty booze-fueled temper. When the lights of the trailer didn't pop on after a few seconds, he relaxed a little. If history gave any indication, odds were good that Mags' mother was currently pinned down by her own sweaty dirtbag, raging against the lifestyle that no job-skills and a teenage pregnancy had imposed on her twenty-some odd years ago.

Mason watched as Mags weaved up the rickety wooden stairs to the trailer's front porch and plopped herself down on a fabric sofa that had no business being outside. The cool night breeze sent a shiver through her, but she didn't go inside. Mason quickly laced up his tennis shoes; he had to hurry. It wouldn't take long for afterglow and booze to render Mags unconscious. He took a quick look in the mirror and sighed. There was nothing about his lanky build and bulbous face that would make a girl as beautiful as Mags consider him to be boyfriend material.

#  Chapter 3

The quarter moon cast a dim light across the rolling waves of Lake Huron as Sean slipped out from under Billie, climbed out of the bunk, and geared up for the night's mission. The sailboat rocked under her still-naked body, and he took her breath away, just a little, as she watched him pull on his black wetsuit and attach various items of kit.

"It's a quick in-and-out. Six targets; no animals," she reminded him. "Everything in the house gets dead, and then you vanish into the night."

"I know what I'm doing," Sean said as he pulled a suppressed 9mm AR 15 from a hidden compartment in the floor of the cabin and draped the sling around his neck. Billie frowned as she watched Sean climb the ladder to the deck. She knew that this affair had to end, but the thought of never seeing him again didn't feel right either.

_Why couldn't he live?_ she pleaded to herself. _What would be so wrong with us wasting away on some island in the Caribbean? How could that be so wrong?_ She knew how things were done in her world, but right now, she hated her world. She hated herself. She felt silly as a tear ran down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. She'd only known him for the blink of an eye; how could she have become so attached—so attached to something like him?

Billie listened carefully and heard Sean slide fins onto his feet and then slip his body into the drink. She let out a sigh, and with barely a thought, she vanished. The boat bobbed empty on the dark lake.

#  Chapter 4

Mags lurched out of a doze and squinted toward a blurry figure on the sidewalk in front of her trailer home. "Hi, Maggie," the voice said again, a little too casually, considering the hour.

"What? Who's that? What do you—Oh, it's you. Mason, right? What the fuck are you doing? You fucking scared me." The alcohol was clear on her voice, but she wasn't sloppy like most other weekend nights.

"I was just walking up to the store to get a pack of smokes," Mason stuttered. Mags didn't recall ever seeing Mason smoke, but she didn't challenge him on it. "You want anything?"

"Fuck yes," she started, invigorated. "Fucking beer, man." Mason frowned and looked at his shoes.

"They won't let me buy," he said sheepishly. "I'm not twenty-one yet." After a pause, he blurted, "You want to come with me?"

Mags had no desire for a moonlit stroll with her geeky neighbor, but she was also rather partial to keeping her long hair vomit free. Thinking that a walk might settle her churning stomach and stop her spinning head, she reluctantly agreed. She stumbled down the wooden steps and swayed her way out to the street. Mason was all smiles.

They'd barely taken two steps down the trailer park lane when Mason collapsed to the pavement, convulsing wildly; his eyes rolled back in his head. Mags just stared at him, frozen in a surreal haze of booze and disbelief. Mason flopped about like a caught fish. _I wonder if he's going to die tonight?_ she wondered too calmly. She doubled over next to him and vomited in the street.

#  Chapter 5

Sean's head broke the surface of the dark water, and minutes later he had stashed his wet gear and taken cover in the shadows near the beach house. _Slow is quick, and fast is sloppy_ , he heard his instructors bellow in his head. His pulse was fast, and adrenaline coursed through his body, but he was trained to not let it get the better of him.

Tonight was going to be messy; getting in and out didn't have to be pretty. No one would mistake this for anything other than a professional hit. From the deck of the house, with his night vision goggles in thermal mode, Sean could easily see through the screen of an open bedroom window. People love to listen to the waves while they sleep, but open windows make for easy access. From their sizes, he guessed that the two heat signatures belonged to teens, but that didn't matter tonight. _Everything in the house gets dead_ , he repeated to himself.

Taking careful aim at the head of the more difficult shot, Sean fired a bullet through the screen. The subsonic 9mm round made no more noise than a backyard bb gun as it exited the long suppressor, but the mechanical slide of the carbine made a distinctive metallic clank as it cycled the next round into the chamber. The shot wasn't loud, but it was loud enough to startle the target in the other bed. Sean moved his sights, fired another round, and the second target collapsed lifelessly back onto its pillow.

Sean's knife sliced easily through the nylon screen, and in seconds he was creeping through the house, clearing one room after another. A young African-American woman, probably an _au pair_ , had no idea that two bullets were about to enter her heart through her spine as she stumbled her way down the dark hallway toward the bathroom. She didn't make a sound, but her body slumped to the floor with a thud that was louder than Sean would have liked. He stood motionless for a moment—listening—waiting to know whether anyone heard the nanny fall. Sean heard some noises coming from the master bedroom, but they weren't the sounds of startle or fear. These noises were much more base. Sean knew instantly where to find two more targets.

#  Chapter 6

"You know that you're walking a very dangerous line, right?" said a scruffy man on a rusty park bench.

"I know," Billie said, part annoyed and part ashamed. There wasn't a soul in sight at the city park, but the moonlight shone bright and lit up the cobalt-blue leaves of a very conspicuous golden tree. A gentle wind rustling through the brilliant leaves was the only sound in the park, save for the voices of the pair on the bench.

"That's nice," said the raggedy man, nodding at the tree that was so clearly out of place. "You?" He really didn't need to ask.

"Yep," Billie mumbled, admiring her handiwork and trying to not think about her actions as of late. She stared at her bare toes, stretched out in the cool grass. "You ever feel like we're missing something, Pops?" she said after a long pause. "You ever feel like we walked away from some of the best stuff?" It had been a very long time since Billie had called her father Pops.

"Missing something? Like sex?" he asked incredulously. "You think sex was the _best stuff_? Are you new? Do you see what these animals do, just for sex?"

"Our kind used to do it too. Or at least something like it." Billie smiled and snuggled in under his arm. "If you'll recall, that's how I got here." Pops did recall, and as he recalled, he gave a sly smile. "But I'm not talking about sex. This has nothing to do with sex. I'm talking about love. I'm talking about intimacy. I am talking about cherishing one special someone above all others. What's so wrong with two people sharing something special, just between them?"

"Aside from the fact that we're not people?" Pops quipped.

"You know what I mean," Billie said tersely.

"There's nothing wrong with intimacy, Nug." Billie twitched, remembering back many millennia to when he last called her _Nug_. It was short for _Nugget_ , which itself was short for _My Tiny Little Nugget of Pure Golden Love_. The nickname came from a bedtime story that he had told her many times over the course of her youth. She fought back a tear as he continued. "Our kind values love and intimacy above all else. It's what ultimately allowed us to transcend our old ways and take our place as Guardians of the Authentics. The problem is not in cherishing another; the problem is in cherishing only _one_ other."

That was easy for him to say. He'd had his one true love. Even though her mother had been stolen away by tragic illness, he'd known the passion that Billie so desperately craved. She'd not been so lucky. Billie was only an adolescent at the time of the Great Ascension, and she'd never had a true love. She'd never even known the fleeting puppy love that children mistake for true love. Ages had passed since then, but she never lost the longing. She was older than the earth, but part of her was still just a love-struck teen—madly in love with the idea of being in love.

"Having an extraordinary relationship with one special someone who's just right for me and no one else—and maybe I'm just right for him and no one else—doesn't mean that I love everyone else less," she snapped. "It's not like I've only got a pocket full of love, and if I use it all up on someone special, there won't be any left for the rest." She needlessly demonstrated by turning the empty pocket of her shorts inside-out.

"No one said you're running low on love, Nug. But if you have the ability to love someone special more than you love all others, doesn't that mean that you've failed in giving everyone all of the love in your heart? Isn't that what makes us . . . us? Isn't that what allows us to do our jobs—to look after the Authentics?"

"But—" Billie started, flustered. She stopped when Pops held up a finger.

"Speak of the Devil," he said quietly, as the brilliant blue and gold tree dissolved away, birds began to sing, and crickets began to chirp. Two squirrels fought or played high up in a very ordinary green-leafed tree slightly down the path from the park bench, and after a moment, a wide-eyed woman walked quickly into view. She was clearly not comfortable being out and about at this hour, and she clutched her purse even tighter as she walked by the bench. She had no idea that she had nothing to fear. As an Authentic, she never had anything to fear. "Evening, Ma'am," Pops said as the white-knuckled woman trotted by, but she didn't respond, assuming that anyone lounging about on a park bench at this hour must be either a masher or a raving loony.

As the frightened woman walked out of sight, the air grew silent again except for the rustling of cobalt-blue leaves, which returned when the golden tree reappeared, slightly askew from where it had been before.

#  Chapter 7

Sean could have driven a forklift into the master bedroom, and neither of the couple on the bed would have noticed. The man, a fat hairy bloke, was clumsily bouncing atop of a slightly less fat and slightly less hairy woman, and they were both grunting in either pain or pleasure with each move. Two slugs to the man's spine put an end to him, but Sean had to come around to the side to get a proper angle on the corpse-covered woman. She managed a muffled squeak before he fired into her. For a moment he wondered if rigor mortis would set in and leave this poor woman with her legs sticking straight up in the air for the rest of eternity. _That's going to be a funny looking coffin_ , he thought, and he chuckled. But the mirth was short lived. Sean thought about what he and Billie had done only hours earlier, and he wondered if they had looked as awkward. Hearing a rustle from the next room, he forced himself to refocus and continued his search for the last target.

#  Chapter 8

As soon as Mason started to come around, his senses were overwhelmed. The emergency ward was bright and noisy, and people bustled about with an energy that is unusual for the wee hours of the morning. But the bustling wasn't the problem. There was a deafening buzz in his head that wasn't really a buzz at all. Not an audible hum, but more like a whole-body, vibrating chorus of deafening noise. It became more intense with each passing moment. A comforting hand on his shoulder felt like a belt sander grinding away at his flesh. The concerned rasp of his grandmother's labored voice sounded like heavy metal music playing through air raid sirens. The antiseptic smell of the ward burned at his lungs. Nearly everyone was bathed in painfully blinding colors of shimmering light that pierced through the back of his eyeballs and stabbed at his brain. Mason grabbed his head because he didn't know what else to grab, but the shock of his fingers thumping against his forehead reverberated through his body like a bowling ball to the chest.

"Oh look, he's awake," his grandmother wheezed, stabbing at his eardrums. "Are you okay?" Mason looked around but had trouble focusing on any one thing. His heart was racing, and his prickly skin was drenched in a cold sweat. It was all just too much; his body rebelled and a panic crashed over him—surrounding him—choking him. In his mind, the world was coming to an end, but no one else seemed to notice. "What's the matter, baby? Nurse!" she shouted as loud as she could with the limits that emphysema gave her.

Like a dog scared by a thunderclap that it can't possibly understand, Mason plowed out of bed and ran. Equipment and furniture toppled over in his wake. Mason pushed on. Even in his muddled state, he could make out voices calling after him. He couldn't stop. He had to get away. He didn't know from what, or to where, but he had to get away.

After a couple of wrong turns and dead ends, Mason finally emerged at the exit to the ER wearing nothing but his underwear and the obligatory hospital gown. His grandmother on her electric Get-A-Round scooter, Mags, and a slew of hospital workers stumbled over each other in a race to catch up with him. Mason rolled off the edge of the slow-opening automatic outer door and bounded away from the building.

A busy mob was outside of the ER, tending ambulance-side to a new customer. An EMT straddled her bloodied body, rhythmically compressing her chest as others hastily wheeled her toward the doors. Mason hit the gurney broadside with all of the speed that his scrawny legs could give him. The EMT toppled off of the woman, and Mason doubled over her battered body as the gurney slid sideways. He gasped, trying to regain the wind that was knocked clear out of him, and he fumbled in the slippery blood that drenched her skin. For a moment, a very brief moment, all of the pain and noise and panic slipped away. He looked down at the woman who lay under him. She gulped a deep breath and then opened—wide—the most brilliant blue eyes that Mason had ever seen. Tears welled up, and a quivering smile crossed her face. The woman, who had been all but lost seconds before, lunged from her bloody cot, grasping desperately to hold Mason. But it was too late. Panic had again set in, and Mason was in a dead sprint across the parking lot.

* * *

The frantic mob now stood motionless, wondering what they had just seen. None made a sound. After a long moment, one of them grabbed the corner of a sheet and wiped at the blood that still clung to the woman's face. Mixed with her joyous tears, the blood wiped away clean to reveal no sign of any injury. Only moments before, she hadn't been expected to survive. Now she just needed a hot shower and fresh set of clothes.

#  Chapter 9

Billie and her father sat quiet for a long moment, both frustrated that the other would not acquiesce. They both understood the fundamental truth that love flowed from an infinite well, but for Billie, loving just one a little more than she loved the many didn't slight the many; it simply showed a special fondness for the one. For Pops, showing anyone more love than others meant that there must be more love to give the others. As they each searched for a new way to persuade the other, a jolt passed through them, startling them. The blue leaves on the gold tree rustled loudly, and a few fell to the grass below.

"Did you feel that?" Billie blurted, but she was certain that he had. They both stood up out of surprise, looking around for anything out of sorts. "Do you . . . Do you sense—another?" she asked carefully, shocked at the possibility.

"I do," Pops said. He seemed unable to believe his own words.

"But how can that be?" Billie was frantic. "Since the beginning—" Pops cut her off with a gesture and was silent for a moment.

"I have to see Mother. If anyone, he'll know what this is all about."

"But what could have—" Pops cut her off again, more sternly this time.

"Not now, Nug. You have unfinished business; I suggest you tend to your loose ends." Billie knew he was right, but she was dreading it. "Wrap it up right. This is no time for complications."

Without another word, Billie, her father, and most of the park vanished into black. A single blue leaf floated in from the edge of nothingness and tumbled along the green grass that butted up to black. As it tumbled along on a nonexistent breeze, bouncing off freshly cut blades, it crumbled, leaving a trail of shimmering silver that settled into the lawn and sunk deep into the firm earth.

#  Chapter 10

It was a mixture of sheer bravado and unfettered stupidity that caused Sean to burst through the door, behind which he had heard rustling. While his intel was clear that there was only one more person in the house, that did not excuse carelessness. The wooden door slammed open against the drywall behind it, but Sean stopped dead, staring at the last person due to be murdered tonight. Their eyes locked. A toddler of less than two years pulled himself up on the edge of his crib and raised his arms, calling to be held. Sean stood in the doorway, motionless, completely unsure of his next move. He'd killed a lot of people. Hell, he'd killed two teens only moments ago, but never anyone this young. Somehow this was different. He felt his stomach clench. Bile backed up in his throat; he fought to control it.

Sean's eyes were so tightly locked onto the wide round eyes that peered back at him that he didn't see the massive muzzle of a black and tan Rottweiler until it was already on top of him. On its hind legs, the dog was taller than Sean and almost as heavy. When it came down on him, the weight and surprise were too much, and he toppled backward onto the tile floor. The dog lunged for his face, but Sean managed to block it with his arm. The dog tore into the meat of his shoulder, but that was better than the alternative. He struggled under the dog, but it was quickly apparent that he couldn't overpower it. Not from this position. Not with the wounds he'd already sustained.

Sean fumbled to get the sixteen-inch barrel of his carbine pointed at the animal, but the barrel was too long to allow for a decent shot to center mass. He sent three rounds into the dog's stomach, but they were shallow and angled toward the hindquarters. Luckily, one of the slugs lost its energy by shattering the dog's hip, and the frenzied Rot paused just long enough for Sean to pull his sidearm. The barrel of his Sig was short enough to maneuver between their chests, but without a suppressor, it would be loud. Four hollow points later, Sean's ears rang, and he pulled himself out from under a 170-pound corpse.

Sean was covered in blood, some his and some from the dog. He stumbled back to his feet. The excitement of the moment had driven the turmoil of this target from his mind, but that moment was over now. He turned toward the crib, still unsure what he should do—what he could do—only to find that there would be no tough decisions tonight. The horror drove Sean back to his knees.

One of the rounds to the Rot's stomach had exited the furry brute and found a way to finish the mission. The bright eyed tot who had beckoned moments ago was gone, and what remained left no question of finality. Sean had never seen horror like the mangle that lay before him. It was times like this that he appreciated his training. He didn't want to get up. In his heart, he wanted to curl up into a ball and die, but that wasn't an option.

Collecting his essentials, Sean skulked out of the house and back to the shore. Lights were popping on all down the beach, and it wouldn't be long before his work would be found. He needed the cover of black water, and while the cold calmed the torn nerves in his shoulder, Sean took no solace. Some missions stayed with a man. This wasn't Sean's first such mission, but as he made the long swim back to the waiting sailboat, he vowed that it would be his last.

#  Chapter 11

News of a miracle travels fast, even in the wee hours, and a crowd was gathering in the hospital parking lot around the nearly departed. The throngs were still small in number, but their enthusiasm bordered on frenzy. Everyone seemed to want to touch her—to steal just a taste of a genuine, praise-Jesus miracle. Despite the unyielding questions, the woman remained quiet and stared with wonder at everything and everyone around her.

"She looks rather dim," said a ravishing woman. She stood alone against the outside wall of the south wing and smoked a cigarette, watching the mob in the distance grow. A figure stepped out from the shadows behind her and moved up alongside. He hadn't been there a second before. The light revealed a tall bearded man in a long black coat.

The man said in a dull deliberate tone, "I think she's doing quite well, my dear, considering it's her birthday."

"So it's true?" she asked, puzzled. "She's new? The first new Authentic—ever?" Zelda was so unbelievably attractive that no man ever ignored her form, but Mother stood beside her, looking toward the mob, without so much as a glance in her direction. "I didn't see this coming."

"We never do," Mother said. "but the surprises are what keep the game interesting."

"Cut the shit, Mother," Zelda said, annoyed. "We all knew that you had a rogue Suit bumbling about, creating his own reality. And since the whole Jesus fiasco . . . Well, let's just say that healing is a known possibility for that gig. But how'd your healer make a new soul? How'd the Guardians finagle a new Authentic? And is she even authentic? Fuck! What is she?"

"She's an Authentic—just new to the game. But it wasn't us," Mother said, smiling at the fact that Zelda was as clueless about the origins of the new soul as he was.

"Bullshit!" she snapped, but quickly regained her poise. "We were told that the molds had been busted—that the quota on souls was filled."

"We all heard the same stories, Zelda dear. Since before there was a sun to rise, there have, I mean _had,_ always been exactly 3,137 souls."

"Yes, but we heard those fairytales from you. What did you conveniently forget to mention? How the hell does something this big happen—out of the blue? And why now? " Zelda took a long drag on a short cigarette and then smashed it out on the sidewalk under her steep stilettos. "We've been fucking around with these dullards for four billion years—since they were nothing more than puddles of goo—and all of a sudden they decide to throw a newbie into the mix? For what?"

"We don't set the rules to the game. Your kind knows that as well as mine."

"Screw you, Mother. Save your dime-store wisdom for someone who gives a shit. Oh, and by the way, let's not forget that _your_ kind and _my_ kind are the same kind—or at least we were until you and your goody-goodies became self-appointed hall monitors for the adolescent freak show you call humanity." Zelda turned and started to stomp away. Mother gently placed his hand on her shoulder to keep her from leaving. She paused for a brief moment and then turned back to him. Her demeanor changed to match her figure, and her outward hostility toward him evaporated. "Oh, you naughty naughty boy. I knew you'd come sniffing around again—eventually. You never could resist me." She moved closer and pressed her breasts against him. "How many millennia has it been? You won't believe the things I've learned."

"I want to call a truce on the healer," Mother stated, trying to seem uninterested in her advances. "This is more than we've ever seen before. The addition of new souls is a game-changer. It's in both of our best interests to maintain the status quo until we see how this is all going to play out."

"Oh, that is so damn sweet. After all of these years, you're finally concerned for your fallen brothers—for our best interest. With an offer like that, how can I refuse? Oh yeah. Go fuck yourself." Zelda broke Mothers grip and stomped off.

#  Chapter 12

From the cab that dropped Mags and Mason's grandmother in front of their trailers, they couldn't see Mason, who was curled into a shivering ball and squatting on the front porch of his grandmother's trailer. He was awake and calmer than before, but that really wasn't saying very much. On any other day, Mason would have been mortified that Mags had seen him half-naked and making a spectacle of himself, fleeing through the ER. Tonight, he just longed for the warmth and safety of home. No pockets meant no house keys.

Grandma strained her lungs to squeal when she noticed him on the porch. She pointed and looked to Mags for help as she powered her scooter up the ramp to her front door. Mags didn't complain, but she clearly yearned for this horror of a night to end. As Mags bent down to help Mason up, she stopped short and looked at her hands. She had seen what he'd done outside the hospital. Like testing a wire fence to see if it's electrified, she quickly tapped at his skinny bare arm with a single finger. No sparks. No fire. No miracles. She did it again, this time for just a little longer. Nothing. Mason looked down, shamed by her fear. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed his shoulder with her full hand and held her breath. Still nothing. With a sigh of relief, she scooped up his scrawny frame, pulled him to his feet, and guided him into his own home.

The tattered old couch felt familiar and good against his bare back, and the girls did their best to wrap him in a blanket. Mason didn't say anything, not because he couldn't speak but because he just didn't know what to say. In fact, they were all silent for a good long time, each trying to not make eye contact with any other, unsure as to what comes next in situations like this. Finally, Mags spoke up and said, "I should probably go."

"No!" Grandma and Mason both said at the same time, but for different reasons. The strength of their tones stopped Mags' exit, and she sank back into the couch without a word.

"Do you know what you did to that girl?" Mason's grandmother finally said in her familiar strained whisper. Mason looked at her but didn't speak. "They say that you healed her."

"Healed her?" Mason asked. He knew that something had happened when he touched the injured woman, but he had no idea what. "What do you mean _healed her_?"

"Like, she was fucking minutes away from buying the farm," Mags piped in, "then you plow through, cop a fucking feel, and she gets up without a fucking scratch." It was obvious that Mags was a little freaked out, but Mason didn't have the words to put her at ease.

"I didn't mean to," was all he could think to say, then more awkward silence filled the room. Mason looked down at his hands. They looked like the same hands that he always saw. The same hands that washed the dishes, and tied his shoes, and _helped him relax_ when he couldn't sleep. He couldn't imagine that his hands had actually healed anyone. It must have been a mistake, a coincidence. If there had been a miracle, it surely came from someone, or somewhere, else, and he had just happened to plow through at the exact wrong time. And yet, he also knew that something was still off inside of him.

He couldn't tell whether the buzzing that had sent him running from the hospital was less now or whether he was just getting used to it, but it was there. His senses had calmed, but he was still very aware of everyone and everything in the room. From the varying grains of dust on the coffee table to the individual fibers that made up the fabric of the couch, all of the little things seemed much more prominent. He could still see auras, though they were no longer blinding, but looking at his grandmother, he noticed something new. She was bathed in a rich blue light from head to toe, but what looked like a tiny, black thunder cloud sat just over her chest, swirling, eating any blue light behind it. Mason turned to Mags to see if she had the same. He was surprised and comforted to notice that she didn't emit any aura at all. When he looked upon her, she appeared just as perfect as she had through his bedroom window several hours earlier, even better without the film of dirt.

Not really thinking, which was the only way that Mason ever found any courage, he slowly stood up and shuffled over to the side of his grandmother's electric scooter. He passed his hand through the blue light that radiated from her head, and he felt his fingers being pulled downward toward the thunder cloud. His natural reaction was to fight the force, but there was nothing natural about any of this. He let his hand follow the pull. As his palm came to rest upon the skin of her ample breast, Mags' comment about _copping a feel_ came back to him; he tried to pull his hand away in shame, but it was too late. This had been a pretty lousy first date all around. Mason was sure that molesting his own grandmother in front of her would not leave Mags open to the possibility of a second.

Mason couldn't control what happened next. His hand stayed steady as his grandmother's chest heaved closer to it. For what seemed like a very long time, but was really only a few seconds, she was stuck to him like a junkyard to a magnetic crane. The electric motor that powered her scooter let out a metallic screech and then wisps of smoke rose from the plastic casing. Looking down at her, Mason could see the dark thunder cloud that hovered above his hand start to swirl and recede into it, as if his fingers were a grate covering a storm drain and the cloud was a pool of runoff. When the last puff of black cloud had vanished into his hand, or under his hand, or around his hand, the force holding them together released. His grandmother slumped back down into the scooter's plastic chair, and Mason took a step back, not sure what to think. He had no idea what had just happened, but Mason knew that he now felt better than he had all night. Relaxed. Calm. Relieved.

Mason looked toward Mags, who was now pressed against the living room wall, sitting high up on the back of the couch, with her legs propped against its arm. Her eyes were wide, and she was visibly scared. A newcomer would think that she'd just seen a mouse, not a full-blown miracle. He opened his mouth with the intent of saying something to calm her, but nothing came out. What could he possibly say? How could he possibly explain something that he didn't understand himself? _If you ever had a chance with her, which you probably didn't, that's all gone now_ , was all that he could think. He closed his gaping mouth and frowned.

The sound of his grandmother sucking in deep breaths was sadly familiar. Emphysema had left her with lungs but stolen their usefulness. But these breath-sounds were different—less _gasping for life_ and more _taking in that clean mountain air_. Mason turned to look just in time to see his grandmother removing the oxygen hose that had lain across her face every moment of every day for the last three years. "I can breathe again," she stammered, stunned and unsure. Yet another awkward silence filled the room. Then, like a geyser building pressure, she finally exploded, "I can breathe again!"

Mags slowly climbed down from her perch and watched as Mason's grandmother scooped him up into her arms and held him uncomfortably tight. She jumped and wept and laughed and kissed. Mason went stiff, not knowing how to react. As she backed carefully toward the door, Mason tried to motion to her to stay. His offer would have failed even if he had been able to free himself from his grandmother's celebration. Mags turned tail and bolted out of the house. Mason held back his tears as he watched the screen door bang to a close. Embracing his grandmother for the first time, he laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. Her aura was now completely gone.

* * *

Sean was still trailing blood in the dark water when he finally reached the step in the transom of the boat. Billie was there waiting for him, knowing more than Sean could possibly expect, and she helped him into the cockpit.

"What the fuck was that?" Sean lashed out. "No fucking animals, you said! Does this look like no fucking animals?" Sean pointed to the torn meat of his shoulder. The swim had kept it from clotting, and blood continued to run out of deep tears. "And since when do we hit babies? Jesus Christ, a fucking baby!"

Billie stayed quiet while Sean ranted, releasing some of the horror that he'd just created into the wind. She knew that Pops had been right. She'd made Sean the kind of man that couldn't do this sort of work, and then she'd forced him to do it anyway. He had the skills, but he didn't have the temperament. She'd put too much of herself into him. Suits weren't intended to feel and love; they simply had to be and do. It was her need for a companion, or at least the illusion of a companion, that had softened his heart—that had given him heart. Now, he—whatever he was—whatever he'd become—was the one who was suffering, lashing out at the her, lashing out at the night, for atrocities that shouldn't have weighed on something like him at all. No matter what he was, or started out as, she'd brought him pain, and that pain seemed more real than anything else.

"That's it for me," Sean ranted on. "I'm done. No more wet work. You can tell your bosses to kiss my ass because I quit." Billie remembered Pops' instruction to wrap things up, and now she knew that he was right. It would be best for all involved if Sean was gone. What was one less Suit anyway?

Billie looked at him one last long moment, remembering the time that they'd shared, though _shared_ wasn't really all that accurate considering that he was her Suit. She'd created him out of nothing, out of her own thoughts. A daydream brought to life, or at least something that mimicked life, but nothing more. Nothing real. Billie closed her eyes. _Someday, maybe we'll meet up again_ , she thought, still grasping at the illusion but not really thinking it was true. _At least he'll be at peace._

When she opened her eyes, Billie was shocked to her core. Like tripping on LSD and watching the walls melt around her, she looked at the boat and the water and couldn't believe that they were still there. Sean continued to rant and curse and bleed on the deck. Billie looked down at her arms and her breasts; she was still there too. _What the hell is going on?_ she wondered frantically. She tried to think it all away again, this time much more purposefully. Again, nothing changed. Nothing vanished. Nothing faded into the ether. The stars still shined, the water still lapped, and Sean, a Suit who didn't exist the day before, still glared at her with anger and resentment. It was obvious that she was no longer master of this reality, a reality that she'd created; someone or something else was ensuring its continuity.

And since she and Sean were the only ones around, it had to be for his benefit. As long as Sean was around, watching her, knowing that she was on board the same tiny boat, she shouldn't leave. There'd be no way to explain it. Not here, in the middle of the lake. Her leaving could break continuity if he was . . . _Was Sean the new soul that we felt earlier?_ Billie wondered, shuddering at the implications. She wished Pops were there. She wished someone would fill her in on what was going on. They'd felt the presence of a new Authentic, but that's all she knew, and even that was so wildly unbelievable, she wasn't sure she knew it. This was all unprecedented.

_I should be able to tell if Sean's the new Authentic,_ she thought, trying to reassure herself. _He still feels like a Suit; a little different maybe, but still a Suit. I think._ Allowing an Authentic to do the things that she'd forced on Sean would have been tragic. But, if he had a soul, it would be disastrous to lose continuity. The one unbreakable rule, the basis for the entire game, was continuity. One slip, and all of the cards could come crumbling down. Until she knew more, until she knew for sure, she couldn't risk trying to leave again. There were too many strange things going on this night for her to take any chances. Until she knew whether Sean was the new soul, she was trapped on this boat, on this lake, in this reality, as a simple human. It looked to be a long night.

Billie doubled over in pain, a pain like she'd never felt, and she let out a blood curdling scream. For the first time since he'd climbed back aboard, Sean stopped raging.

#  Chapter 13

The ER staff was dumbfounded. They ambled about, wide-eyed and freakishly quiet. No one knew what to say or how to act or even what to think—except for one. Annie Oliver, registered nurse, felt vindicated, inspired, energized, and alive. She'd been a woman of faith from the time that her daddy had demanded as much, and she had just witnessed her faith proven as scientific fact—as much as she could _witness_ it, having not actually been around when the miracle occurred.

It hadn't been easy all these years, being devoted to the Good Lord and working in an industry of science and technology, but soon they'd all be sorry. Sorry for the jokes and snubs. Sorry for rebuking her efforts to show them the proper way. Sorry for all of the snide comments about Bible Thumpers, Jesus Freaks, Holy Rollers, and her personal pet peeve, Stained Glass Asses. It was about to come back to bite the doubters in their regular old asses, and it was darn well about time. She knew that vengeance was the Lord's domain, but Annie beamed at the thought that she might get a front row seat to the show.

_I gave them the chance, through my inspired guidance and tutelage, but they chose to mock me instead_ , she thought. _We'll see who's casting stones now_ ; _and my stones will be real rocks. And they'll hurt_. She let out an audible, "Humph."

_It all makes sense_ , she thought as she ripped the contact information from Mason Fiske's medical chart and stuffed it into her purse. The Lord had returned, as she knew he would, and he'd chosen her—her ER, her nightshift, her watch. All of the trials that she'd endured, all of the burdens that she'd carried, they all made sense. Never marrying or having children ensured that she was unencumbered and free to play her role in the rapture—which she was sure would be significant. Losing her mother so young had made her independent, and their blatant poverty had made her resourceful. Even her father's drunken indiscretions with her and her little sister, though she still didn't like to think about it, had served her by testing her resolution and proving to God himself that she was worthy to stand at his side. She reveled in her understanding and walked tall and proud, purse in hand, away from her station and toward the doors.

"Annie, where are you going? What about your patients?" someone yelled after her, but her job was clear and it wasn't here. A man on a stretcher twitched and choked on his tongue as she passed, but she was steadfast in her duty to the Lord, and she marched by without a glance. For the first time in her career, Annie was no longer a woman of faith. She was finally a woman of science—the new science—the divine science.

"Good morning, Reverend," she said unapologetically into her cell phone before she even reached her car. "Yes, I know what time it is. I knew what time it was the last time I called you before sunrise, and I will know the same the next time too. Let me spare you the jibber-jabber and tell you that I don't care that you're still in bed. The fact that you've slept through the start of the rapture is between you and the Good Lord, though if I were you, I would be a little concerned. Nevertheless, the Lord has chosen me to spread the news of His return, and if it gives you any solace, I would be willing to put in a good word for you and yours—assuming that you get up right now and put on a pot of coffee. I am on my way. We have much to discuss." With a snap of her wrist, Annie flipped the phone closed and marched on to her car.

The Reverend Winston Churchill Hill hadn't said a word past, "Hello."

#  Chapter 14

"I thought I'd find you here," Pops said, taking a seat next to Mother on the huge rock jutting up out of the sea. Waves crashed on an empty beach behind them.

"I like it here this time of day. I still consider this one of my best creations." Mother nodded his head toward the rising sun. Neither man looked at the other; they simply stared off to the east.

"Safe to assume that you know about the new Authentic?" Pops asked, getting straight to business.

"Two," Mother replied.

"Two? I didn't feel a second. Are you sure?"

"Much less violent the second time," Mother started. "Much more controlled. The ripples were barely perceptible."

Pops was stunned. "How?" was all he finally mustered.

"Who," Mother replied.

"What?"

"The important question is _who,_ " Mother continued. "And the important answer is, _your daughter_."

"Billie? What's she got to do with a new soul, a new Authentic?"

"It seems that your darling daughter has been missing the old ways, and to that end, she has been playing dress-up with her dolls. The only trouble is that instead of giving them a closet full of pretty clothes, she's been giving her Suits hearts overflowing with all consuming love. She's making them more than just Suits." These were important words, but Mother's tone never changed. He could have just as easily been listing ingredients for cornbread.

"Wait. Suits? Plural?" Pops asked. "I only know about one, and I've already talked to her about him. She knows what to do with him."

"Yes I expected that you would have spoken to her, given your history with such matters." Pops cringed a little at the mention of his past. It had been over 2000 years, but the embarrassment was still fresh. "But there are two. Two troublesome Suits, as well as two new Authentics."

"Wait, we're talking about two rogue Suits and two new Authentics?" Pops asked to be clear.

"Her first troublesome Suit is a young man from Ohio, one Mason Fiske. I believe you're already familiar with the second. The Authentic that Mr. Fiske serves is a young lady who lives next door in one of those dreadful trailer homes. I can see where Billie was going with him; she gave Mr. Fiske a powerful and unconditional love for his Authentic, Miss Margaret Sinclair, presumably hoping that they would come together and that his love would heal the wounds of rejection inflicted by Miss Sinclair's ne'er do well mother." Mother turned to look Pops in the eyes. "Unfortunately, Billie has her own issues. She put a little too much of herself into him. As we've seen before, this can lead a Suit to become too—real. To use the essence of its Guardian to take control of its own reality. And as we've also seen, this occasionally manifests in the ability to heal other Suits." Mother wasn't telling Pops anything that he didn't already know. Rather, he was chastising Pops for allowing his daughter to make the same mistake that he had made two-thousand years before.

"Yes, I know," Pops snapped back. "We've dealt with miracles before—more than just the once. Suits are no different than dirt or dryer lint or a kitchen table, but if they can control their reality, they can control everything about it. What does that have to do with a new soul? I mean, two new souls."

"This time around, it seems that the game has also changed. Mason has healed two Suits so far, and in each instance, they've found themselves with a mended body and a shiny new soul to put in it. Two new Authentics for us to manage—so far." Pops rubbed his temple for lack of any better way to express his dismay. This wasn't just a minor change in the game; this was big.

"Does he have any effect on Authentics?" Pops asked.

"It appears that he does not," Mother said. "It seems to be the essence of the Guardian that created the Suit that Mason liberates and converts into a soul. Once they have a soul, his touch does nothing."

"We need to get on this before the Others have a chance," Pops said quickly. "The world is a complicated place. It's not like it was even a hundred years ago. We're spread thin. If the Others find a way to use Mason to add too many new Authentics, we won't be able to maintain continuity."

"I have spoken with Zelda and asked that both sides observe a temporary truce on Mr. Fiske, until such time as we understand the extent of the change."

"Do you really think that Zelda will honor that request?"

"Absolutely not," Mother answered, "but it may relieve some of the pressure of acting too quickly if she knows that we're taking a wait-and-see approach."

"But realistically, how long can we wait?" Pops asked.

"That's what we'll see." After all this time, Pops was used to these kinds of conversations with Mother, but he never learned to like them. Figuring that he'd gotten all there was to get, Pops stood up and prepared to leap away into another reality. "There's one more thing that you should know," Mother said.

"What's that?"

"Mr. Fiske's most recent miracle was performed on his grandmother, who was also Billie's creation. As such, she had a bit of Billie in her. When his grandmother was healed, that bit of Billie was ripped from her to make the new soul. I expect that it was quite painful. I expect that if it happens enough, it will be fatal."

"Fatal?" Pops repeated, worried about Billie. "But a Guardian has never died."

"Yes, Randall, and an Authentic has never been created by a Suit, except that it has—twice." Pops looked away for a moment to think and then he looked back. Mother was already gone.

#  Chapter 15

It was still early when the caravan of news crews swarmed the trailer park and congregated in front of Mason's home, but the red sky was already promising a muggy day. The only civilians currently among them were Miss Annie Oliver and Reverend Hill, but calls had been made and plans were in motion. By noon, this trailer park would teem with the Lord's most devout followers, all desperate to catch a glimpse of Annie and her messiah. By sunset she'd be famous, and the world would finally offer her the respect that she deserved; soon the world would know just how important she was—almost as important as she'd always believed.

"You'll all wait right here," Annie demanded, "and I, The Lord God's One and Only Holy Messenger, will present him." A couple of cameramen snorted and returned to setting up their shots. Her new title had been quite a point of negotiation with Reverend Hill. As Annie explained it, her calling had been objectively proved through a series of verifiable and documented occurrences. That, she claimed, easily trumped any calling that the Reverend had conveniently self-reported, and since his so-called "calling" resulted in the title of _Reverend,_ her calling was clearly worth a distinction several grades higher on the piety scale. It was only after she'd acquiesced that _Bishop_ , _Pope_ , and even _Saint_ had very specific and unattained prerequisites that they were able to settle on _The Lord God's One and Only Holy Messenger_ ; out of sheer exhaustion, Reverend Hill agreed that it could go either before or after her name, to be determined by the occasion.

"Nutjob," one of the crew mumbled, loud enough for Annie to hear, but she didn't mind. Not too much. Not today. Today, she was riding a wave of vindication. Annie looked the offending cameraman in the eye and committed his face to memory. She'd been committing faces to her righteous version of a shit-list for many years. Brushing imaginary wrinkles out of her stiff wool suit, Annie muscled through the crowd and steamed toward the trailer's front door. Reverend Hill tailed behind, not exactly pleased to be relegated to her shadow.

The porch creaked loudly when Annie and the Reverend stopped at the rickety aluminum screen door. Annie wasn't shy about pressing her nose to the screen and peeping into the house. Nor was she shy about expressing her frustration with a loud sigh when she saw Mason sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. _He certainly snores more than one would expect of the Messiah_ , she thought with disappointment. This had been a long night for all involved, but Mason seemed to be the only one taking it casually enough to grab a nap.

Annie rapped hard at the loose-fitting doorframe, and the clamor seemed to shake the home's foundation, though it didn't actually have one. Mason leapt wide-eyed off the couch, apparently more on edge than Annie had given him credit.

* * *

Mason's grandmother wasn't in the trailer at all. She was out back and had been for hours, running to, from, and around the fields and train tracks that bordered the trailer park. Each time she stopped to catch her breath, she rejoiced at how well her lungs were working, pumping fast and spiriting oxygen to her fatigued muscles. Then she'd sprint off again. Like a dog that had been penned up too long, she just had to run—to experience—to feel. Nothing in the world meant more right now, and the world never seemed so vibrant. Mason's touch had given her more than health; it gave her zest. She'd never had that before.

Now, she saw beauty everywhere. Each individual leaf on each overgrown bush was a tiny miracle that soaked up sun and turned it into life. Flies and bees danced about on important bug missions, and worms swum under foot through dense earth, grazing on its bounty. Even a noisy freight train, which usually made her cringe, was a symphony of sound, achievement, and inspired precision. She saw every nut, bolt and rivet. She sensed all of the lives that had somehow touched the mammoth metal beast from design to fruition. She closed her eyes and sucked in its oily scent as it sped by, crashing through the still morning and blowing her hair back. She was amazed to be alive and grateful to finally appreciate it. How could she have wasted so many years trudging through a succession of daily grinds when all around her miracles were exploding like fireworks? She had no idea the spectacle that was building on her front lawn.

* * *

Mason was hesitant as he approached the front door. The graying woman with impeccably stiff posture who peered through the screen didn't worry him, nor did the well dressed African-American gentleman with a tailored suit, shiny silk tie, and matching pocket square who towered just behind her. Neither had an aura about them, and that seemed familiar and safe. He was a little concerned about the swarm of reporters in the background. They each had an aura of a different shade, and they were all frantically preparing. For what, Mason wasn't sure, but from their pace, it must have been important. But it was the sight of Mags stepping out onto her front porch to investigate the commotion that really gave Mason pause. _How can I show her my love in the middle of all this?_ Mason thought as he stepped up to the screen, leaving the door closed to the strangers on the other side. Even in the midst of a media circus, he couldn't think of anything but her.

"I'm here," the stiff woman stated, as if Mason had been waiting impatiently on her. There was silence.

"Okay," Mason stammered.

Annie looked at him a long while. Mason could see disappointment growing on her face. She obviously wasn't trying to hide it. She'd clearly expected someone other than the scrawny young man who stood before her. Mason understood her disappointment. He felt the same every time he looked in a mirror.

"How can _he_ be the incarnation of the Lord God himself?" she snapped and turned to face Reverend Hill. "He's so—so—feable."

"What?" Mason asked, sure that he'd misheard her through groggy ears.

"What's wrong with him?" the Reverend asked, not waiting for a response. "He's just got to heal them. He doesn't have to dead-lift them."

"Oh no," Annie protested. "I think there must be a mistake. Are you Mason Fiske?" Annie demanded as she spun back toward him. There was a long pause before Mason mustered words to respond.

"Yeah, but what did you say about—" Mason was in mid-sentence when Annie spun back around to the Reverend.

"I don't think so," she said sternly. "This can't be right. He just doesn't have it in him. Clearly, none too bright." She shook her head. "And it seems he's none too ambitious, at least by the looks of this place."

"Hey!" Mason objected, but still no one paid him any attention.

"I just don't see why—I mean why would the Lord choose someone like—He's just too—There's not enough—Well, he's just not very godly," Annie finally blurted.

"Wait. What?" Mason said again, this time not really expecting anyone to hear him.

"It is going to be the meek that inherit the earth," Reverend Hill countered. "He looks pretty darn meek." Annie opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. She turned to Mason and did it again. She took a long pondering pause, and then her eyes brightened and she almost smiled as she turned her back on Mason again.

"Of course!" she shouted at the Reverend who was right in front of her. "Who better than the meekest of us all to inspire and show the way? Especially when the Lord has someone like me to guide him." Reverend Hill raised one eyebrow, but he didn't protest. Annie bowed her head for a short silent prayer and then she continued, "I am more than just a messenger—so much more than just a simple messenger. I've been chosen to guide the hand of the Lord—to provide counsel—to ensure his path—to captain this ship!" The Reverend shook his head, but Annie didn't notice.

"Hold on!" Mason demanded as Annie spun on her heel to face him again.

"Shall we begin?" she blurted, helping herself to the doorknob and throwing open the door. Mason was surprised, but he didn't react in time to escape Annie's grasp. She clamped onto his arm and pulled him forcibly out onto the porch.

"Hey!" he protested. The bright sunlight slammed at his already-sensitive eyes, and Mason squinted as the reporters charged the house. By the time his eyes had adjusted, Mason found himself standing before a mob of microphones, cameras, and people who were dressed far too formally for 9:00 a.m. at a trailer park.

"My fellow children of the one true God Almighty," Annie bellowed with confidence and pride, still clamped onto Mason's arm. "I am Annie Oliver, O-L-I-V-E-R, The Lord God's One and Only Holy Facilitator." Reverend Hill snapped his gaze toward her, startled by the impromptu promotion. "Mere hours ago, I was chosen by the Good Lord himself to humbly serve his return and spread the word that the Messiah walks among us." Annie's words beamed, but she wore the same sour puss that she always wore. "This very night, I personally witnessed a miraculous healing perpetrated by this young man. Laying hands upon her bloodied body, the Messiah ripped a young woman from the clutches of death and returned her to her loving family without so much as a scratch." She continued blathering about the incident, but based on the way she described it, Mason was fairly sure that she hadn't actually been there.

The crowd of journalists was quickly growing louder in its demands to hear from Mason when a dirty minivan pulled up in the crowded street. A dozen other cars followed and parked every which way around the scene. The side door to the minivan opened and a lift extended out the side. The driver came around the car and pulled a wheelchair with a young boy, twisted with advanced muscular dystrophy, from the settling lift.

"Though the Lord need not prove himself to any man," Annie continued as the driver wheeled his son toward the porch and a mob of his friends and relatives fell in behind, "we have prepared a demonstration in the hope that those of little faith will abandon their wicked ways and embrace the coming of our Lord." By now, Mags had made her way into the crowd of journalists, and she caught Mason's eye. Annie kept spouting while the crowd of reporters parted to allow the wheelchair front and center.

#  Chapter 16

Billie and Sean had traded off with a fifth of bourbon and a fifth of rum until both were mostly gone and Sean was face down, unconscious, in the cockpit. Not being human, Billie's corporeal form didn't suffer the same poisonous effects of alcohol, but she was delighted with what she did feel. "I never knew," she slurred to the morning sun that had been trailing them for several hours. The Michigan coast would find them soon, and she'd be able to put some distance between her and Sean. To maintain his continuity, she didn't have to stay in Sean's reality; he just couldn't know that she was gone. She chugged the last pint of rum from the bottom of the bottle and heaved it overboard. What would have killed most men had gotten her blissfully drunk, and she now barely felt the ripping pain that had swept through her earlier. She'd downplayed the incident to Sean, claiming female troubles, and he was so distraught by his own demons that he didn't question her even though her screams clearly indicated something more ominous than simple cramps. "Now I get why people drink," she said aloud to no one in particular. She was sincerely amazed.

Billie stood up in the cockpit and then plopped right back down. "Shew!" she exclaimed, pulling herself up a second time. She stumbled as she tried to step across the deck to where Sean lay, nearly falling flat, and then squinted back to see why she'd tripped. There was nothing there. "Quit rocking!" she slurred at the whole boat. The water was like glass, and there was barely a breeze. "Stupid rocky boat. Always rocking! Rockety-rock-rock-rock," she mocked, then laughed at the thoughts in her head. "If this boat's a rockin', don't come a knockin'," she said aloud and laughed again. Prying the last of the bourbon out of Sean's hand, she finished the bottle and tossed it overboard like the other.

Billie tried to kneel down in front of Sean's unconscious body, but she didn't have proper control for that, and she flopped over beside him. "I really love you," she slurred, grabbing his unconscious face with both hands and smashing his cheeks together. "I really do. And I know that you love me too, 'cause you have to. That's how I made you. I made you to love me. Plus, I made you. So you're part of me, and I love you, and you love me, so I love me, and I love me. Right? Wait. No. Yes. Is that right? I'm me, and you're me, and I'm me? Wait." She paused. "So when we get all freaky, I'm actually gettin' freaky with—"

"You got it, Nug," came Pops' familiar voice from the cabin below. Billie shrieked and scrambled to her feet, but her feet didn't find their place very well, and she nearly stumbled overboard.

"What the hell, Pops?" Billie screamed after stabilizing herself against the rail. Pops emerged from down below with a bag of potato chips and took a seat in the cockpit. Billie stumbled over and sat across from him. "Since when do you eat?"

"They're for you." He tossed the bag directly to her. Billie grabbed at the air long before the bag reached her. When it did arrive, she batted it clumsily to the deck. Cursing, she picked it up and fumbled to open it. The crinkling of the foil was deafening in contrast to the silence of the lake. "You've got a problem, Nug," Pops said. Billie kept tugging at the sealed bag, intense in her work. "Nug?" he said loudly over the rustling. "Nug!" he shouted to get her attention. The seal broke, the bag ripped open, and chips exploded all over her. She cursed again and then plopped back in her seat and began eating chips off of her chest.

"Mmmm. These are good," she said dreamily. "How'd you know?" Pops shook his head and smiled.

"I used to have a friend. We enjoyed a little wine now and again," Pops said, "but I need you to focus, Nug. You've got a real problem." Billie looked at him, squinting outrageously.

"See? I'm trying to focus!" Riotous laughter burst out of her mouth. It was only slightly muffled when she shoved a whole fistful of chips to her face. Pops sighed. He didn't have time for this.

Pops' physical body, the one that he'd created to interact with this reality, didn't move from its seat when his ethereal form broke free and glided toward Billie. His true shape was vaguely human, but that was only a holdover from the body that he'd just been in. It was impossible to see any details of his figure, if in fact there were any, through the glow of emerald light that radiated from him. It was rare that a Guardian would inhabit this reality without a corporeal disguise, but Pops felt reasonably safe, given their current location in the middle of Lake Huron. There was nothing but water in all directions. Reaching out to Billie, who had stopped laughing but continued to chew, Pops passed his hand into her body and grabbed her true form by the nape of the neck.

With a firm tug, Pops ripped Billie from her body, which stayed slumped in its seat with a glob of half-chewed chips bulging in her cheeks. There was always something of a transition when leaving the physical behind, but this time it was different. Like washing down a filthy windshield, the wonderful veil of rum and bourbon was wiped away, and her foggy mind snapped back to crystal clarity. Billie looked down at Sean, worried about his continuity, but he was still dead to the world. "Sorry," she said to Pops, shaking off the last of the cobwebs, but she really wasn't. The booze had numbed her to the troubles of the day—troubles that she'd created.

"Can we talk now?" Pops demanded.

"I think he's making his own reality," Billie blurted, thinking that it would be better if she said it first. Might as well own it than to feign surprise. "Or somebody else is. I couldn't end him; I tried. I really did. I couldn't end any of this. I'm not maintaining this reality. I think he might be the new Authentic that we felt, but I don't know. I don't know how it could have happened. I didn't know that it could happen. I didn't mean for it to happen. Pops, I don't know what to—"

"He's not the new Authentic," Pops said, cutting off her frantic rant. She paused, repeating the words in her head. She'd never felt such relief. It was short lived. "Authentics never make their own reality. Suits, on the other hand, occasionally do, when things go wrong—when its Guardian puts a little too much of herself into it," Pops said. All night Billie had been terrified that she'd screwed up in making Sean the way that she had—for her—and that he'd somehow used her indiscretion to acquire a soul and control his reality. But if that wasn't the case, then what was going on? After a moment, Pops asked, "Does the name Mason Fiske, ring any bells?"

Of course it did. Before Sean, Mason had been Billie's most entertaining project. She loved watching that story unfold. Him with an unyielding but unrequited love. Her with emotional wounds that only a good man could heal. It was high drama—a love story for the ages. But since Sean, she'd lost interest. She'd lost focus. Playing ball was always better than watching from the stands. But then again, it's hard to see the big picture when you're in the mix. Billie pulled away, embarrassed, when she realized that her hobby was no longer just her dirty little secret. Soon, everyone would know. They'd see her truth. She hadn't changed much from the love-dumb teenager she'd been when she ascended. Without the hardships of a mortal life, years just didn't translate to maturity. Maybe she couldn't help longing for the old ways, but she certainly didn't have to engage in them. Everyone would know, and they'd all pity her. They'd never trust her. What she'd done was too close to the self-serving ways of the Others. At best, her fellow Guardians' polite silence would mock her for eternity. She felt shame. She felt stupid. She felt alone.

"So Mason's the new Authentic?" Billie asked in a whisper.

"Not quite, Nug. And there's more than one new Authentic now."

Billie gasped. "More? How?"

"You gave him too much—too much of yourself. Mason started creating his own reality, just like your comatose buddy over there." Billie was both shocked and relieved to learn that Sean was the one maintaining their current reality. It was still a problem, but at least there wasn't another Guardian involved. The fewer who knew, the better chance she had of keeping her dignity. "He was supposed to heal that girl-Authentic emotionally, but instead, he started healing Suits physically. And when he heals them, he takes a little bit of the Guardian that created them and turns it into a soul. We don't know how or why. It looks like it's another game changer, handed down from above."

It was a lot for Billie to take in, and she didn't speak for a long time. Mason wasn't supposed to do anything of the sort. Guardians didn't control Suits in the strictest sense, but they created them in exacting ways so that they'd be inclined to use their free will to do certain things and act in certain ways. And a Guardian could always end her Suit if things went south—at least usually—so long as the Suit wasn't maintaining his own reality. Billie cursed herself for not paying more attention to Mason. Now, it seemed she was responsible for a game changer, as much as she could be. She remembered the agony that she'd felt earlier. "Is that what happened to me? Did Mason take part of me to make a soul? Is that what hurt so bad?"

"I'm afraid so, Nug. Mason healed his grandmother, who was another one of your Suits. The pain you felt was a little bit of you being ripped away." Billie turned away and looked back at the rippling trail of water behind the slow-moving boat. After a moment she turned back.

"What do I do, Daddy?"

#  Chapter 17

Everyone seems familiar in a small town, but Mags was surprised that she recognized the little crippled boy. She hadn't placed him by his father because it was always his mother who brought him into Plucky's Playland. Mags worked there part-time as a waitress. When she saw the boy's bright eyes and twisted arm, she knew exactly who he was. She didn't know his name, but she'd seen him at least a dozen times over the last year. He was always eyeing the big stuffed-giraffe teaser that no one ever won because it took too many tickets for anyone to accumulate in a reasonable number of visits. This was especially true for him. With his illness, he never scored more than a couple of tickets despite frantically thumping away at whack-a-moles and carefully lining up his ski ball shots. She remembered how she'd spent half of her tips every shift for a month cheating at ski ball when her manager wasn't looking, just so that she could collect enough tickets for that damn giraffe. "I think you dropped these, fella," she'd said, walking up behind him and then stooping over as if she were picking something up from the floor. She grabbed the wad of tickets she'd been hoarding from her apron pocket as she stood, placed them in his lap, and then helped him cup his hands over them so that the stiff pile wouldn't explode all over the floor. She remembered how he laughed and danced about in his chair, and she remembered how tightly he clung to that giraffe when his mother wheeled them out to the car. She also remembered how she'd wept like a little bitch out behind the dumpster during her cigarette break.

Mags went to great lengths to show the world that it had nothing on her. The world had been clear that it didn't need her, or even want her, so she did her best to return the sentiment. Over the years, she'd made quite a reputation for herself, and even her name was a constant reminder of her lot in life. _Margaret Sinclair_ had been neatly shortened by a ninth-grade wordsmith to the ever-appropriate and catchy _Maggie Sin_. Sadly, even this proved too many syllables for the mostly-dim crowd with whom she mingled, and it ultimately devolved into just _Mags_. But losing the label didn't reign in her sinful behavior. "Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll!" she'd screamed through a fog of booze and pills on more nights than she could remember, with her tits out and her arms punching at the sky. Though she never thought it in so many words, nothing quieted feelings of worthlessness better than the interest of men. _If he gives me his attention, it's because I'm worth it._ But the attention was always short lived, usually not more than a night. Often they'd return for another taste in a day or two, sometimes longer, but she'd yet to find a man who could stomach her company much beyond putting his penis back in his pants.

Mason stood frozen for a little too long after the boy finally made it to the steps of the porch, and the gray-haired sour puss who had been spouting to the crowd nudged him hard in the ribs. Mags couldn't hear her, but she read her lips demand, "Don't just stand there. Heal him." Mason looked down at Mags, and she looked back at him, pleading with her eyes. She generally didn't care about much of anything, but she cared about this.

* * *

Mason took a deep breath. _So much in so little_. He couldn't believe that he was handling it all as well as he was, and he wanted to flee, but he could see from Mags' expression that she wanted this. He refused to let her down. The boy's aura was a violent swirl of brilliant orange light and dark gray thunder clouds, mixing and churning all across his twisted body.

"Is it true? Can you help him?" the father asked, desperate for a miracle but fully expecting a scam.

The truth was that Mason didn't know. He'd done it before, twice, but that didn't mean much when it came to performing miracles. There was no manual for this, and his only possible mentor had been murdered two-thousand years ago. This was the first time that Mason thought about the gravity of what he had done over the last eight hours. Dreams of a steady job at the auto plant now seemed unlikely; he just couldn't see this ending well for him. Sure the whole worship thing was nice, but images of the crucifixion had always made Mason cringe. He had no delusions of being an actual messiah, no matter what Miss Annie Oliver seemed to think, but there were a lot of people here, and they were all expecting—demanding—a good show. Had it not been for Mags muscling up beside him, Mason might have panicked, but she'd seen enough of that from him. _How could she ever love such a coward_?

"Try," was all Mags said, as softly as she could over the chatter. Mason sat down on the bottom step in front of the chair, looked into young eyes, and gently grabbed one spindly leg in each hand. Just as before, the boy's legs slammed onto Mason's hands, and the darkness that clouded his orange aura began draining between Mason's fingers. The crowd and the cameras and microphones melted away, and Mason felt calm—calmer than before—calmer than ever before. Mason looked up, and all eyes were on the boy in the chair, all except for Mags. Mags was staring back at him, and there were tears streaming unashamedly down her cheeks.

"Is this for fucking real?" a well-dressed blonde with heavy makeup blurted into a live microphone, as she watched the boy's bent body straighten before her eyes.

"I don't know," said her gruff cameraman, "but it's great TV." The reporters all jostled one another, desperate to find a better angle. By the time that Mason released the boy's legs, there was no more gray in his brilliant orange aura. Then, like a candle snuffed out by sleepy breath, his aura flickered and disappeared.

If he hadn't been so astonished himself, Mason would have found it spooky that the entire crowd didn't move or speak, or even breathe, as the boy stood up straight from his chair. But then they did. When the first reporter broke the eerie silence, it was like a starting pistol had been fired, and the mob swarmed him. Everyone was desperate for a piece of a miracle. Half of the voices in the mob were praising Jesus. The others were a mixture of requests.

"Heal my foot?"

"Sign my Bible?"

"Take a picture with me?"

"We need to set up an interview."

"Can I have a lock of your hair?" It didn't take long to see that things were spiraling out of control.

In all of the commotion, no one saw a black stretch limousine pull through the chaos and stop, waiting, pointed away from the mess. It was right on schedule. "We have a car for you," Reverend Hill shouted in Mason's ear as the crowd drew tighter around them. Mason was afraid. Everyone wanted a part of him, and there just wasn't that much to go around. He wanted to run, regardless of how it would look, but there was nowhere to go. Hands pawed and prodded at him; they ripped at his clothes. The only thing keeping him sane was the calm that came with each new touch. Tiny black clouds funneled into him from all directions, with every touch. All around him, auras were snuffed out after being drained of darkness. In another realm, dozens of Guardians shrieked in agony.

Then, in a single moment, all of Mason's fear, excitement, and peace disappeared; rage consumed him. Mason saw the mob knock Mags to the sidewalk, and no one seemed to care. They jostled her with their shins, pushing and climbing, but no one stopped to offer her a hand.

"No!" Mason screamed, and his voice was heard for miles. Not through ears, but directly in minds. With a wave of his arm, the crowd parted as if being pushed back by invisible walls, leaving only Maggie Sin in a cleared path between him and the long car. Despite the season, golf-ball-sized hail screamed from the sky, battering the crowd and shattering expensive cameras; everyone ducked or tried to find cover. Ice slammed into the sidewalk all around Mags, but not so much as a chip touched her anywhere. Mason went to her, effortlessly scooping her off of the ground, and carried her to the limousine. The door sprung open as they neared, though no one was around or within, and in no time they were leaving the trailer park and the mob far behind.

With her cuddled in his arms, Mason looked into Maggie's eyes. They were puffy from her tears, but he didn't mind. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He touched at the scrapes on her bare knees, hoping to take any pain away, but nothing happened. No thunderclouds. No aura. Nothing. He would have found it curious had Maggie not put a hand to his cheek and consumed him with a kiss, a deep long passionate kiss. A hero's reward. The touch of her lips was everything that he'd ever hoped for—everything that he lived for. Most dreams disappoint in the achievement; this was even better. This was everything.

Maggie pulled herself up on the leather bench seat and straddled Mason. She was no stranger to sweaty encounters in the backseats of cars, but this was her first time in a limo—her first time with a good man—her first time with a god.

#  Chapter 18

It was amazing how so many lives could change so much in just over a month. Reverend Hill gazed out the window of his new office at the rusty frame of a silent roller coaster and then beyond to the long lines cued up at the very busy food vendors. It was clear within days of Mason's first public healing that Reverend Hill's quaint church would be wholly inadequate for the throngs to come. Faith and salvation were fine, but ample plumbing was important. It took just a single visit to a foul, rented bank of quickly-filling porta-potties for Annie to get on board with Winston's plan to upgrade. Conveniently, a Wikipedia entry listing defunct amusement parks revealed a nearby solution with a sufficient infrastructure.

The recently closed and aptly named Paradise Rivers Water and Amusement Park had most of what they needed, from a campground and cabins to house visitors, to a waste management facility that could speedily incinerate the trash of the throngs, and everything in between. For what it didn't have, there was 110 acres of adjoining undeveloped land. Expansion had started immediately. _When money's not a problem, neither is anything else_ , he thought, soaking in the ambiance of his newly refurbished and richly decorated office. It was five times the size of his old office, and professionally decorated with only the finest pieces from around the world, but it was pitiful compared to his space in the new chapel that was currently under 24-hour construction. _That will be a sight to behold. And nobody deserves it more than me_.

Mason had voiced no opinions about abandoning the little church for classier digs. In fact, Mason had nearly no opinion on just about everything—everything except Mags; when it came to Mags, he'd fight to the death that she was the sun and the moon and everything else that was good. He was sure of it because to him, she was all of those things and more. As long as Mags was around, Mason's attentions were occupied, and on the rare occasions when they weren't together, he was lost in daydreams about her. Around or not, Mason was nearly useless for anything but the actual laying-on of hands. Annie was none too pleased because she was forced to pick up most of the slack and keep this train of salvation on its tracks, but Winston rather enjoyed the freedom that came with an absentee cash-cow messiah.

To those not in the know, Mason seemed conspicuously unconcerned with his recent promotion from trailer-park-teen to Holy Messiah. He also didn't show much enthusiasm for his newfound ability to heal, but oddly, no one in the inner circle seemed to care much about that either. Mason's grandmother had tried, early on, to be the voice of compassion, but that had ended very poorly. She couldn't understand Mason's infatuation with the sleazy girl next door, at least not to the extent that God's mission for him was relegated to an inconvenient necessity, and she'd told him so publicly and very bluntly.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that again!" Mason exploded at his grandmother for the first time in his life. She pleaded with him to think about what he was doing, to think about the big picture, but Mason wouldn't listen. Instead, he threw her away like an old couch. She'd been a comfortable place to pass some time, but she was useless now; something so much better had come into his life. It had been weeks since Mason had banished his grandmother, and he hadn't mentioned her since. No one else dared mention her either. Though they wouldn't dare question the Savior, no one understood how he could do that to her—to the woman who raised him. But Winston understood.

He understood what Mason was. _All that talent, wasted on a Meat Suit_ , Winston kept thinking. _Nothin' more than biology and programming. Damn, the things I could do with his gift._ It was obvious to Winston that Mason was programmed to want Mags, but what surprised him was that Mason didn't seem to be programmed to want or care about anything else. Mags was it. To him, there was nothing else. It wasn't often that a Guardian built a Suit so boldly singular in its needs; it was really quite inelegant. _Jesus help us if he ever loses that girl_ , Winston thought, chuckling at the irony of his words. _All that energy, just for her, only for her. If that bitch ever gets hit by a bus, he'll go straight off the rails._ Winston smiled at the thought. _That might be a good show._

There was a knock at the door, but Betty didn't wait for an answer before barging in. Puffing on a Cuban cigar, Reverend Hill looked her up and down as she walked the distance to his desk. She felt his eyes lingering on her excessive curves. It was quite obvious. Luckily, she liked it.

"Your tailor is here, the contractor wants you to call him about the marble for the Great Healing Hall, and your Mercedes is back from the dealer with the new rims that you ordered." Reverend Hill was all smiles, but Betty's tone changed to disdain, "And there's some heifer here that claims she knows you. It mooed its name. Zoe, or Zelda, or something."

"Zelda?" he asked excitedly, snapping up straight in his chair. "Stunning redhead? Tall?"

" _Stunning_ my big round black ass," Betty mumbled, but Winston didn't notice. He was too busy straightening his jacket and brushing lint off of his lapels. "I'll get rid of her," Betty snapped.

"No! No," Reverend Hill blurted. "Send her right in." He straightened his tie. Betty raised her eyebrows and looked him over carefully.

"You want I should take care of my baby first?" Betty asked as sweet as she could while still being a little naughty. "You know how I do."

"No! Shit no. Not now. Just send her in. Now!" Betty turned and stomped her platform heels out of the office. He was going to pay for that later, but this was no time for such concerns.

"Zelda! How long's it been?" the Reverend exclaimed when she finally walked through the door, looking even more striking than he recalled.

"Sit down, Winston. This isn't a family reunion," Zelda quipped. Betty closed the door behind Zelda, begrudgingly giving them privacy.

"I was wondering when I'd see you. Looking forward to it, actually," Winston said nervously but trying his best to hide it. Zelda wasn't his boss in fact; he wasn't obligated to her as a servant. Her position was de facto. There was no misunderstanding that if he crossed her in the slightest, or even just neglected her concerns, she would ass-rape his world slow, deep, and dry. All of the Others knew it, and they'd all accepted it. Of all the Others, Zelda was hands-down the alpha.

"How did we get here, Winston? I put you in this podunk town, never expecting you to rise past middle management at the local feedlot, and here you are—front and center for the biggest show on earth. Hell, you're the fucking ring master. How in the fuck does all this happen without a phone call—without so much as a text? Not even an 'OMG! Call me.'"

"You're right," Winston said without even thinking. "I should have reached out to you as soon as I saw him heal the first boy and knew that it was real. You're absolutely right. I fucked up. I just got so caught up in things. All of the attention, and money, and women. My god, Zelda, the women." Winston paused, wondering if he should recount some of the debauchery that had taken place over the last few weeks. Deciding against it, he snapped back from his memories, "Bottom line is that I fucked up. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"You never did have a spine, did you, Winston?" Zelda didn't wait for an answer. "That's okay, I like that in a lackey. You can start by telling me what's kept you so busy this past month, and I don't mean dipping your wick."

"Oh, we've set up quite a system."

"What do you mean by _we_?" Zelda interrupted.

"Well, Miss Annie," Winston said, surprised. "You know Miss Annie, right? Isn't she one of yours? One of ours? An Other?" Zelda stared at him without blinking. "Well she's not a Suit. I know that much. I was sure that she was an Other. Are you telling me that Annie Oliver is an Authentic?"

"Continue," Zelda said, bringing Winston back from his tangent.

"Right. Right. Well, as I'm sure you've seen, the media coverage has been phenomenal. Worldwide, all day every day. You'd be lucky to find a pygmy on vacation with the Eskimos that hasn't heard about us. And they're all showing up. Every day, more people show up. And we're taking a cut of everything. We've got the food, the hotels, the gas stations . . . Hell, the guy that cleans the sewer tanks at the R.V. park is kicking something back to me, I mean us, every week. But that's just the appetizer. The meat and potatoes is the donations. I give three services a day; Mason does two mass healings for the regular people and at least three personal V.I.P. healings for our special clients. Everybody pays—for everything—and it's all tax free. And the V.I.P.s, they pay a snoot full." Zelda sat back in her chair, almost impressed by how much Winston had done with his obvious dearth of talent. It was unfortunate that he was so oblivious to the bigger picture. Winston continued, "You know that billionaire with the computer company who had liver cancer? We healed him last week. Pre-negotiated a donation of $80 million." Winston beamed with pride and waited for a response. "Eighty million. For ten minutes!"

"You idiot," was not the response he'd expected. "He's a terminal billionaire. What were his options? Why didn't you get everything he had?" The finer points of negotiation had always eluded Winston, but numbers he understood.

"We'll have billions by the end of the year," Winston said, less confident that Zelda would be impressed, and she wasn't. "Do you want to meet the kid?" he finally asked.

"Soon," Zelda said after pondering for a moment, "but not yet. There are preparations to be made." Winston didn't know exactly what to expect, but he expected it to be messy. Zelda's plans usually were. He forced an awkward smile and nodded across the desk, not saying a word for fear that it would be wrong. "Now tell me about Annie Oliver."

#  Chapter 19

Mags didn't mind being Mason's afternoon delight, but the fact that he raced back to their on-site apartment between each appointment and clung to her like a baby chimp was a bit much. _Why do we have to live here too?_ she wondered, as if a house in the suburbs was really a viable option. She tried to roll away from his naked body, just a little, to loosen the grip that he had around her, but he just followed with her and glommed on even tighter. She'd never had any trouble getting some space after sex; her partners always saw to it, usually with a slap on the ass and a proud grin, as if she had really been that trying of a conquest. Back then, a whole month ago, she'd relished the thought of a man who would cuddle her after sex, but now she was sorry for ever thinking it. "I've got to pee," she blurted, using the first excuse that came to mind, and she slithered off the edge of the bed and out from under him. Finally free, she took in a deep gasping breath and scurried for the bathroom.

"I love you Maggie Sinclair," Mason managed to say before her naked butt darted behind a slamming door. He smiled dreamily and continued to profess his feelings for her, even louder, from the bed. Maggie turned the water on at the sink to drown him out.

_I get it_ , Maggie thought as she squatted down on the toilet and put her head in her hands. _You love me. You love me more than life itself. More than any man has ever loved any woman. I freakin' get it._ She knew that she should be thrilled, and for a short time, she had been. Now, the way that he repeatedly professed his love just disgusted her. It made her skin crawl. _Give it a rest, Romeo. It's a little much. Too much for someone like me._

Taking all of the time that she thought she could get away with, Maggie finally opened the door and peered back at the bed. She hoped that he'd be asleep, or gone to his next appointment, but she had no such luck. Mason lay right where she'd left him, alert, staring at the bathroom door and waiting for her return. She let out a sigh and slowly climbed back into the bed. He was on her before she even found her spot, holding her, covering her, smothering her, loving her.

"I missed you," Mason said, and Maggie cringed. "I always miss you when we're apart. Nothing's ever right when you're not with me."

"That's," Maggie took a short pause, searching for the right word, then continued unenthused, "great." There were definite perks to being God's girlfriend, but right now, she couldn't think of any. Even the thought of living with her alcoholic mother in their ratty trailer seemed preferable.

"We should never be apart, not even for one day. Not even for one minute." Maggie tensed at the thought, knowing that she couldn't endure his drowning love forever but not knowing what she could do.

_How do you dump the Messiah?_ she thought. _As if I wasn't already going to Hell, that would sure seal the deal._ Though not explicitly forbidden, she figured that "thou shalt not break a messiah's heart" was so obvious that it didn't warrant chiseling onto a tablet.

"We should get married!" Mason said excitedly.

Mags broke free from Mason's embrace and scrambled out of the bed like a rabbit fleeing a fox. She turned on him, and looked at him with her mouth agape. Mason was all smile; he had no idea that she wasn't feeling exactly the same way.

"Oh, fuck no!" she blurted.

Maggie regretted her voice as soon as it fell out of her face, but by then, it was too late. Her words floated in the air for a second and then washed across Mason, obviously leaving him hurt and perplexed. Her rejection stabbed at him, and he scrambled to his feet. He was gasping and on the verge of hyperventilating. With three little words, she could feel that everything had changed. How could they come back from, _Oh, fuck no_? No matter what happened next, those words couldn't be forgotten. Maggie started toward him, and Mason doubled over next to her, vomiting on the rug. She touched his bare back, and she felt him tense. Every bit of glass in the room shattered, sending shards into the air. Maggie was afraid, and she suddenly became very aware that she was still naked.

Maggie managed to slip on a pair of cutoff jeans and flip-flops, protecting her feet from the scattered glass, but she was still bare breasted when Mason stood back up. His eyes reminded her of the day that she'd been knocked down by the crowd of reporters and nearly trampled in front of their trailers, but this time, his rage was for her. She'd taken more than her share of smacks from her mother through the years, but this was the first time that she'd ever been truly afraid of another human being. Scooping up a t-shirt but not taking the time to put it on, Maggie ran out of the apartment and into the busy hall, leaving the door open and Mason exposed.

"Oh my, you nasty girl," Betty said playfully when Mags plowed into her in the hall, but Mags didn't stop. Betty only paused for a moment before darting through the open door into Mason's apartment, clipboard in hand.

* * *

"Not now!" Mason demanded as Betty entered the room and looked around. She was no stranger to the games that men play, but the broken glass and soiled rug even made her stop and wonder. Taking long notice of Mason's naked form, she stomped through the broken glass, looking for his clothes.

_I figured he'd be more impressive_ , she thought as she gather up his clothes and pushed them into his arms. "Now you got to get ready, 'cause we got a V.I.P. client waitin'," she said oblivious to the fact that her Messiah's will to live had just vanished, topless, down the hall. "Come on now," she continued when Mason didn't react. She was quite informal, considering she was addressing her savior. "Scoot!" Betty softly slapped him on the behind, and Mason snapped back to some form of presence.

#  Chapter 20

"What's the trouble, Sugarbritches?" Reverend Hill said when he came upon Maggie, crouched in an empty hall, sobbing into her hands. She'd managed to get her shirt on, but she was none too put together. Reverend Hill helped her to her feet and put an arm around her. Mags didn't let even one more tear slide down her face, embarrassed by her vulnerability.

"Nothing," she said, sniffing.

"Ah, come on now. It can't be that bad," he said squeezing her shoulder. "We're in the end times, child, and if anyone is right with the savior, it's you." Maggie didn't want to tell him just how _wrong_ she was with the savior, so she didn't make a sound. "When this is all over, you'll be the queen of heaven—ruling over paradise. Certainly can't be nothin' that's better than that." Reverend Hill took a pause to let his insincere words sink in; they only made her feel worse. He started again, more understandingly, "But our trials are hard, my child. The Good Lord, he does like to test us." Reverend Hill made a point of looking in every direction, making sure that no one else was around. When he was sure that they were the only two in earshot, he pulled a small plastic bag from his suit coat pocket, pressed it into Mags' still trembling hand, and whispered, "One of these always helps me relax and gain a little perspective."

Maggie looked down and the baggie and quickly identified its contents as the pills she'd always considered her favorites. Two of those and a six pack of beer never failed to set her right. "You take these?" she asked, surprised.

"Just one. Just when I need to relax. Sometimes the Good Lord's busy, and we need to rely on ourselves to get us through a rough patch." He gave her a smile and one last pat on the back, then Reverend Hill walked off down the hall. "Just one," he said loudly without turning around to face her. Mags peered down at the bag. There were more than a dozen in it.

Though certainly not the norm, Maggie hadn't had a drop of alcohol or a single pill since that first night at the ER when Mason had surprised them all. Right now, for the life of her, she didn't know why. The pain and the fear of the mess she'd made were nearly unbearable, and even if she'd wanted to, she couldn't have stopped herself. Mags scrounged two pills out of the bag and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them dry.

_They sure do go down easier with a six pack_ , she thought. Two pills was her normal dose, on a normal crappy day, and that was followed by six beers. But this was no normal crappy day. This was the crappiest of days. She wondered if they'd write a bible story about her and the way that she'd forsaken the savior who wanted nothing more than to love her. _There's no way I come off looking good in that story._ She pulled two more pills from the bag and choked them down. Mags settled back down to the floor where she'd been and waited.

#  Chapter 21

It had been many years since Annie's sister, May, had taken her own young life with a straight razor and a bathtub full of hot water, but Annie remembered it clearly. She could rerun the scene of discovering the body, floating in a pool of crimson, as if it were a movie on a loop in her head. _S'pose that's one less mouth to worry about_ , was all her father had said after they buried her behind the barn in a rocky field that couldn't be easily planted; Annie was never sure exactly what he meant, and she did her best to not give it too much consideration. Things were different in those days, especially in a small town. A couple of signatures from the local constable, and it was as if May had never been.

Annie thought about her sister often, even all these years later, and sometimes not by choice. On a good day, the sound of a tin lid unscrewing from a jar brought back warm summer nights when they'd catch fireflies in mason jars and watch their little tails light up on the nightstand by their bed before drifting off to sleep. On bad days, the smell of red meat frying raised memories of the stench from the tub where May had passed, after a day of sweltering July. Her father had ordered her to scrub it clean and then he stormed off to pass another night at the local tavern. Not wanting to incur his sure-to-be-drunken wrath when he got home, she scrubbed the tub clean and dutifully watched the last trace of her sister spiral down a rusty drain in a pink mix of cleanser and bleach. She hadn't eaten red meat since. As she recalled, there was still a wrath incurred when her father finally stumbled home after being battered and ejected from the bar, but it wasn't about the tub, and it didn't leave her with any bruises—at least none that anyone else would see.

Annie often heard people paraphrase Nietzsche, claiming that what didn't kill them made them stronger, but she also knew what often went unsaid—sometimes it actually kills you. She and May had both endured the shame and hurt of their father's unfatherly sins, but May was a fragile child, always questioning, always doubting. She was unable to use the trials as Annie had to strengthen her resolve in the Lord, and because of that, May had succumbed to Satan's temptation of an easier path. As much as she loved and missed May, Annie knew that she would never see her again. May had to bear the burden of her actions, writhing in eternal hellfire, and Annie had to bear the burden of knowing it. _Maybe, just maybe, if I'm the most devout of all, the Good Lord will take pity and deliver my sister from torment_.

Annie hadn't left the compound in three days, and she hadn't had even four straight hours of uninterrupted sleep in over a week. She was tired, and she was tired of being there, in her dingy office under flickering florescent lights. The crews had done a fine job of refurbishing her space in the little time that they had, but all of the Persian rugs in the Holy Land couldn't turn an office building into a cozy home. And Annie took it worse than most. Having lived with only herself for over four decades, she'd become used to a certain way. When away from work, she was the sole master of her time, and she delighted in the comfort of her routines. Routines were hard to come by these days.

But of everything, the most trying aspect of this new life, the life with which the Lord had saddled her, had to be the loss of dignity associated with using the common restrooms to accomplish her daily business. It seemed that there was never a time when the sounds and smells—dear Lord the smells—emanating from that filthy room didn't force her to wonder whether she might be able to hold it for another day. Alas, her new diet of rushed dinners and standing lunches always killed those thoughts.

Finding a stall as far away from visible ankles as the facilities allowed, Annie claimed a spot near the back of the room, carefully covering the seat with artfully folded strips of paper to protect her bum from whatever vile plagues might lurk. As she sat there waiting for her biology to trump her modesty, she looked down at the floor between her sensible leather shoes. When she looked back up, Annie Oliver got the shock of her life.

Standing before her in the stall, facing her and grinning ear to ear, was none other than May Oliver, Annie's twelve-year-old sister, looking just like she remembered with naturally rosy cheeks and long pink ribbons falling on her shoulders from sloppy pigtails. Annie let out a startled chirp and her feet scuffled on the slick tile floor, but when May put her index finger to her puckered lips, Annie did her best to comply. Annie was only marginally successful, as any floundering in a tiny stall causes quite a ruckus. With her eyes wider than they'd ever been, Annie stood, then sat, then stood again. Only when she realized her exposed state did she sit back down and cover her lap with her arms. The exposed ankles in the nearby stalls counted themselves lucky to not be having the same trouble that they imagined down the row.

"We need to talk," May whispered, giving Annie a playful smile. Annie hadn't heard that voice in so long that she didn't even recall how much she missed it; she'd forgotten how in sang in her ears. Annie muffled a groan, and tears poured from her eyes as memories of May flooded back. Then, as suddenly as she'd appeared, May was gone and Annie sat alone in the smelly bathroom stall. The sense of loss was unbearable all over again. Oblivious to her surroundings, Annie held her face and wept boldly. The other exposed ankles hurried about their business and gave each other worried looks before rinsing their hands and fleeing the scene.

#  Chapter 22

The miracle of a double dose of modern pharmacology numbed Mags' raw nerves beyond anything she'd ever dreamed. Even the thought of being smothered by her clingy messiah boyfriend didn't seem so bad through her happy fog. With the feeling that she could put things back to how they'd been just an hour before, and with the idea that this was a good thing, Mags stumbled down the empty hall, sliding along bare walls and bouncing off door frames, searching for Mason.

Mason was just leaving a V.I.P. healing room when Mags flopped around the corner and into sight. In her haze, she almost walked right past him, nearly forgetting her mission, but Mason's longing gaze jarred her thoughts. In Mags' experience, words were never the best way to sooth a man's fragile ego, so she pounced on Mason, slamming his back against the wall, and forced her mouth up to his. He was distant at first and unwilling to reciprocate, but as her full lips danced across him, grinding softly, he lost his will to abstain. He fell into her. Unsteady on her heavy feet, she stumbled back, grabbing at Mason for support.

"You gotta marry me," Mags slurred as Mason steadied her. "You asked. Now you gotta marry me." She pressed her finger up to Mason's mouth to keep him from ruining the moment, and then she slid down his front and onto her knees.

* * *

Mason had healed everyone in the V.I.P. room who had an aura, whether they needed it or not, just for the satisfaction that followed. After Mags' rejection, he needed it more than ever. He'd finally realized his dream to have Mags, and with three little words, that dream nearly slipped away. He didn't know if he could live without her again. Why would he want to? It was one thing to long for a fantasy he'd never known. At least there was hope in the longing. It was entirely another to lose what he'd already had. If she left, there'd be no happily-ever-after for Mason. If he allowed her to leave, he'd lose everything.

Reverend Hill would have been furious if he knew about the extra healings, but Mason's concern for the good Reverend's happiness and the church's wellbeing was fading rapidly. "We've got to keep the coffers full," Reverend Hill had told him when Mason once ventured into the park's campground for some impromptu—and improperly monetized—healing. "We can't all serve the Lord with a simple touch of the hand," he'd said condescendingly. Mason almost felt guilty that his power wasn't more taxing. "The mighty meek have to use the financial tools that the Father has sent us if we're going to smite the wretched and inherit the earth." But from the way things had been going, Mason wasn't sure that Reverend Hill wanted to inherit the earth so much as buy it on credit like most everything else.

As much as he yearned for her and was thoroughly enjoying her apology, Mason was still furious with Mags for her bold and indelicate rejection. He couldn't entirely forgive, and he'd never forget, but he also couldn't ignore that he needed her. Though it made him feel weak, he couldn't help but be grateful for as much or as little as she was willing to give. He wanted to hate her, but he had no room for that. He couldn't hate her even for a moment. She'd hurt him, and he was angry, but at his core he knew that she was right and that she was too good for him. How could he blame her for thinking that she could do better? She could do better. All day long, she could do better than the likes of Mason Fiske.

Mason had seen the emptiness in Mags' eyes before she had slipped to her knees, but that groggy look wasn't unfamiliar. It was just part of the Mags that Mason had always known. Obviously, the drugs had done wonderful things for her disposition today. Mason loved her enough that he wanted the best for her, but he also loved her so much that he needed her to be with him. If drugs were what it took to keep her compliant—to keep them in love—Mason could live with that.

As she serviced her messiah right there in the hall, Mags seemed blind to the parishioners that bustled by. Mason was aware; he just didn't care.

_You dare judge your savior?_ he thought when anyone passed by, uncomfortably averting their eyes and hugging the opposite wall. He could have found privacy behind many of the nearby office doors, but he chose to remain. He liked showing off his trophy. For the first time in his life, he felt powerful. He felt like a man. She'd come to him—submitted to him—and he wanted everyone to know it. No woman had ever found him anything but repellant. Now, the most perfect woman in the world was demanding that he marry her. And he would.

#  Chapter 23

The view out the windows of the marina's restaurant was a dazzling scene of sand, sea, and sail, but Sean could not have cared less. He had his back to the glass and his belly to the bar, just as he had every afternoon since finding himself tied up to the little port town's municipal dock. Billie was nowhere to be found, but the dock lines had been fastened with her signature double loop, so he could only assume that she'd brought them to port and then blew. That was typical for Billie. She had a habit of showing up out of nowhere, acting as if she never wanted to leave him—like he was her everything—and then disappearing again for weeks, or even months, at a time. He would have left her skinny ass long ago, but he just didn't have it in him. Without the hope of seeing her again, his life seemed without purpose. As much as he hated to admit it, she meant more to him than everything else combined.

Feeling pathetic and needy, not at all like a heartless killer, Sean slapped his American Express Black card on the bar and ordered his usual from a very attentive bartender. His profession had serious financial perks, and Sean wasn't above buying preferential service. The entire wait staff had learned that tidbit over the past few weeks.

"In other news," said a reporter on the television behind the bar, "still no suspects in the brutal slaying of a vacationing family in the sleepy Ontario town of Grand Bend. Police have revealed that the murders appear to have been premeditated, but no motive has yet been established."

"Can you change that?" Sean bellowed, demanding more than asking. He wasn't quite drunk enough to heave his glass at the screen, but the day was just getting started.

"I know, right?" the young bartender, home from college on summer break, said as she grabbed the remote and flipped the channel. "That's so depressing. I mean, who would do that?" Sean slammed back the last of his drink and ordered another just to shut her up.

#  Chapter 24

Mason was off at his second group healing of the day, but Mags was sure that he'd be back any minute. She'd wiped the drool from her chin at least three times since he'd left; she rarely ever made it to four. Not counting the vomiting and passing out, things had been downright blissful between them for the last two days. Mason wasn't sure if her changed attitude was sincere or just a result of the semi-conscious binge, but he'd made it clear that he didn't much care.

"You love me," he'd boasted to her over and over again. "You love me, and we're getting married. You're finally mine." The way that Mason proclaimed Mags to be _his_ was downright creepy, but in Mags' state, creepy wasn't all that bad. Thankfully, the pills were plentiful and sobriety was very much optional.

Mags barely noticed that someone had entered the makeshift apartment, and she had no real idea who it was. She assumed that it was Mason. Mason came and went throughout the day, after nearly every healing, to take what he wanted from her. If she'd had the capacity, she'd have been startled to see that it wasn't him that was coming toward her, but she wasn't that lucid. Mags was sprawled out on the couch and Winston came close, throwing another bag of pills at her like they were Halloween candy that he'd collected on her behalf.

"Thanks, Baby," she slurred, slowly reaching into the bag and grabbing another pill. Mags was so far gone that she had no idea how very little she needed another pill. "Why are you wearing such funny clothes, Baby?" she asked before her head flopped over against the arm of the couch; she was slipping in and out of consciousness. Mason never wore a suit—didn't even own one—but Mags was in no shape to put two and two together. In her drug addled mind, though curious, it made perfect sense that Mason was dressed in a suit and delivering drugs.

And it also made perfect sense when Winston draped her over the arm of the couch and pulled her sweat pants down around her ankles. Even for a young man, Mason was insatiable, but if that's what her messiah needed, who was Maggie Sin to argue?

"You're really big today, Baby," Mags said in a muffled slur, her face down in a couch cushion. Winston was behind her, violating her, and seemingly enjoying it, but he had a worried look about him. Zelda's plan had its perks, but knowing what was coming, Winston had a hard time enjoying them. Mags didn't notice when the door to the hall opened again, but Winston did; it was right on schedule, and he didn't stop what he was doing.

* * *

Two sets of eyes peered in at the coupling, and two hearts broke in their own ways. Mason might have charged Winston if Betty hadn't beaten him there, but watching the spectacle of Betty flailing at Winston with a clipboard and a shoe only made him want to leave. Angry, hurt, and broken, Mason stormed down the hall. He screamed and pounded at the walls, raging against the betrayal, and he kicked at a potted plant, sending dirt and leaves all over the floor. Everyone in earshot hid. _How could she do this to me? With him?_ He curled into a ball and slid down the wall to the floor, crying so hard that he couldn't catch his breath. The pain was horrendous and felt like a weight on his chest. It seemed unbearable. He was losing everything that mattered. Then Mason rose and stomped off toward the only thing that he knew could take away some of his pain—if only for a moment.

Oddly, no one seemed startled when Mason burst into the V.I.P. healing room and knocked an empty chair to its side. His face was bright red; his eyes and nose were both still dripping. The private security guard that stood beside the bed of an old man with a very cloudy red aura didn't move an inch toward Mason despite the violence coming at them—he knew better. There were perks to being the savior.

"Rough day, Sport?" came a feisty woman's voice from the other corner of the room. Mason spun around to face her, ready to kill her just for surprising him, but even in his state, he was stunned by her beauty. Of all the women he'd ever seen in real life, he'd never seen one that came so close to the perfection of Miss Maggie Sinclair. It didn't hurt that the red-haired sensation was framed on the left by a buxom blonde and on the right by an equally buxom brunette. Taken aback by the three sirens and still reeling from the betrayal, Mason could not find the words to answer her. She didn't seem to mind.

"I'm Zelda," she said, tossing her hair ever so slightly and moving up next to him. She put her hand on his shoulder, and it felt nice. "These are my assistants, and that is Mr. Beauchamp." Zelda pointed at the bed.

"You're his wife?" Mason managed to ask, sounding a little simple.

"No, Sport, I am not a wife. Not anymore. I am a helper, of sorts. I help important people get the things that they want. I get things done." Mason moved over to the bed; he needed this healing more than the old man.

Mason healed him just like he'd done to all the other old men with money that had come before and then he looked around the room for more auras. Of the three women and the guard, none had one. Mason thought it odd, and he desperately wanted more of the release that came from cleaning auras, but he knew from experience that those without an aura were of no use to him. And he was no use to them. The relief that he felt from just one healing did little to fight the emotions that raged in him, and he was about to run off to his next appointment—or even the campground if that's what it took—but he was surprised when the old man hopped out of bed and made for the door without so much as a "thanks."

Zelda nodded at the bodyguard, and he lumbered out too. Mason was alone with the women. Zelda came close. "You're upset," she said. "It's my job. How can I help? Anything at all. Nothing is out of reach or out of line. All you have to do is ask." Mason thought for a moment, but not as long as one might expect, given his lot as savior of humanity.

"I want her," he finally said and then he took a short pause, "and I want him dead." Zelda smiled at him.

Mason hadn't noticed it happen, but the blonde and the brunette were now nude, their thin dresses balled up in the corner of the room. They moved up behind him and pressed their bodies against him. Zelda lingered her fingers on her breasts and then pulled the buttons of her silk shirt apart. Mason didn't protest—not even a little. Mags deserved this for what she'd done. He deserved this for what he'd done.

#  Chapter 25

"You're sure that there's no other way?" Pops asked Mother as they sat at a long table in a stark white room. "There'll be a backlash. We've seen it before. Killing a messiah has repercussions."

"We have no choice," Mother replied. "His impact on us is too great. He's healing a thousand Suits a day; two Guardians have already fallen. We can't allow it to continue, Randall." Pops knew he was right, but he also knew that things were going to get complicated. As if they weren't already.

"Then I'll do it," Pops said. He was the only one with experience.

"It should be Billie. It's her mess," Mother said.

"No," Pops protested. "It's better if it's me."

"At least take her along. She might be useful. Make it look like an accident. But if something goes wrong, just get it done." Pops didn't object. "Whatever it takes, it has to be finished—and soon."

"I understand."

#  Chapter 26

By the time that Annie pulled herself together and made the short trip back to her office, she had convinced herself that seeing May had been nothing more than a trick of her tired eyes. _Hallucinations can be brought on by stress and a lack of sleep. That's clearly what is happening here. I just need some rest_ , she thought. But the sight of May, twirling around in the office chair behind Annie's desk, legs sticking straight out in front, put an end to her rationalizations. Annie slammed the office door behind her and fumbled at the lock, but she never took her eyes off May.

"I'll bet you do this all the time, don't you?" May said, giggling and spinning around again, delighted like little girls are just to be twirling.

"No," Annie muttered, edging closer. "Never."

"Same old Nanny Annie," May chirped. Annie nearly fell over. She hadn't heard that nickname since May had died. It was something that was just between them. Though Annie was only a year and change older than May, she'd been forced to assume the role of caretaker after their mother passed. May used to lash out from time to time, pushing back against all of Annie's killjoy rules, and she'd mockingly call her Nanny Annie. At the time, nothing infuriated Annie more, but right now, it seemed the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. Annie slumped into the guest chair that sat across the desk from May.

"Why aren't you burning in Hell?" Annie finally asked with no concept of how it might sound.

"They made an exception for me—for you," May said somberly as she stopped spinning in her chair. Annie broke down and wept. She'd always dreamed, but she'd never dared to hope. "You're very special, Nanny Annie, and you've got a very special job to do." Annie liked the way that sounded. She'd always felt that she was destined for more—exactly what more, she wasn't sure, but definitely more.

May hopped off the tall desk chair and skipped over to a window that overlooked the entire park. She could see the camping area, the parking lots, the food courts, and the temporary tents that had been set up as makeshift chapels. The crews had managed to get the wave pool filled and working again, and it was full of children and adults all trying to avoid the July heat while waiting for their turn at a miracle. People of every race and color, from across the globe, all mingling together, united in their faith.

"All the nations will be gathered before her, and she will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates her sheep from the goats," May said as Annie stepped up behind her, resting her hands on May's low shoulders. Annie was worried that her hands would pass right through, but May turned out to be as solid as any child. "Do you know what that means? Do you know what it's from?"

"Of course I do," Annie snapped, insulted that she might not recognize Matthew. She continued for May to prove that she knew the passage verbatim. "He will set the sheep on His right hand but the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those on His right hand, 'Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.'" Annie paused, allowing her own words to sink in. It was impossible to believe, but she thought she might understand what the Lord was asking of her. She couldn't deny His wisdom in choosing her for the task. Who better? But still, it was a lot to accept. May put her hand on Annie's, encouraging her. Annie continued slowly, methodically, deliberately, "Then She will also say to those on the left hand, 'Depart from Me, you cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels." May smiled. Annie's head was spinning. May looked down at a crew that was emptying an overflowing garbage bin.

#  Chapter 27

It wasn't obvious to an outsider, but the infrastructure of the park extended well below the surface attractions and amusements. When the lower levels were included, what appeared to be a three story office building on the outskirts of the park was actually seven full stories, with sub-basement dormitories and facilities to support a teenaged summer workforce. The quarters had been empty for a couple of years, but the stale smell of mold and hormones still hung in the air. Mason hadn't taken the time to explore the lower levels yet, but somehow Zelda seemed to know them very well. As they wound through the windowless passages, he couldn't help but strut a little, arrogant in the performance that he'd just shown Zelda and the girls. _There'll be more of that, even after we're married_ , Mason assured himself, staying two steps behind Zelda so that he could properly appreciate the view. The girls followed close behind.

They entered a room of bunk beds that was dimly lit, but a bright light was bursting through the adjoining doorway. Mason could hear slight and muffled noises. When they stepped into the light, Mason stopped in his tracks, shocked with what he saw in a large communal shower. Mags was there, propping herself against the burley bodyguard that Zelda had dismissed a short time ago. She was wearing tight denim cut-off shorts and a pure white t-shirt that showed her flat tanned midriff; it was a common look for her, but oddly, a white lace veil also hung over her face, hiding what were sure to be drowsy slits for eyes. She was conscious enough to know that something real was going down, but the lingering haze made it seem more like a film than real life.

Winston was present too, but he wasn't nearly as calm. He had obviously taken a ruthless beating, and he was naked save for his silk boxer shorts. His bound hands were draped around an exposed water pipe, and his body stretched so as not to hang from it. Duct tape on his mouth muffled his screams, but that didn't stop him from begging. Despite his vulnerable position, Mason filled with rage at the sight of him. He flashed on what he'd seen him doing with Mags.

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find." Zelda sauntered through the words, almost sounding sexy—definitely sounding naughty. Remembering his request to her, Mason flirted with the idea that he could grab Mags and bolt, but that was exactly what the old Mason would have done. The new Mason, the Messiah, would do no such thing.

Mason approached Mags and lifted the veil from her eyes. She squinted at him, and he gently touched her cheek and pointed her gaze at Winston. With a sweep of Mason's fingers, both of Winston's knees buckled the wrong way out in front of him. The dreadful sounds of cartilage crackling, tendons popping, and muscles ripping blasted its way through the reverend's desperate muffled screams and echoed off the bare shower walls. Even Zelda flinched ever so slightly. After what seemed like much longer than it actually was, Mason released his telepathic grip, and Winston's limp shins dropped lifelessly, hanging from his mangled swollen knees like pendulums. Mags cringed, hearing violence in Winston's moans and watching brutality drip from his body and stain red the tiled floor. Mason looked at her and calmly smiled, and then in an instant, he turned and bolted toward Winston's hanging, weeping body.

Mason beat at Winston mercilessly, kicking and screaming and punching—reveling in every grunt or moan that Winston admitted. When he'd finally exhausted himself, his knuckles swollen and bloody, Mason stepped back to admire his work. Winston seemed to have accepted his fate, and hung limp from his wrists, choosing not to struggle. "I made you everything you are!" Mason screamed at the reverend. "You were nothing before me!" He wasn't sure, but he almost thought he saw Winston smile. Mason turned to Mags and continued screaming, "And you! Fucking trailer park whore! I saved you! I made you a queen! And you betray me with him?" Mags wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about, but she was terrified by his rage. She didn't dare say a word out of fear that it might be the wrong one.

Mason turned back to Winston and raised his hand to finish the job, but Zelda stepped in a stopped him. "Not yet," she said, and she pulled the duct tape roughly off of the reverend's swollen lips, unconcerned for the skin that came along. Zelda patted his cheek to snap him out of his bloody daze and then she motioned to the goon holding Mags. He brought Mags to Mason's side, and they both faced the hanging battered preacher; a stream of blood tinkled, having found its way to a nearby drain. "Do it!" Zelda demanded, and she kicked at Winston's spongy knee.

"Dearly beloved," Winston screamed in pain. Mason stood up straight and wrapped his arm around Mags' limp arm. "We're gathered here today to . . . "

"Skip to the end," Zelda commanded with another swift kick to the shin.

Exhausted, beaten, and dying, Reverend Winston Churchill Hill spit the blood that was pooling in his mouth and managed to mumble, "Do you take this woman to be your wife?"

"I do," Mason beamed, immune to the horror that was unfolding around him.

"And do you take this man," Winston said before Zelda interrupted him by clearing her throat conspicuously. Winston started again, "And do you take the Messiah, our God and Savior, to be your husband?" Mags gave him a long blank stare, as if unable to reconcile the experiences she was having. Just as she was about to muster quizzical words, Zelda answered in her stead.

"She does. He's the Messiah. Any woman would."

Winston let out a deep breath, relieved to be done. Then, noticing that everyone was still focused on him, he managed just a little more. "Kiss her," he said before passing out.

A smattering of cheers erupted from Zelda and the girls. The goon didn't make a sound. It was the happiest day of Mason's life. Beaming a smile, Mason twirled his finger in the air and the reverend's head spun all the way around and faced the shower wall. As his neck snapped, and his body gave one last dying gasp, Mags was overcome by the horror and the drugs. Mason scooped her up into his arms as she went limp, and he carried her across the threshold of the shower and back into the room of bunk beds. She was finally truly his—almost. There was only one thing left—to consummate their union—and while he would have preferred that she be conscious, it really wasn't necessary. Zelda and the girls followed to witness.

* * *

Thousands of miles away from the musty stink that puffed into the air as Mason jostled about on top of a limp Maggie Sinclair, a middle-aged man that no one on earth had ever seen before, stepped out of the shadows with a brand new body and into a shadowy bar. Bellying up to the tall counter, he rubbed his perfectly healthy knees and tilted his neck back and forth, happy that they didn't hurt any longer. He'd known all along that Zelda's plan would end poorly for him, but did it have to be so damn brutal? Ordering a double, the man pulled a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and took a long sniff of the brown leaves. _I'm going to miss these_ , he thought as he lit the end and took a long draw, _and so much else._ Looking around the bar, the man spotted a very voluptuous woman in a tight mini-dress sitting with a seemingly distracted man. _I wonder what Betty's doing?_

#  Chapter 28

After beating Winston with her shoe until a big guy came along, stopped her, and forced her to leave them alone, Betty had taken to trashing his office. A full half-hour later, there was nothing much left to destroy. _He's gonna learn that nobody does me like that_ , she thought repeatedly, as if her mind was jammed and stuck in an frenzied loop of rage and fury. _I'm gonna burn this whole mother to the ground_ , she decided but quickly changed her mind based on similar past experiences. It was only when she saw the reverend's keys in a dish on his desk that she knew how to adequately communicate the severity of his indiscretion.

And that continued to seem like a good idea as she drove his brand new Mercedes convertible through an open field to the south of the campground, the car slamming its chassis hard on every little hill and the windshield already cracked from repeated impacts. Using his own keys to scrape deep gouges in the car's shiny paint had been fun, but it had left Betty wholly unsatisfied. She'd considered slashing his tires, but slamming the car up against a building, crinkling and ripping large chunks of the passenger side clean off with its cement block corner, had proved much more fulfilling. After that, a ride through the open countryside just made sense.

As much as she hated the car by its association with the man, Betty was impressed that it was still running strong. _Let's see how you hold up against a tree_ , she thought. At that moment, in her mind, Winston and the car were one and the same. She pointed the nose of the supercar at an old oak, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Grass and dirt flew up in a rooster tail behind her, grasping for traction in the wet earth, and the car lurched forward. Impulse control had never been one of Betty's virtues, but admitting the error of her ways was. Just before the hood of the Mercedes slammed into the tree, but much too late to change her mind and abort the plan that would send her through the windshield, Betty pondered very calmly, _I really didn't think this through_.

#  Chapter 29

The sun was bright and warm, and a good night's sleep in the arms of his bride had done wonders for Mason's disposition. He and Zelda walked through the under-construction chapel building behind the contractor, supervising the big picture and ensuring that everything would ultimately live up to their standards. Now that Reverend Hill was permanently off the project, Mason would be saddled with many new responsibilities. Fortunately, Zelda had offered to stay on and help with the transition.

"This whole area's gonna be Italian travertine," the contractor shouted with a Jersey accent that seemed somehow natural despite their Midwestern location. He had to shout because the engine of a big crane rumbled nearby; huge steel beams were being bolted into place twenty feet above them. Pops and Billie watched the scene unfold from another realm and prepared themselves.

As the trio discussed the finest materials and craftsmanship available, the crane slowly brought in another beam above their heads. The crew prepared to bolt it into place. The beam was secured to the crane by a system of chains and backups that made it virtually impossible for it to fall, but in what was a total mystery to the workers, all of the chains and backups failed at exactly the wrong moment, and the massive steel beam broke free from the crane and plummeted toward the ground. It wasn't a mystery to Pops or Billie. To them, the plan was working perfectly. Everyone froze and watched in horror.

Everyone, except for Mason. Mason raised his hand calmly, and the beam stopped in mid air, hanging five feet above their heads. With a simple thought, he moved it up to its intended destination and gently wiggled it into place. Zelda didn't fluster at the close call, but the contractor dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the ground in front of Mason's feet. He was weeping, rejoicing in both being spared and in witnessing a miracle. Pops and Billie didn't say a word but could sense the other's disappointment.

After the construction crew finally stopped clapping and singing his praises, Mason looked over to the driver of the crane. As far as Mason was concerned, he was the one to blame. Zelda noticed Mason attention, and when he raised his arm at the crane operator, she grabbed his hand and raised his arm over their heads like a referee proclaiming the winning boxer. The whole crew erupted in another round of cheers. "He deserves it, but they won't understand," Zelda whispered to him.

Mason smiled at the crane operator and gave him a nod; the burly man bowed his head as if he'd been given a gift. He didn't know that at that very moment Mason was narrowing the arteries of his heart with sticky plaque and building several large blood clots in his legs that would soon break free and start travelling throughout his body. The man would be dead from a massive heart attack before dawn.

#  Chapter 30

Having failed in their first attempt, Pops and Billie resigned to wrap things up manually. Mason was too in-touch with the reality that he was creating around him; he'd easily sense any future _accident,_ as he had the last. In fact, Mason's pervasive connection to his surroundings was even going to make a physical assault difficult. A gun might work, but it also might not. The fraction of a second between a bullet's exit from the muzzle to its impact with its target could be enough for Mason to think the slug to a halt and foil the plan. The only thing that they had in their favor was that Pops and Billie would have complete control of themselves. Even in Mason's reality, they had their free will. Unfortunately, so did he.

Pops chose a dagger for the job. It wasn't much to look at, but the pointed end and razor edge ensured that a well placed jab would penetrate deep into Mason's rib cage and destroy his heart. The bigger hurdle was getting close enough to use it. Since Mason was just a Suit, Pops and Billie could pop into his realm at any time, stab him in the chest, and then simply vanish away into the ether. Maintaining Mason's continuity was inconsequential. They still, however, had to maintain continuity for the rest of the world—the world of Authentics. With such a high profile, and being in such demand, Mason was rarely ever alone or unwatched. If anyone saw Billie and Pops appear out of nothing to attack the messiah, the news would spread to every corner of the earth. At the very least, it would have global consequences for religion. At most, it could bring about a whole new way of thinking, for which Authentics were not yet ready. Too much knowledge could ultimately lead to a premature ascension, and that would be catastrophic.

To make matters worse, a swarm of steely-eyed goons had followed Zelda's addition to the ministry, and the whole place was now on high alert, secretly anticipating a move by the Guardians. In general, an Other wasn't of great concern to a Guardian; pests more than anything else. But with their need for privacy, Pops and Billie couldn't afford even one fly in the ointment. Today needed to be quick and quiet. No one should know what was about to happen, and even a simple ruckus could ruin everything.

#  Chapter 31

It had been nearly two hours since Mason had seen his beloved. The only thing that kept him from going mad with worry about whether she was up to no good was the padlock that he'd had installed on the outside of the door to their apartment. No one could get in or out, and the comfort of knowing that outweighed any fears that, in an emergency, she might be trapped. Besides, she brought this on herself. If she could have been trusted, he would not have been forced to take such drastic action. If only she loved him the way that he loved her, he wouldn't have to keep her locked away.

Mason still enjoyed the relief that came from healing hundreds of his flock in a group service, but the pageantry of the whole event was starting to wear on him. Mason could heal everyone in the room in a matter of minutes, snuff out their auras, and kick back to enjoy the afterglow, but it had been made clear from the beginning that the show needed to be at least an hour if the church was also going to accomplish its goals. In reality, it was all just filler to separate one passing of the collection plate from another, which in turn was all just a means to separate the parishioners from their wallets.

The only true miracle happened at the very end of the show when two people stood directly in front of Mason; four others stood behind them, each placing a hand on one shoulder of the person in front of them. Behind those four, eight people did the same, and so on until the room was filled with a web of people standing in rows and connected hand to shoulder all the way up to their messiah. Mason would then grab some part of each of the two people in the first row—whatever part he found most appealing in the moment—and the black clouds of each person in the hall would wind their ways through the web of interconnected worshippers until they finally made it to the front and were sucked into Mason's hands. Then the best part. As auras all around the room snuffed out of his view, Mason was hit with jolt after jolt of ecstasy and calm. It was the only time that Mason ever really felt at peace.

As usual, when they opened the doors to the healing hall, disciples who had been waiting in line for hours flooded in and filled the empty room. There were no chairs; they would have taken too much space. Standing was a better position for stacking people. Anyone too infirm to stand was allowed to rent a wheelchair, but they were pricey and often got in the way, so they were discouraged. Not being in the mood for pageantry, Mason didn't make the crowd wait or in any way try to build excitement. He simply attached his wireless microphone, walked out on the low stage, and began barking orders to the compressing mass of bodies.

"I want everyone to listen up," Mason said, sounding wholly unlike a savior. The room fell silent in an instant. "I've got shit to do, so we're going to do this quick today. I want everyone to take out all of their money, all of your credit cards, any jewelry, anything of value, and put it in the collection plates that are going around." The employees scrambled to get the collection plates out to the crowd, surprised by the new and abrupt format. "If you're thinking about holding something back for yourself, don't. I'll know. God will know. You've come here begging for a miracle, and all we ask is that you contribute to the church so that we can continue to do this for others. Your Savior has commanded you. Would you damn your soul to eternal hellfire over a few measly dollars?" People couldn't dump their cash and belongings into the plates fast enough. No one kept a penny for themselves. Many gold crosses and wedding rings found their way into the church's coffers, and they were all eventually melted down and sold for scrap.

When the crowd finally settled, having rid themselves of every bit of worth that they could muster, Mason addressed them again, demanding that they each grab on to the people in front of them. The web of people wasn't nearly as orderly as it usually was, and though no one ensured it, by some path or another, everyone in the room was connected. Annoyed that things were taking longer than he wanted, Mason hopped off the stage and stomped up to two reasonably attractive women near the front. Without warning, he reached his hands into their shirts, grabbed a breast of each woman, squeezed it, and gave a sly little grin. His hands attached themselves like magnets, as they always did when he touched someone with an aura, and the dark clouds that tainted the various auras in the room began draining through a twisted web and to the front of the mob.

Normally, the dark clouds drained under Mason's hands and vanished, but today, as Mason continued to feel-up the ladies, the clouds simply gathered and pooled in them, as if someone had left the plug in the drain of a tub. The women were obviously distressed as all of the disease and injury from the entire room swirled only in them, trying to take hold, trying to sustain. Their auras, which had been brilliant shades of purple and gold, were entirely hidden behind a violent storm. _I can give life, or I can take it_ , Mason thought looking deeply into the pained eyes of each woman. They didn't know what to think. Albeit in a somewhat disturbing way, they were literally in the hands of their savior, and yet something was clearly wrong. They both cried out, dropping to their knees in anguish. _Kneel before your savior._

Then, with one last squeeze of their breasts, Mason opened the drain and all of the asphyxiating smoke quickly funneled from the women, and their natural auras shone brightly, perfectly, again. Having grown tired of them, Mason released their breasts; the women each collapsed to the floor, still reeling from the pain that was now gone. Auras extinguished all over the room, and people stood like stunned cattle, trying to make sense of their new perception of the world. The healed never stayed around long. Once they had a soul, even the draw of a messiah paled in comparison to the opportunity to live an Authentic life.

Mason didn't say another word. He'd gotten everything that the crowd could give him. There was no reason to stick around. He sauntered back to his apartment to have his way with his new bride.

#  Chapter 32

The semi-conscious state that Mags had come to embrace significantly cut down on her active participation in their sessions, but it also destroyed the need for pillow talk, before or after; Mason had grown quite happy about this. As he stood pissing into the toilet in the bathroom of their apartment, he decided that the tradeoff was pretty much a wash. Looking back through the open bathroom door toward the bed, he was going to give Mags a derogatory compliment on her performance, but he stopped himself; just by looking at her, sprawled sloppily, he could tell that she was too incoherent to understand anyway.

He saw Billie first, in the mirror beside the commode, but he felt Pops' presence, with his blade drawn, even sooner. They appeared in the bathroom while Mason was mid-stream, Billie to his side and Pops right behind him. There was no need to delay, no need to talk; Pops immediately thrust the dagger at Mason's back, aiming through to his heart. The point of the knife just pierced the skin of his back before Mason thought the steel blade into water. Mason spun around to face Pops; the knife sprinkled to the floor. There was shock on all of their faces. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Mason grabbed Pops by the neck. He didn't scream, but Pops' skin smoldered like the burning paper at the end of a cigarette. Billie gasped, sensing that her father was in real trouble. Mason's grasp was killing more than just his physical form. Pops was dying. Pops looked to Billie and screamed, "Go!" Mason's eyes were wild; the rush was like nothing he'd ever felt.

Horrified, Billie didn't move. She watched until Pops was completely gone, burned up, and what was left floated like ash to the bathroom floor. When Mason turned and reached for her, she finally granted Pops' last wish and vanished off the face of the earth.

* * *

Mags' mind was cloudy, but her eyes were reasonably clear. She saw the whole scene unfold through the open bathroom door, and on the inside, she trembled hysterically. On the outside, she slumped back into the bed and closed her heavy eyes.

#  Chapter 33

Simple signs, photocopied onto yellow and pink paper and stapled to anything that was strong enough to hold them, were all that it took to entice the masses. _Seekers of Truth and Purity_. Annie's minions posted them all across the park. _Apply Now! Space is Limited!_ Annie wasn't sure how she'd acquired minions, but just as May foretold, they came to her service. _The righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father._ Everywhere they went, they spread the word that a new class of follower was being formed, a better class, and the masses clamored to be a part—apart. _Only the Righteous Need Apply_. Nearly everyone yearned to be chosen—to be the chosen. _Interviews Begin at Midnight—Building 13—No Appointment Needed._ Only a very few, with a decidedly bloated sense of humility, opted out.

Minions with orange-capped flashlights lit the path to a grand tent that had been erected in front of the remote Building 13, but the moon shone bright enough that they really weren't needed. When the tent was full, which was long before midnight, all the rest in the chain of hopeful worshippers that slowly slithered through the grass that bordered the back of the developed park were turned away and told to try again the next night. Some wept. Some tried to force their way in, unsuccessfully. Some simply turned around and accepted their lot, resigning themselves to get an earlier start tomorrow.

In front of all the people who filled the tent from wall to wall, there was a small path cleared across the tent that ended at a slit in the canvas; it waved slightly in a breeze that did nothing to ventilate the hot breath of the packed mob. Across the path from the crowd, a very tall-backed iron chair sat high on a perch, draped with white linens that hung to the grass below. A diminutive padded seat rested to its side. Annie Oliver, Keeper of Heaven's Gate, as she now demanded that she be called, sat atop the big chair, looking down her nose at the gathered crowd. May, with her little legs dangling, sat on the seat to her side.

"I shall begin!" Annie announced when the tent was full and the entrance was closed. She nodded to a minion who stood at the front corner of the pack, across the tent from the opening, and he ushered the first family front and center to be interviewed and inspected. Still not entirely sure what they were supposed to do, or even what they were being interviewed for, the family stood huddled and bowed their heads as Annie gave them her ordinary scowl. "Well?" Annie finally snapped. The family gave worried looks to one another.

"Um, thank you? Ma'am?" the father said as his wife and two children looked down at the grass. Annie sighed loudly. This was going to be a long night.

"You may address me as Your Holiness," she proclaimed for everyone to hear. May looked at her quizzically from her lower seat; they hadn't discussed that. "When you stand before me to be judged, you will provide a very brief statement of why you or your family have earned a place with the Lord. I will then make my decision, and you will either be directed back to wherever it is you've come from, or you will be directed through the exit on the side of the tent, where you will enter Building 13. My mi—" Annie stopped herself from saying _minions_ and instead said, "assistants will direct you further. If chosen for Building 13, please be patient. This will take quite a long while. A righteous servant might use this time to pray and to give thanks for the gift that the Lord will be bestowing upon you." There was a murmur from the crowd when Annie mentioned a gift from the Lord. Annie turned her gaze back toward the family directly in front of her. "What have you to say for yourself?" There was a long pause.

"We're good Christian folk," the man finally stammered in a thick southern drawl. "We try to do right and live by the good book." Annie arched one eyebrow; they clearly weren't prepared. She looked them up and down. Their clothes were ragged and sloppy; the children's hair was a bit unkempt. Were they Building 13 material? Even for Annie, who was generally quick to judge, this was a tough decision—an important decision. Clearly these were not the people with whom she'd delight in spending the rest of eternity, but were their crimes against the Lord such that they deserved to spend eternity ablaze in a pit of unyielding hellfire? May sensed that Annie was having a bit of trouble, so she gently placed her hand on Annie's arm as a show of support. The touch of her sister, who'd been lost from all but her memories for so long, calmed her and softened her burden. Annie smiled, remembering that the miracle of May's return had been solely for her—to choose her—to place her here to sit in judgment of the masses. Surely the Lord had given her the strength to do this job. She reminded herself that she was merely a conduit for the will of her Lord and that she need only listen to her instincts to hear His commands.

"Building 13," Annie blurted, waving her left hand toward the flap in the tent. The family erupted in squeals and hugs, and then they rushed toward the exit, trying to take their victory before Annie had a chance to change her mind. Another family was already being ushered in front of the Oliver sisters. This time Annie didn't hesitate. She looked them over as they introduced themselves, but before they finished their plea, Annie blurted the answer that they so desperately wanted and directed them to Building 13. By the time the first dozen groups had passed by her, Annie had refined the process to little more than an efficient once-over. _Listen to the Lord's will. Listen to your heart_ , she kept repeating to herself as she ushered folks through like a shopping mall Santa on the weekend before Christmas. So long as she kept doling out passes to Building 13 and its inherent gift from the Lord, no one challenged Annie's snap judgments. That is, until May did.

The tent was half empty, and all of the dozens of groups that had come before had been sent off to Building 13. Annie was just about ready to do the same for a large Hispanic family when May again grabbed Annie's arm. This time, her grip was more forceful, and Annie stopped abruptly to see what the trouble was. Bending down so that May could whisper in her ear, a disappointed look washed over her face. "Are you sure?" Annie finally said, only loud enough for May to hear. May nodded confidently. Annie let out an irritated sigh and focused on the mother.

"You. What is your name?" Annie demanded, peering over the tops of her spectacles.

"Lupe," the mother said meekly, unsure as to what this pause meant.

"Well, Lupe, you and your family have a decision to make. You, and you alone, have been deemed by the Lord as ineligible to enter Building 13 and receive His gift. You must, therefore, leave this place. You may stay here on the church grounds if you like, and you may worship the Messiah as you see fit. You may even partake of healing ceremonies, but these ceremonies will have no effect on you. You will not be healed of any maladies, and the Messiah's touch will bestow no salvation." Lupe collapsed to her knees and wept. Her children gathered around and held her. "The rest of you," Annie continued casually waving at the rest of Lupe's family, "shall be allowed to choose your fate. Either door is open to you." As Lupe wept and wondered what she had done to deserve the wrath of her Lord, her family took only the briefest of moments to consider their choice, and then without discussion, they scooped up the weeping matriarch and carried her out of the tent. Together they returned to the same life that they'd had an hour before, but in that moment, they'd changed; their lives would never be the same. Annie never gave any of them another thought. She moved on to the next, and then one by one, all the rest. Everyone else that night got a ticket into Building 13. Everyone else eventually felt the Lord's gift.

#  Chapter 34

True, it had been many millennia, but Billie was no stranger to loss. Long before the ascension of her people, before they left their earth-like home and took their place as Guardians of the Authentics, Billie's mother had died, leaving just her and Pops to carry on. She was only nine when it happened, and her memories of her mother were fuzzy at best, but the pain and the loss and the grief were still crystal clear, even after all this time. She'd learned to live with it—to dull the hard edges that jabbed at her now and again—but it never went away—not entirely. The hole left by her mother's unexpected passing was always there, and now it had company. Pops was gone. She was to blame. _This is the cost of going against our ways—of succumbing to my personal whims, my weakness_ , she kept thinking. _He warned me that I was playing a dangerous game, and now he's paid for my mistakes_. The guilt and the grief were nearly unbearable. Billie struggled to keep her sanity. Though she wanted nothing more than to crawl inside of her misery and fade out of existence, she knew that she still had a mess to clean up. She'd caused so much turmoil, and Pops wasn't the only one to have died because of the choices she'd made. Every Suit that Mason healed tore away at the Guardian who created it. Some had already perished, and more would follow if she couldn't get this under control. If only she knew how.

When Billie finally found Mother, he was casually strolling down a sidewalk and seemingly enjoying the summer sun on his face. There were people about and children playing ball in the road, so she couldn't just appear at his side. Instead, she popped into a nearby empty house, let herself out the front door, and locked up behind her. The sweet smell of lilacs filled the warm air even though there wasn't an actual lilac anywhere in sight. Mother always did enjoy the details. But there was another scent on the wind that Billie recognized. There was big water nearby.

Billie immediately thought of Sean. It seemed like so long since she'd seen him. She knew it was silly, but she wondered how he was. Even through the grief in her heart and the pit in her stomach, she couldn't help but long to be with him. Or maybe it was _because_ of what she was feeling. She wasn't sure how something that she'd created could exercise such a hold over her, but she was sure that, somehow, his strong embrace would make her feel just a little bit better. At that moment, she'd have given almost anything just to touch his hand, to lock her fingers with his, and to have him touch her back.

Billie trotted up beside Mother, but he didn't break his gate. He knew she was there, though he didn't even glance in her direction. Billie didn't bother to fill him in on how the mission had gone; she was sure he already knew. Failing to muster any sort of intelligent words to start a conversation, the silence between them finally overwhelmed her, and she blurted, "What now?"

Mother didn't say a word and, instead, just kept walking. Billie didn't have the courage to demand an answer, not after the trouble she'd caused, so she just followed, a couple of steps behind. By the end of the block, she could see a tiny marina ahead, a marina she recognized, or at least she thought so. All of the small-town, northern Michigan marinas looked just about the same. A parking lot, a boat launch, and a bar-restaurant overlooking rows of slips tied to a variety of boats that spanned the gamut of disposable incomes.

Billie knew better than to believe in coincidence. Hell, her kind's careful orchestrations were the real causes behind most of the events that were chalked up to coincidence. She felt a tightening in her stomach. She wanted desperately to see Sean, but not here and not now. Not with Mother. She longed to wrap herself up in his embrace and lose herself from the trouble she'd caused; she didn't want him to be part of the solution—part of this mess. In her mind, Sean was separate. He was a haven, and the thought that she might one day return to him, that one day this might all be resolved and she'd be free to return to him, was the only thing that kept her going.

But Mother trudged on, never taking a pause, never breaking his stride, never acknowledging Billie's presence. Instead, if anything, when he neared Capt'n Bob's Bar and Grill, he sped up. Taking two stairs at a time until he reached the landing at the top, Mother flung open the door from the second-story patio and walked inside.

Sean wasn't hard to find. The place was fairly empty, even for a Wednesday afternoon, and Sean was the only drunk passed out and slumped over a small table in the backmost corner of the tavern. Unlike dark seedy bars where an occasional passed-out drunk was par for the course, Capt'n Bob's was bright and airy and appealed to a much better clientele. Under normal circumstances, Sean would have been asked to leave long before his eyes got the least bit glassy, but an absentee owner and a fistful of hundred dollar bills bought Sean some flexibility that most patrons didn't get.

"Sit," Mother finally said to Billie as he pointed to the chair beside Sean. Mother sat down on Sean's other side. With little more than a thought, and a soft grip of his shoulder for effect, Mother removed all of the alcohol from Sean's system in an instant. No longer in a stupor, Sean was startled by Mother's touch, and he did his best to spring to his feet. While Sean was strong, compared to other men, Mother wasn't a man. Mother's hand on Sean's shoulder was immovable, and with little more than a scraping of his chair on the tile floor, Sean remained where he sat. Still surprised, Sean surveyed his uninvited guests. When he looked to Billie, her heart sank.

* * *

Sean's recognizing eyes gave away the fury that he kept just for Billie. Just as much as he loved her—couldn't help himself for loving her—he hated her. It was her mission that had ruined him—that had made him do such terrible things. She'd made him an abomination. And then she'd left. With absolutely no regard for anyone or anything, she'd abandoned him, left him alone with nothing but his thoughts. He'd tried to drink away the haunting images, but that hadn't worked. Nothing had. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it all over again. And now she was back, and she'd brought a friend, but Sean was in no mood to make new friends—not if they had anything to do with her.

"Hell no!" Sean shouted. Mother allowed him to wiggle out from under his grip, as the wait staff was taking notice, and Sean scrambled to his feet. He stormed out of the bar and down the stairs. Mother and Billie followed close behind.

"We need to talk," Mother said loudly but calmly behind Sean. Sean spun around and took a swing at Mother's face. Mother easily evaded, and the miss fueled Sean's rage. He threw a barrage of strikes at Mother, who effortlessly deflected them all. When Mother tired of the display, he placed an open palm on Sean's chest and sent Sean sailing backward several feet onto the tarmac. Sean gasped, trying to replace the wind that had been knocked clean out of him. Billie ran to Sean and knelt down next to him, but Sean would have none of it, pushing her away and staggering to his feet. Sean turned to storm away, only stopping when Mother said, "You didn't kill that baby."

Sean's whole body clenched. Someone else knew. Sean couldn't escape what he'd done, but somehow, if no one else knew, it was a little less real. _Bullshit!_ Sean thought. _I know what I saw. I know what I did._ He wanted to leave this place, these people, but Mother's words kept him planted. He knew the finality of what he'd seen, but he wanted so badly for Mother's words to be true that he couldn't—wouldn't—trust his own eyes. Sean turned around slowly, and for the second time, he had the wind knocked out of him.

Billie gasped a little, not at what she saw, but at what it meant. Sean dropped to his knees and wept unashamed in the restaurant parking lot when he saw Mother, not four feet from him, holding the very same perfect smiling infant that Sean had last seen torn apart by bullets in his crib. But this baby was perfect, not a scratch. This baby was alive. Sean's tear-filled eyes met with the same wide round eyes that haunted him, and the little guy's arms shot up in the air again, calling to be held—calling to Sean. Sean let out a sick groan, a mixture of heaven and hell; he couldn't help himself from believing the lie that he was surely seeing. He needed to believe it.

Mother closed the distance between the baby and Sean, and Sean reached up to accept the little guy into his arms. The baby smiled at Sean's touch, and Sean wept even harder. Sean could feel the little guy's chubby arms latching onto his neck, and he could smell baby shampoo in his hair. Sean couldn't think, it was all too much, and he didn't care. The hell he'd endured since that horrible night was finally lifting. Billie came up behind him and helped Sean off of his knees. This time, when he looked at her, his eyes weren't filled with rage.

Maintaining situational awareness had been so ingrained by Sean's training, that it was simply part of who he was. He had to spot everything, all the time. When the rear door to a nearby car opened, Sean was very surprised. He was sure that the car had been empty just a few minutes before. When he recognized the woman stepping out of the car, his surprise was replaced with awe. This was truly a day for miracles, and after all that had happened outside of Capt'n Bob's, watching the nanny that he'd killed that same night close the car door and walk straight toward him didn't seem so strange.

"I've got him," the nanny said, as she gently pulled the baby away from Sean and sat him on her hip. Sean could not fathom what was happening, but when the nanny and her charge turned to walk away, he grasped at them, trying to hold on to the miracles that had set him free. He wasn't sure whether what had just happened was real, but if it was a dream, he needed it to last.

"It's okay," Billie said softly, holding Sean from darting after them. "They'll be fine."

With tears still streaming down his cheeks, Sean looked to Mother and said bewildered, "Are you God?"

Mother didn't so much as smile. Sean's question hung in the air for a good long time, waiting sincerely for a response, but it didn't come. Not from Mother. As mother turned and walked toward a shaded picnic table, Billie grabbed Sean's hand and broke the uncomfortable silence. "Not even close," she said defiantly. "Not even close."

#  Chapter 35

Wednesday afternoon wasn't prime time for a healing service, but the turnout for this session was downright anemic. Zelda scrunched her nose at the holes in the crowd as the doors to the hall closed. Since she'd been here, she'd never seen a service that was anything less than crammed full. If the parishioners normally resembled cattle being herded to slaughter, today they looked like free range beef ambling about and grazing across the prairie. _Something's not right, here_ , she thought as she stomped off toward the doors to the healing hall. Blowing them open and grabbing the closest worker she could find, she demanded to know why they had shut the doors before the hall was filled to capacity.

"There's no one else waiting," a young man stammered, half intimidated by Zelda's ferocity and half enamored with her looks.

Zelda stormed away and through the outer doors to the park. She looked every-which-way and at everything. It was all curiously lacking the throngs that had been steadily growing since the first day. There were still people going about their business in every direction, but there were also holes, big gaping holes, where crowds of believers once milled about waiting for their turn for just about everything. Zelda wasn't sure what had changed, but this just wouldn't do. In order for her plan to work, more people had to be healed and more Authentics had to be created. Guardians had to die. Continuity had to fail. She needed the Authentics to learn the truth about reality before they were ready, before they were willing to give up their egos and selfish desires. Zelda needed more Suits.

"You!" Zelda shouted at an employee who was sweeping up garbage from the sidewalk. He looked up lazily and cocked his eyebrow, as if to question whether she was really talking to him. "Yes, you! Come here!" The man slowly ambled over.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked.

"Where is everyone? Why aren't there more people in the park?"

"Um, I don't know," the man said slowly. "Looks like lots to me." He gazed out over the park and nodded his head. Zelda was getting even more irritated.

"Last week, you couldn't piss without 50 people knowing the color! Today, we don't even have a full house for a healing. How do you explain that?" Zelda was visibly agitated, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"I don't know," he shrugged, and just as Zelda was about to stomp off, he said, "Maybe has something to do with all those folks getting chosen for the Lord's gift. They say they's special." Zelda snapped her attention to the man.

"What special people? What gift?"

"I don't know what the gift is, ma'am. You gots to be chosen by Her Holiness to find out. But those folks go get their gift, and then they don't come back. Not even to get their stuff. Her Holiness got assistants, and they come pack up all them people's stuff. That must be some kind of gift if you don't even care about your stuff no mo'." Zelda stared at him, wanting more information, but he had none to give her. Finally, after a long lull, the man walked a few feet to a lamp post, pulled down a flyer, and handed it to her. Zelda was transfixed as she read the flyer top to bottom. The man, apparently feeling like they were pals now, started rambling on about how less people meant that there was less garbage to clean up, and how, from his perspective, that was a good thing. Zelda didn't hear or care about any of that. She spun on her heal and stomped back into the building.

#  Chapter 36

Sean, Billie, and Mother sat at the shaded picnic table near the marina's parking lot. Sean regained his composure quicker than most people would, given what he'd just seen, but he could have used a few more minutes before Mother started in on him.

"We have a job for you. One last job," Mother said to Sean in his usual disinterested tone. Sean heard him, but ignored his request; he had other concerns on his mind, and he'd already decided that he'd be doing no more jobs—not for anyone.

"If you're not God," Sean glanced over to Billie, "or gods, then what are you?"

"We don't have time for this," Mother quipped. "We need your help. The world needs your help."

"Yeah? Well I need information," Sean demanded boldly; he knew that he should be more respectful, but he also hated being kept in the dark. Mother huffed at Sean's insolence, but Billie chimed in, trying to diffuse the situation before it became a situation.

She wasn't sure what she should say—could say—given that Suits were never told about the true nature of universe, or even themselves. "Sean, please. We're just different—different from you. Our job is to watch over things, and right now, things are a little out of control. We're hoping that you can help us get them back on track." Billie gave him a smile, hoping that he'd accept her explanation and that they could move on.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sean demanded. It had been a rough day, and his nerves were shot. Seeing the infant that he thought—that he knew—he'd killed did wonders for his disposition, but he still had lots of residual rage pent up and clamoring to get out. "Do you think I'm some fucking idiot? You think that some cryptic bullshit explanation is going to do it for me, and I'm just going to run off like your errand boy?" Sean took a pause. Billie looked to Mother, and Mother glared at Sean.

"You know what I hate?" Sean continued, ranting. "I hate when I'm watching some movie and all I can think is that if these people would just tell each other what's going on, they could wrap this shit up in ten minutes. But they never do. Well that shit doesn't happen in real life. Not in my life. You want my help? Then you got to make with some information. I don't see an asteroid dropping out of the sky, so I'm guessing that five minutes of conversation—about what the fuck is going on here—isn't going to screw the world!"

Mother let out a long sigh. Billie didn't breathe for fear of what Mother might do. Things were bad, but she still couldn't help caring about Sean. She gasped with relief when Mother finally said, "What do you want to know?"

"You can start by telling me who, and what, you are," Sean said, much more calmly. Mother paused and looked deeply into his eyes.

"What you're going to learn is never told to someone like you. In any other situation, you'd be dead by now, but we're desperate, and if things go well, you'll complete your last mission and we'll never see you again—either of us." Mother looked over to Billie to ensure that she got the message; she did. Mother took a deep breath. "We are known as Guardians. A very long time ago, our race was like the human race. We looked much like you; we lived in homes, we had jobs, we raised families, and we searched for a meaning to our existence. After some time, a small group discovered the true nature of the universe in which we lived—the true nature of our reality. In so doing, many of us evolved, or ascended, to a different level of existence. We shed our physical bodies and came to know a slightly truer reality; we took our first step along the path of enlightenment, a step that humans have yet to take. Taking that step forced us into a new role. Instead of interacting with the world around us and seeking meaning in our lives, we now maintain a universe for the Authentics so that they may seek their own truth."

"Authentics?" Sean asked, not sure whether he believed what he was hearing. He would have been more skeptical had he not witnessed so many miracles today.

"Authentics are humans that have immortal souls," Billie chimed in. "Until recently, there were 3,137. Now there are more." Billie looked down at the tabletop bashfully.

"Wait a minute," Sean interrupted. "There are billions of people on Earth."

"Actually, there are not," Mother said.

"Most of them are Suits," Billie piped in.

"Suits?" Sean asked. "You're losing me. What's a Suit, and how can there not be billions of people on Earth?"

"Everything you see, everything around you, is an illusion—a hologram of sorts," Mother said, scooping his hand into the picnic table's top as if the wood was water. Liquid weathered wood dripped off of his fingers and fell back to the table causing ripples across the planks. Sean's eyes widened. He touched at the rippling board, and his hand penetrated it. "For the benefit of the Authentics, we maintain a reality around them. Everywhere that they go, they perceive a continuous physical world. Continuity is our most important charge. However, a person can only perceive the world through their physical senses, and the human body is quite limited in what it can perceive. You see some wavelengths of light, but only what smacks you in the face. For a single authentic, there is no reason to maintain a reality behind them most of the time; they can't perceive it anyway. Instead, the world behind them fades away until it's needed, and at that point, when they turn their head to see what's behind them, we create that reality for them." Mother pointed behind Sean, and Sean turned to look behind him. Instead of seeing Capt'n Bob's and the marina, all that he saw was black—the blackness of empty space. Sean snapped back to look at Mother, but instead of sitting at a picnic table near the marina parking lot, the three of them now sat at a round patio table with an umbrella. There was a pool nearby, and dozens of curvy women in scant bikinis were soaking in the sun.

"You see," Billie said, sensing that Sean was having a hard time grasping the concept, "the thing, or place, or person doesn't have to exist. Only the perception of it needs to exist—and only for the Authentics." Sean looked at her quizzically. "Imagine that you're driving down the freeway in your car," Billie continued. "You see the road whizzing by and the other cars and drivers. You even see behind you in your rearview mirror. But what are you really seeing in that mirror? Is it a reflection of what's really behind you, or is it simply an image of what would be behind you if you turned around? We maintain continuity for the reality around you. Wherever you go, that's real, for you, at that moment. The place you just left, the people you just left—probably not. You go back to where you started, and that place becomes real again, and the place that's no longer needed for continuity fades away."

"The people too?" Sean asked.

"Well, the Suits do," Billie answered. "Usually."

"And what's a Suit?" Mother asked to keep the conversation moving along, then he answered his own question, "We do more than just maintain a physical reality for Authentics. We also try to guide them."

"Like angels," Sean asked.

"Somewhat," Mother continued. "We're certainly the root of the angel myth, but the traditional human understanding of angels is far from accurate. We're much more autonomous. We use Suits—"

"Why _Suits_ ," Sean interrupted. Mother frowned and sighed.

"The term was coined by the Others. It's short for Meat Suits. Essentially, a Suit has the biology of an Authentic, but lacks the soul. When we create a Suit, we build it with a purpose, a predisposition to act as we want it to act. We give it a history and memories. Suits have free will, but their underlying programming prevents them from straying too far off the course that we've plotted—usually." Mother looked at Billie again, and she looked away ashamed. "And if things go awry, we just terminate them." Mother snapped his fingers in the air for effect, and all of the pretty girls lounging by the pool exploded; a pink rain of fleshy bits showered down on them. Sean jerked in his seat, startled and horrified, but the settling mist of flesh dissolved into sparkling silver flashes and then into nothing at all, as if it had never happened. Sean didn't say anything for a moment, letting it all sink in.

"The people I killed—the baby—they were all Suits?" Sean finally asked.

"Yes," Mother said dryly, and the nanny and baby that Sean had seen walk away from the marina a short time before walked by him and toward the pool. "You didn't kill anything of any consequence."

"Then why? What could I have possibly gotten from thinking that I killed an entire family?"

"It wasn't for your benefit," Billie answered. "That was my plan. One of the Authentics that I look after is a teenage girl from Toronto. Her father had an affair, and now she's got an illegitimate half-brother. He looks a lot like that little guy." Billie motioned to the pool where the nanny had the baby in the shallow water. "She wanted nothing to do with him. She couldn't get past her dad's mistake. But then she saw a news report about what you did. She noticed the resemblance, and she was mortified by the horror of what happened to him. It helped her appreciate the newest member of her family. It helped her to get past her father's mistake and accept her brother. It was a good thing. What you did was a good thing."

_But what about me?_ Sean thought. _What about what it did to me?_ He almost asked that question, but a frightening thought stopped him. After a pause, he finally asked, "Do Suits know that they're—Suits?" Billie looked away. She didn't want to see Sean hurt again. Mother, however, didn't mind.

"You didn't."

#  Chapter 37

Zelda had spent the last hour asking around, but as of yet, she had no answers. Mason finished his sparsely-attended healing, and he was back at Mags for his routine reward. Zelda burst through the door to their apartment without warning. Mags barely noticed through her ever present haze, though it was starting to wear off, and she was out of meds. Mason was close to finishing with Mags, and he kind of liked an audience, so he didn't protest, but when Zelda started ranting about Annie, he had to demand that she pipe down for a minute. It didn't take that long, though. He hadn't even climbed off Mags when Zelda started in again.

"What do you know about this?" Zelda demanded, thrusting Annie's flyer at Mason, who was naked and not ashamed. Mason gave it a cursory look, but he was far from interested.

"Nothin'," he said, still slightly out of breath. He headed to the bathroom.

"Jesus Christ! Who the hell does she think she is? What the fuck is she doing?" Mason was mostly oblivious to Zelda's rant.

"Did you notice that there weren't many people at the healing today?" Mason shouted back from the bathroom. "It wasn't nearly as satisfying." Zelda looked incredulously at the open bathroom doorway.

"Hey. Hey. Z," Mags slurred at Zelda from the bed where she'd been taken. "You got any more meds?" They'd taken to calling her pills _meds._ It sounded better in mixed company.

_Jesus Christ!_ Zelda screamed in her head. _I don't know which one is worse_. She grabbed a bag of pills from her pocket and chucked them at Mags. They hit her in the boob, but she barely felt it. She pawed around and smiled when she finally found the bag. "I thought _you_ were the fucking Messiah," Zelda bellowed toward the bathroom. "Maybe I backed the wrong horse. Maybe I should be talking to Annie. She seems to have all the juice around here."

Mason didn't say a word, and he never came out of the bathroom, but Zelda knew that she'd gotten to him when she felt her throat start to close and her feet dangle off the ground. Mags looked on through squinty eyes as Zelda gagged and hovered two feet off the ground, grasping at hands that weren't around her neck but were nevertheless choking her. Mags cringed and slid as far away as she could while still on the bed; she grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her naked body.

Outwardly, Zelda struggled against the air, flailing and gasping, but inside she was delighted. _That's right, Tiger, you show me who the Messiah is. Teach me a lesson for doubting you._ Just before she passed out, Mason dropped her to the floor, and Zelda gasped deep breaths as she scrambled back to her feet. Mason casually returned from the bathroom.

"Were you saying something?" he asked, innocently.

"No," Zelda muttered as she cleared her throat. "It's just that Annie might not yet know her place. She might be getting a little too big for her polyester britches."

"Why don't you take care of that," Mason said, pulling on his worn jeans and t-shirt.

"Sure. I'll talk to her. I'll make sure she understands." Zelda said. Mason thought for a minute.

"No. Just kill her," he said like he was ordering eggs at a greasy spoon. Mags heard this, and even in her muddled state, she began to tremble. His order was shocking, but his nonchalance was truly terrifying. She finally realized what Mason had become.

Zelda didn't say a word. She just smiled, turned toward the door, and walked out with purpose. Mason looked at Mags, still nude but clutching a pillow tightly in front of her. "Go take a shower," he ordered. "You fucking reek."

#  Chapter 38

Mother was antsy. This was all taking way too long. Sean didn't take the news that he was a Suit very well, and after 15 minutes, he was still trying to wrap his head around it. "But how can that be?" he'd asked, over and over. "I have a family, a mother. I enlisted in the Army when I was 18, after Hanna Markawitz dumped me on graduation day. I lost my virginity to Stacy Fell in her basement while her parents were upstairs. I fought in wars. I saw the Stones in concert," Sean pled with Mother, desperately trying to convince him that he was real. Mother wasn't impressed.

"You remember seeing the Stones. You remember humping Stacy Fell on a beanbag in her basement while Jeopardy played on a 13-inch color TV, and you remember having a mother. None of it actually happened." Sean was floored by the details that Mother added about Stacy Fell. No one else knew them but him, and Stacy of course—if there even was a Stacy. "Next year, about this time," Mother said, "you'll celebrate your first birthday. God willing, you'll be long dead by then."

Despite Mother's obvious anxiety, Sean took his time with this revelation. Realizing his fictional nature tended to shake a man. When he finally reengaged, his only word was, "Why?"

"Why what?" Billie asked. Sean looked at her with both disdain and begging need.

"Why should I care about your mess?" he finally said, and Billie's lip quivered. He was right. After all that he'd learned, there was no good reason for him to care one bit about the mess that she'd made. Not only had she put him through hell, but now she'd told him that he didn't even exist, not really, and if he did what she needed, his reward would be to fade out of existence without so much as a thanks.

"Because if you don't help us, the Others will win, and this world will be lost," Billie said meekly.

"Win? Win what?" Sean asked. "And who are the Others?" Mother grunted, irritated to be explaining himself, his world, to the likes of Sean, but as much as he despised him, Sean was unique. He was one of only two Suits that could control their own reality, and he was the only one that wasn't killing Guardians. He was the only thing in the universe that could control reality that Mason couldn't kill with a simple touch. He was the only thing that might be able to stop Mason.

"The Others are people of my race that could not—would not—conform to the ways that allowed us to ascend. They understand the true nature of reality, but they refuse to let go of their selfish ways. While we act out of love, Others act out of love for themselves."

"You see," Billie interjected, "people think that evil is all about doing harm or being destructive, but that's really not the case. Evil is the byproduct of making yourself happy when someone else has to pay a price for that happiness. No one ever sets out to hurt someone just for the sake of hurting them. Their actions are a way to fill a need; the fact that someone else gets hurt is a consequence. The decision to act selfishly, even though it's going to hurt someone else, is the true nature of evil."

"And that's the eternal game," Mother said. "Love is the only real force in the universe, and everything you see and everything that happens is a manifestation of that force. Love given to others is what we think of as good, and love corrupted for one's own self is what we think of as evil. The ebb and flow of those two opposing intents are the only things that are truly real. Everything, and everyone, are just pieces in that game—pawns in that struggle."

"Then why does anybody do anything?" Sean asked. "Why not just stop playing the game?"

"There's nothing but the game!" Mother snapped. "Do, or don't do, you can't escape the game. There's nothing outside of it or beyond it. The only option is how it's played. Love is the board and the pieces, and free will is deciding which piece to move and to where. We choose how to influence Authentics—try to inspire them. Others do the same, but with the opposite intent. Authentics choose how to live their lives—how to direct their love—how to play the game. It's who we all are. It's all we are."

"But not me," Sean said defiantly. "It's not who I am. I'm just a programmed Meat Suit—a prop in some little play."

"No," Billie moaned, and she wrapped her arms around him. His words were true, but he was more than that to her.

"Then do it. Get it over with," Sean said, pushing Billie off of him. She sniffed and wiped tears from her cheeks. "Just kill me now. I'm not interested in playing someone else's game, so just explode me, or zap me, or fade me away. That's my destiny anyway. No need to drag this out."

"Please, Sean, you have to help me," Billie pleaded. "This is all my fault. I need you." Sean wasn't swayed. He loved Billie with all his heart, but now that he knew his feelings were simple programming, they had much less effect. "If you don't help us, it will be the end of the world. Guardians are dying. Soon there won't be enough of us left to maintain continuity. If we lose continuity, Authentics will see the true way of things, and they're not ready for that. They're not ready to give up their selfish ways. They'll become just like the Others. We'll lose all of those souls."

"So you'll lose your game," Sean said indifferently. "At least you've got a game to lose. I think I'd rather spend my last days soaking up a little sun by this here pool. You see, I don't have a dog in your race." Mother took a deep breath and then sighed. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Closing his eyes and tilting his head toward the sky, Mother frowned a little and said, "What if you did?"

#  Chapter 39

Wiping away the steam, Mags stared at her face in the bathroom mirror as if she'd never seen it before. In a way, she hadn't. The face looking back was hers, but it was empty behind the eyes, like the photographs of pretty people that come with dime-store picture frames. _How the hell did I get here?_ she wondered as she clutched her new bag of meds. It had been a busy few hours since her buzz had started to wear off, and though she knew a strong dose would quell her itching skin, the fading fog of the meds was a welcome change. Mags had seen a lot of horror as of late—horrors that made living with her mother seem downright pleasant—but the pills weren't dulling the pain anymore; they were just twisting it around in her head, sometimes for the worse. _I might be an unwanted bastard child, but I don't deserve this_ , she thought, mustering all of the confidence that she had. She looked down at the bag of pills in her hand, and she tried to toss them away. She couldn't. As much as she wanted to be rid of them, she needed them to survive—just to get by. In this life that she'd made for herself, she couldn't live without the meds. But based on what she'd seen, she also knew that it was just a matter of time before she incurred his wrath. If her mother had taught her anything, it was that eventually, no matter how hard she tried, she'd fuck things up; any man would get tired of her. It wasn't a question of _if_ , it was a question of _when_. She shuddered, thinking about how Mason might solve her.

Mags was nothing if not a survivor. She'd been used and abused all of her life, but somehow, she was still here. She wasn't proud of all the things she'd done, but she wasn't much ashamed of them either. Shitty situations leave limited options, and she'd done what she needed to make it through. It took everything that she had, but she opened the bag of pills, held them over the toilet, and turned the bag upside down. The pills plinked into the bowl and splashed water onto her freshly showered legs, but Mags didn't care. She flung herself at the handle, still tempted to fish out the meds and dry them out, and the water began to swirl. She watched every last one ride away on the current. Only when there was no chance that one might be left behind, she caught her breath and moved on.

Mags was proud of herself, proud of what she'd done, but she knew that she had no time to bask in her triumph. Mason was gone, probably to a private healing, and he had a mass healing coming up, but that only gave her a few hours to put serious miles between this place and her ass. He was the Messiah, for God's sake. He had followers everywhere. If she wanted to escape his grasp, she needed to find a hole, far away from this place, and crawl into it. _There's a good chance that this will end poorly_ , she thought as she threw on some clothes. She packed an extra change, and anything of value that she'd be able to pawn, into a small duffle that wouldn't attract too much attention, and she took one last look around at the fine things that the decorators had used to fill their apartment. She'd never been surrounded by so many expensive things, and they were all hers, but she wasn't going to miss a single one. She grabbed a solid gold trinket off of a wooden shelf by the door and stuffed it into her pocket.

As usual, Mason had locked a padlock on the outside of the door to keep her from wandering, but Mags didn't let it stop her. It took several hard pulls, and just as many loud grunts, but the small screws that held the latch that the padlock secured gave way and stripped out of the wall. The lock held the bracket together, but the door flung open into the apartment. Mags was one step closer to freedom. She looked up and down the hall. She thought herself lucky that no one had come to see about the racket. It might have been luck, but more likely it was fear. Commotions from Mason's apartment were quite common, and all of the workers had learned early that they didn't want to get involved. Mags closed the door and pressed the bracket back into place, forcing the screws back into their stripped holes. It wouldn't hold, but from a distance, it looked right.

_I can do this_ , she thought, part believing it and part trying to convince herself, as she started off down the hall—down a new path. For the first time in her life, she was on her own. The solitude was scary, but certainly no worse than what she was leaving behind. From now on, her life was her own. _Fuck this up, and you're the only one to blame_.

#  Chapter 40

"The timing won't be easy," Mother said over the howling wind of the barren and frozen wasteland. There was nothing but snow, ice, and wind as far as Sean's squinting eyes could see. Mother and Billie seemed oblivious to the fact that it was 57 degrees below zero, but the frigid blasts stung at Sean like a swarm of angry wasps. "Once he's healed you, you'll only have a split second before you get a soul. Once you've been ripped from Billie, you'll no longer be able to control your reality. You'll be an Authentic, and Authentics don't do that. The only reason that you can control your reality now is because Billie put so much of herself into making you that you picked up some of her power. Once you're no longer a part of her, you won't have a chance against Mason."

"I can't control anything," Sean stuttered, violently shivering in the icy tundra.

"It's not cold here!" Mother shouted impatiently. "It's not anything here. It's whatever you want it to be—whatever you think it to be."

Sean heard his words, but they didn't mean anything. In fact, his core temperature was dropping so fast that in a few more seconds, Sean was sure he'd be dead. The irony wasn't lost on him. Just a few minutes ago, he had asked to be put down, and now, with death a real possibility, he was desperate to live. _I want to be a real boy, Geppetto_ , was all that he could think as his blood rushed away from his cracking skin to preserve as much warmth as possible around his vital organs. "I can't do this!" Sean screamed weakly.

"You've been doing this for weeks!" Mother shouted. They kept telling him that he'd been maintaining his own reality since the very first night, but Sean had no idea what that meant. He'd done nothing that he hadn't been doing all of his life, which to him still seemed like more than mere weeks.

"Believe that it's warm, and it will be," Billie said, grabbing his trembling hand. More than he hated her, Sean loved her. Telling himself any different was like trying to talk himself out of being hungry. He knew that he was programmed, but it was what it was. When she touched his hand in that frozen wasteland that had simply appeared around them, he felt a wave of warmth. Not heat; his body was still just as cold. He felt her warmth—her admiration—her caring—her love. "Focus!" she screamed in desperation.

Sean closed his eyes and squeezed Billie's hand. He felt her squeeze back. He remembered how the hot July sun of his youth made the blacktop sticky and soft, and how the spiky grips of his bicycle's pedals digging into his bare feet were sweet relief compared to the scorching pavement. Almost immediately, he stopped shivering, and though he could still feel the wind against his skin, it didn't sting anymore. Now, it was a hot wind. He opened his eyes to see the same barren tundra; it was almost pretty now that it wasn't trying to kill him. _Can it really be just that easy?_ Sean wondered, as he thought the air still and the howling wind grew quiet.

"That's better," Mother said, breathing in the quiet. Billie pressed her body against Sean in a sort of armless hug, and she smiled coyly, looking more like a smitten school girl than an evolved being. Sean was getting the hang of this and for the first time, he realized the possibilities. With nothing more than a thought, the ice and snow around them melted away and was replaced by green grass and wild flowers. A huge tree with a gold trunk and cobalt blue leaves sprouted from the ground and matured before their eyes. Sean looked at Billie, knowing that he didn't make it. Billie shrugged and smiled. Sean smiled back at her. And then it all vanished in a pop, and the snow and ice was back.

"There's no reason to flirt with continuity," Mother said sternly. Billie and Sean stepped apart, their romantic flower-filled field lost to the tundra. "I have work," Mother said, and then he vanished, leaving Sean and Billie alone. Neither said a word for a long moment, then Sean finally broke the silence.

"So, what happens to you when I get a soul?"

#  Chapter 41

In their quest to stand before Her Holiness and be judged to receive the Lord's gift, worshippers had started arriving earlier and earlier every night since the first. Annie had barely finished her dinner when May came to her and informed her that the tent was full and everyone was already waiting for her. "Oh, for pity's sake," she'd said, irritated, but when May reminded her that the Lord wouldn't ask more of her than she was able to give, she rethought her chide and prepared herself for the evening's judgments.

The tent was just as full as it had been on the first night—every night they were packed to capacity—but Annie had managed to streamline the process even more since then. Instead of having each group stand before Her Holiness and blather on about how they were worthy, Annie and May now simply looked upon the crowd, picked out any individuals that were not appropriate to receive the Lord's gift, informed those few of their options, and then herded everyone else into Building 13. Annie liked to think that she could pass judgment from a mile away, but the truth was that May was the only one to ever single out inappropriate individuals. Annie would have given everyone the Lord's gift. All told, the process now took far less than an hour, and with it starting so early in the evening, Annie was pleased that she would be back in her quarters in time for Jeopardy.

Zelda stood at the rear of the tent, trying to stay out of sight, but May knew that she was there. She didn't bother to tell Annie, and when Zelda brought up the rear of the pack that was entering Building 13, May walked up beside her and grabbed hold of her hand. Zelda was surprised, but she didn't protest. Annie and a couple of her minions followed, securing the tent and closing the doors to the building behind them.

Building 13 was a dark, dank, and musty building. The light bulbs had been intentionally removed, and only a very few candles hanging on the wall lit the path for the chosen. Annie could always feel the excitement in the air. All the families, so excited that they'd been chosen for the Lord's gift, so delighted to finally know they'd be saved, pressed the herd down the long brick hall, as if the Lord might run out of gifts if they took too long.

After passing through a narrow doorway and down a couple steps, the chosen emptied into a large open space, though it didn't feel large when it was packed shoulder to shoulder. "What's in there?" Zelda asked May, who was still holding her hand, as they watched the chosen slowly file through the narrow door.

"The Lord's gift, of course," May said, smiling and swinging their arms together, back and forth. Annie pushed past May and Zelda and pressed her hands on the backs of the stragglers. The whole process was taking far too long for her liking.

"No one can receive the Lord's gift until we're all inside the Room of Purity!" Annie prodded, and the mob pressed on faster. "Keep moving! Everyone will fit! Please squeeze in!" As the last of the chosen finally made it down the steps into the room, Annie turned and looked at Zelda. "Come now. Always room for one more." Annie motioned Zelda into the room, but Zelda didn't budge.

"Not this one," May said stearnly. "She's been a very bad girl." Annie looked at May quizzically, but only for a moment—no time to waste. Turning to the open doorway, she cleared her throat and addressed the solid-packed mob.

"As the Lord said," Annie started, "let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: First collect the weeds and tie them in bundles; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn." There was a smattering of _amens_ from the huddled crowd. "'I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals." Annie's voice was getting louder and more powerful, and the crowd was starting to work itself up. Nozzles in the wall of the Room of Purity began spraying a fine mist over the crowd. Most of them assumed that it was holy water, baptizing them, and they lifted their heads and closed their eyes. _This must be the gift_ , they thought. A few noticed that the mist was oily and assumed that that they were being anointed.

Annie began mumbling, low enough that only May and Zelda, who had come up beside her in the doorway, could hear. "The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." Zelda, realizing what was about to happen to all of the Suits crammed into the room—what had been happening to all of the Suits that she needed for her plan—tried to lunge at Annie, but she couldn't move a muscle. She tried to scream, to warn the chosen, but her voice was completely gone. As hard as she struggled, internally, no one noticed a thing from the outside.

May looked up and her and shook her head. She put her finger to her little pursed lips and said, "Shhh. This is the good part."

Just then, Annie stopped mumbling, and in her most powerful voice she bellowed, "Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!" The crowd erupted in cheers, as if their favorite team had just scored a winning touchdown. Annie stepped back while the mob congratulated itself, and she began closing the heavy metal door that had been open all the way to the wall. When the door was half closed, May tugged on Annie's arm, and Annie stopped cold.

"What?" Annie snapped angrily. This was her favorite part.

"Always room for one more," May said, motioning Annie into the Room of Purity. Annie just looked at her, confused. She didn't know if she'd heard her wrong, or if this was some sort of childish attempt at humor. It was only when May gently pushed her through the doorway with the strength of an elephant that Annie got the message.

"No!" Annie screamed, and the mob pulled her in, desperate to embrace Her Holiness, assuming that this was all part of the gift. They patted her on the back, hugged at her, and pawed at her. Their praise drowned out her screams. Annie tried to claw her way back to the door, but the thin layer of oil that now covered everything in the room and hung in the air made everything and everyone so slippery that she couldn't gain traction. May finished closing the heavy door just as Annie disappeared into the dimly lit crowd, and May secured the latch with a ringing _ker-chunk_. Little May nodded at a minion who stood by the opposite wall, near a control panel with a switch. The minion flipped the switch, as he had many nights before, and a dozen sparks lit the oil mist that hung in the incinerator. Oil continued to flood in, and flames filled the room. The shrieks from within were disturbing, even to Zelda, but the combustion chamber grew so hot, so quickly, that they lasted only a moment. It would take an hour to vaporize all of the water from the corpses and turn the remains into dust, but the suffering was already over.

Zelda felt the hold on her release, but it was far too late to do anything to save the Suits. Mason could heal them, but he couldn't bring them back from ash. "So you're the one that's been putting a crimp in my plan," Zelda said to May, without a hint of resentment; Zelda knew she'd been beat. "I wondered why we didn't have more Suits to heal—to give souls." May just smiled at her, and then her little body morphed into Mother's familiar form. Zelda frowned. "I should have known."

"Hello, my dear," Mother said. Zelda dropped her shoulders and sighed.

"I thought we had a truce?" Zelda asked, as if she hadn't been working to create enough new Authentics to overrun the Guardians and break continuity.

"Yes, well, it's hard to know who to trust these days." Zelda didn't argue the point.

"I didn't think you guys killed Authentics," Zelda questioned, referring to Annie. "Better to rehabilitate than reincarnate. Isn't that what you always say?"

"Delusions of piety is an exception to that rule. That and wearing black socks with shorts—there are some things that we just can't fix." Zelda smiled. It had been a long time since she'd seen this side of Mother. When they were married, he was quite a whimsical guy, but after the ascension, when she refused to give up herself and join him as a Guardian, he became downright dreary.

"You know, I have someplace that I need to be," Zelda said coyly, coming close to him.

"You know that I won't allow that," Mother responded, their faces almost touching.

"Hmm. I guess we're stuck with each other." Zelda didn't seem to mind too much.

"At least until this is over, it seems we are," Mother said, placing his hands on her hips. "But we don't have to be stuck here." The minion by the switch watched as Mother and Zelda vanished for a more aesthetic location, and he smiled big at the ideas in his head.

#  Chapter 42

Sean took to controlling his reality better than Billie had ever hoped, but he was no ordinary Suit. Most Suits walked through life on auto-pilot, running on instinct. Even Authentics knew that there was something different about them, though they didn't know exactly what it was. They seemed shallow—cardboard even—and it was hard to imagine that there was anything going on under their surface. Suits—most Suits—didn't have hopes or dreams or desires. They wanted what they'd been programmed to want; for them, nothing much ever changed.

Sean was different though. He was so full of Guardian that he could barely be considered a Suit. And his programming didn't help. Guardians acted only out of love, and Sean's main purpose was to love—to love Billie. He had too much Guardian in him, and he used it too well. And yet, oddly, he wasn't the one that was causing all the trouble. That distinction belonged to Mason with his hobby of healing every Suit that he could lay hands upon. But even the healing wasn't the problem; Guardians had seen Suits that could heal before. The real trouble was the fact that Mason's healings gave Suits souls, turning them into Authentics, all the while slowly killing their Guardian-creators. This was the part that no one had ever seen before. This was the game changer. This was the mystery.

Guardians had a much better view on the true nature of existence, but there were still a lot of holes in their understanding. Was God some bearded guy in a white robe and sandals, or was that too convenient? Most guessed that God was more elemental, but in truth, any opinion was just as valid as any other. For all of their understanding, there wasn't a Guardian alive that could prove that God wasn't a giant pink armadillo with beatnik shades and a goatee. They just didn't know. What they did know was that sometimes things changed. Sometimes the game changed. Sometimes the game was changed. And this was one of those times. There had been 3,137 Authentics in existence since the beginning. Never one more and never one less. But now there were more. Now a rogue Suit was manufacturing Authentics at breakneck speed, and the cost of the assembly line was being paid with the lives of the Guardians.

"If you put so much of yourself in me," Sean said, "then when I get a soul, isn't it going to kill you?"

"I should be alright," Billie said in her best attempt at nonchalance. "I'm still tied to Mason, and when he's ended, that will help." She sounded confident, but there was a tinge of worry in her voice. Sean sensed that her words weren't sincere. "It all has to happen fast. You'll be killing Mason at the same time that you're getting your soul, so it'll be a wash. One out, one in. Probably." Sean didn't like the logistics. He could only fight Mason as a Suit. Once he got a soul, he'd be cut off from his Guardian source, and he'd no longer be able to control his reality. At the same time, if he killed Mason without being healed, there be no way for him to get a soul, and he'd be a Suit, a shell of a person, a collection of fabricated memories, for the rest of his life; he'd already learned that his life as a Suit wouldn't be very long. In order for this plan to work, he'd have to kill Mason in the split second between when he was healed and when the bond between he and Billie was cut and his aura was snuffed out. Mason's guard might be lessened a little by the ecstasy that he felt after healing, but the odds still weren't good. Sean hated poor odds. He hoped that his military training—programmed memory of military training—was good enough to make this work. But if it wasn't, the consequences would be harsh. Billie would die.

"I know what I am. Still, I can't help but love you," Sean said with more heart than a Suit should ever muster. Billie turned her back on him to hide her tears.

"This should never have happened," Billie said, her back still turned, "but if given the chance, I wouldn't change a second. Even if it means the end of the world, I couldn't give up what we've had." She felt his hand on her shoulder, and she heard his sweet voice.

"I might be nothing now, just a Suit, but even with a soul, I'd be less without you." He squeezed her shoulder and then lifted his hand away. Tears were streaming down her cheeks; she wasn't ashamed. Billie spun around to embrace her love—to feel his arms around her one more time—but instead of falling into him, she gasped with fright. Through the cloud of tears in her eyes, she searched for Sean, but he wasn't with her any more. Billie was alone.

#  Chapter 43

Mags had made it out of the Administration Building without being seen by Mason, and apparently everyone else had learned to avoid her particular brand of crazy because they gave her a wide berth everywhere that she went. If anyone did get too close, she just squinted her eyes and slurred a profanity at them, and they let her be, assuming that she was simply walking off yet another bender. In the park, it was easy to blend into the crowds—what was left of them. Her picture had been all over during the first days of Mason's spectacle, but as of late, no one on the outside had heard a word about her. And weeks of abusing meds and just generally letting herself go had made her face so puffy that the average person could look her straight on and not recognize her for the Messiah's wife.

The only thing that made her look suspicious was the fact that while everyone else was cued up to enter the park, she was trying to get out. Ultimately, Mags found some truck drivers that had delivered their loads of supplies and were off to another destination, and she used them as blockers in the crowd, following in their burley wake. In fact, she followed them all the way to the truck lot, at which point she picked the only female trucker in the bunch and asked her for a ride.

"Where you headed," said a hefty gal in a flannel shirt.

"Away from here," Mags responded, hoping to avoid too many questions. The hefty gal got the picture.

"I'm headed south. You can ride with me if you want. You ain't got anything on ya, do ya?" the gal said firmly. Mags wasn't sure what she was asking. She thought about the gold trinket in her pocket and wondered if she should offer it as payment. "Drugs?" the gal said. "Guns? Knives? Pot? Anything that can get me in trouble? Contraband?"

"Just me," Mags said, more serious than joking, but the gal didn't realize, and she gave a snicker.

"You don't look like that much trouble to me," she said, softening. "Climb in. It'll be nice to have somebody to talk to."

#  Chapter 44

People were just starting to trickle into the Healing Hall, and Mason was already waiting in the hallway outside the door from the back of the room. The crowds hadn't been stellar lately, and even if they had been, the relief that he felt after healing people wasn't as satisfying as it once was. He could feel the old familiar anxiety building inside of him, and he had hoped for a good crowd. Based on the look of things so far, he expected to be disappointed. _Where the hell is Zelda_ , he thought. _One way or another, she could make me feel better_. But he hadn't seen her in hours. Not since he'd ordered her to deal with Annie.

Mason was peeking through the back door again when Sean appeared behind him, already pointing his 9mm at the back of Mason's head. Sean knew what killing Mason this way—now—meant. It meant that he'd never be real. He'd never get a soul. But it also meant that Billie would live. In impossible situations, good men make the best choices they can. Sean was trying to do that. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, but when the hammer slammed down on the firing pin, there was no report from the barrel. Out of reflex, Sean pulled the trigger again, but again, the gun didn't fire. Mason kept peering through the cracked doorway.

"I felt your shoulder first," Mason said, referring to Sean's healing dog bite wound. "You're not like the other one. I could heal you. The last one that tried to kill me was different. He didn't have an aura." Mason was exceedingly calm, considering that he was under attack, and Sean did his best to not panic. "Are you going to die when I touch you?" Mason turned around slowly to face Sean, but Sean didn't answer. Instead, he palmed his useless pistol and swung it at Mason's head like a brick. The gun made contact, but when it did, it shattered into black metal dust and exploded in the air. "That wasn't very nice. You should be more respectful of your Messiah!"

Sean could feel Mason's invisible grip around his neck. He felt it pulling him backward across the wide hallway, and he felt the hard cement block wall stop him with a thud. _For an illusion, that sure did hurt_ , Sean thought as his feet dangled off the ground. Sean willed the floor to raise and meet his feet, and it did. Mason was impressed. "You can do things too," he screamed excitedly, as if he'd finally found someone to play with. Sean used his own invisible grip to squeeze Mason's testicles, and Mason instantly screamed and released his grip on Sean. Sean ripped a cement block out of the wall as if it was a pillow, and he swung it at Mason, but Mason turned the stone to water long before it connected, and it splattered to floor.

The pair went back and forth, each dodging and countering, each having very little effect on the other, but Mason had been at this a lot longer than Sean, and in the end, Sean was no match. While Sean was conjuring heavy objects and hurling them, Mason was easily batting them away, as well as willing jagged shards of steel to appear in Sean's gut. Every move Sean made ripped at his organs, and he didn't even notice until it was too late. Maybe with more time, more training, he could have beat Mason, but as he crumpled to floor, his belly extended with pooling blood, he knew that he'd failed. He'd failed Billie.

"That was fun," Mason gloated, as if he'd just beaten Sean in a game of darts. "It's a shame I have to kill you. We could have been pals."

"We're ready for you, Your Grace," one of the ushers said, sticking her head through the back door to the Healing Hall. Her eyes got wide when she realized the scene that she's popped into. There was rubble all around, and Sean lay dying on the floor. She made a hasty retreat and left the men to themselves; this was more biblical than she'd bargained for.

Mason had an idea. He hovered over Sean who was growing weaker by the second and he said, "Feel like joining the show, buddy? I've been looking for a good finale."

#  Chapter 45

In a hospital in Tampere, Finland, the charge nurse for the Labor and Delivery floor settled a newborn into the cradle of her mother's arms for the very first time. Her pregnancy had been easy, but the delivery had been hard. It was almost like the baby didn't want to come out, no matter how they coaxed and no matter how patiently they waited. Eventually, the doctor felt it necessary to deliver by Cesarean Section, and when he pulled the baby from her mother's womb, he could have sworn that the little girl wrinkled her nose and took a swing at him. But the delivery was all behind them now. Now they were a family.

"They want to know what we're going to name her," her new father said softly, trying his best not to wake the most precious thing he'd ever seen.

"I think she looks like an Anneli," her mother said.

"Ugh," her father grunted. "That's such a common name. She'll be one of ten Annelis in her grade."

"Well I like it," her mother said, defiantly, and then she frowned and looked away.

"Okay. Alright. Anneli, it is," he said, knowing that this was no time to argue; today was too precious. She was too precious. For the rest of his life, her father swore to love his little Anneli, and her mother, no matter what. He bent down and kissed them both on the forehead. Today was a new start for all of them. The baby cooed ever so slightly, letting go of the flames that brought her here and settling into her new digs. Things would be so much better this time. She'd be better this time.

#  Chapter 46

Sean was the first one through the back entrance to the healing hall. In fact, it was his limp body that knocked the door open and almost off the hinges. If the crowd hadn't been stunned by the noise, the sight of Sean floating into the room, three feet off the ground, would have left everyone speechless. "Behold!" Mason screamed as he entered the room with a flourish. "A demon, sent by Satan, to kill me!" Mason tossed Sean into the middle of the floor. Attendees scrambled out of the way. Everyone kept away from Sean, who lay slumped into a battered ball, nearly dead. "Don't be afraid of the beast. I will protect you from evil."

The crowd was in shock. No one knew what to think. There had been stories that the Messiah had fought a demon and turned it to dust, but bible stories—even modern day bible stories—were much different than the live-action version. But Mason didn't mind their fear. There was more excitement in the room than he'd felt in weeks. Finally, something new was going to happen—something interesting. Finally there'd be some action.

Like a kid on Christmas, he couldn't wait for his present; everything else was just in the way. He didn't even care about the collection plates, which had invariably been a part of every show. "Everyone gather around for healing!" Mason shouted. The crowd didn't move quickly enough, so he slid them around, reasonably gently, until they were in a tight bunch, mostly between him and Sean. "Alright, now everybody grab on to the person in front of you—anywhere you like—we're all friends here, right?" Mason giggled out loud at his own joke. He hadn't been this pleased with himself in weeks. At the back of the pack, one woman took a step away, not touching anyone, and another slid off her shoe, pressed her bare foot onto the palm of Sean's battered hand, and then grabbed onto the old man in front of her.

Mason walked right up to the front of the pack, grabbed the two closest people by the nape of the neck, and black clouds began funneling through the web of Suits and into Mason's hands, faster than it ever had before. No messing around today. No toying with the poor slobs. Today, Mason had a demon to kill.

Auras started snuffing out, and Mason began to feel the familiar relief that made all of this worthwhile, but his relief was disturbed by a blood curdling scream from the back of the room. The members of the crowd, who were always a little slow in adjusting to their first moments with a soul, looked around dumbfounded, but they naturally parted when Mason bounded through to investigate the cry. In fact, he was so intent on the moaning hooded woman at the back of the room that he didn't even notice that Sean was no longer lying on the floor behind the pack.

"What's your problem," he demanded, not at all concerned for her well-being but angry that she'd stolen his thunder. "Who are you?"

"I'm your mother," Billie said, slowly hoisting herself off the floor. The pain had been worse than the last time that a Suit had ripped at her to make a soul—much worse. She hadn't been properly prepared. She couldn't have prepared for it. She didn't have much strength left, and she wobbled and almost fell, but she eventually found her feet and stood before her greatest mistake. She pulled back her hood to reveal her face, and Mason recognized her instantly as the one that got away.

"Demon!" he screamed lunging for her, but she didn't try to dodge. Instead, she opened her arms and Mason fell into her embrace. Sean, having been fully healed and blessed with a soul, cried out and made for the pair. It was too late.

"I love you," Billie mouthed with her last breath, looking over Mason's shoulder to Sean, who fell to his knees and cried out again. As the last bit of Billie smoldered, and glowing flames wisped across her skin leaving gray in its wake, she winked at Sean and then crumbled into a pile of ash.

Mason took a step back, curious as to why she hadn't fought him, but then a strange feeling came over him. Looking down at his fingers, he saw the same smoldering flames that he had seen twice before. Mason let out a yelp, and he tried to pat out the flames, but every time he did, the flames spread further and faster. In seconds, Mason suffered the same fate that he'd inflicted on Billie, and he was reduced to a second pile of ash on the floor. Every new Authentic in the room was distraught at the death of the Messiah, save one.

The woman slipped her shoe back on. She'd ensured Sean's soul, and now she stepped up behind him and helped him to his feet. He hadn't noticed her before. When he was on the floor, he was barely conscious, and after he was healed, things had been fairly hectic. He turned to look at her, for the first time, through tears of immense loss, and much to his shock, the eyes that looked back at him were joyously familiar. They were Billie's eyes.

"Billie?" he uttered, dumbfounded. She smiled at him the way she always had. "How can it be?"

"It's kind of not," she said, more casually than he would have liked. The look that he gave her told her clearly that he was in no mood for riddles. "I'm Billie's newest Suit. Or at least I was until I got a soul."

"Billie made you? When?"

"Right after you left her, you big lug. Pretty romantic, but as it turns out, pretty stupid. Hindsight, you know. I was her insurance policy. If you couldn't kill Mason, she knew that she'd have to, and the only sure way that she could figure was to let him kill her. No more Guardian, no more Suit-full-o'-Guardian. Kind of tragic—but really effective. So, she made me to look just like her, and she put everything she had left into me—and I mean everything. Every hope and dream. Every memory. Every desire," the new Billie gave him a wink. "Everything."

"So you're her?"

"Pretty much, Pretty Boy. I'm as close to her as you can get, without actually being her. At least temporarily. Authentics lose their past knowledge shortly after they reincarnate, so she'll only live on for my lifetime. After that, I'm just any other schmuck with a soul." Sean didn't say a word. He didn't know what to say. The new Billie paused, considering, and then said, "I don't want you getting a big head, Pal, but in the interest of full disclosure, I probably need to come clean. Billie told me that having one life with you, instead of an eternity without you, was a trade that she'd make every day." She got very serious, "This is how she wanted it."

Sean was still at a loss for words. He'd watched Billie die just moments ago, but now, here she was, standing in front of him, more charming than ever—lightened by the knowledge that she'd solved her mess. He knew that she wasn't exactly the same Billie he'd known, but in all reality, if there was such a thing, he'd only known the real Billie for a few hours before today. Everything he loved about her, all the memories that she'd planted in his mind, she'd also planted in her new and improved version. He knew that it was wrong, or maybe it was entirely right, but Sean didn't really feel much of a loss at all. In fact, if anything, he felt thrilled to know that he and Billie could be together, as equals, for the rest of their lives. He'd been a Suit programmed to love her, and now she'd been a Suit programmed to love him.

Billie put her hand on her hip and cocked her head. Sean became very aware that he still hadn't said anything since learning that this Billie was, mostly, _the_ Billie. "I," he stammered, searching for words. "I love you."

"I thought you would," she smiled. "You have to. That's how I made you."

#  Chapter 47

They'd been on the island for months, but their daily walks on the beach were just as wonderful as they'd been the first day. Billie knew that it wasn't the beach so much as the fella attached to her hand, but she didn't tell him that. No reason to inflate that already overblown noggin. Sean felt the same, but he didn't mind saying it.

"There she is," Billie said, as they climbed up through the loose sand and onto a plank walkway that led to a beachside bar.

"She looks good," Sean said. "Happy." Billie nodded and squeezed Sean's hand.

"Hey folks," the bartender said with a big smile when they saddled up at the end of the bar. "The usual?"

"Sounds good, Margaret," Sean said, smiling right back. A drunk two stools down overheard them, and keyed in on her name.

"More rum, Maggie, Maggie, Mags," he slurred, holding up an empty glass with an umbrella. The beautiful bartender snapped around and got right up in his face.

"My name's Margaret," she demanded, staring at him with steely eyes until he put his glass back on the bar and apologized sheepishly.

She softened and brought Sean and Billie's usual drinks. "I gave you some extra pineapple," Mags said, sliding a fruit-filled rum drink to Billie.

"Thank you, Love," Billie said, popping a piece into her mouth. "That's so sweet."

"Just looking out for you," Mags said, wiping down the bar in front of them. "That's my job."

#  About the Author

C. Allen Brown is an academic law librarian in Michigan's Lower Peninsula who spent just enough years practicing law to never want to write a legal thriller. While lawyering is a noble profession, he much prefers teaching legal research to law students and helping patrons at the reference desk. In addition to www.CAllenBrown.com, you can follow C. Allen on twitter at @ReadCAllenBrown.

