The Second Summoning

Trying not to fidget under the searchlight intensity of his unwanted guest’s gaze, Father Harris shuffled a few irrelevant papers around and wondered irritably why Frank Giorno hadn’t just called the police. He had to be in denial about finding the young man in his daughter’s room. Granted the boy deserved points for originality in a bad situation, but what angel ever had bleached blond tips on short dark brown hair? Or managed to slouch in such a convincingly adolescent way? Or looked quite so confused? The boy’s eyes were . . .

. . . were . . .

Gold flecks in velvet brown brightened, merged, and became a window into . .

.

. . . into . . .

Father Harris rubbed at his own eyes. He was far too tired to do any kind of counseling when he was not only seeing things but smelling grilled cheese sandwiches, his favorite food. Far, far too tired to wait for a stubborn teenager to speak first. “What’s your name, son?”

Name? Did he have a name? Everything had been named in the beginning so it was entirely possible. He started from the top, hoping something would sound familiar. There were only 301,655,722 angels after all, he’d have to reach it eventually.

“Son, your name?”

Startled, he grabbed one at random. “Samuel?”

“Are you asking?”

“No.” It had become his name. Whether it had been his name before was immaterial, he hoped.

“Samuel what?”

Was there more? He didn’t think so. “Just Samuel.” Father Nicholas sighed. At this rate they’d still be sitting in his office on New Year’s. “What are you on, Samuel?”

That was easier. He glanced down. “Laminate.” When the priest made an unhappy face, he took a closer look. “Laminate flooring, in medium oak, three ninety-nine a square foot, twenty-year warranty.”

“No . . .”

“No?”

Something in the young man’s expression insisted that the question be answered, as asked. “Well, yes. How did you know?” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “I have higher knowledge.” It was in the original specifications; higher knowledge, mobility, great hair, and he was supposed to have brought a message, although he didn’t actually know what the message was.

Lena Giorno’s shaping had been a little vague about everything except the great hair.

That, she’d been quite definite about.

“Higher knowledge about flooring?”

“Yes.” He waited for the priest to ask about other topics, but Father Harris only sighed again and ran a hand back through his hair.

“Okay, Samuel. Let’s start over. What did you take?” He straightened, appalled at the question. “Nothing!”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I swear to ... you know.” One finger pointed toward the ceiling.

“These clothes were given to me.” He glanced down at the front of his sweatshirt then back up again. “I don’t even know who Regis Philbin is.”

“Well, you’re probably the only person in North America who doesn’t,” the priest muttered. Then, raising his voice, he added, “Why were you in Lena Giorno’s bedroom?”

“She called me.”

“On the phone?”

“On a candle.”

“She called you on a candle?”

“Yes.”

Knowing Lena as he did, Father Harris took a shot in the dark. “An angel candle?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re an angel?”

“Yes.”

Feeling as if he’d just won a game of twenty questions, Father Nicholas sank back in his chair. “You’re an angel because Lena wanted you to be an angel?” Samuel nodded, happy that someone finally understood. “Yes. But her father expected me to be something else, so . . .” He spread his hands and looked down the length of his body. “... things got confused.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“I have genitalia, and I don’t know what to do with it. Them.”

“Genitalia?”

“You know, a ...”

A hurriedly raised hand cut off the details. “I know.”

“It’s making everything . . . strange.”

Now that was a complaint the priest had heard before. While he’d never heard it put quite that way, a good ninety-nine percent of the teenage counseling he did involved raging hormones. It felt so good to be back on familiar ground, he thought he might as well start off with a few stock platitudes. “If you want to maintain your self-respect, it’s important to fight the temptations of the flesh.”

“Okay. But what do I do with them during the battle?” And the familiar ground shifted. More tired than he could ever remember being, Father Harris rubbed at his temples and muttered, “Try tucking left.” Fabric rustled.

Fine. I surrender. I don’t know what he’s on, but I’m going to let him sleep it off. In the morning, when we’re both coherent, I’ll find out just who he is and what I should do with him.

Next morning . . .

“Merry Christmas, Dean.” Hurrying across the living room to take his free hand in hers, Martha Hansen reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Mrs. Hansen . . .”

“Martha. We’re glad you could join us.”

Holding his other hand, Claire smiled up at him. “Told you.”

“You told him what, Claire?”

She switched the smile to her mother. “That he had no reason to be nervous.”

“It wasn’t your mother . . .” Dean began in a low voice, but Claire cut him off before he could finish, adjusting her grip to drag him across the room.

“Dad? This is Dean.”