The Second Summoning

When they pulled apart a moment later, an eight-meter circle of parking lot had been cleared of snow. The asphalt directly underfoot steamed gently.

“Is that going to happen every time?” Dean asked a little shakily, following Claire around to the bus.

“I honestly don’t know.” Her lips felt bruised and all her clothing felt way too tight. “How about we stop for the night once I get this hole closed?” Dean glanced at his watch. “It’s ten after four.”

“It’s getting dark.”

He looked up at the sky and down at Claire. “I saw a hotel just up the road.”

“So did I.” Dropping to her knees by the bus fender, she pulled off her glove and, holding a finger an inch or so off the chrome, traced a triple gouge in the metal

“That’s it, then?” Dean asked behind her. “It’s some small.”

“A cascade doesn’t have to be very big. The driver probably clipped a car on the way out of the parking lot, because clipping a moving car would have caused an actual accident, didn’t stop, opened a hole, and flashed nasty possibilities all hither and yon on the bus route, probably causing a number of minor fender benders all day, which kept the hole from closing. Hence, cascade. It’s kind of like if every one of those minor fender benders had picked off the scab.” Dean winced. “I wasn’t after asking. But how do you know the driver didn’t stop?”

“Driver stops, no hole.” Reaching into the possibilities, she pressed her thumb hard against one end of the first gouge. The metal rippled. The gouge disappeared.

Twice more and the hole was closed. “I expect I’ll be closing a few holes this thing inspired,” she said as Dean helped her straighten up. “Sign says London-Toronto but since we’re still in London, it was clearly London-Toronto and back.” Pulling her glove on, she noticed a new glow of adoration in his expression. “What?”

“You’ve never mentioned you do bodywork.”

“I can rustproof, too.”

“You can?”

She grinned up at him. “No, sorry. I just wanted to see your eyes light . . .

Oh!”

“New Summons?”

“No . . .”

“No?”

“No. It’s something else. Something close.”

“So much for quitting early.” He was disappointed, of course, but the cold had pretty much taken care of the actual incentive.

“No.” Claire started across the parking lot. “Really close.” When she reached the sidewalk, she paused and turned right. “Whatever it is, it’s inside the bus terminal.”

The door was locked. The sign said, “TERMINAL CLOSES 4PM

CHRISTMAS DAY.”

“I guess that’s it until tomorrow, then.” Dean polished a few fingerprints off the glass and turned away. “Look, there’s the hotel.” A little confused, he watched Claire pull off her glove, not the reaction he’d been expecting. “What?”

“I guess this has never come up . . .” Reaching into the possibilities, she opened the door.

“Claire! That’s breaking and entering!”

“I didn’t break, so it’s just entering.” She grabbed two handfuls of his coat and shoved him inside. “Move. Life is so much easier if we don’t have to explain to Bystanders.”

“But this is illegal!” he protested as the door closed behind them. When she stepped forward without answering, he grabbed her arm. “The mat!” She jerked back and looked down. “What?”

“Wipe your feet.”

Claire considered a couple of possible responses. Then she wiped her feet.

Half a dozen paces inside the terminal, she dropped down to one knee and pressed the spread fingers of her right hand against the tiles. “This isn’t good.”

“I’d say it’s some disgusting,” Dean growled, kneeling beside her. “How can anyone leave their floors in this condition.”

“Dean . . .”

“Sorry. I expect you found something else that isn’t good?” Claire lifted her hand. The pads of her fingers sparkled. “Angel residue.”

“Merry Christmas. You’ve reached the Hansen residence. No one feels like taking your call, so at the beep . . .”

“Not now, Diana, we’ve got a problem. I’m at a pay phone in the London bus terminal, and you’ll never guess what I’ve found.” Phone jammed between ear and shoulder, Diana slid a platter of leftover turkey into the fridge. “Buses?”

“Angel residue.”

“That would’ve been my next guess.”

“Right. It seems like Lena’s visitor hasn’t gone home.”

“Unless he’s taking the bus.” She reached into the possibilities, opened a pocket on the second shelf, and shoved in the cranberry sauce, half a bowl of sweet potatoes, and an old margarine container now full of gravy. “You know, kind of a

‘this bus is bound for glory’ thing. Say, how come you’re not using the cell phone you got for Christmas? No long distance charges and the battery’s good until the end of days. When you’re standing at the start of the Apocalypse, you’ll still have enough juice to call 911.”

“And tell them what?”

“I dunno. Run?”

“I’m not using the cell phone because I left it in the truck. And I need you to go talk to Father Harris at St. Pat’s. He’s the last person who we know saw the angel.