The Second Summoning

Half a dozen pigeons waited with Doug on the front steps. As Samuel stepped outside, they started toward him, noticed Diana, and came to a sudden, feather ruffling stop.

“The flying rats with you?” she sighed.

“Sort of. I can’t get rid of them.”

“Not a problem.” She raked a disdainful gaze over the birds and without raising her voice said, “Scram.”

A moment later, the steps were clear, a lone feather lost in the panic the only indication the pigeons had ever been there at all.

“Why didn’t it work when I did that?” Samuel muttered, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You wouldn’t hurt them, and they knew that. I, on the other hand, am perfectly capable of roasting them with a few chestnuts over an open fire and they knew that, too.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

The gold flecks swirled into the brown. “Yes, I do.”

“Stop it!”

“Kids, kids, kids.” Doug heaved himself up onto his feet and walked over.

“Not the place to be spatting.”

“Spatting?” Diana wrinkled her nose at the smell. “Who are you?”

“This is Doug, he’s an angel, too. He taught me how to eat, how to urinate . .

.”

“Eww, gross.”

“. . . where to sleep. I wouldn’t have gotten through last night without him.”

“You’d have managed, kid.”

Diana snorted. “You’re an angel?”

He spread his arms. The smell intensified. “Fuckin‘ A. But my work here is done.” Sliding sideways a step, he elbowed Samuel in the ribs. “You’ve got your girlie to take care of you now, kid. Me, I hear a bottle of . . .” His brows drew in.

“Doesn’t really matter what’s in the bottle, come to think of it.” A grayish tongue swept over dry lips. “But something’s callin’ me, that’s for shittin‘ sure. See ya, kid.”

“See you, Doug.”

Watching Doug descend to the sidewalk and head north, Diana couldn’t think of a less likely angel, although she supposed it was a harmless enough delusion.

“Come on, I’m freezing, let’s walk.”

Samuel shrugged. “Sure.”

At the sidewalk, she glanced back up at the impressive front of the cathedral.

And frowned. It had been snowing lightly, enough to obliterate all but the most recent footprints. A single line matching her boots led up to the wide double doors. She looked down at Samuel’s feet, then she looked north. The snow lay like an ivory carpet, surface unbroken to the corner.

“Son of a . . .”

A small dog trotting by on the other side of the street paused expectantly.

Diana waved him on. “Never mind.”

“Claire!”

Down on one knee by the side of the road, Claire waved at Dean to be quiet.

She almost had the stupid hole closed and . . .

Grabbing her under both arms, Dean threw her back toward the truck just as the SUV fishtailed across the highway, slid right over the hole, and came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the ditch.

Claire stared at the skid marks, noted that the heavy vehicle would have gone right through her, then squirmed around in Dean’s arms. “Thank you,” she said, and pulled his mouth down to hers. After a moment, in spite of heavy clothes and subzero temperatures, she got the distinct impression that they could solve the angel problem right there.

“I should see if the buddy in the car’s all right, then,” he murmured, separating their mouths only far enough to speak.

“You should.” She flicked her tongue against his lips and slid her hand up under his coat.

Dean jerked back and slammed his head into the truck. “Lord ’t‘undering Jesus, Claire! Your fingers are like ice!”

“Sorry.”

He touched a hand to the back of his head and winced. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. That sounded like it really hurt.”

“Hey, Florence Nightingale.” Austin’s head appeared over the tailgate. “The man knows if he’s okay. Get back to work. I’m freezing my furry little butt off out here!”

“You could have stayed in the truck,” Claire reminded him as she stood and wondered if it was against some sort of guy code to help Dean to his feet.

Austin flicked his ear to dislodge a snowflake. “I had to use the little cat room.

Now, you,” he fixed Dean with a baleful glare, “check the yuppie mobile. You . . .” The single eye switched targets. “... close the hole. And you . . .” Lifting his head, he scowled at the sky. “. . . stop snowing on me. I’m old.”

“Austin, that’s not . . .”

A sudden gust of wind blew the last flakes sideways. No more fell.

Only the front wheels of the SUV had gone into the ditch; a good two thirds remained firmly on the wide shoulder. The engine purred quietly to itself, the sound barely audible and nothing came out of the exhaust in spite of the cold. It was a deep maroon with a high gloss finish that looked like it could withstand a meteor strike and, in spite of four-wheel drive and heavy duty suspension, this was likely as far off road as it had ever been.

Squinting through the tinted glass, Dean realized the thin, blonde woman behind the wheel was on the phone. When he tapped on the driver’s door window, she opened it a finger’s width but continued looking down at the laptop open on the leather upholstery of the passenger seat. “Ma’am, you don’t need to call for a tow.