The Second Summoning

Although the plows had been busy all night, it was still snowing lightly and the driving was treacherous. When it became apparent that Dean needed to concentrate on the road . . .

You’ll find out what Diana’s up to when we get there.

Could we deal with what happens after the angel’s gone, after the angel’s gone, then.

“Claire, please shut up.”

. . . she amused herself by watching a pair of frost fairies skating along the hydro lines. Matched double axles, a star lift, and a thrown triple salkow later, she popped in a tape of The Nutcracker.

“This is different.” Austin climbed out from behind the seat and settled in her lap. “You don’t usually like classical music.”

“I know, but somehow it seemed to fit.”

They stopped for breakfast in Huntsville.

“I should get gas,” Dean observed as they pulled out of the diner’s parking lot.

“I got gas,” Austin moaned, head and both front paws draped over the edge of the seat. “I should never have eaten those sausages.” Claire folded her arms. “What sausages?”

“Did I say sausages? I meant, uh . . .” The windows rattled as his stomach made a sound between a gurgle and plate tectonics. “All right. I meant sausages; three plump juicy sausages. Slightly over-cooked and containing bits of two items I couldn’t identify. The kid in the next booth dropped them on the floor, and I ate them.”

“When?”

“When Dean was explaining to the waitress how running the dishwasher at a higher temperature would keep the cutlery from streaking.”

“Right. Then.”

“Yeah, then. When you were studying the menu with such intense concentration.”

Pulling up in front of the gas pumps, Dean shot her a quick look. “You were embarrassed?” When she nodded, he grinned. “Why? The waitress didn’t mind.” The waitress didn’t mind because he’d been smiling up at her and the combination of Dean’s smile and accent and shoulders made most women and a goodly number of men between the ages of thirteen and death temporarily lose cognitive functions. He could have told the waitress how to get black heel marks off the floor, tomato sauce stains out of her apron, and greasy thumbprints off the napkin dispenser, all of which he’d done in the past, and she wouldn’t have minded. In the past he’d never noticed the reactions he provoked, but something in the way he grinned as he got out of the truck suggested that had changed.

“So he’s noticing people are noticing.” Austin twisted his head around until he could spear Claire with a pale green gaze. “So what?” She watched Dean clean the windshield, carefully lifting each wiper blade and setting it just as carefully back in place. “So I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“About him noticing that waitress noticed him?” When she nodded, he snorted. “Don’t worry about it. She made him French toast. You made him a man.”

“But he really liked the French toast.”

“And once you’ve dealt with the angel . . .”

“And the demon.”

“And the demon, he’ll really like locking me in the bathroom again.”

“You think?”

“No. I’m just talking to hear myself.” Belly sagging, he heaved himself up onto his feet. “Now open the door. There’s a trio of sausages I have to introduce to a snowbank.”

“I’d have thought that angels were more the early to bed, early to rise types.” Samuel heaved himself up into something close to a sitting position, blinked at the room in general for a few moments, and then reluctantly swung his legs out of bed. “Why?”

“I dunno. The whole sentiment is just so sanctimonious I figured it had to be one of ... oh, man!” Diana clapped her hands over her eyes and rocked back in the chair. “Like I needed to see that first thing in the morning. I thought you were going to sleep in your underwear.”

“This is what was under what I was wearing when you said that.”

“Pardon me for not assuming angels would head out commando style.” A quick look elicited a low whistle. “You ought to send Mr. Giorno a nice thank you letter.”

His eyes widened. “It’s doing it again!”

“Well, don’t wave it at me!”

Ears burning, Samuel grabbed a pillow off the bed and held it protectively in front of him. “I’m not doing anything. It just . . .” He started to gesture, thought better of it, and resecured the pillow. “It just does that,” he finished miserably. “I hate this body.”

“Are angels allowed to hate?”

“Are we allowed to walk around with one of these?”

“You have a point.”

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, pillow on his lap. “Like I need you to remind me.”

Diana could feel the laughter rising. When she tried to hold it back behind her teeth, it escaped out her nose. Any chance she might have had at stopping it after that got blown away by Samuel’s affronted glare. Nothing to do but ride it out. After a few minutes, she wiped her eyes, drew in a shaky breath, and managed a fairly coherent,

“Sorry.”

“Sure. Whatever.” He glanced under the pillow.

“Anyway, you’ve taken care of the . . . Would you stop that!” This time the apology came out in separate syllables as Diana slid off the chair.