Angelus: A Novel

2006-11-01T19:46:00.000-08:00

NaNoWriMo 2005: Bring It On

2005-12-01T15:25:00.000-08:00

(This Post is dated IN THE FUTURE so that it will stay on the Front Page)

Against all instincts related to sanity and self-preservation, I'm going to participate in National Novel Writing Month for the second year in a row. That's right: 50,000 words in 30 days, culminating in a novel that I should have bound and in my hands by the second week in December.

Here's how it will hopefully break down:

2 weeks before Nov. 1st: Come up with an idea.
Week before Nov. 1st: Come up with an outline. Post tantalizing tidbits in this blog.
Nov. 1st - 15th: Write about 1700 words every day. Post chapters here.
Nov. 16th - 30th: Finish the damn thing.
Dec. 1st: Format the now-complete novel for paperback printing and upload it to Lulu.com. Order a copy.
By the second week of December: Receive first edition copy; if it looks right, unleash it on the world.
By Christmas (tentative): NY Times bestseller list

Lord have mercy on my soul.

Chapter Four

2005-11-08T16:10:00.000-08:00

Dating

“Dude,” said Huxley, “your jacket is glowing.”

Sam cautiously tugged at the sleeves of his smart black dinner jacket. “I think that’s just the acid talking, Huxley.”

Sam checked his watch for approximately the twentieth time in the entire stretch of the last five minutes. Dates made him nervous. He had gone into art specifically to avoid interacting with other people; if people wanted to get to know Sam, they could just analyze his paintings. That, coupled with the fact that Sam hadn’t been on a date since he was in college, probably explained the feeling he had that he was going to be sick all over his best shoes.

“How do I look?” he asked his roommate.

“You’re like a walking blacklight,” Huxley said, and giggled.

Sam frowned and made a mental note: never ask someone in tie-dye and on acid for fashion advice.

“Thanks,” said Sam.

“You’re going to do great, man,” said Huxley. “That Abbie is a good chick. I could tell. She had, you know, she had a good vibe, man, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I think.”

Sam considered another factor that might be contributing to his nervousness: the fact that he was the first man Abbie had ever slept with. There was something strangely romantic about it, he thought; the combination of innocence and raw passion that brought them together. If his conceptions of sex were any indication, it also meant that he now had an inflated ideal to live up to if he wanted to meet Abbie’s expectations for a relationship.

But did she even want a relationship? Abbie seemed so open and free-wheeling, like a hippie who had missed the free love movement by a few decades. Leaving this morning before Sam woke up told him that she had either no knowledge of traditional relationships, or simply no interest in them. There was some indiscernible quality about Abbie that drew Sam to her, but he didn’t want to get hurt like he had been with Alicia. If Abbie had no interest in a steady, exclusive, romantic relationship, how could he know she wouldn’t end up in the arms of another man like Alicia had?

Maybe he would have to go on “good vibes.”

Sam checked his watch again. 6:30. It was snowing again, and the drive to Bella Sera in the expensive part of town would take all of five minutes. Too early and he would be left sitting in his ill-heated and oft-malfunctioning Chevy, shivering and watching for Abbie through the snow. Too late, and – well, guys who show up late on dates probably fare even worse.

He threw a winter coat over his shoulders and headed for the door. “I have no idea what’s going to happen with this girl,” he told Huxley. “We might be back here later.”

“Cool,” said Huxley. He had made his way to the window, where he was watching snow fall through the warm orbs of the glowing streetlights. “I might be back later, too.”

Sam grinned and shook his head, grabbing his keys on the way out.

Bella Sera

Sam had never been inside Bella Sera, but the reviews he had read told him the food was almost exclusively Italian and expensive. The waiting area was decked out in lush reds and whites, which reminded him of spaghetti, and lit by gilded antique lamps that made him feel like he was enjoying the sunset on a patio in Rome.

He had been smart enough to stop in after meeting Abbie and make a reservation, and clever enough to ensure a place by slipping the maitre’d a wad of cash. What he hadn’t counted on was the fact that a thin little man in a suit worth more than Sam’s education would take over for the evening shift, and he refused to let Sam even peek into the dining room until the other half of his “party of two” arrived.

“I just want to see if she’s in there,” said Sam. “I didn’t tell her I made us a reservation.”

“Perhaps the next time you invite a lady to dinner, sir,” the maitre’d said down his nose, “you will be a gentleman and escort her to the restaurant.”

“I don’t know where she lives,” said Sam.

“Hmph,” said the maitre’d, burying his nose in the reservation book.

Sam sighed and looked at the large clock next to the dining room door. The ornate face told him that it was already 7:08 P.M. Where was she?

Sam finally heard the restaurant door open behind him, letting a gust of wind into the room. “See,” said Sam, “I told you she’d be here.”

“Excuse me?” said the elderly man standing in the doorway, wiping the snow off his boots.

“Never mind,” said Sam. He slumped back in his chair.

Four excruciating minutes and two false alarms later, Abbie walked into the restaurant. She was hugging her arms to her sides, still wearing the jeans and t-shirt she had been wearing the night before, but she had wrapped a wooly scarf around her neck.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said.

“Where’s your coat?” asked Sam, rising quickly and throwing his own coat around her shoulders. “You’re freezing!”

“I haven’t gotten one yet,” she said.

“But it’s the middle of winter.”

“Yeah...” She trailed off before perking up and saying, “So, are you hungry?”

“Starving,” said Sam. He turned to the maitre’d. “Baker, party of two.” He slathered on some faux pretention and added: “We have a reservation.”

“As I have about you,” he replied. “I’m sorry is your,” he cleared his throat, “lady friend planning on wearing that into the restaurant?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” asked Abbie.

“Nothing,” said Sam, reaching into his pocket. He pulled a few bills out of his fold and handed them to the maitre’d. “If anyone doesn’t like her clothes, you can buy them a blindfold. Okay?”

“Right this way, sir,” the man grumbled.

The dining room of Bella Sera went a long way towoards convincing Sam that you get what you pay for. It was gorgeous, a huge room bathed in warm beige colors and rich brown wood, spotted with more than a dozen small, elegant tables. A large mahogany bar stocked with a trove of expensive liquors stretched across the far wall. Music that made Sam think of The Godfather played gently from hidden recesses. The fine aroma of Italian food drifted out of the kitchen and off of the plates of a small crowd of diners. The scents, the sights, the sound; since becoming a tortured bohemian, Sam had forgotten what luxury was like. It was like walking into a Botticelli painting, minus the religious bent.

“Wow,” said Abbie.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

The maitre’d led Sam and Abbie to a small table in the far corner of the room, near the kitchen and the bathrooms. A waiter whose accent was obviously more Bostonian than Italian presented them with menus.

“Welcome to Bella Sera,” he said. “I’m Tommy, and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Can I get you anything to drink from our wine cellar?”

Sam gulped. He didn’t want to break the bank on his first date with Abbie, but he didn’t want her to think he was cheap either. He had to get something that would make him look classy, but wouldn’t cost a lot. It was a very tight wire to walk.

“I’ll take a Pepsi,” he said.

“I’ll have a water,” said Abbie.

The waiter was nonplussed. “Okay,” he said. “A Pepsi and a water to start. Fantastic.” He walked away.

Smooth.

Be Our Guests

“You’re kidding,” said Michael.

“I’m sorry,” said the maitre’d, “but I can’t let you in without a reservation.”

“We just need to step in,” said Gabriel. “We won’t even order anything.”

The maitre’d rolled his eyes. “That’s helpful,” he said.

Michael groaned and stalked across the waiting area, dragging Gabriel with him. They had spent all afternoon waiting anxiously for Abbie and Sam’s date. Michael practiced what he would say to Abbie; Gabriel practiced his incantations; Raphael even went to the trouble of going out and getting them fairly respectable clothing from a second-hand store. Somewhere along the line they had forgot about Man’s pesky need for reservations.

Raphael was leaning back in a plush chair, flipping through a menu. “We can’t afford anything here, anyway.”

“Gabriel,” Michael said quietly, “we have to get in there. What kind of spell can you cast on him?”

“Well, I can’t cast a Seizure Spell at a place like this,” said Gabriel. “Someone could come and see him.”

“What about doing something with his mind? Or his memory?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I’d have to touch him to get into his mind.”

“So what, then?” asked Michael. “God’s archangels are reduced to waiting in line at a stuck-up Italian Restaurant because they don’t have reservations?”

Gabriel thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it.”

“What?” said Michael.

“Well,” said Gabriel, “I’m not sure this will work, but I could try a rare combination of spells that I’m not too well versed in.”

“Gabriel?” said Raphael.

“Let me think,” said Gabriel. “I’ve been practicing with a spell that grants temporary invisibility from the Earthly plane, but it requires great concentration. While I’m casting it, you two will have to carry me into the dining room.”

“Uh, Gabriel?” said Raphael again.

“When we get in the dining room, you will have to give me a signal so that I can cast an experimental darkness incantation long enough for us to find a place to hide. Once we do that–”

“Gabriel!” said Raphael.

“What is it?” asked Gabriel harshly.

Raphael pointed behind him. “We could just try getting in now.”

Michael and Raphael turned to see the maitre’d leading a pair of businessmen into the dining room, letting the door swing unwatched behind him.

Gabriel paused. “That could work too.”

The three angels quickly slinked through the closing door, stepping into the dining room and ducking into an empty booth. Michael spotted Sam and Abbie at a table near the kitchen, Abbie with her back to him.

“There they are,” he said. “Abbie might not want to come with us, so we can’t let her know we’re here until we’re close enough. Sam won’t recognize us, will he?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Michael had just started to stand when he heard a voice call to him from a nearby table. It was thick and smooth as molasses, dripping something like honey but far more sinister. It was a voice he recognized, even after this long. He stopped cold.

“Michael,” said Lucifer. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Michael turned. Sitting at a table near the bar, dressed in a fine burgundy suit, was his brother Lucifer. His skin was weathered and tan, but his square jaw lent him a mysterious dignity and attraction; he was more beautiful than most men. He was sitting with a large stone-faced black man that Michael didn’t quite recognize. Michael’s attention was focused more on the gun in Lucifer’s hand, barely visible under a cloth napkin.

“Come join us,” said Lucifer. He smiled. “I insist.”

The Fall

After the creation of Man, Lucifer made his presence before God very scarce. When God asked Michael where Lucifer was, Michael could not say, because he did not know. Michael and his brothers had seen very little of Lucifer themselves.

Michael did hear things.

Michael heard of dissent spreading like wildfire through Heaven. He heard of Lucifer calling angels aside and whispering in their ears confidentially. He heard of some angels fighting amongst one another, of some angels disagreeing with their place in Heaven. He heard of some angels questioning God’s Plan. He heard of some angels questioning God.

Lucifer.

God, being not a fool, heard such things too. And God was angry. He called his angels before him and bellowed, “Who would question Me, who created you, who created Heaven, the almighty God?”

The angels would not answer, for they still feared God. But they would not deny. And they would whisper.

Lucifer.

God asked Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, who would still bow before the Lord, “Do you question my wisdom?”

“No, my Lord,” said the archangels.

“Do you question my power?” asked God.

“No, my Lord,” said the archangels.

“Do you question that I am Right?” asked God.

“No, my Lord,” said the archangels.

“Good,” said God. “Go find who does.”

So Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael went forth through Heaven to appraise the loyalty of the angels. Most still had absolute faith in God’s Will. But some did not. They whispered that God was inept, that he was a fool, that Man was a blasphemy and a joke and that God was not fit to sit on the Throne. That someone else was better suited to rule.

Lucifer.

And the angels who dissented ran, to the farthest reaches of Heaven, where they could congregate. At the end of their search, the archangels surmised that a third of Heaven had lost the faith, thanks to the whispers of a lost brother who had disappeared but was still heard.

Before the archangels could report their findings to God, he appeared before them, bathed in arrogance and a thirst for power.

Lucifer.

“Brothers,” he said, “Join me.”

“Never,” said Michael. “Our faith lies with God.”

“You know there is truth in what I say,” he said. “We were first. We are superior. We are the chosen.”

“We are not God,” said Michael.

“We should be!” cried Lucifer. “We can do better. The old fool’s reign is up. He’s gone insane, expecting us to bow before this wretch that is Man. We are better than Man.”

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” said Michael.

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Lucifer hissed. “I’m smarter than God. I should have his place on the Throne.”

“You won’t,” said Michael.

“There are others who agree with me,” said Lucifer.

“God will deal with them,” said Michael.

“WE ARE NOT GOD’S PLAYTHINGS!” screamed Lucifer. “Don’t you see!? If he will not listen to us, we will make him see things our way.”

“When God hears this,” said Michael, “there will be bloodshed. Many will die. You will never be allowed to look upon God again.”

Lucifer stared down each of the archangels. “So be it, brothers,” he hissed, and took off.

For just a moment, Michael considered not telling God about Lucifer. Lucifer was his brother, and he loved him. But this tresspass could not stand. There would be war over the throne. He feared that Heaven would run red with blood.

And so it did.

Chapter Three

2005-11-07T11:31:00.000-08:00

Worst Western
The first hotel that Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael found was called the Saint Francis Arms, and it was tucked haphazardly into a block of run-down apartment buildings and liquor stores. The graveyard-shift desk clerk was put off somewhat when three young men dressed in rags came in at two in the morning and requested a room, but Gabriel quickly persuaded him that they wouldn’t cause any trouble. They managed to secure a room for the night free of charge, and fell asleep to the soothing sounds of sirens and car alarms.

When Michael woke up, Gabriel was already awake, sitting across the room and watching an old television show.

“Look at this,” Gabriel said. “A blonde, a redhead, and a brunette, running point for their boss on dangerous missions. Sound familiar?"

Michael rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked around. “What time is it? Where’s Raphael?”

“It’s about nine,” Gabriel replied without looking away from the television. “I think Raphael went out to get some coffee or something. Look, the brunette angel is smart! Did we visit the people who came up with this?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I told you we needed to get started first thing in the morning.”

“I figured I’d let you sleep until Raphael got back. Sorry.”

Michael sighed. “It’s alright. I just don’t know how much time we have.”

“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “We’ll find her before anything happens.” He winked. “Have a little faith.”

Michael smirked and went into the bathroom to run himself a shower.

God had made it very clear that Michael was in charge of their trip to Earth, but Raphael had always been a little headstrong. Fortunately, his devotion had always been strong and uncompromising, and Michael trusted his brother. Besides, after Lucifer’s attack on the throne, no one dared to oppose God, even if they did have the will to. They had seen what could happen.
Michael’s shower washed away the last of his headache and fatigue, and the warm towel felt good on his bare skin. Whenever he visited Earth he was reminded that the human body was fragile, but not without its simple pleasures. The smell of the sea air, a nice shower, some good food; Michael promised himself that next time he came to Earth, he would remember to enjoy what it had to offer.

When Michael emerged from the bathroom, Raphael had returned. He was sitting with Gabriel, watching the television and sharing a box of donuts. They had gotten a t-shirts and jeans from somewhere, welcome improvements over the pilfered garbage from the night before. Michael wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure the teenager they scared had wet his jeans before Gabriel had a chance to put them on.

“I don’t get it,” said Raphael. “They do everything this guy says, but they never see him? How do they know he’s not a bad guy?”

“They just saved that scientist from prison,” said Gabriel. “How could that be evil?”

“He could be a mad scientist,” said Raphael.

“You’re such a cynic,” said Gabriel.

“I’m a realist,” replied Raphael. “I just see things as they are.” He turned to Michael. “Morning, boss. Donut?”

Michael shook his head. “No thanks. Where’d you get those clothes? Did you leave someone else lying in an alley?”

“Relax,” said Raphael, tossing an outfit to Michael, “I got them from the Salvation Army. Guy gave me a good deal.”

Michael examined the shirt Raphael had picked out for him, which screamed “Black Sabbath” in angry red letters. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

While he dressed, Michael relayed his plan to his brothers: They would work their way out from the middle of the city, Gabriel probing the minds of people they met to see if anyone could put a bead on someone who matched Abigail’s description. Michael was convinced that someone had seen Abigail in the short time she had been here; even if it was just a glance stowed away in the subconscious, Gabriel would be able to bring it to the surface. After they found Abigail, they would grab her and take her back to Heaven.

“What if she doesn’t want to come back?” asked Raphael.

“It’s not her decision to make,” said Michael. “This is what’s best for everyone. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Gabriel and Raphael.

Michael pulled on his trenchcoat and pulled it tight. “If she doesn’t want to come back,” he said, “we’ll just have to make her.”

Streets of Saint Francis

Sam hit the arts district on foot. First, he walked the three blocks from his apartment to the Click, keeping a keen eye peeled for any sign of Abbie. When he got inside he asked the man working the counter, Fitz, if anyone had seen her around since last night.

“Sorry, dude,” said Fitz, shaking his red afro. “Heard about her performance, though. Sounded bitchin’.”

“Did she tell anyone if she was coming back?” asked Sam. “Making it a weekly thing or something?”

“Nope. I wish, man, I wish.”

Sam spent the rest of his morning popping his head into the coffee shops that littered the district, even those that played smooth jazz all day. Everybody seemed to have heard about Abbie’s performance at the Click, but barely anyone at the other hang-outs had seen her, and nobody could point Sam towards where she had been since.

Next, Sam scanned the record and book stores – the independent, anti-establishment places that he figured a girl in a Che Guevara shirt who liked real jazz would go. When she wasn’t at any of those places, he stopped at the trendy lunch places where she might stop to get a bite for lunch. Again, she was nowhere to be found. It was like she had dropped off the face of the Earth.
After searching for so long that he felt he could navigate every street of the city with his eyes closed and his arms cut off, Sam gave up. He slumped on a snowy bench in Concord Park and thought of his next move.

If he went back to his apartment, he could get his car and search a wider area, but that was jumping the border of “romantic foolhardiness” into the realm of “obsessive stalker tendencies.” He put his head in his hands and tried to force Abbie out of his mind. If she wanted to see me again, he thought, she wouldn’t have left. It was a just a one-night stand. Take it for what it was and be happy that it happened. To have loved and lost is better than never having loved at all. Et cetera, et cetera. Look at the bright side: You got laid and didn’t even have to buy her dinner. Be grateful, you manic-depressive shmuck.

That’s when he heard her.

It was a Billie Holiday song this time, “God Bless the Child, sung over a single trumpet. Sam could barely hear it, but the voice was unmistakable. It was coming from somewhere nearby, maybe a block or two over.

Determined not to let her slip away, Sam yanked himself up and broke into a run. He leapt into the road, ignoring the traffic, and was nearly hit by a truck, but in almost an instant he was on the other side, running towards the voice.

She was standing outside of a black-tie restaurant, singing along to a homeless man whose trumpet seemed to be his most valuable – and only – possession. A modest crowd of well-dressed people clogged the sidewalk, listening intently. The owner of the restaurant was speaking into the beggar’s left ear in a harsh whisper, trying to convince him to stop pestering the customers so they could spend their money inside his establishment, but it was to no avail. They were entranced by Abbie’s voice.

When Sam reached the crowd he was out of breath, panting and leaning on a tuxedoed patron for support. He immediately gained a second wind when he saw Abbie turn towards him and smile. Despite the fact that he had spent all morning torturing himself to find her, Abbie’s smile made Sam melt into unmitigated bliss.

She closed her eyes and sang the last verse:

Mama may have, Papa may have,
But God bless the child that’s got his own,
That’s got his own.

The trumpet player ended the song with a small, tinny run down the blues scale, bowing his head as the notes faded away. The impromptu audience broke into applause and, much to the restauranteur’s chagrin, threw crisp green bills of tip money into the homeless man’s trumpet case as they filed inside. The musician grinned sheepishly at the owner and shrugged.

Abbie pushed her way around the crowd and threw her arms around Sam, planting a big kiss square on his lips.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she cried. “I wanted to see you again.”

“Me too,” said Sam dreamily. Her lips tasted like cinnamon. How did women do that? Maybe there was some secret store where they went to get their lips flavored.

“I just found this man playing here a little while ago,” she continued, “and I just had to sing again. I was looking for somewhere to sing all morning.”

Sam suddenly snapped out of his reverie. “Why did you leave this morning?”

Abbie put a hand on her hip. “I told you, I wanted to find somewhere to sing. Is there a problem with that?”

“Well, no,” Sam said, “not a problem, per se.”

“So?”

“So,” said Sam, getting a little angry, “I wanted to know where you went. I thought I deserved that.”

“What,” she said loudly, “just because we had sex last night?”

The fancy people still outside looked at Sam and Abbie, causing Sam to turn bright red. Abbie’s musician friend winked at him. Abbie seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

Sam looked at his feet. This was not going the way he had planned. After looking for Abbie all morning, he just assumed that she would apologize profusely for what had happened, that it would be some sort of misunderstanding, and they could start some sort of overly-romantic relationship.

“Listen,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. If you want me to leave you alone, just say so.”

“Hey,” said Abbie, putting her hands on Sam’s face and lifting her gaze to hers. Her expression had changed from irritation to sympathy. “I don’t want you to leave. I like you.”

“I like you too,” said Sam.

“Good.”

“Good. So why did you leave last night?”

Abbie sighed. “It was my first one-night stand, too. In fact, it was my first night with a man.”

Sam felt his stomach jump somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, vibrating wildly and twisting in a dozen directions. “Wha- what?”

“If I had known you wanted me to stay,” said Abbie, “I would have. I’m sorry.”

Sam stared at her for a moment. “That was your first night with a man?”

Abbie nodded, sweetly, like there was nothing strange at all about this admission. “Yeah. Did I do okay?”

Sam was sure he was going to faint, but steadied himself and said, “Yeah, you were amazing.”

Abbie smiled and hugged him. “Good,” she said. “So, what are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” asked Sam, still trying to process what had happened in the last two minutes. “I don’t have any plans.”

“We should go out to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“I’ll meet you back here at seven o’clock, okay?”

Sam had always seen all women as somewhat confusing, but Abbie had to be the most mind-boggling girl that he had ever met. One minute, she’s dancing on a table in a coffee shop and seducing him; the next, she’s admitting that she was a virgin and sweetly asking him if they could go out to a fancy dinner. Sam didn’t know whether to take her in his arms or, in the interest of his health and sanity, run in the other direction.

Looking into her eyes, though, he knew there was only one answer.

“Sure,” he said, “I’ll meet you here at seven.”

Inquisition

Gabriel stood in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes closed, holding his palm to the forehead of a stocky balding man in a business suit. Michael and Raphael stood on either side of him, scanning the streets, trying to maintain a low profile. Gabriel whispered short Hebrew phrases intermittently as the man spoke in a far-off monotone.

“Walking down Concord Street, yesterday afternoon,” he said.

“Good,” said Michael. “Have you seen her since then?”

“No.”

Michael frowned. It had been like this all morning. People had seen Abbie at one time or another, so she was definitely in the city, but no one could tell them where she was now. After trudging around in the snow for a few hours, things were starting to look hopeless.

“Let him go,” said Michael.

Gabriel muttered another incantation and snapped his fingers. The businessman blinked confusedly and shook his head as if to clear it.

“Spare change, sir?” asked Raphael.

The man harumphed and walked away.

“Geez,” said Gabriel, “you probe a guy’s mind without his permission nowadays, the least he could do is throw some cash your way. Therapists are supposed to be rich.”

Raphael slumped on the slushy sidewalk, propping himself up on an iron railing. “I think that’s officially everyone in the city.”

“I thought it would go a little quicker than this,” said Michael. “Let’s find someone else.”

“Do you really think it’s going to do any good?” said Raphael. “We could probably start doing a door-to-door search of every building in the city and we’d finish a lot quicker.”

“Quiet,” said Michael. “Here, let’s ask this guy.”

A man with a short goatee and a dreamy look on his face was trying to make his way around them without stepping into the road. Gabriel grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey!” he said. “What are you–”

Gabriel closed his eyes and whispered a few words, shutting the man up. Michael cleared his throat.

Exploring a person’s mind was a delicate process. If you dove in too far too fast, the subject could become disoriented, hostile, and pretty much useless. Like peeling an orange, you had to get through the weathered outer skin before getting to the good stuff.

“What is your name?” asked Michael.

“Sam Baker,” the man replied in a distant voice.

“Where do you live, Sam Baker?”

“Saint Francis,” Sam replied. “151 Middle Street. Apartment 26.”

“What do you do for a living, Sam Baker?”

“I am an artist,” he said.

“I can tell by the clothes,” muttered Raphael.

That does it for the easy questions, thought Michael. “Sam Baker,” he said carefully, “my brother is going to project an image into your mind. Tell me if–”

“Abbie,” he said.

Michael raised his eyebrows and looked at Raphael. Raphael mouthed the word, “Abbie?”

“You know this girl?” said Michael.

“Yes,” said Sam.

“How long have you known her?”

“Since last night. We slept together.”

Gabriel sputtered, almost losing his concentration. Raphael smirked, and Michael clenched his fists. Through grit teeth he said, “What?”

“Last night,” said Sam. “We started out in missionary, and–”

“You son of a…” Raphael grabbed Michael’s arms before he could tackle Sam. The elder archangel was seething.

“Cool it,” said Raphael. “We need to find out where she is.”

“God’s going to hear about this,” said Michael.

“Fine,” said Raphael. “We can tell him when we get back.”

Michael steadied himself with a deep breath. This little bastard slept with her? In another time, he would have dealt with this blasphemer in a less thoughtful way, involving fire and curses and everlasting pain. But he had a job to do.

“Sam Baker,” he said. “Have you seen Abigail since then?”

“Better say yes,” said Raphael, “or Michael is going to be pissed.”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“Where is she now?” asked Michael.

“I don’t know,” said Sam.

“Shit,” said Michael.

“But,” Sam continued, “I’m having dinner with her tonight.”

“Tonight?” asked Michael. “When? Where?”

“Seven o’clock, at Bella Sera.”

“Bella Sera?” said Michael. “You’re sure? Abigail is going to be there?”

“Seven o’clock, at Bella Sera,” Sam repeated. “Tonight.”

“Good,” said Michael. “Gabriel, let him go.” He paused. “And make him think he’s a chicken or something for a little while.”

Gabriel smiled and finished his incantation, removing his hand from Sam’s forehead. Sam blinked a few times, then cocked his head to one side.

“Bawk bawk?” he asked earnestly.

“Boo,” said Gabriel.

Sam jumped and sped down the sidewalk, clucking as he went. The archangels watched him until he rounded the corner and went onto the next block.

“It will only last a few minutes,” said Gabriel. “Still funny, though.”

“A chicken?” asked Raphael.

Michael shook his head. “I should do worse, but we need him to show up for dinner tonight. We need him around to lead us to Abigail.”

“And then?” asked Raphael.

“Then,” said Michael, “I’m going to start looking for a big rotisserie.”

God Creates Man

“Where are its wings?” asked Lucifer.

“He has no wings,” said God.

“How is it supposed to get around, then?”

“He will walk,” said God, “or tame the animals and create vehicles with which to transport himself.”

“How many spells does it know?” asked Gabriel.

“None,” said God. “I will not teach him incantations as I have taught you.”

“And it’s going to live on Earth?” said Raphael.

“Yes,” God said. He turned to Michael. “What do you think, Michael?”

Michael thought for a moment, regarding the naked being held in stasis before him. “He looks like you, my Lord,” he said.

God smiled. “He is crafted in my image. I will call him, ‘Man’.”

“Is he going to be like the dinosaurs?” asked Raphael. “Like a pet in a cage for us to watch?”

“No,” said God. “I am going to give Man complete dominion over Earth. I will award him free will to do as he pleases, and divine intelligence so that he may learn and grow. I am also going to give you, my archangels, special incantations so that you may visit Earth and interact with him.”

“Why would we want to do that?” asked Lucifer. “We have all the glory and beauty of Heaven here.”

“Yes,” said God, “but Man is my greatest creation of all.”

The archangels bowed before God, in all His divine wisdom, and praised Him and His new creation.

Later, Lucifer brought Michael aside and conversed with him in secrecy.

“Did you hear that?” hissed Lucifer. “‘Man is my greatest creation of all.’ What about us?”

“What about us?” said Michael.

“We came first,” Lucifer spat incredulously, “that’s ‘what about us’.”

“God’s wisdom is infinite,” said Michael. “We can’t even begin to comprehend the power and responsibility that lie with the Throne. Do you know how He created us?”

“No,” said Lucifer. “Of course not. That’s not the point.”

“If God says that Man is the superior creation,” said Michael simply, “then we must respect Him and believe that it is true.”

“He has no wings,” said Lucifer earnestly, placing his hands on Michael’s shoulders, forcing Michael’s gaze to his. “He resides outside of heaven. He can never even know God. How can Man be superior to us?”

Michael was expressionless. “Because God says it is so.”

“Maybe God is wrong,” Lucifer muttered, turning away.

“What was that?” said Michael.

“Nothing,” said Lucifer. He spread his wings and flew away.

Michael was uneasy. He felt something that he had never felt before, even after spending so long in existence in Heaven. It was icier than the coldest wind, and clutched his stomach like a vice.

Michael felt fear.

Chapter Two

2005-11-05T16:23:00.000-08:00

The Archangels

Transubstantiation always left Michael feeling drained.

He couldn’t really understand it. He was one of God’s first creations; he had the power to empower his body with a few simple incantations; he had helped mankind survive millennia of war, pestilence, and disease.

So why couldn’t he come down to Earth without getting an enormous headache?

Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose and checked to make sure that he was entirely intact. His human form on earth was very similar to his body in Heaven: curly blond hair, sharply-defined features, and the sinewy muscles of a hardened warrior; though he felt oddly light without the weight of wings on his back. He could easily conjure them with a simple spell, but God had told him to keep them sheathed while he was groundside.

“Just find her and bring her back,” He told the archangels. “Don’t cause a scene.”

Michael surveyed his surroundings. He was in an alley decorated with puddles of muck and urban tumbleweed. It was the middle of the night, but on the street he could see a glowing neon sight that said “Saint Francis Wine & Beer,” so he had at least shown up in the right place.

“Woah,” he heard a voice behind him say.

Michael looked over his shoulder to find a teenage boy, covered in a trenchcoat and chains, staring at him. It was then that he realized, quite suddenly and embarrassingly, that he was completely naked. Coupled with the fact that he had just appeared out of thin air, it surprised him that the boy could find the words to say anything at all.

“Dude,” the boy continued, “it’s just like Terminator 2.” He gulped. “Are you from the future?”

“No,” said Michael. “May I have your coat?”

The teenager looked around self-consciously and stepped into the alley, pulling his arms out of his sleeves. Trembling, he held the coat out to Michael like he was holding a piece of bacon out to a lion. Michael sighed and took it.

“You know,” he said, putting the coat on, “no one was supposed to see me do that.”

“Are you a magician?” the boy asked.

“I know a few basic incantations, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. “My brother Gabriel a little more talented in that area.”

“Who?”

“Me,” said a baritone voice from Michael’s side. Michael and the boy both looked at the short, naked, dark-haired man who had just appeared. “Michael may be good with his sword, but I’ve got the gift of tongues.” Gabriel grinned. “At least, that’s what the ladies tell me.”

The boy started to back away, his eyes twice as wide as they had been a moment before. “Woa... buh... wah...” he stammered.

“Don’t be scared,” said Gabriel. “We’re here on behalf of the Almighty Lord God.”

“That’s supposed to be a secret,” murmured Michael.

“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “He’s not going to tell anyone.”

The boy, now scared witless and possibly threatened by a naked man who had appeared in an alley from thin air, opened his mouth to scream. Before he could make a noise, Gabriel whispered a few poetic syllables in Hebrew. The boy froze in place – literally. Not a breath, a shiver, or a batted lash. He looked like a mannequin ready to terrify children on Halloween.

Michael looked at Gabriel. “What did you do to him?”

Gabriel flicked a piece of dust off Michael’s new coat. “Seizure Spell. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine when I bring him out of it. Won’t remember anything that just happened, either.”

“Think you could be a little more subtle?”

“Hey,” said Gabriel, bringing up a hand defensively, “I’m a pro. How do you think Mary reacted when I appeared and told her she was going to bear the son of the Lord? She didn’t invite me in for cookies, that’s for sure. She almost woke up the entire village. Now help me get this guy’s pants off.”

Michael shook his head as Gabriel started tugging at the boys jeans. “And what will he think when he comes to and finds out the Great Archangel Gabriel stole his pants?”

“He’s a teenager. I’m sure it won’t be the first time he’s woken up missing some clothes.”

Gabriel was pulling on the last of his purloined outfit when the third archangel, Raphael, appeared. “Great,” said, running a hand through his short red hair. “What am I supposed to wear?”

“Gotta be quick on the uptake, brother,” said Gabriel.

“Great,” repeated Raphael. He pushed open the top of a dumpster and peered carefully inside, squinting. “Maybe I can find a fig leaf...”

Michael pulled the belt of his trenchcoat tight and leaned out of the alley, trying to get his bearings. He had never been to Saint Francis, but the narrow streets and menacing buildings told him that he was somewhere downtown – and not the “good” part of downtown, either. There were very few people out and about, though, which made it an ideal place for a trio of angels to descend from heaven without too much of a fuss.

“Well, we’re in the right city,” he said. “And we’re in the bad part of town.”

“Exactly where she’d be,” said Gabriel.

Michael nodded. “Exactly.”

“But how are we going to find her?”

The elder archangel scratched his chin. “Well, she’s never been much for keeping a low profile. With your skills at ‘communication,’ I’m sure we can find someone who has at least seen her.”

“And then what?” Gabriel asked.

“We bring her back,” said Michael. “Just like the Big Man ordered.”

Raphael pulled a mangy blanket from the dumpster and sniffed it tentatively. “There’s no way we can find her tonight,” he said, “not this late. We should find a hotel or someplace.”

Michael shook his head. “We should start looking for her now,” he said. “She’s not safe down here. She’s never even been to Earth.”

Raphael draped the blanket over his shoulders and pulled it tight under his chin. He suppressed a gag. “Lucky her.”

Michael frowned. Raphael had always seemed to hold a strong but subtle dislike for Earth. Michael could hardly blame him – it was no Heaven, after all – but it was still one of God’s creations. Despite what man had chosen to do with it.

“Listen,” said Gabriel, “Raphael’s right. Even if we find someone who saw her tonight, I doubt we’ll find out exactly where she is now. God saw her around here before he sent us down, but that was hours ago. Since there’s no way for him to tell us what to do, with him up there and us down here, we only have these humans to go by, and most of them have gone to bed for the night. Besides, I have a splitting headache.”

Michael looked at his brothers. They were right, of course. There was just something about being in a human body that made him feel weak and fragile. He didn’t feel safe, and he wanted to get things over with and get back home as soon as possible.

He shook the throbbing out of his ears and nodded curtly. “Fine. We can find a hotel. But first thing in the morning, we have to look for Abigail.”

Your Very Own Earth in One Week or Less

God created the Earth in six days. On the first day, He molded it from clay and stone. On the second day, He separated the land from the sea, and on the third day He separated the light from the dark, and called them Day and Night. On the fourth day God created the seasons and the weather. On the fifth and sixth days, He populated the Earth with plants and food.

On the seventh day, God created dinosaurs.

The dinosaurs were an experiment to see whether or not the Earth could sustain life. God created them far weaker and less intelligent than his angels, but afforded them free will and let them roam free. They could only live for a manner of decades before dying naturally, but to God’s great satisfaction, they spread and populated the Earth for millions of years. His experiment was a success, and the angels took much pleasure in watching them.

One day, Michael and Lucifer were watching the dinosaurs from On High, marveling at the majesty of God’s latest creation.

“Look at that one,” said Michael, “he’s chasing his own tail!”

“You would too, if you had a brain the size of a walnut,” said Lucifer.

God approached his them and said, “My archangels, I am sad.”

Lucifer and Michael kneeled before God and said, “What’s wrong, my Lord?”

“I have grown bored with these dinosaurs,” he said. “They are not intelligent enough to be entertaining. They cannot understand or appreciate the world that I have given them.”

“Why don’t you create something new?” asked Lucifer. “Something wise like the angels?”

“Or like yourself?” suggested Michael.

God thought for a moment. “That is a good idea indeed,” he said.

Huxley

Sam slept like a baby. After making love with Abbie for what felt like hours, he had lain in bed, exhausted, and watched her sleep, tracing the gentle contours of her naked back with his fingertips. When he finally did fall asleep, he dreamt of her, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her again in the morning.

When he woke up, he yawned and stretched his arms luxuriously, squinting in the light sneaking around his curtains. He pulled the sheets up around his shoulders and rolled to his side, reaching an arm out to pull Abbie near to him.

Instead of finding Abbie, Sam rolled onto the floor, pulling most of the bedding with him and getting jolted awake with a thump. He sat upright bolt upright and looked around. There were his books; there were his paints, easel, and canvas; there was his Vincent Van Gogh action figurine; but there was no Abbie anywhere to be found.

Sam laid back and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away both his sleepiness and his confusion. He ran the previous night’s events through his head. They had definitely seemed like a dream that was too good to be true at the time. Girls that attractive never showed any interest in him, and he had never picked up a girl and brought her home before – from the Click or anywhere else. Was it all a dream?

Fearing that he had just woken up from the best thing that ever happened to him, Sam fumbled through his sheets, looking for any sign that a woman had been there recently. He found his pants under the bed and sighed when he found that grimy road-sludge that still coated the cuffs. Last night had actually happened.

So where the hell was Abbie?

Sam pulled on a shirt and some boxers and stumbled into his common room. After a year of living there, he had turned it into something of a work of art. Paintings and avant-guard sculptures hung all over the walls, surrounding a somewhat eclectic collection of furniture: a coffee table made from a lobster pot; a chair from a thrift store, covered by a blanket from another thrift store; a dining table that his parents had given him that was probably more expensive than most everything else he owned; and a couch that served as both the primary television seating and Huxley’s bed.

The most dramatic part of the kit-liv-din-ing room was the plate glass window opposite the entrance, which offered a view of the street below and, if you tilted your head just right, a glance at Concord Bay. It was really what sold Sam on the meager living space. Making it even more dramatic this morning was Huxley, shirtless and fat, standing in front of it, gazing out and eating an omelette off of a paper plate.

“Yo,” Huxley said simply, without turning around.

“Hey, Huxley,” said Sam. “This is going to sound like a weird question, but please don’t laugh.”

“Okay.”

“Did I come home with a girl last night?”

Huxley turned to Sam, a big goofy grin stretching his omelette-filled cheeks. “Man,” he said, “I’ve heard of guys forgetting a girl’s name before, but I’ve never heard of them forgetting the entire girl.”

“Huxley,” said Sam, “I’ve been single for half a year. I’m in no mood.”

“Yeah,” said Huxley. He sat down on the couch and wiped his mouth with a pillow. “You weren’t quiet about it, either. You two kept me up half the night.”

“Sorry,” said Sam.

“Hey, man,” said Huxley, grinning, “no need to apologize. Congratulations. You didn’t just get back on the horse, you rode it off into the sunset. At least five times.”

Sam felt his face get red, but he smiled and sat next to Huxley. “Her name is Abbie,” he said, taking a bite of his roommate’s breakfast. “She’s amazing.”

“So where is she?”

Sam looked straight at Huxley, furrowed his brow, and said almost painfully, “I have no idea. You didn’t see her leave?”

Huxley shook his head.

Sam sighed. “Maybe she just wanted a one-night stand.”

“That’s cold, man,” said Huxley. “I mean, I know we haven’t known each other that long, but you’re no one-night stand guy. You fall for a woman like a pig falls for truffles.”

Sam laughed. “That’s a very flattering analogy.”

“I just work with what the good Lord gives me. Bacon?”

“Sure,” said Sam.

“You can have the rest of my omelette. Eggs and ham for Sam. I thought you’d dig the reference.”

Sam chuckled. He didn’t really know what to make of Huxley. On the one hand, the portly fellow was almost oppressively weird. He spent entire weekends on psychedelic benders and entire days in bed recuperating. He was an avid conspiracy theorist, a sort-of new age hippie who liked the drugs and hated the man, didn’t have the exercise regimen for sandals and flowing clothing. On the other hand, he and Sam had found common ground somewhere, and over their six months as roommates they had become very close friends.

Sam gobbled down the rest of the omelette and walked to the fridge, reveling in the smell of bacon as he passed the stove. “So,” he said, grabbing a bottle of juice, “what do you think I should do about Abbie?”

“Find her just like anything else you lost,” said Huxley, looking up from the frying pan. “Retrace your steps.”

“Good idea,” said Sam, pouring himself a glass of OJ.

“Woah,” said Huxley. “Don’t drink that.”

Sam held out his glass, regarding it awkwardly. “Why? Has it gone bad?”

“No,” said Huxley, “there’s LSD in it. You’ll never find her on that.” He gingerly took the glass from Sam and took a sip. “Luckily, I don’t have anyone to find today.”

Chapter One

2005-11-03T19:08:00.000-08:00

Sam Baker

When Sam Baker’s girlfriend dumped him, his thoughts immediately turned to what he thought was the most rational and intelligent solution: suicide. Being an artist, Sam had always been prone to thoughts of suicide, but his sudden freedom from worldly constraints – coupled with intesnse post-relationship depression – made them much more viable. He immediately set out to find a method that would shuffle him from the mortal coil in style and infamy.

Sam quickly ruled out anything with knives; he was too squeamish for anything that would make him bleed all over himself. He similarly discounted guns, because he didn’t want to leave a mess. Even though he would be gone, he found the thought of the police finding him surrounded in brains to be just plain embarassing. Somebody would have to clean it up, and he couldn’t put that burden on another human being.

Hanging, poisoning, and toaster-in-the-tub electrocution were all ruled out because there was a big chance that they wouldn’t work. Sam had never been all that good at science or biology, so any pills he took would have to be decided upon arbitrarily. At best he would end up quickly and painlessly dead, but at worst he would be stuck in the hospital with a skyrocketing heart rate and a massive never-subsiding erection. No good.

No, Sam needed something that was quick, painless, and foolproof. Then, one day, it hit him much the same way that gravity was revealed to Isaac Newton by a falling apple; he glanced out the window to see Fluffernutter, the cat of his upstairs neighbor, rocket by in the ill-conceived downward pursuit of a pigeon. It was all of a sudden very obvious: jumping from a great height was the way to go – efficient and pain-free.

Sam decided to dive off of the South Saint Francis Bridge, which brought tourists in and out of his city. The bridge was nearly five stories high and stretched across Concord Bay, which was not a bad place to die. From that high up, the water looked like a bumpy grey oil painting, and Sam thought it would be a particularly poetic way to go.

The first time Sam decided that it was the end, he didn’t make it five yards onto the bridge before chickening out. He reasoned that it was the tourists; suicide, in New England, near the ocean, in the summer, was like streaking at the Superdome. All kinds of people would see, and everyone would have an opinion about it. Sam saw suicide as something that should be done in private, so he put it off until autumn.

Just after Labor Day, Sam was able to make it a quarter of the way onto the bridge. It occured to him that jumping in the fall wasn’t a very good idea, since the bridge was heavily trafficked by leafers making their way north to watch the change in seasons. Besides, he had just opened a modest exhibit at a small gallery in the city. If he didn’t give the critics a chance to be appalled by his lack of skill, he could never die after being unappreciated in his own time. If the exhibit is a failure, he told himself, I’ll jump. It’s the right thing to do.

Unfortunately for Sam, the Saint Francis Herald called his opening “exciting” and “novel,” and he decided that he needed to have at least one bad opening before he could rightfully enter the art history books.

Halfway through December, with the first real snowstorm blanketing much of New England, Sam had an opening that was, according to that same paper, dismal at best. Completely underappreciated, Sam felt that things were finally looking up for him. Half a year after his girlfriend dumped him, he finally made it to the middle of the South Saint Francis Bridge and stepped onto the ledge.

Problem was, Sam didn’t really feel like dying anymore.

On the one hand, he was still incredibly lonely. He hadn’t even approached a woman since getting dumped by Alicia, and had resigned himself to being alone for pretty much the rest of his natural life. Dating was an art that was as elusive to Sam as subtlety was to Puff Daddy. Alicia had been Sam’s girlfriend since art school, so he had never really earned any chops in the real world of relationships. Since love makes the world go ‘round, Sam considered being without it a good reason to stop the world and get off.

On the other hand, Sam was a chicken, and all the women in the world wouldn’t change that. Suicide had been much more romantic as a concept than it was in practice. His mind was suddenly full of strange questions: What would his parents think? Was he paid up on rent? What would his breath smell like when they found him? How cold was that water, and how manly would it make the coroner think he truly was?

“Well?” said someone behind him.

Sam turned around. A tractor-trailer driver had put on his warning lights and pulled to a stop. The man leaned out his window, catching snowflakes with the brim of his hat as his eyes widened expectantly.

“Excuse me?” said Sam.

“Are you going to do it?” the driver called back.

“Do what?”

The driver rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Son, I’ve been driving this rig over bridges around the country for fifteen years. You’re not the first person I’ve seen standing on the edge of a bridge.”

“And?”

“Are you going to jump, or am I just wasting my time?”

Sam thought about it for a moment and said, “I guess not.”

“You’re not going to jump, or I’m not wasting my time?”

Sam stepped down onto the bridge and stared into the cab. The driver rolled up his window, muttering something about how no one respects their elders anymore, and pulled back into traffic.

The wind whipped highway slush at Sam, coating his khakis with a thick brown sludge. Such was the burden of being alive. He was pretty sure corpses didn’t have to worry about pants. You win some, you lose some.

Sam started to trudge back towards his car, and Saint Francis beyond. He may have been too chicken to end his life all at once, but that wouldn’t stop him from whittling away at it in small increments. The sweet, warm embrace of coffee was calling him.

In Which Sam Comes to Saint Francis

Saint Francis is small, as cities go. It has a population of about 64,000, most of whom are artists, which is what drew Sam to it. It began as a fishing colony, nestled on the coast of the Atlantic, and grew into a shipping and manufacturing mecca. After the Second World War, however, most of the jobs and companies left, leaving the bohemians who had come for the scenery with a city of beautiful buildings to use as they pleased.

Saint Francis quickly spawned a healthy litter of art galleries, restaurants, book stores, and coffee shops. The combination of sea air and erudite conversation brought both the well-to-do and the not-doing-well to the cobblestoned streets and tall brick buildings. The rich had their places in penthouses high above Concord Street, where they could see all the way to the islands on the very edge of the Bay, and the young nonconformists had their studio apartments in the art district, dangerously close to the water and surrounded with holes-in-the-walls that were open until the wee hours of the morning.

Sam had come to Saint Francis straight out of art school. He had only visited once before, when he had taken Alicia out for a fancy weekend on the coast. Everything about the city amazed him: its size, its people, the very smell of it. There was just an indescernible quality about the coastline that did something to his body, made him feel whole. Before they left, he had already picked out three apartment building that he hoped someone would die in within the next eight months, freeing them up for new tenants.

Unfortunately for Sam, life isn’t nearly as fragile and weak as he and his art school friends were fond of making it seem. When he graduated and packed up his car, he found out that none of the modest apartments he had liked were available, which left him with two options: get rich and buy a penthouse condo, or slum it and go for a cramped – but cheap – studio place. Frankly, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

Sam and Alicia moved into a tiny second-floor apartment with a bedroom, a bathroom, and what the landlord called a central “kit-liv-din-ing room,” which was about as attractive as it sounded. The lack of space was kind of a problem, but affording it wasn’t. Alicia earned her degree in photography, and did most of her work taking pictures of weddings and anniversaries. Sam’s degree in art history didn’t get him much more in the real world than dirty looks from passers-by.

Alicia’s degree, at least in Sam’s mind, was also the first thing that proved to him that she was smarter than he was. The second thing was that she made him sign the lease on the apartment before cheating on him, dumping him, and moving out, which left him with a single-person apartment that he couldn’t afford on his own. That’s when Sam met Huxley.

Sam wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure Huxley was a drug dealer. Not one of those carries-a-gun-and-takes-advantage-of-girls drug dealers – one of the pudgy, cuddly kinds. He never brought it up in conversation, but Huxley appeared to be perpetually stoned and always got his substantial part of the rent paid on time. Sam and Huxley got along famously, so in the end, it really didn’t matter.

The Click Clique Café

The Click Clique Café quickly become Sam’s hang-out of choice after moving into the city. The coffee was rich and clientele wasn’t, and they refused to play smooth jazz on the speakers. The latter was much more important to Sam than the former, because while he could get a primo cup of java at any of the city’s three Starbucks, he would have to listen to the yuppie music they saturated the place with. Smooth Jazz was, as Sam had once put it, “a limp dick.”

After entertaining suicide for the final time – at least the final time for the foreseeable future – Sam desperately needed a mocha java. He parked his car – a 1980 Chevy hatchback which Alicia had affectionately called “The Car That Would Not Die” – on a narrow street in the arts district and made his way into the internet café.

The smell of coffee and the din of conversation met him like a warm cliche. The Click was busy for a weeknight, with people crammed into the retro couches and computer terminals. Sam assumed that there was some kind of meeting there; local writing and art groups regularly came to the Click to discuss how much better they were than everyone else. Sam shuffled to his regular spot at the counter, undoing his scarf and wiping the snow out of his goatee as he sat.

A pretty girl with a bright green apron and brighter blue hair made her way over to him, handing a cappuccino to a patron on her way. Sam was always in awe of the employees here. Most of them were musicians, writers, and painters like him, and while they aspired to something greater than a service industry station in life, they took to the work like ducks to water.

“Sam,” she said, smiling warmly. “You look like you’ve been out sweeping sidewalks. Finally get a job?”

“No such luck, Rebecca,” he said. He knew everyone at the Click by name. “They’ve been all over me, though. Could I get my usual?”

“For you? Anything.”

Rebecca grabbed a cup and went through her motions like a ballerina, barely pausing or watching her hands. Sam was suddenly intensely aware of the fact that he was single, then even more aware of the fact that Rebecca was five years younger than him, had a boyfriend, and listened to metal bands. She tossed a glance at him over her shoulder, forcing him to avert his eyes and come up with something to say.

“So,” he said, “busy tonight, huh? Is it the Underappreciated Writers Alliance or the Misunderstood Poets Society?”

“Nope,” she said, “it’s something new.”

“What’s that?”

“Wait until the next song starts. You’ll see.”

Sam raised his eyebrows as Rebecca handed him his drink. “I’ll see?”

“You’ll see.” She walked away to attend to the other customers.

Sam took a sip of his mocha and scanned the room. Nothing seemed any different than usual. Maybe Rebecca was just putting him on. They had probably just started putting something new in the coffee, he reasoned. More caffeine. Maybe heroin. Something to bring people in in droves.

The Stan Getz song on the sound system faded away and a hush fell over the café. Sam was uneasy. It felt like the entire place had waited until he showed up to play a joke on him. He placed his coffee on the counter so he wouldn’t spill it if everyone jumped up and yelled “Surprise!”

Dexter Gordon’s tenor sax licked the sexy first lines of “Willow Weep for Me” – a fat boom-chick-a-boom – through the speakers. Sam didn’t notice anything strange about this; the Click played Dex pretty often, and this was one of his favorite songs. Maybe Rebecca had just wanted to get his mind off of his troubles and had played a song she knew he’d like. He turned to thank her when he heard the whole room behind him erupt in cheers.

Sam turned back towards the commotion and felt like he had been smacked so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Standing on a table, holding a stir-stick like a microphone, was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. She had a mane of blond hair streaked with red that went halfway down her back, and long legs sheathed in tattered jeans. Her shirt was emblazoned with a picture of Che Guevara and flattered her in all the right places. Ruby-red lipstick shimmered as she ran her tongue over her lips and sang:

Gone my lover's dream, lovely summer dream,
Gone and left me here to weep my tears into the stream,
Sad as I can be - Hear me willow and weep for me.

Her voice was like melted chocolate, sweet and warm and making Sam’s mouth water. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. She started to gyrate to the music, seductively moving her hips as her hands painted pictures in the air, and Sam was in love.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” said Rebecca over his shoulder. “She just started dancing an hour or so back. Boss wants to put her on the payroll.”

Sam didn’t hear a word she said.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Hillary Clinton,” said Rebecca.

“Wow.”

“You’re not even listening to me.”

“Uh-huh. Keep the change.”

The girl started scatting to the music, bopping over Dexter’s solo with ease. Sam wanted to catch her eye, but her eyes were closed. She had melded into the music and seemed completely oblivious to the crowd around her... as oblivious as someone could be while standing on a table in the middle of Saint Francis at eleven at night, that is.

The song ended with another chorus, the girl singing:

When the shadows fall, bend oh willow,
Bend oh willow and weep for me.

Applause ricocheted violently off the walls. The girl opened her eyes and smiled, a sweet, innocent smile, before stepping off the table and walking towards the counter.

Sam turned away. Oh God, he thought, She’s coming this way. She’s going to be right here and I’m not going to know what to say to her. She’s going to think I’m a shmuck and never talk to me. I’m going to die sad and alone and they’re going to put prints of my paintings on the menus at a seafood restaurant.

Sam felt a hand on his shoulder. Her hand. On his shoulder. He could feel all of his muscles tense as her voice said, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“What are you drinking?”

Sam looked down at his drink, which he had totally forgotten was there. “It’s, um, a mocha java.”

“It looks delicious.”

“Would you like to try it?” he asked. Time seemed to stop before she sidled into the seat next to him.

“Sure,” she said. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but...”

He slid the cup to her and watched as she lifted it to her lips. Her eyes were green, and the red streaks in her hair made it look like she had shampooed with strawberries. She took a deep breath and downed a gulp.

“Mmmm,” she said.

“Good?”

“Wonderful. I love this place.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Sam. He surreptitiously reached down and pinched himself. Was he really having a conversation with this gorgeous girl?

“The music is amazing,” she said, turning her seat to face him. “It’s not like that smooth jazz in the other coffee shops.”

“I know!” said Sam. “I hate smooth jazz. It just feels so...”

“Impotent?” said the girl.

It was official. Sam had definitely fallen for this girl.

“I’m Sam,” he said, extending his hand.

“Abbie,” she replied.

“You have a beautiful voice. I’ve never heard that song sung so well.”

She laughed. “Maybe that’s because I only sang I couple of lines. I’ve always loved that song. There’s something about the sadness of it. It just…” she scrunched up her shoulders and shivered. “I dunno. It’s so sexy.”

You’re telling me, thought Sam.

She ordered a mocha from Rebecca and Sam asked, “What are you doing singing at a coffee shop in Saint Francis, anyway? I’ve never seen you around before.”

“I sort of just got here,” she said. “To Saint Francis, I mean. I heard the music from outside and just had to come in and sing. Everyone seems to enjoy it.”

Rebecca handed Abbie her drink. “It’s on the house,” she said.

Abbie’s eyes widened like a babe lost in the woods. “Why?”

“No reason,” Rebecca smirked.

“Nice people here,” said Sam. He raised his drink in a toast, grinning at Rebecca.

“Yeah,” said Abbie. “So,” she continued, leaning towards him, “when are we going back to your place?”

Sam expelled a fine mocha mist all over the front of Rebecca’s apron, causing her to jump back in alarm. He apologized profusely before leaning close to Abbie and harshly whispering, “What!?”

“Like I said, I’ve only been in the city for a little while. I need a place to stay.” She said it very casually, like it was the most mundane and normal thing in the world. “When do you want to take me back to your place?”

It took a few seconds for Sam to find his voice. “You aren’t staying at a hotel or anything?”

“I guess I could, but I want to go home with you.”

Sam blinked. He ran the statistics of the last few minutes over and over in his head. The most beautiful women he had ever met had just sang one of his favorite songs, sat down next to him, introduced herself to him, and told him that they should go home together. He didn’t remember buying a lottery ticket, but it seemed like he had hit the jackpot. For some reason, it didn’t sit well.

“Why?” he asked.

“You find me attractive, don’t you?” she asked back.

Sam thought that this must have been some kind of test. He needed the right answer or he would wake up from the walking dream that had somehow manifested itself in his life. Perfection was crucial. So he thought for a moment and said something like:

“Buh?”

Abbie laughed. “Is that a yes?”

He nodded vigorously.

“I find you attractive, too,” she said. “I’d like to stay with you tonight.”

Then, strangely, she did something that Sam had only seen girls do in movies: she bit her lip and brought a hand up to his chin, using a finger to stroke his beard like he was a kitten. When he saw it on the silver screen, it always came off as corny and unrealistic, but when she did it to him, he felt every inch of his body turn into gelatinous goo. She could have asked him to kill the Queen of England and he would have been on the first plane.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”

A Quick Note About Sam’s Sex Life

The first time Sam was told about sex, the explanation began, “When a man and a woman love each other very much.” Being romantic, even for a nine year old, Sam had taken those words to heart. He looked at the idea of sex as something mysterious and monumental that one could only do with a person they loved, and only when they were married, rich, and using protection.

Then puberty hit, and Sam’s philosophy became, “If it has two x chromosomes, I am going to try and sleep with it.”

Sam threw himself into the dating world like a little leaguer throws a baseball: with a lot of force, and very inaccurately. His lack of interest in sports, cars and noogies – and his incredible interest in early Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Picasso – made him more an object of ridicule from girls his age than a Cassanova. But Sam kept trying.

When he hit high school and fell in with a somewhat substantial art crowd, Sam finally started receiving some affection back. He started dating a girl named Veronica who dressed entirely in black and hated her parents, which didn’t bode well for his home life but did bode well for Sam. She decided that the best way to make her parents mad would be to fool around with him, and he wholeheartedly agreed.

They spent many nights wrapped up in the back of Sam’s Chevy, exploring the finer points of first-, second-, and third-base. Veronica was far more experienced than Sam, but after a while they had exhausted all the options so much that he thought he was at least catching up. Sam was very satisfied until Veronica suggested that they take things to the next level.

To say Sam’s first time was quick and awkward would be an understatement; it lasted about as long as a Journey song and left both him and Veronica unsatisfied and without much in the way of conversation. They broke up soon after.

Sam attributed it to a reemergence of his romantic tendencies. His relationship with Veronica had never been more than a partner with which to suck face. If he could have sex with a girl he loved, he reasoned, it would be amazing.

So he waited. He waited and waited for the right girl to come along, and finally found her in Alicia. Even when he was with Alicia, he waited more, just to make sure that they didn’t blow it by doing anything before the time was right. Unfortunately for Sam, he also waited until their relationship had become so tired and worn-in that there was little magic to the moment. Sam did feel like he got better, but he still had that niggling feeling in the back of his mind that the romantic, sensual, mind-blowing lovemaking that he had always imagined was out there for him.

After Alicia left for a relationship that was more passionate (namely, one that was with someone else), Sam threw out all his preconceived notions about sex. When he and Abbie got back to his apartment, and Abbie threw him against the wall, exploring every inch of his mouth with hers, he just let it happen.

And it was amazing.

Prologue

2005-11-01T19:41:00.000-08:00

Genesis v1.0

In the beginning, there was only God, and he was bored.

So out of the nothingness, which was without form, and void, God created Heaven. God looked over his creation, and saw that it was beautiful and good. And God said, “Sweet.”

But God was lonely. So He created two creatures, perfect in design. He gave them legs on which to walk, and wings with which to fly, and arms with which to work, and freedom of will with which to do as they chose. He gave them eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear, and mouths with which to speak. He called them his archangels, and gave them the names Michael and Lucifer.

Michael and Lucifer kneeled before God, naked and pure, and in awe. God said, “Rise, my creations, and know that you are loved.”

And Lucifer said, “Sweet.” And it was.

God told his archangels, “I have given you free will to think and act as you please. I ask of you, now that I have created Heaven and my archangels, what should I do next?”

Michael said, “How about some friends?”

So God created two more archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. God told the archangels that they would be his first and most prized creatures, and gave them charge to live in Heaven as they please. The archangels were very grateful, and praised God for his divine wisdom and power.

God gave his archangels incredible knowledge and powers, for he wished that they should reach the fullest potential he had afforded them. He granted them bodies that would never age and minds that would never decay. The archangels praised God and pledged that they would not disappoint him.

With free will over their existence in Heaven, and the divine knowledge given by God, the archangels grew and learned. Michael became skilled in the arts of tactics and fighting; Gabriel, in the arts of language and persuasion; Raphael, in the arts of healing and medicine; and Lucifer, in the arts of philosophy and rhetoric. God looked on his archangels and was proud.

One day God called the archangels before Him and said, “I have created Heaven and my archangels, and they are good. What should I do now?”

The archangels thought for a moment. Lucifer said, “You should create more of us, so that we may grow and populate Heaven and live in devotion to you.”

God and the archangels agreed that this was a good idea, so God created more angels to fill Heaven. And the angels did grow and procreate, and they did fill Heaven with many who lived in devotion to God. Eventually millions of angels lived in Heaven, but God still prized his archangels first and foremost. They were pleased, and God was happy.

One day the archangels were walking through Heaven and God appeared before them. They kneeled and Michael said, “What is it, O Lord?”

And God said, “I have a new concept I want to bounce off you guys.”

“Another creation?” asked Gabriel.

“Yup,” said God.

“More angels?” asked Lucifer. “More creatures to populate Heaven?”

“Nope,” said God, “something completely new.”

“What is it called?” asked Raphael.

And God replied:

“Earth.”

Location: St. Francis

2005-10-27T16:10:00.000-07:00

Name: Saint Francis
Type: Seaside City
Population: 64,000
Geographic Location: Somewhere in New England on the Atlantic
Bridges: Pretty High

Lucifer's Pistol

2005-10-26T15:12:00.000-07:00

Weapon: Mark XIX Desert Eagle
Ammo: .357, 9 Round Capacity
Barrel Length: 10 in
Finish: Titanium Gold
Completely Badass?: Yes