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.”
John Hansen balanced his mug on the arm of the sofa, stood, and shook Dean’s hand. “I’m pleased to finally meet you, son. The rest of the family has had only good things to say.”
“Not quite true. I told you I thought he had a lot of nerve telling me how to behave and that, even though he may be woogie, I couldn’t see what Claire saw in him. OW!” Diana glared across the room at her sister.
“Context, dear,” her mother admonished. “You’d almost got him sacrificed. And, Claire, you know better than to use the possibilities like that.”
“Which is why I threw a hazelnut.”
“I apologize; your aim is improving.”
“What about me?” Diana demanded, dropping down on the floor by the Christmas tree.
“You should also apologize. Dean’s a guest in this house, and you’re being deliberately provoking.”
All three women turned to look at Dean, whose ears darkened from scarlet to crimson. “That’s okay. It’s…uh…I mean…”
“Dean?”
He turned toward Claire’s father wearing the same desperately hopeful expression as a Buffalo Bills fan during NFL playoffs. “Yes, sir?”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, the pot’s in the kitchen. We’ll go get some for everyone.” Detaching Claire’s hand from Dean’s arm, he drew the younger man out of the living room, saying, “I have this sudden urge to build a workshop. You’ve got no idea how great it is to have a little more testosterone in this house.”
“Like some of us had a choice about that,” Austin snorted from the top of the recliner as they passed.
Dean had been a little unsure of what to expect when he walked into the Hansens’ living room with Claire that morning. After all, everyone in the room would know exactly how they’d spent the night. He didn’t regret any of it—although his memory of times five and six had grown a little hazy—and he felt as though things were now back on track, that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing with his life.
But he could see how things might be awkward.
It didn’t help that both Claire’s parents were Cousins, less powerful than Keepers but still among those who helped keep the metaphysical balance. Dean had learned from experience how painful an unbalanced metaphysical could be.
He was fairly certain Mrs. Hansen had liked him when they’d met back at the guesthouse, but Mr. Hansen was a total unknown. Following the older man into the kitchen, he searched for the right thing to say. Found himself saying, “I really love your daughter, sir.”
“John.”
“Sorry?”
“If you’re going to be a part of Claire’s life, and all signs seem to indicate you are, you might as well call me John.”
“Yes, sir. John. Signs?”
“You know…” He set down the coffeepot and waved his hands around in the universal symbol for spookiness. “…signs: bright lights in the sky, heart-shaped frost patterns on the windows, K-Tel’s love songs of the ’70s
