There were no synagogues or mosques in the immediate area and by the time she started being Summoned away, she was old enough to understand why she had to keep her distance. The incident at that Shinto shrine had been an unfortunate accident.
Okay, two unfortunate accidents, she amended climbing the steps to the front door. Although I still say if you don’t actually want your prayers answered, you shouldn’t…“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Verner. Is Father Harris in?”
The priest’s housekeeper frowned, as though recognition would be assisted by the knitting of her prominent brows. “Is it important? His Christmas dinner is almost ready.”
“We ate earlier.”
“He didn’t.”
“I only need a few minutes.”
“I don’t think…”
A tweak of the possibilities.
“…that vill be a problem.” The heels of her sensible shoes clicked together. “Come in. Vait in his office, I vill go get him. You haf an emergency. You need his help. How can he sit and do nothing vhen he is needed? I vill pull him from his chair if I must. Pull him from his chair and drag him back here to you.” She didn’t quite salute.
A little too much tweak, Diana reflected as the housekeeper turned on one heel and marched away. She made a slight adjustment before Mrs. Verner decided to invade Poland.
The small, dark-paneled, book-lined office came with a claustrophobic feeling that was equally the fault of its size, the faux gothic decorating, and the number of faded leather-bound books. Diana couldn’t decide if the painting over the desk—a three-legged figure standing on multicolored waves against an almost painfully green background—made the room seem smaller or let in the only light. Or both.
“It’s Saint Patrick banishing the snakes from Ireland,” announced a quiet voice behind her. “It was painted by one of my parishioners.”
“Probably one who donated beacoup de cash to the rebuilding fund,” Diana observed as she turned.
Father Harris took an involuntary step back, the sudden memory of St. Jerome belting out “Everything’s Coming up Roses” propelling his feet. He didn’t know why he was thinking about stained-glass and show tunes, but for a great many reasons he couldn’t maintain a grip on, he was quite certain he needed a drink.
Diana smiled at him reassuringly. “Lena Giorno tells me her father brought an angel to you last night.”
“A young man who thought he was an angel,” the priest corrected. He was fairly certain the girl’s smile was supposed to be reassuring, but it was making him a little nervous.
“You don’t think he’s an angel?”
“I very much doubt an angel would appear in such a way in the bedroom of a teenager girl.”
“You mean naked?”
“That’s hardly a suitable topic for you and me to discuss.” Taking a deep breath, he folded his arms and gave her the best “stern authority figure” glare he could manage under the circumstances. “And now, young lady, if you don’t mind my asking, what is your name and what is your connection to young Samuel?”
Diana’s smile broadened. “Samuel,” she repeated under her breath. “Should’ve known better than to give out his name.” Refocusing on Father Harris—whose expression had slipped closer to “confused elder trying to make sense of the young and failing miserably”—she asked, “Did he stay here last night?”
“Yes, but he was gone this morning. Now, see here young lady…”
“May I please see where he slept?”
About to demand that she answer his earlier question concerning who she was and what she wanted, Father Harris found himself stepping back into the foyer and leading the way up the stairs.
The alleged angel had slept in a small room at the end of the hall. It held a single bed, a bedside table, a dresser, and what was probably another picture of Saint Patrick. This one was a poster, stuck to the wall with those little balls of blue sticky stuff that invariably soaked oil through the paper. The elderly saint had only two legs in this picture, was wearing church vestments, and was, once again, banishing snakes.
“I don’t know what you thought you’d find.” The priest folded his arms, determined to make a stand. This was his house and…
A phone rang.
Downstairs.
It continued to ring. And ring.
“Please, don’t mind me,” Diana told him. “I’ll just stay up here a moment longer.”
He was halfway back to his office before he wondered why Mrs. Verner hadn’t answered the phone.
Diana reached into the possibilities as she stepped up to the poster.
The saint blinked twice and focused on her face. “And what’ll it be, then, Keeper?”
“I need some information about the guy who stayed here last night.”
The lines across the saint’s forehead deepened. “Oh, and you haven’t noticed that I’m up to my ankles in snakes here; what is it that makes you think I was paying any attention?”
“Well, I…”
“You wouldn’t be having a beer on you, would you?” A short but powerful kick knocked a snake right out of the picture.
“Why would a saint want a beer?”
“I’m an Irish saint, and you can pardon me for being a stereotype, but I was originally painted five hundred years ago and I’m a wee bit dry. Now, what was your question again?”
“Do you know where the guy who stayed here last night went when he left this morning?”
“The angel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea. But I’m telling you, Keeper, there was something funny about that boy.” He shook his head in disgust, halo wobbling a bit with the motion. “Who ever heard of a confused angel, eh? In my day, angels had no emotions, they did what they were sent down to do and then they went home. Is this like to be some New Age thing?”
“I don’t know.”
Another snake ventured too close and was punted off
