Because the hole was so small, it had taken over twelve hours to push enough substance through. Toward the end, as the light and dark in the world moved closer to balance, it should have gotten more difficult, but there was now such a vast amount of enthusiastic darkness pushing from below that care had to be taken. Tipping the balance the other way would do no good at all. Since, technically, doing no good at all was its raison d’être, the contradiction was making it feel more than a little twitchy.
It didn’t even want to get into the problem of keeping it all together without actually achieving consciousness too early. Without a physical body it was both disoriented and exhausted. It had never had such a bad day. Which was sort of a good thing. Except that good things were bad. If it’d had a head, it would’ve had one hell of a headache.
Literally.
It could feel good and evil leveling out. Balance being restored. It pulled itself together, the shadow that had lain over the frozen hollow since midnight growing darker, acquiring form.
Then, as all things were equal—or all the things it was concerned with at any rate—it closed the hole and looked around.
“I’M BAck.”
It coughed and tried again.
“I’M back. I’m back.” It just kept getting worse. “What the Hell is going on here?”
Attempting a perfect balance, it had allowed the weight on the other side of the scale to define the shape it would wear. Becoming its perfect opposite. Impossible for one to be found as long as the other existed. It would cheerfully use the light to further its own ends. Well, maybe not cheerfully. Cynically.
It seemed to be a young female. Late teens. Long dark hair. Fairly large breasts. She looked down. Everything seemed to be there.
Three things were immediately clear.
One. She appeared to be a natural blonde, which explained the uniform black of the hair. Bad dye job.
Two. Demons, like angels, were sexless. The actions of incubi and succubi were more in the order of a mind-fuck than anything sweaty. But…
…since she had a set, he had a set.
Three. Given gender, and she certainly seemed to have been given that, something had gotten significantly screwed up somewhere.
She’d have been happier about that were it not for the sudden rush of emotions. Every possible emotion. She was up, she was down, she was happy, she was sad, she was royally pissed off…
Which was the one she decided to go with.
EIGHT
FROM THE BUS TERMINAL, Samuel walked over to Yonge Street and up two blocks to Gerrard, staring in amazement at the amount of stuff on display in the windows of the closed stores. The stereo system dominating a small electronics shop drew him close to the glass—five disk CD changer, digital tuner with forty presets, six-mode preset equalizer, dual full-logic cassette decks, extra bass—and he found himself wondering covetously about sub-woofers and wattage. From deep within came the knowledge that if it came to it, he’d buy that stereo before he bought groceries.
Then he noticed the leather shop next door. Stereo forgotten, he took two long side steps and stared wide-eyed at the mannequin barely dressed in a red leather corset, black leather panties, and stiletto-heeled thigh boots.
Which was when the unexpected happened.
He backed up so quickly he slammed into a newspaper box.
His genitalia were functioning without him!
It was like, like they had a mind of their own.
Well, not they exactly…
Beginning to panic, he stared down at the tent in his pants and wondered what he was supposed to do.
Fortunately, the panic seemed to be taking care of the problem.
A few minutes later, heart pounding, gaze directed carefully at the sidewalk, he started walking again, faith in his physical integrity shaken. What would have happened had it not been a holiday? Had he actually been able to go into the store and…
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Brakes squealed. A door panel brushed his knee. The deep red 1986 Horizon stopped. Backed up. The window opened.
“You’ve got the red, asshole!” the driver screamed, then gunned the motor and roared away.
Samuel had no idea they came in other colors. Or, for that matter, what color they usually were. And how had the driver known? Were any other bits of his body likely to surprise him?
Eleven seconds later, the first pigeon settled on his head, claws digging through his hair and into his scalp. When it finally lost the fight to keep its perch, it slid off to land with a thud on his right shoulder. It was mostly white with a few gray markings and the distinct attitude that it had arrived where it was supposed to be.
The second pigeon went directly to his other shoulder.
The rest fought for less prime locations and, for the most part, had to content themselves with huddling close around his feet.
He spoke fluent pigeon—which wasn’t really difficult as the entire pigeon vocabulary pretty much consisted of: “Food!” “Danger!” and “Betcha I can hit that guy in the Armani suit.”—but nothing he said made any difference. They were where they felt they ought to be. Case closed. When he started walking again, they lifted off with an indignant flapping of wings. When he stopped, they landed. He kept walking.
At College Street, he flipped a mental coin and turned right.
The sedan traveling southbound missed him by seven centimeters. The pickup traveling north missed him by three. The driver of the pickup taught him a number of new words. The pigeons knew them already.
The east side of Yonge—where College Street became Carlton Street—seemed to lead into a more residential area. That had to be good. People equaled problems and sooner or later, if he was right about being the message not merely the medium, he’d have to fix the problem that would let him go home.
By the time he reached the park across from Homewood Avenue, he was traveling in a shifting cloud
