The Franciscan is barely five feet tall and he's missing most of his hair, save for a pair of gray tufts on the sides. His nose is oversized for his small face and Claire can't stop staring at it. She thinks this is maybe why God sent Michael with her, to keep her from making an ass of herself by staring at the monk's bulbous schnoz. The little man is talking, too, and Claire hasn't been able to pay attention to a word of it.
"Claire?" Sister Josephine asks and Claire shakes her head slightly to clear the haze. She turns away from the monk and looks at the Mother Superior. "Zee Friar wants to see zee book. Could you get it for 'im?"
The older nun winks and Claire considers breaking down in hysterical laughter. It's been that kind of day - an evil address book, an art forger, and the Devil. Sister Josephine is lucky Claire is still functioning.
"Of course, Mother Superior." Claire walks into the vault and picks up the forged Legemeton. Sister Magdalene, true to Michael's assumption, had copied the book. It's a perfect forgery, practically indistinguishable from the the book that Michael took with him, save for one tiny difference: you can actually read from this one without fear of a demon popping up and eating you. Claire's already skimmed over a few pages. It left her wondering if Crowley, the Serpent from the Garden of Eden, still lives in Baltimore, Maryland.*
She bundles the book up in an old piece of oil cloth and takes it out to the waiting Franciscans. The little Friar is tapping his sandaled foot impatiently, his giant nostrils flaring in time to his foot. Claire wonders if he got marbles stuck in those nostrils as a child. She begins to giggle at the thought of it, loses track of her feet, and trips.
The book, of course, flies out of her hands and lands on the floor at the Friar's feet.
"Claire," Sister Josephine says with a sigh. "What am I going to do wiz you?"
The Friar is berrating her in French, which is lucky for him as Claire can't understand more than a few words of the language.** She does, however, recognize "Vous fille gauche" as "you ridiculous girl" and she rolls her eyes at the little man.
"Oh can it, Friar Tuck."
* * *
After a long week at the Pearly Gates, God is indulging in a bit of pampering. She's listening to Fleetwood Mac while brushing a second coat of Holy Roller Pink on Her toes. She's just about done Her left foot when the door to Her office bangs open and Michael walks in, followed closely by Lucifer.
She stares at them, Her hand poised with the nail polish brush over Her foot. She stares at the two intruders, both of whom are staring back at Her in surprise.
"Michael," She says. "Lucy." She finishes Her foot, puts the brush back in the bottle and closes it up. "To what do I owe the displeasure of your company?"
"Is that pink nail polish?" Lucifer asks.
Michael arches an eyebrow at Her. "And Fleetwood Mac?"
She frowns, points at the stereo system across the wall. The opening chords of Go Your Own Way fade out and Michael coughs, poorly covering a laugh.
"What the hell do you two want?" God asks, annoyed.
Michael opens up his robe, pulls out the Legemeton. "I brought this up for You," he says. Lucifer tries to snatch the book out of his hands, but Michael is faster and he moves it out of the Devil's reach. "It's the Legemeton."
"Legemeton?" She asks.
"The grimoire You asked Claire to pick up from St. Luac's?" Michael asks. God continues to look at him blankly and he sighs. "Lucy's address book?"
Recognition flashes across her face. "Right! The address book. Let Me have it. I'll put it in the big vault." Lucifer whines and they ignore him. Michael doesn't move, though. "Mike?" She asks.
His mouth curves up in the tinniest of smiles. "I have a better idea," he says and opens the book, begins ripping the pages out of it. God stares at him with big eyes and Lucifer squeaks each time a page is ripped out. When Michael's finished tearing out pages, all that's left is the outer covering. He hands it over to Lucifer and tucks the torn pages into his robe.
"My gorgeous book..." Lucifer moans.
"I'll make you a deal, Lucy," he says. "For every good deed you do, you get a page of your address book back."
"What?!" God shrieks, standing so quickly Her chair falls over. She stares at Michael like he's lost his mind.***
Lucifer does the math in his head. "But that's two hundred good deeds!" he cries. "Do you know how long that's going to take?"
"At least a century in Earth time. I suggest you get started." Michael grins. "Don't worry. The warm and fuzzy feeling eventually grows on you."
"Michael, those pages are full of evil," God says. "You can't just give them back to him."
"Good and evil, Ellie. You're the one who's always saying there has to be balance." He pulls a page out of his robe, hands it to the Devil. "For helping Claire out earlier."
Lucifer looks at the page, calms a little. "Uriel," he says. "She was fun."****
"And she had those huge..." Michael begins, holding out his arms. He stops, though, when God clears Her throat. "Wings. Huge wings."
"Get out of My office, Lucy." God says, Her eyes never leaving Michael. Lucifer doesn't hesitate to run. Two angry women in one day is enough for the Devil. He's barely cleared the doors when She points Her finger at them and they slam closed.
"Did You know what the book was when You sent us to St. Luac?" Michael asks.
God hesitates. "I'm not sure how to answer that without you throwing a fit."
"You wasted a Prophet's time in search of an address book for Your own nemesis." She opens Her mouth to object, but the Archangel raises a hand to silence Her. "Claire has enough on her plate with Armageddon coming up without You sending her on a fool's errand to France. I could have gone by myself." He crosses his arms over his broad chest, frowns at Her. "I know You don't get along with that little prick, but the bad news is You're stuck with him. Learn to deal. And don't ever again use Claire to do Your dirty work where Lucifer is concerned."
God's eyes narrow. She hasn't ever appreciated being told what to do. It's one of the main reasons She now enjoys being the boss. "Don't overstep your boundaries, angel," She says quietly.
Michael uncrosses his arms, walks over to God's desk, and leans in close. "She's my charge. When You put her in harm's way, You overstep YOUR boundaries." Their eyes lock and if either of them feel the electric current that passes through the office, they decline to mention it. Both blink and the tension is gone.
Michael straightens, shakes out his wings, and takes a few steps towards the door.
"Where are you going?" God asks, suddenly insecure. She doesn't often fight with Michael and something about him just leaving doesn't sit well with Her.
He smiles over his shoulder as he pulls open the office doors. "To check on Claire. I left her with a handful of nuns and some Franciscans. She's either been converted or she's hit someone." He winks. "Don't miss me too much."
"You wish!" She calls after him. "So mature..." She mutters to Herself, thinking he's out of earshot.
He pops his head back in the office and smiles so brilliantly at Her, Her eyes hurt. "Don't You know it, darlin'," he says and disappears completely.
It takes all of Her holy willpower, but She doesn't stomp Her foot like a petulant child.
She throws something instead.
* * *
"You called him Friar Tuck?" Michael asks around laughter and Claire nods, all smiles.
He caught up with her at the airport in Paris and agreed to keep her company on the flight back to Detroit. He had actually offered to fly her back himself, but she declined on the pretense that an airplane would be safer. A short argument ensued at that point regarding angel wings versus plane wings and a little old woman sitting next to them solved it by politely asking them to shut the hell up because she couldn't hear her iPod over their "squawking".
"He looked just like Porky Pig, too, so all I could hear in my head the whole time was yoyks and away." She pulls her seatbelt across her lap, motions for Michael to do the same. "I kept waiting for Daffy Duck to show up with his buck and a quarter quarterstaff."
Michael's laughter is so loud he's drawing attention from the other passengers and, to his great pleasure, an attractive flight attendant with big "wings". The angel actually has tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Did you get the book back to God like you were supposed to?" she asks once he's calmed down enough to talk.
He nods, wipes his eyes. "Kind of."
"Kind of?" Claire asks. "What does 'kind of' mean?"
"I ripped the pages out of it. Every time Lucifer performs a good deed, he gets a page of his address book back."
Claire's shocked smile is reward enough for Michael. "I'm going to bet She wasn't happy with that."
"Not at all." He pulls a handful of tiny liquor bottles out of his overcoat pocket.
"How did you make it out of Her office with all your feathers intact?" she asks.
"Angelic charm," he says, picking out a tiny bottle of Jameson.
"You left before She could smite you, didn't you?"
"Yup." He holds the bottle up. "Ever wonder how they make these so tiny?" he asks.
"The bottles are regular size, Mike. Your hands are just so big they make them look tiny." She smiles, closes her eyes as the plane begins to take off.
It's quiet and Claire cracks open her right eye. Michael is holding his hand up to his face, examing it. When he hears her start to laugh, he drops his hand into his lap and frowns.
"My hands are not that big," he says and she closes her eye, her smile widening. "They're not."
"You're absolutely right," she says. "They're not big."
"Thank you," he says.
"They're ginormous."
"I kind of hate you."
* He does and gee, doesn't that explain a lot...
** If she could understand more, the Friar might fear for his little bald head. As it is, Josephine is deliberately translating only the nice words so Claire doesn't throw something at the Hobbit-like man.
*** Michael has a bad habit of making up his own rules as he goes along. He's never reckless, per se, but he's never one hundred percent safe and sound either. Truth be told, however, that character flaw is the reason God loves him. Like a brother. Loves him like a brother. Absolutely.
**** Later that day, Lucifer will look at the fallen angel before him and say "Uriel, my darling dear, my how your wings have grown..." He'll make a mental note to thank Michael for giving him back that particular page first.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 3)
Author's Note: So I lied...it's actually going to be a four part trilogy. :)
Just after they accidentally created the Earth and God decided Motherhood suited her just fine and Lucifer's plans for taking over Heaven, Inc. went horribly awry, the Devil hatched a plan. He decided to fall to Earth and cause a little chaos, wreak a little havoc. See, angels on terra firma can do things that angels upstairs can't; they can engage in acts that are considered illegal and forbidden in Heaven.* His plan hinged on the assumption that God would notice his absence, realize She missed him and couldn't do Her job without him, beg him to come home to Heaven, and be willing to give him anything he asked for just to see him return.
Because he was just that important.**
So Lucifer fell to Earth, caused some chaos, and engaged in a few illegal and immoral acts while he waited to hear from God. He waited...and he waited...and he waited. After a month, he ran out of bad things to do and out of boredom, gave in and crawled back to Heaven. It looked different, larger, and there were more inhabitants than he remembered. Unwashed and scraggly, with a full month's worth of beard covering his face, he stopped the first angel who crossed his path and asked what had happened.
"There was a merger," the angel said. "All the religions in the universe have been moving into the complex." The angel pointed to a large, gilded sign hanging over the lobby's grand staircase. "Welcome to the Pearly Gates Corporation," the angel said. Then, sniffing the air, it frowned. "You should probably take a shower."
Lucifer rushed up to Her office and demanded to know why he hadn't been informed of such drastic changes, why he hadn't been consulted. He went so far as to say Her Father never would have done something so irresponsible. She brushed him off.
"You were on vacation," She said. "I didn't want to bother you."
"I fell to Earth, Ellie! I caused chaos and strife and other nasty things!" He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his filthy nose at Her. "I ate meat on Fridays and I liked it."
She looked up at him and smiled. "That sounds lovely, Lucy. Your offices are in the basement and your minions have moved everything down there for you." She opened a drawer of Her massive desk, took a box out, and tossed it to him. They were business cards. "Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
* * *
"You called?" the Devil drawls and Claire fights the urge to scream. Not in fright, mind you, for she's dealt with her fair share of evil things over the years, but in frustration.
"Goddamnit Mike!" she says, whirling on her Guardian Angel. "First you tell me not to touch the book, then you tell me not to read from the book. And then, to top off this particularly strange day, you do both those things and the friggin Devil shows up!"
"Stop cussing," Michael says. "And calm down. I know what I'm doing."
"Um, not to interrupt or anything," Lucifer says from the doorway, "but could someone please tell me what I'm doing down here?" He frowns. "And why am I prickly all over?"
Michael sighs, puts down the book. "You're here because I called you and you're prickly all over because we're in a convent."
Lucifer looks around him, takes in the vault, and then pokes his head outside the door. When he comes back into the room, he's itching his arms. "I can't believe you called me to a convent." He pauses, frowns. "This is payback for that thing in Belize, isn't it?"
Michael smirks. "No, but that would be pretty great. And stop panicking - the convent itself used to be a manor home. It's the cloisters you have to worry about and they're one hundred feet to the left of the front door." He points to the Legemeton. "I believe this is yours."
Itching once again, the Devil takes a few steps closer to the book. He leans over, flips back the cover, and grins. "You found my address book," he says. "I've been looking for this for ages."
* * *
They're locked inside the vault. Shortly after Michael grabbed Claire to keep her from punching the Devil in the face, Sister Josephine arrived and announced that the Franciscans were on their way. Instead of asking for advice on what to do, the 85 year old nun took the situation into her tiny hands and shut the vault door, turned the handle three times, and effectively locked the Devil, Archangel and prophet inside.
"Worst day ever," Claire says quietly. She turns her head to the side and frowns at her Guardian Angel. "Please tell me you have a plan. Please tell me you didn't get me locked in a vault where I'm going to suffocate to death while the two of you reminisce about the good old immortal days."
"Balthazaar!" Lucifer shouts and he comes to stand in front of Michael and Claire, the book open. He points to a particularly nasty looking creature, all horns and red skin. "I haven't talked to him in ages. Do you remember that afternoon in China with Balty and the Dragon Kings?"
Michael chuckles, but sobers when Claire glares at him.
"Not the time, Lucy," Michael says.
"I rest my case," Claire grumbles.
"Alright, look. Here's the plan. I take the book upstairs, Lucy busts you out of here, and you ask Sister Magdalene if you can borrow the forgery of the Legemeton she's been working on ever since Sister Josephine let her examine it."
Claire's eyes go wide. "What forgery?"
Michael grins. "Trust me, Maggie has an exact copy of that book somewhere in her room." He reaches out, grabs the Legemeton from Lucifer's hands.
"Hey!"
"I hate to break it to you, pumpkin, but there is absolutely no scenario in the universe which involves me letting you keep this book. It needs to go somewhere safe where it won't be found by inquisitive minds." He opens his robe and tucks the book inside.
Lucifer's skin tone begins to change. He looks flushed, his cheeks so pink that they're nearly...magenta?
"You've no right to take my address book from me!"
Definitely magenta. And as Claire watches, the Devil seems to grow in size, the seams on his expensive Armani suit tearing.
"It's always the same, isn't it?! She gets Her own way because She's God and I have to give up everything!" He stomps a cloven hoof. "It isn't fair!"
He has horns now, pointy ones that are peaking out of his dark hair. He looks like a magenta version of the Incredible Hulk and while Claire should, by all rights, be freaked out and scared, she instead finds the situation hilarious. And so, in the middle of the Devil's temper tantrum, she begins to laugh.
"Good lord, Lucy, you're purple," Michael says and Claire laughs harder.
"Oh, fuck off." Lucifer deflates like a balloon and his once perfect Armani suit hangs off him in tatters. He's pale once again and the horns and cloven hooves are gone and the expression on his face is petulant.
"Do you know how long it took me to put that thing together?" he asks, pointing to where he believes the book is hidden inside Michael's robes.
"I'll get you a new one," Michael says. "Now, are you going to help or are you going to sulk like a wounded puppy?"
"Technically, I could just leave," he says.
"You could," Michael says. "And technically, I could punch you in the nose."
Lucifer squares his shoulders, straightens his shredded tie. "No need to get violent, angel." He turns his head, looks at the vault door, and blinks twice. The handle turns three times and the door swings open. Claire sometimes hates how immortal beings make everything look so damn easy. "Ms. Rogers, I believe you have a date with a forged address book."
Claire turns to look at Michael, but the angel is gone. The only evidence he was ever there is a large white feather on the reading table. She picks it up, pockets it. When she turns back to thank the Devil, he too is gone.***
"Claire!" Sister Josephine says from the other side of the door. "What iz going on?" The nun peers inside the vault. "And where iz Michael?"
She sighs. "I'll explain it later, Mother Superior. Right now, though, I need to speak with Sister Magdalene about a book."
* Lucifer wasn't exactly sure what these acts were, but he was determined to engage in as many of them as he possibly could before She figured out he was gone. He'd heard something about meat on Fridays...and it sounded naughty.
** For the record, the Devil really is an arrogant little bastard.
*** Knowing there were nuns on the otherside of that vault door, Lucifer did what was asked of him and immediately got the Hell out of there. He may be a lot of things, but the Devil isn't stupid.
Just after they accidentally created the Earth and God decided Motherhood suited her just fine and Lucifer's plans for taking over Heaven, Inc. went horribly awry, the Devil hatched a plan. He decided to fall to Earth and cause a little chaos, wreak a little havoc. See, angels on terra firma can do things that angels upstairs can't; they can engage in acts that are considered illegal and forbidden in Heaven.* His plan hinged on the assumption that God would notice his absence, realize She missed him and couldn't do Her job without him, beg him to come home to Heaven, and be willing to give him anything he asked for just to see him return.
Because he was just that important.**
So Lucifer fell to Earth, caused some chaos, and engaged in a few illegal and immoral acts while he waited to hear from God. He waited...and he waited...and he waited. After a month, he ran out of bad things to do and out of boredom, gave in and crawled back to Heaven. It looked different, larger, and there were more inhabitants than he remembered. Unwashed and scraggly, with a full month's worth of beard covering his face, he stopped the first angel who crossed his path and asked what had happened.
"There was a merger," the angel said. "All the religions in the universe have been moving into the complex." The angel pointed to a large, gilded sign hanging over the lobby's grand staircase. "Welcome to the Pearly Gates Corporation," the angel said. Then, sniffing the air, it frowned. "You should probably take a shower."
Lucifer rushed up to Her office and demanded to know why he hadn't been informed of such drastic changes, why he hadn't been consulted. He went so far as to say Her Father never would have done something so irresponsible. She brushed him off.
"You were on vacation," She said. "I didn't want to bother you."
"I fell to Earth, Ellie! I caused chaos and strife and other nasty things!" He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his filthy nose at Her. "I ate meat on Fridays and I liked it."
She looked up at him and smiled. "That sounds lovely, Lucy. Your offices are in the basement and your minions have moved everything down there for you." She opened a drawer of Her massive desk, took a box out, and tossed it to him. They were business cards. "Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
* * *
"You called?" the Devil drawls and Claire fights the urge to scream. Not in fright, mind you, for she's dealt with her fair share of evil things over the years, but in frustration.
"Goddamnit Mike!" she says, whirling on her Guardian Angel. "First you tell me not to touch the book, then you tell me not to read from the book. And then, to top off this particularly strange day, you do both those things and the friggin Devil shows up!"
"Stop cussing," Michael says. "And calm down. I know what I'm doing."
"Um, not to interrupt or anything," Lucifer says from the doorway, "but could someone please tell me what I'm doing down here?" He frowns. "And why am I prickly all over?"
Michael sighs, puts down the book. "You're here because I called you and you're prickly all over because we're in a convent."
Lucifer looks around him, takes in the vault, and then pokes his head outside the door. When he comes back into the room, he's itching his arms. "I can't believe you called me to a convent." He pauses, frowns. "This is payback for that thing in Belize, isn't it?"
Michael smirks. "No, but that would be pretty great. And stop panicking - the convent itself used to be a manor home. It's the cloisters you have to worry about and they're one hundred feet to the left of the front door." He points to the Legemeton. "I believe this is yours."
Itching once again, the Devil takes a few steps closer to the book. He leans over, flips back the cover, and grins. "You found my address book," he says. "I've been looking for this for ages."
* * *
They're locked inside the vault. Shortly after Michael grabbed Claire to keep her from punching the Devil in the face, Sister Josephine arrived and announced that the Franciscans were on their way. Instead of asking for advice on what to do, the 85 year old nun took the situation into her tiny hands and shut the vault door, turned the handle three times, and effectively locked the Devil, Archangel and prophet inside.
"Worst day ever," Claire says quietly. She turns her head to the side and frowns at her Guardian Angel. "Please tell me you have a plan. Please tell me you didn't get me locked in a vault where I'm going to suffocate to death while the two of you reminisce about the good old immortal days."
"Balthazaar!" Lucifer shouts and he comes to stand in front of Michael and Claire, the book open. He points to a particularly nasty looking creature, all horns and red skin. "I haven't talked to him in ages. Do you remember that afternoon in China with Balty and the Dragon Kings?"
Michael chuckles, but sobers when Claire glares at him.
"Not the time, Lucy," Michael says.
"I rest my case," Claire grumbles.
"Alright, look. Here's the plan. I take the book upstairs, Lucy busts you out of here, and you ask Sister Magdalene if you can borrow the forgery of the Legemeton she's been working on ever since Sister Josephine let her examine it."
Claire's eyes go wide. "What forgery?"
Michael grins. "Trust me, Maggie has an exact copy of that book somewhere in her room." He reaches out, grabs the Legemeton from Lucifer's hands.
"Hey!"
"I hate to break it to you, pumpkin, but there is absolutely no scenario in the universe which involves me letting you keep this book. It needs to go somewhere safe where it won't be found by inquisitive minds." He opens his robe and tucks the book inside.
Lucifer's skin tone begins to change. He looks flushed, his cheeks so pink that they're nearly...magenta?
"You've no right to take my address book from me!"
Definitely magenta. And as Claire watches, the Devil seems to grow in size, the seams on his expensive Armani suit tearing.
"It's always the same, isn't it?! She gets Her own way because She's God and I have to give up everything!" He stomps a cloven hoof. "It isn't fair!"
He has horns now, pointy ones that are peaking out of his dark hair. He looks like a magenta version of the Incredible Hulk and while Claire should, by all rights, be freaked out and scared, she instead finds the situation hilarious. And so, in the middle of the Devil's temper tantrum, she begins to laugh.
"Good lord, Lucy, you're purple," Michael says and Claire laughs harder.
"Oh, fuck off." Lucifer deflates like a balloon and his once perfect Armani suit hangs off him in tatters. He's pale once again and the horns and cloven hooves are gone and the expression on his face is petulant.
"Do you know how long it took me to put that thing together?" he asks, pointing to where he believes the book is hidden inside Michael's robes.
"I'll get you a new one," Michael says. "Now, are you going to help or are you going to sulk like a wounded puppy?"
"Technically, I could just leave," he says.
"You could," Michael says. "And technically, I could punch you in the nose."
Lucifer squares his shoulders, straightens his shredded tie. "No need to get violent, angel." He turns his head, looks at the vault door, and blinks twice. The handle turns three times and the door swings open. Claire sometimes hates how immortal beings make everything look so damn easy. "Ms. Rogers, I believe you have a date with a forged address book."
Claire turns to look at Michael, but the angel is gone. The only evidence he was ever there is a large white feather on the reading table. She picks it up, pockets it. When she turns back to thank the Devil, he too is gone.***
"Claire!" Sister Josephine says from the other side of the door. "What iz going on?" The nun peers inside the vault. "And where iz Michael?"
She sighs. "I'll explain it later, Mother Superior. Right now, though, I need to speak with Sister Magdalene about a book."
* Lucifer wasn't exactly sure what these acts were, but he was determined to engage in as many of them as he possibly could before She figured out he was gone. He'd heard something about meat on Fridays...and it sounded naughty.
** For the record, the Devil really is an arrogant little bastard.
*** Knowing there were nuns on the otherside of that vault door, Lucifer did what was asked of him and immediately got the Hell out of there. He may be a lot of things, but the Devil isn't stupid.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 2)
As convents go, St. Luac is a pretty sweet pad. Twenty five rooms, a grand hall for dining, an overstocked kitchen run by a local woman who doesn't speak a word of English, or French for that matter, and a conservatory in the back with a panoramic view of the village and hills beyond it. Sister Josephine led them to the conservatory then disappeared back inside with mumblings about lemonade and making themselves comfortable. Claire is lounging in the chair closest to the door while Michael is sprawled out on the settee, his eyes closed and his wings rustling with contentment.
"Tell me again what a grimoire is," Claire says.
Michael's eyes stay firmly shut. "It's a spell book. This one in particular is the Legemeton. Belonged to King Solomon at one time."
"And why does She care about it so much?"
Michael's mouth curves upward in a coy smile. "It's one of Lucy's oldest and finest. He misplaced it a few thousand years ago and he has absolutely no idea where it is, most likely because it's been hidden in a convent for the last ten years." He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "And lucky you, She trusts you enough to get it out of here in one piece, without any damage to life and limb, before either the Franciscans or the Devil himself realizes it's been here."
"Right. Lucky me." Claire frowns. "I understand keeping it hidden from Lucifer, but why from the Franciscans?"
"Because zey are just as great a nusiance as zat horned goat." Claire starts at the Mother Superior's voice. She cranes her neck around to look over the back of the chair. Sister Josephine stands in the doorway to the conservatory with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade and Claire instinctively sits a little straighter. Michael, on the other hand, sinks lower into the settee.
"For zuch an old soul, Michael," she says as she sets the tray down on the side table, "you have zee maturity of a zmall child." She smacks the soles of his Converse sneakers. "Zit up, old man."
Michael obeys without comment, though the expression of mirth on his face says most of what he's thinking. Josephine hands Claire a glass of lemonade and motions for Michael to serve himself.
"How did you find the grimoire, Mother Superior?" Claire asks. The glass is sweating in the humid air of France in August. She puts it down for fear of it slipping out of her hand and crashing to the slate floor of the conservatory.
"We were having work done on zee vault, to expand it for zee Cardinal's vizit in zee autumn. Zee workman hit a looz group of bricks, and voila, zee grimoire tumbled to zee ground." Josephine takes a sip of her lemonade and her mouth puckers almost instantly. "Coraline haz an annoying aversion to sugar," she says and sets the glass down. "Anyway, Zsister Magdalene used to be an art forger in Paris and she knew what zee book waz and we immediately locked it away."*
"How is Maggie?" Michael asks with a barely concealed grin. "Still painting your bathroom walls with Da Vincis and Michelangeos?"
To Claire's immense surprise, Sister Josephine smiles. "She haz moved on to zee impressionists. I have a Monet on my bedroom wall at zee moment."
"Mother Superior, not to rush things, but may we see the grimoire?" Claire asks.
Michael's frown is instant and sharp. "Curiosity killed the cat, Claire. Remember that when you're in the vault with that book. Lucy may be a joke Upstairs, but the things he did down here still cause problems."
Josephine snorts and rolls her eyes. "You are alwayz zo dramatic, Michael. Zee girl iz a prophet. I zuspect she would not be here now if she waz inclined to zee dark zide." The words dark side are said with an accompanying eye roll and air quotes and Claire wants to laugh.
"Mike, I'll be fine. This isn't the Death Star, you're not Yoda, and that book most definitely isn't Darth Vader."
"I'm just saying it's evil."
Claire smiles. "Well, duh."
***
The book is gorgeous, despite the fact it's close to thirty thousand years old and glowing unnaturally in the darkness of the vault and overall very evil. Despite all those things, the Legemeton is one of the most beautiful books Claire has ever seen. She surreptitiously checks to make sure she isn't drooling.
"Beautiful, izn't it?" Josephine asks and Claire suddenly remembers she isn't alone in the vault. "Zere iz zomezing mezmerizing about it."
"It's glowing," Claire says.
"Because it's evil," Michael sing-songs from the back of the vault. He refused to come any further into the room than the doorway when they arrived. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and wings out and rustling aggressively.
"Technically, it's what's written on those pages that's evil," Claire says. "The book itself is just leather and linen." She turns to Sister Josephine. "Do you have cloth gloves, Mother Superior?"
"Absolutely."
"Please tell me you're not thinking of opening that thing up," Michael says, pushing off the wall and straightening. "Have you forgotten what happened with Pandora?"**
Claire frowns. "Don't worry, Mike. I'm a librarian. I can handle just about anything."
Famous last words, really.
Claire puts the gloves on, reaches for the book, and immediately drops it on her foot. She howls in pain, the book opens as it lands, and the lights in the vault flicker. Claire pauses in her hopping to look up at the antique light fixtures, wondering if it's a coincidence or something decidedly less easy to explain.
"Oops," she says and Michael sighs.
"I thought you said you could handle anything," he says. "And yet, you, the librarian, drop a damned book."
"The world didn't end," she says, bending down to pick up the book from the floor and set it, still open, on the reading table.
"Yet," Michael mumbles.
She rolls her eyes and turns to check on Sister Josephine, only to find the elderly nun doubled over with laughter. "Zat," the Mother Superior says, breathless, "waz zee funniest zing I have zeen in decades." She straightens, wipes her eyes, and pats Claire on the shoulder. "I zink you may be zee clumziezt prophet I've ever met."
"You should see what she does with roller skates and small children," Michael says.***
"Shut up, Mike."
* * *
"Now remember, don't read aloud anything in the book," Michael says from his position at Claire's left elbow. "There's no telling what might pop up unannounced."
Sister Josephine left them a few minutes earlier to call the sisters to dinner. They have about twenty minutes before she'll return and after a short argument regarding the fundamental morals involved in stealing a holy relic from a French convent (Michael was for, Claire was against - as per their usual debates), Michael relented and is allowing Claire to look over the book while he supervises.
"You're hovering."
"I'm your guardian angel, Claire. I'm protecting your ass from evil."
"Can you protect it from another foot to the left? Your wings are making my arm itch." He shuffles back a few inches and she breathes deeply at the newfound freedom. "Thanks." She runs her fingers over a set of symbols on the inside cover and immediately feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Note to self: don't do that again.
"So if the only reason Lucy doesn't know the location of this particular grimoire is because it's within the walls of a convent, what happens when we take it out of the convent?" She leans closer to inspect an inscription on the first page and flinches back when she realizes it's written in blood.
"He shows up and makes a stink and we fight. Maybe."
"I hate fighting. I've ruined more good clothing due to impromptu fights with evil than I ever did working for that children's library in Boston." She shudders at the memory of a $100 winter white wool dress and fifty tiny hands covered in finger paint. "That place was horrible."
He shrugs. "Or I can just take it now, head up without you and hope he doesn't get wind of it."
She suppresses a smile. "Sister Josephine is old, but I'm pretty sure she'll notice an angel shaped hole in her roof."
He thinks about it for a few minutes while Claire continues her inspection of the book. She's just come to the realization that the leather covering isn't really leather but something far nastier when Michael grabs the book from her.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Most likely something stupid and regretable." He flips through the pages, finds what he's looking for, and recites a few words in a language she doesn't understand. He puts it back on the table. "Now we wait."
"For what?" she asks, suddenly filled with the kind of dread she associates with evil and calculus tests.
The lights in the vault go off and they're plunged into darkness. Unconsciously (or consciously - Claire's never been good with psychology), Claire searches out Michael's hand in the dark and when her fingers find it, they curl around it. When the lights come back up a few seconds later, Claire instinctively tightens her grip on Michael's hand.
Lucifer adjusts his tie and smiles.
"You called?"
* How, exactly, does an art forger become a nun? By stumbling upon St. Luac while on the run from Interpol and impressing the Mother Superior with her knowledge of not only the great Renaissance painters but also the best American baseball players. Josephine has a weakness for the American past-time and Patricia Hart, formerly of Witchita, Kansas where she was an honest artist and daughter of the local Lutheran minister, needed a place to hide. As Josephine said that evening over tea, even St. Jude would have recognized a lost cause like Patty Hart, even if she was from Kansas.
** And he doesn't mean Pandora and the box, he means Pandora and Claire and the urn in Zeus' office. Pandora convinced Claire to open up the urn and look inside, forgetting that Pandora's Box was actually Pandora's Urn of Terrible Horrible Things. Claire's clumsiness got the better of her and she dropped the urn on the floor, where it broke open and released one final evil into the world: reality television. Truly and utterly terrifying.
*** You really should. It's hilarious and, at moments, gravity-defying.
"Tell me again what a grimoire is," Claire says.
Michael's eyes stay firmly shut. "It's a spell book. This one in particular is the Legemeton. Belonged to King Solomon at one time."
"And why does She care about it so much?"
Michael's mouth curves upward in a coy smile. "It's one of Lucy's oldest and finest. He misplaced it a few thousand years ago and he has absolutely no idea where it is, most likely because it's been hidden in a convent for the last ten years." He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "And lucky you, She trusts you enough to get it out of here in one piece, without any damage to life and limb, before either the Franciscans or the Devil himself realizes it's been here."
"Right. Lucky me." Claire frowns. "I understand keeping it hidden from Lucifer, but why from the Franciscans?"
"Because zey are just as great a nusiance as zat horned goat." Claire starts at the Mother Superior's voice. She cranes her neck around to look over the back of the chair. Sister Josephine stands in the doorway to the conservatory with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade and Claire instinctively sits a little straighter. Michael, on the other hand, sinks lower into the settee.
"For zuch an old soul, Michael," she says as she sets the tray down on the side table, "you have zee maturity of a zmall child." She smacks the soles of his Converse sneakers. "Zit up, old man."
Michael obeys without comment, though the expression of mirth on his face says most of what he's thinking. Josephine hands Claire a glass of lemonade and motions for Michael to serve himself.
"How did you find the grimoire, Mother Superior?" Claire asks. The glass is sweating in the humid air of France in August. She puts it down for fear of it slipping out of her hand and crashing to the slate floor of the conservatory.
"We were having work done on zee vault, to expand it for zee Cardinal's vizit in zee autumn. Zee workman hit a looz group of bricks, and voila, zee grimoire tumbled to zee ground." Josephine takes a sip of her lemonade and her mouth puckers almost instantly. "Coraline haz an annoying aversion to sugar," she says and sets the glass down. "Anyway, Zsister Magdalene used to be an art forger in Paris and she knew what zee book waz and we immediately locked it away."*
"How is Maggie?" Michael asks with a barely concealed grin. "Still painting your bathroom walls with Da Vincis and Michelangeos?"
To Claire's immense surprise, Sister Josephine smiles. "She haz moved on to zee impressionists. I have a Monet on my bedroom wall at zee moment."
"Mother Superior, not to rush things, but may we see the grimoire?" Claire asks.
Michael's frown is instant and sharp. "Curiosity killed the cat, Claire. Remember that when you're in the vault with that book. Lucy may be a joke Upstairs, but the things he did down here still cause problems."
Josephine snorts and rolls her eyes. "You are alwayz zo dramatic, Michael. Zee girl iz a prophet. I zuspect she would not be here now if she waz inclined to zee dark zide." The words dark side are said with an accompanying eye roll and air quotes and Claire wants to laugh.
"Mike, I'll be fine. This isn't the Death Star, you're not Yoda, and that book most definitely isn't Darth Vader."
"I'm just saying it's evil."
Claire smiles. "Well, duh."
***
The book is gorgeous, despite the fact it's close to thirty thousand years old and glowing unnaturally in the darkness of the vault and overall very evil. Despite all those things, the Legemeton is one of the most beautiful books Claire has ever seen. She surreptitiously checks to make sure she isn't drooling.
"Beautiful, izn't it?" Josephine asks and Claire suddenly remembers she isn't alone in the vault. "Zere iz zomezing mezmerizing about it."
"It's glowing," Claire says.
"Because it's evil," Michael sing-songs from the back of the vault. He refused to come any further into the room than the doorway when they arrived. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and wings out and rustling aggressively.
"Technically, it's what's written on those pages that's evil," Claire says. "The book itself is just leather and linen." She turns to Sister Josephine. "Do you have cloth gloves, Mother Superior?"
"Absolutely."
"Please tell me you're not thinking of opening that thing up," Michael says, pushing off the wall and straightening. "Have you forgotten what happened with Pandora?"**
Claire frowns. "Don't worry, Mike. I'm a librarian. I can handle just about anything."
Famous last words, really.
Claire puts the gloves on, reaches for the book, and immediately drops it on her foot. She howls in pain, the book opens as it lands, and the lights in the vault flicker. Claire pauses in her hopping to look up at the antique light fixtures, wondering if it's a coincidence or something decidedly less easy to explain.
"Oops," she says and Michael sighs.
"I thought you said you could handle anything," he says. "And yet, you, the librarian, drop a damned book."
"The world didn't end," she says, bending down to pick up the book from the floor and set it, still open, on the reading table.
"Yet," Michael mumbles.
She rolls her eyes and turns to check on Sister Josephine, only to find the elderly nun doubled over with laughter. "Zat," the Mother Superior says, breathless, "waz zee funniest zing I have zeen in decades." She straightens, wipes her eyes, and pats Claire on the shoulder. "I zink you may be zee clumziezt prophet I've ever met."
"You should see what she does with roller skates and small children," Michael says.***
"Shut up, Mike."
* * *
"Now remember, don't read aloud anything in the book," Michael says from his position at Claire's left elbow. "There's no telling what might pop up unannounced."
Sister Josephine left them a few minutes earlier to call the sisters to dinner. They have about twenty minutes before she'll return and after a short argument regarding the fundamental morals involved in stealing a holy relic from a French convent (Michael was for, Claire was against - as per their usual debates), Michael relented and is allowing Claire to look over the book while he supervises.
"You're hovering."
"I'm your guardian angel, Claire. I'm protecting your ass from evil."
"Can you protect it from another foot to the left? Your wings are making my arm itch." He shuffles back a few inches and she breathes deeply at the newfound freedom. "Thanks." She runs her fingers over a set of symbols on the inside cover and immediately feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Note to self: don't do that again.
"So if the only reason Lucy doesn't know the location of this particular grimoire is because it's within the walls of a convent, what happens when we take it out of the convent?" She leans closer to inspect an inscription on the first page and flinches back when she realizes it's written in blood.
"He shows up and makes a stink and we fight. Maybe."
"I hate fighting. I've ruined more good clothing due to impromptu fights with evil than I ever did working for that children's library in Boston." She shudders at the memory of a $100 winter white wool dress and fifty tiny hands covered in finger paint. "That place was horrible."
He shrugs. "Or I can just take it now, head up without you and hope he doesn't get wind of it."
She suppresses a smile. "Sister Josephine is old, but I'm pretty sure she'll notice an angel shaped hole in her roof."
He thinks about it for a few minutes while Claire continues her inspection of the book. She's just come to the realization that the leather covering isn't really leather but something far nastier when Michael grabs the book from her.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Most likely something stupid and regretable." He flips through the pages, finds what he's looking for, and recites a few words in a language she doesn't understand. He puts it back on the table. "Now we wait."
"For what?" she asks, suddenly filled with the kind of dread she associates with evil and calculus tests.
The lights in the vault go off and they're plunged into darkness. Unconsciously (or consciously - Claire's never been good with psychology), Claire searches out Michael's hand in the dark and when her fingers find it, they curl around it. When the lights come back up a few seconds later, Claire instinctively tightens her grip on Michael's hand.
Lucifer adjusts his tie and smiles.
"You called?"
* How, exactly, does an art forger become a nun? By stumbling upon St. Luac while on the run from Interpol and impressing the Mother Superior with her knowledge of not only the great Renaissance painters but also the best American baseball players. Josephine has a weakness for the American past-time and Patricia Hart, formerly of Witchita, Kansas where she was an honest artist and daughter of the local Lutheran minister, needed a place to hide. As Josephine said that evening over tea, even St. Jude would have recognized a lost cause like Patty Hart, even if she was from Kansas.
** And he doesn't mean Pandora and the box, he means Pandora and Claire and the urn in Zeus' office. Pandora convinced Claire to open up the urn and look inside, forgetting that Pandora's Box was actually Pandora's Urn of Terrible Horrible Things. Claire's clumsiness got the better of her and she dropped the urn on the floor, where it broke open and released one final evil into the world: reality television. Truly and utterly terrifying.
*** You really should. It's hilarious and, at moments, gravity-defying.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 1)
They're headed to France to save an ancient book from a group of even older Franciscans. It wasn't how Claire had planned to spend her much needed - much deserved - week long vacation from the Houseman Library in Detroit, but all things considered there are worse places she could be headed. Like the mouth of a volcano, which, according to God, was her other option if she didn't like France.
God is mildly unpleasant when argued with before Her morning coffee.
"I hate flying," Michael says from his cramped position next to her on the airplane. She can't complain too much - God sprung for first class seats so at least she has some leg room.
"You're an angel, Mike. You have wings."
He turns his head and frowns at her in such a way that she wants to laugh. "Yeah, so?"
"You, by definition, fly on a daily basis."
"Airplanes are unsafe."
"No, they're not, and what does it matter anyway? You're already dead. I'm the one who should be freaking out right now." She took a Tylenol PM (or three) before they boarded the plane, so while a small part of her wants to freak out, the rest of her is too numb to care. "Besides, you didn't have to fly with me. You could have just met me there."
He turns to look at her and the look on his face suggest he never considered that possibility.
"Sonovabitch."
She smiles and closes her eyes. "Wake me up when we get there."
* * *
Claire has to hand it to the French - they know what they're doing with countryside. The convent at St. Luac is at the very top of the only hill in all of France without an access road, so she and Michael have had ample opportunity over the last hour to admire the gorgeous rolling green of Southern France. Beautiful or not, though, she'd donate a kidney for a four-wheeler.
"How's work?" Michael asks from beside her. They've paused for a few moments to catch their breath and he's been doubled over, hands on his knees and chest heaving, the entire time.
"It's fine. The Houseman is nice." She takes a sip of water from the bottle she stole off the plane and points at him. "You wouldn't have this problem if you stopped smoking cigars."
"I wouldn't have this problem is She just sent someone else to watch over you." He straightens, snatches the bottle from her hand, and finishes it off. "Christ, it's hot down here."
"It's August and you're wearing an overcoat."
He looks down at himself, shakes his head and covers his face.
"You forgot you were wearing an overcoat, didn't you?" He nods and she can see red starting to climb up his bearded cheeks. "You kind of suck at pretending to be human."
"It's been a long week, alright?"* He sighs, shrugs off the coat and leaves it on the ground for someone else to find. Almost as an afterthought, he shakes out his wings and stretches. "Much better." He grins at her.
"You look like a cockatoo."
The grin falters. "You can be a real twit sometimes."
"I love these bonding moments," she says. "They make me feel so warm and fuzzy." She starts walking again, turns around when she doesn't hear him following.
He winks at her. "Race you to the top," he says and takes off through the tree canopy.
She shields her eyes and stares at the Michael shaped hole in the branches. "Ass," she says.
"I heard that!"
* * *
The woman frowning at Claire is barely five feet tall, possibly older than Jesus, and carrying a ruler the size of a redwood branch. Despite her size and traditional black tunic and habit, Mother Superior (a.k.a. Sister Josephine) is hella imposing. Claire is trying very hard not to flinch every time the ruler smacks against the nun's palm.
"Who are you?" she asks and taps Claire's arm with said ruler, punctuating each word.
"My name is Claire Rogers. I'm here about the grimoire."
The woman's crystal blue eyes go wide and the ruler disappears into the sleeve of her tunic and the hard line in her forehead smooths. "Zee holy Mother sent you?" she asks and there's a tone of conspiracy to it. Claire nods. "It took you long enough! I called Her three days ago."
Claire knows better than to be surprised.
"We took the earliest flight, Mother Superior. I'm sorry it took us so long."
"We?" she asks. "Who did you bring with you?"
Michael's timing is impeccable. He appears in the sky, attempts a fancy manuever, and trips himself up just badly enough that he crashes onto the ground in front of Claire and the Mother Superior. He looks up at the old woman through messy hair and grins, waves his hand.
"Good morning, Josephine."
She sighs, turns towards the doors of the convent. "All zeez yearz, Michael, and you are still a child." She motions inside. "Zee grimoire is in zee vault."
Claire offers Michael a hand as the Mother Superior disappears inside the dark convent. "I take it you two know each other," she says as she pulls him to his feet.
"I saved a local girl from a minion once." He brushes the grass off his robes. "She didn't approve of my methods."**
"What did you do?" she asks as they walk towards the doors.
"I singed off his tail."
Claire shakes her head and follows the Mother Superior inside. Michael stares after her, hands raised.
"What?" He shakes out his wings, heads towards the door. "I apologized eventually," he murmurs. "Not that the bastard deserved it."
Josephine's voice filters out from the darkness. "I heard zat."
* A long week in the Pearly Gates is like eight long years on Earth. Like two terrible Presidential terms. Like failing high school - twice.
** It was the one time in his existence that Michael was actually wrong. The minion wasn't actually going to hurt the girl, just take her out for ice cream. In hindsight (no pun intended), he should have asked why the little girl looked happy and what the spoons were for.
God is mildly unpleasant when argued with before Her morning coffee.
"I hate flying," Michael says from his cramped position next to her on the airplane. She can't complain too much - God sprung for first class seats so at least she has some leg room.
"You're an angel, Mike. You have wings."
He turns his head and frowns at her in such a way that she wants to laugh. "Yeah, so?"
"You, by definition, fly on a daily basis."
"Airplanes are unsafe."
"No, they're not, and what does it matter anyway? You're already dead. I'm the one who should be freaking out right now." She took a Tylenol PM (or three) before they boarded the plane, so while a small part of her wants to freak out, the rest of her is too numb to care. "Besides, you didn't have to fly with me. You could have just met me there."
He turns to look at her and the look on his face suggest he never considered that possibility.
"Sonovabitch."
She smiles and closes her eyes. "Wake me up when we get there."
* * *
Claire has to hand it to the French - they know what they're doing with countryside. The convent at St. Luac is at the very top of the only hill in all of France without an access road, so she and Michael have had ample opportunity over the last hour to admire the gorgeous rolling green of Southern France. Beautiful or not, though, she'd donate a kidney for a four-wheeler.
"How's work?" Michael asks from beside her. They've paused for a few moments to catch their breath and he's been doubled over, hands on his knees and chest heaving, the entire time.
"It's fine. The Houseman is nice." She takes a sip of water from the bottle she stole off the plane and points at him. "You wouldn't have this problem if you stopped smoking cigars."
"I wouldn't have this problem is She just sent someone else to watch over you." He straightens, snatches the bottle from her hand, and finishes it off. "Christ, it's hot down here."
"It's August and you're wearing an overcoat."
He looks down at himself, shakes his head and covers his face.
"You forgot you were wearing an overcoat, didn't you?" He nods and she can see red starting to climb up his bearded cheeks. "You kind of suck at pretending to be human."
"It's been a long week, alright?"* He sighs, shrugs off the coat and leaves it on the ground for someone else to find. Almost as an afterthought, he shakes out his wings and stretches. "Much better." He grins at her.
"You look like a cockatoo."
The grin falters. "You can be a real twit sometimes."
"I love these bonding moments," she says. "They make me feel so warm and fuzzy." She starts walking again, turns around when she doesn't hear him following.
He winks at her. "Race you to the top," he says and takes off through the tree canopy.
She shields her eyes and stares at the Michael shaped hole in the branches. "Ass," she says.
"I heard that!"
* * *
The woman frowning at Claire is barely five feet tall, possibly older than Jesus, and carrying a ruler the size of a redwood branch. Despite her size and traditional black tunic and habit, Mother Superior (a.k.a. Sister Josephine) is hella imposing. Claire is trying very hard not to flinch every time the ruler smacks against the nun's palm.
"Who are you?" she asks and taps Claire's arm with said ruler, punctuating each word.
"My name is Claire Rogers. I'm here about the grimoire."
The woman's crystal blue eyes go wide and the ruler disappears into the sleeve of her tunic and the hard line in her forehead smooths. "Zee holy Mother sent you?" she asks and there's a tone of conspiracy to it. Claire nods. "It took you long enough! I called Her three days ago."
Claire knows better than to be surprised.
"We took the earliest flight, Mother Superior. I'm sorry it took us so long."
"We?" she asks. "Who did you bring with you?"
Michael's timing is impeccable. He appears in the sky, attempts a fancy manuever, and trips himself up just badly enough that he crashes onto the ground in front of Claire and the Mother Superior. He looks up at the old woman through messy hair and grins, waves his hand.
"Good morning, Josephine."
She sighs, turns towards the doors of the convent. "All zeez yearz, Michael, and you are still a child." She motions inside. "Zee grimoire is in zee vault."
Claire offers Michael a hand as the Mother Superior disappears inside the dark convent. "I take it you two know each other," she says as she pulls him to his feet.
"I saved a local girl from a minion once." He brushes the grass off his robes. "She didn't approve of my methods."**
"What did you do?" she asks as they walk towards the doors.
"I singed off his tail."
Claire shakes her head and follows the Mother Superior inside. Michael stares after her, hands raised.
"What?" He shakes out his wings, heads towards the door. "I apologized eventually," he murmurs. "Not that the bastard deserved it."
Josephine's voice filters out from the darkness. "I heard zat."
* A long week in the Pearly Gates is like eight long years on Earth. Like two terrible Presidential terms. Like failing high school - twice.
** It was the one time in his existence that Michael was actually wrong. The minion wasn't actually going to hurt the girl, just take her out for ice cream. In hindsight (no pun intended), he should have asked why the little girl looked happy and what the spoons were for.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Let Me See Your "Evil League" Card
Claire isn't entirely sure how it happened, and if asked she'll chalk it up to Irish luck or something equally implausible, but she, crazy Claire Rogers who talks to herself in the quad at lunch and who, occasionally, breaks into long streams of Aramaic, has a date.
A real one, with a real boy. Or man. Or minion. He could, conceivably, be a minion. She has that kind of luck.
"What if he's a minion?" she says to her roommate, Veronica. Her voice is muffled by the closet. She pulls her head out and frowns. "I have nothing to wear."
"Well," Veronica drawls, her eyes never leaving the page of the magazine in front of her, "if he's a demon then it doesn't really matter what you wear."
"Minion."
"What's the difference?"
"I'm not really sure, but I think it has something to do with the number of evil deeds performed in a workday."
Veronica looks up from the magazine and one sculpted eyebrow arches up over one violet colored eye. There's a calm expression on her face, but Claire can tell she's having a hard time keeping her comments to herself. Veronica half smiles, the left corner of her mouth quirking up in surrender of Claire's "alternative" lifestyle.*
"Wear the green dress, the one you bought at Macy's for that Christmas party we never went to."
Claire looks in the closet, sees the dress, and immediately remembers why they didn't make it to that particular party that particular evening. "I apologized for that, right?"
Veronica smiles and her eyes go back to the magazine. "You did, but it wasn't a problem. I'd never been to Alberta in winter."
"God, that was cold," Claire says, shivering at the memory.
"Word."
* * *
His name is Leonard Hart and he's an architecture graduate student from somewhere in the midwest. He looks like the love child of a farm boy and Brad Pitt and Claire, in all her post-Armageddon-realization horniness is having a very hard time not jumping him in the waiting line at the restaurant.
She can practically hear God's voice chanting in her ear.
I will not jump my date in public...I will not jump my date in public...
"What did you say you were studying?" Leonard asks when they're finally sitting at their table and Claire shakes her head to clear all inappropriate thoughts before attempting to talk, lest she open her mouth and a comment about his absolutely gorgeous ass come spilling out.
"Library science."
His farm boy face lights up with a smile. "You mean I'm on a date with a sexy librarian?"
Men this attractive do not ask Claire out on dates. Men who look as though they've never left their mothers' basements and who often have imaginary conversations with people Claire cannot physically see (and she can often see imaginary persons) ask her out. So the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man seated across from her calling her a sexy librarian is just enough to make Claire wonder if it's possible to spontaneously combust.**
"It looks like it," she says with a smile.
They order drinks - hers is a Tom Collins and his is a scotch, a nice one, nearly 50 years old - and talk a little more about where they came from, where they're hoping to go. In fact, they're getting along so well that Claire actually starts to feel normal for once in her life. She's envisioning Sunday mornings spent reading the newspaper in bed while her super hot farm boy boyfriend makes coffee in the kitchen.
In this scenario, Claire isn't a prophet of God. Instead she's a librarian. A sexy one. With glasses.
But then Leonard coughs and Claire catches a whif of brimstone and all wonderful, fluffy thoughts fly out the window as she realizes the super cute, super adorable man sitting across from her is a minion. Either that, or he's swallowed half a dozen charcoal brickets before dinner.
"Sonovabitch," Claire says and Leonard pauses, his glass of scotch halfway to his lips.
"Pardon?"
She frowns at him, instantly aware of exits and escape plans. She doesn't get along with little Lucy's henchmen, especially the pointed ones.
"You're a minion," she says and his mouth opens in suprise, "aren't you?"
Leonard seems to shake out of his surprise, brings the glass all the way up to his lips and finishes the remaining scotch in one long sip. He sets the empty glass on the table, rests his forearms in front of him and leans forward slightly.
"Let me guess: you're a prophet?" Claire nods and he hangs his head. "I should have known."
"Should have known what?" Claire's a minute or so away from realizing one of her lifetime goals of having a hysterical fit in public.
"That it was too good to be true." He leans back in his chair, motions for the waiter. "I knew there was something off about you."
Claire is relatively new to dating, having spent the better part of her adult life thus far in the service of God, but she does know that in this scenario, she isn't the strange one.
"Something off about me?" She throws her napkin on the table. "You're one to talk, considering you're evil."
"Excuse me, but that's mostly a matter of opinion."
"You're a minion of Lucifer," she says. "Of course you're evil."
His head snaps up and his (gorgeous, simply gorgeous) green eyes go wide. "You thought that because I was a minion, I worked for Satan?" he asks, offended. Claire nods and he snorts in disbelief, creating another small cloud of brimstone. "That's profiling and it's just plain rude."
"You work for Hades, then?" she asks and he nods. "What are you doing up here?"
"Persephone just got home, so he gave us all the month off. I'm finishing up my degree."
Claire spends a few seconds processing the fact that he's a minion finishing a Master's Degree - they may be an annoying bunch, but even the undead have a right to an education - before moving onto the fact that he works for Hades and not Lucifer. She really should have figured that one out, considering he doesn't have any visible horns. All of Lucifer's minions wear a terrible toupee of some sort so they can cover up their nubby horns. It makes them very hard to take seriously.
"I suppose, then, that I owe you an apology," Claire says. She hates being wrong, yet another terrible personality trait she's learned from God.
"Yes, you do," Leonard says and while his face looks serious there's a hint of amusement in his voice that makes Claire smile.
"Look, you work for Her long enough and you start stereotyping everyone and everything. I should have realized you weren't evil."
"The hair?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Your name is Leonard and your jacket has elbow patches."
The farm boy smile lights up his face and Claire's legs tingle. This time, God's voice is chanting He's evil, don't sleep with him, and Claire is pointedly ignoring it.***
"How about dessert and a cup of coffee?" Leonard asks.
Claire weighs the pros and cons.
Pros: he's ridiculously attractive, he finds her attractive, and there's every indication she could get lucky if she plays her cards right.
Cons: he works for one of the founding members of Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd, and most probably has coffee with Satan at least once a week.
To be honest, it's a fairly balanced list. Then he smiles again and Claire's legs tingle and her hormones tip the pro scales.
"Dessert and coffee sounds good," she says. "Breakfast sounds better."
"Check please!" He stands, holds out his hand. "Best apology ever," he whispers as he pulls her to her feet, then he rests his hand on her lower back and this time it isn't just Claire's legs that tingle.
*Understatement of the year. Being a Goth is "alternative". Being a Prophet of God is "super crazy nutso".
** Claire knows that it's possible, thanks to that one night in Florida two years earlier. Not even minions, who toil in the ridiculously hot sub-levels of the Pearly Gates, can withstand the heat of August in Florida. Interesting bit of trivia: minions don't just die when they overheat - they explode. Kaboom. No amount of dry cleaning will get exploded minion nastiness out of a silk dress.
*** Someday, God will regret the immense impact She's had on Her favorite prophet, especially when it comes back to bite Her in Her holy ass.
A real one, with a real boy. Or man. Or minion. He could, conceivably, be a minion. She has that kind of luck.
"What if he's a minion?" she says to her roommate, Veronica. Her voice is muffled by the closet. She pulls her head out and frowns. "I have nothing to wear."
"Well," Veronica drawls, her eyes never leaving the page of the magazine in front of her, "if he's a demon then it doesn't really matter what you wear."
"Minion."
"What's the difference?"
"I'm not really sure, but I think it has something to do with the number of evil deeds performed in a workday."
Veronica looks up from the magazine and one sculpted eyebrow arches up over one violet colored eye. There's a calm expression on her face, but Claire can tell she's having a hard time keeping her comments to herself. Veronica half smiles, the left corner of her mouth quirking up in surrender of Claire's "alternative" lifestyle.*
"Wear the green dress, the one you bought at Macy's for that Christmas party we never went to."
Claire looks in the closet, sees the dress, and immediately remembers why they didn't make it to that particular party that particular evening. "I apologized for that, right?"
Veronica smiles and her eyes go back to the magazine. "You did, but it wasn't a problem. I'd never been to Alberta in winter."
"God, that was cold," Claire says, shivering at the memory.
"Word."
* * *
His name is Leonard Hart and he's an architecture graduate student from somewhere in the midwest. He looks like the love child of a farm boy and Brad Pitt and Claire, in all her post-Armageddon-realization horniness is having a very hard time not jumping him in the waiting line at the restaurant.
She can practically hear God's voice chanting in her ear.
I will not jump my date in public...I will not jump my date in public...
"What did you say you were studying?" Leonard asks when they're finally sitting at their table and Claire shakes her head to clear all inappropriate thoughts before attempting to talk, lest she open her mouth and a comment about his absolutely gorgeous ass come spilling out.
"Library science."
His farm boy face lights up with a smile. "You mean I'm on a date with a sexy librarian?"
Men this attractive do not ask Claire out on dates. Men who look as though they've never left their mothers' basements and who often have imaginary conversations with people Claire cannot physically see (and she can often see imaginary persons) ask her out. So the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man seated across from her calling her a sexy librarian is just enough to make Claire wonder if it's possible to spontaneously combust.**
"It looks like it," she says with a smile.
They order drinks - hers is a Tom Collins and his is a scotch, a nice one, nearly 50 years old - and talk a little more about where they came from, where they're hoping to go. In fact, they're getting along so well that Claire actually starts to feel normal for once in her life. She's envisioning Sunday mornings spent reading the newspaper in bed while her super hot farm boy boyfriend makes coffee in the kitchen.
In this scenario, Claire isn't a prophet of God. Instead she's a librarian. A sexy one. With glasses.
But then Leonard coughs and Claire catches a whif of brimstone and all wonderful, fluffy thoughts fly out the window as she realizes the super cute, super adorable man sitting across from her is a minion. Either that, or he's swallowed half a dozen charcoal brickets before dinner.
"Sonovabitch," Claire says and Leonard pauses, his glass of scotch halfway to his lips.
"Pardon?"
She frowns at him, instantly aware of exits and escape plans. She doesn't get along with little Lucy's henchmen, especially the pointed ones.
"You're a minion," she says and his mouth opens in suprise, "aren't you?"
Leonard seems to shake out of his surprise, brings the glass all the way up to his lips and finishes the remaining scotch in one long sip. He sets the empty glass on the table, rests his forearms in front of him and leans forward slightly.
"Let me guess: you're a prophet?" Claire nods and he hangs his head. "I should have known."
"Should have known what?" Claire's a minute or so away from realizing one of her lifetime goals of having a hysterical fit in public.
"That it was too good to be true." He leans back in his chair, motions for the waiter. "I knew there was something off about you."
Claire is relatively new to dating, having spent the better part of her adult life thus far in the service of God, but she does know that in this scenario, she isn't the strange one.
"Something off about me?" She throws her napkin on the table. "You're one to talk, considering you're evil."
"Excuse me, but that's mostly a matter of opinion."
"You're a minion of Lucifer," she says. "Of course you're evil."
His head snaps up and his (gorgeous, simply gorgeous) green eyes go wide. "You thought that because I was a minion, I worked for Satan?" he asks, offended. Claire nods and he snorts in disbelief, creating another small cloud of brimstone. "That's profiling and it's just plain rude."
"You work for Hades, then?" she asks and he nods. "What are you doing up here?"
"Persephone just got home, so he gave us all the month off. I'm finishing up my degree."
Claire spends a few seconds processing the fact that he's a minion finishing a Master's Degree - they may be an annoying bunch, but even the undead have a right to an education - before moving onto the fact that he works for Hades and not Lucifer. She really should have figured that one out, considering he doesn't have any visible horns. All of Lucifer's minions wear a terrible toupee of some sort so they can cover up their nubby horns. It makes them very hard to take seriously.
"I suppose, then, that I owe you an apology," Claire says. She hates being wrong, yet another terrible personality trait she's learned from God.
"Yes, you do," Leonard says and while his face looks serious there's a hint of amusement in his voice that makes Claire smile.
"Look, you work for Her long enough and you start stereotyping everyone and everything. I should have realized you weren't evil."
"The hair?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Your name is Leonard and your jacket has elbow patches."
The farm boy smile lights up his face and Claire's legs tingle. This time, God's voice is chanting He's evil, don't sleep with him, and Claire is pointedly ignoring it.***
"How about dessert and a cup of coffee?" Leonard asks.
Claire weighs the pros and cons.
Pros: he's ridiculously attractive, he finds her attractive, and there's every indication she could get lucky if she plays her cards right.
Cons: he works for one of the founding members of Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd, and most probably has coffee with Satan at least once a week.
To be honest, it's a fairly balanced list. Then he smiles again and Claire's legs tingle and her hormones tip the pro scales.
"Dessert and coffee sounds good," she says. "Breakfast sounds better."
"Check please!" He stands, holds out his hand. "Best apology ever," he whispers as he pulls her to her feet, then he rests his hand on her lower back and this time it isn't just Claire's legs that tingle.
*Understatement of the year. Being a Goth is "alternative". Being a Prophet of God is "super crazy nutso".
** Claire knows that it's possible, thanks to that one night in Florida two years earlier. Not even minions, who toil in the ridiculously hot sub-levels of the Pearly Gates, can withstand the heat of August in Florida. Interesting bit of trivia: minions don't just die when they overheat - they explode. Kaboom. No amount of dry cleaning will get exploded minion nastiness out of a silk dress.
*** Someday, God will regret the immense impact She's had on Her favorite prophet, especially when it comes back to bite Her in Her holy ass.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Promotion's the Thing!
Elohim, only child of Yahweh, has a sneaking suspicion her Father is leaving.
It could have something to do with the three suitcases and the hideous Hawaiian shirt.
"Um, Dad, where are You going?" She asks around a mouthful of Her morning oatmeal.
"I'm retiring," He replies, His thunderous voice firm and resolute as always.
She has a hard time swallowing the oatmeal. "Retiring?" She chokes out and He nods, pats the pockets of His shirt and cargo shorts. "You haven't even finished creating the solar system and You're retiring?"
He continues to pat down His pockets. "It's practically done. All that's missing is a couple of planets suitable for life. You can manage that, can't You?"
She's pretty sure She can't, but She doesn't feel like being lectured on believing in Herself so She changes the subject. "Well if You're retiring, who's going to run the place?"
"Aha!" He finds what He's looking for - a key ring packed full of shiny keys - and grins at His only daughter. "You are. You're going to take over Heaven."
"What?!" He hands Her the key ring and She shakes Her head, scoots Her chair away from Him. "No. Absolutely not. I'm managing the angels right now and I like my job. No planets, no paperwork, just feathers and halos. Get someone else to do it."
He sighs. "There isn't anyone else."
"What about Gabriel?" she asks, desperate. "He came of age a few hours ago."
Yahweh gives an indignant snort. "Gabriel is a lovely archangel, he really is, but he's a half-wit when it comes to business." He tosses the keys to Her and without really wanting to, She catches them. "It's really easy and I left instructions in My office - Your office. If You need anything, just give Me a call."
"But, Daddy..."
He holds up a massive hand. "No buts about it, Ellie. You're old enough to take over and I'm old enough to retire. Now, Lucifer will be around and You know that he's always been a great help to Me."
She cringes at the idea of working closely with Her Father's assistant. Lucifer is the only angel She's ever met who wears three piece suits on a daily basis. Not to mention that he always wears a red tie. Every single day.* There's just something off-putting about him. It doesn't help that he's mildly attractive...in a pointy kind of way. Not that She'd ever admit that to anyone but Herself.
"Lucifer's creepy," She says and Her voice has a petulant quality to it.
Yahweh frowns. "Don't be rude, Ellie," He chastises and leans over Her to plant a kiss on the top of Her caramel colored curls. "I'll check in when I get settled, see how things are going. In the meantime, start moving into Your new office."
"Yes, dad."
"And be nice!"
She nods and He disappears in a flurry of Hawaiian print and hairy white legs. She stares at the spot He occupied a second earlier and does the one thing that seems natural in a situation such as this: She bursts into tears.
That's how Lucifer finds Her a short time later, crying into Her oatmeal with all the grace of a pool of primordial ooze. He offers Her his hankerchief and a sympathetic smile and She surprises Herself by accepting both.
"It'll be okay," he says and She's tempted to believe him. Even if he is wearing a designer suit and a red tie. "I'll bet You're wishing He'd given those keys to someone else."
"Goodness, yes." She breathes a sigh of relief at Her admission and smiles inspite of Herself. "My Father said you'd be available to help Me out, to get things settled."
She's so focused on his tie - there's a subtle pattern to it that She can't quite make out - that She doesn't see the angry frown that crosses his face.** When She finally does look up, he plasters on a fake smile and nods. "Absolutely."
"Great." She claps Her hands together. "First order of business, help Me move My office to the Penthouse."
"Agreed," Lucifer says, standing and offering Her a hand up. "Second order of business, celebrate Your new promotion with a drink."
A little voice in the back of Her head that sounds suspiciously like Her mother explains that a drink with an employee probably isn't the smartest way to start off as God, especially an employee who's eyeing Her like She's dessert for his five course meal.
She does what She usually does when She hears that voice and ignores it.
She shrugs. "What harm is there in a drink?" She asks with a smile and takes his hand.
Never let it be said that God doesn't occasionally make bad (horrible, terrible, irreparable, etc.) decisions.
* She thinks that when they finally do create a planet that can host intelligent life, it'll eventually be overrun by people in three piece suits wearing red ties. It's the main reason She sticks to angel management - fewer nightmares.
** A long time ago, Lucifer got it into his head that Yahweh was leaving the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven to the Angel. Imagine his surprise when he discovered Elohim was the new boss in charge. He can't decide what's pissed him off more - the fact that he didn't get the job or the fact that he bought a new tie specifically for the occasion. A blue one. Goddamn nepotism.
It could have something to do with the three suitcases and the hideous Hawaiian shirt.
"Um, Dad, where are You going?" She asks around a mouthful of Her morning oatmeal.
"I'm retiring," He replies, His thunderous voice firm and resolute as always.
She has a hard time swallowing the oatmeal. "Retiring?" She chokes out and He nods, pats the pockets of His shirt and cargo shorts. "You haven't even finished creating the solar system and You're retiring?"
He continues to pat down His pockets. "It's practically done. All that's missing is a couple of planets suitable for life. You can manage that, can't You?"
She's pretty sure She can't, but She doesn't feel like being lectured on believing in Herself so She changes the subject. "Well if You're retiring, who's going to run the place?"
"Aha!" He finds what He's looking for - a key ring packed full of shiny keys - and grins at His only daughter. "You are. You're going to take over Heaven."
"What?!" He hands Her the key ring and She shakes Her head, scoots Her chair away from Him. "No. Absolutely not. I'm managing the angels right now and I like my job. No planets, no paperwork, just feathers and halos. Get someone else to do it."
He sighs. "There isn't anyone else."
"What about Gabriel?" she asks, desperate. "He came of age a few hours ago."
Yahweh gives an indignant snort. "Gabriel is a lovely archangel, he really is, but he's a half-wit when it comes to business." He tosses the keys to Her and without really wanting to, She catches them. "It's really easy and I left instructions in My office - Your office. If You need anything, just give Me a call."
"But, Daddy..."
He holds up a massive hand. "No buts about it, Ellie. You're old enough to take over and I'm old enough to retire. Now, Lucifer will be around and You know that he's always been a great help to Me."
She cringes at the idea of working closely with Her Father's assistant. Lucifer is the only angel She's ever met who wears three piece suits on a daily basis. Not to mention that he always wears a red tie. Every single day.* There's just something off-putting about him. It doesn't help that he's mildly attractive...in a pointy kind of way. Not that She'd ever admit that to anyone but Herself.
"Lucifer's creepy," She says and Her voice has a petulant quality to it.
Yahweh frowns. "Don't be rude, Ellie," He chastises and leans over Her to plant a kiss on the top of Her caramel colored curls. "I'll check in when I get settled, see how things are going. In the meantime, start moving into Your new office."
"Yes, dad."
"And be nice!"
She nods and He disappears in a flurry of Hawaiian print and hairy white legs. She stares at the spot He occupied a second earlier and does the one thing that seems natural in a situation such as this: She bursts into tears.
That's how Lucifer finds Her a short time later, crying into Her oatmeal with all the grace of a pool of primordial ooze. He offers Her his hankerchief and a sympathetic smile and She surprises Herself by accepting both.
"It'll be okay," he says and She's tempted to believe him. Even if he is wearing a designer suit and a red tie. "I'll bet You're wishing He'd given those keys to someone else."
"Goodness, yes." She breathes a sigh of relief at Her admission and smiles inspite of Herself. "My Father said you'd be available to help Me out, to get things settled."
She's so focused on his tie - there's a subtle pattern to it that She can't quite make out - that She doesn't see the angry frown that crosses his face.** When She finally does look up, he plasters on a fake smile and nods. "Absolutely."
"Great." She claps Her hands together. "First order of business, help Me move My office to the Penthouse."
"Agreed," Lucifer says, standing and offering Her a hand up. "Second order of business, celebrate Your new promotion with a drink."
A little voice in the back of Her head that sounds suspiciously like Her mother explains that a drink with an employee probably isn't the smartest way to start off as God, especially an employee who's eyeing Her like She's dessert for his five course meal.
She does what She usually does when She hears that voice and ignores it.
She shrugs. "What harm is there in a drink?" She asks with a smile and takes his hand.
Never let it be said that God doesn't occasionally make bad (horrible, terrible, irreparable, etc.) decisions.
* She thinks that when they finally do create a planet that can host intelligent life, it'll eventually be overrun by people in three piece suits wearing red ties. It's the main reason She sticks to angel management - fewer nightmares.
** A long time ago, Lucifer got it into his head that Yahweh was leaving the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven to the Angel. Imagine his surprise when he discovered Elohim was the new boss in charge. He can't decide what's pissed him off more - the fact that he didn't get the job or the fact that he bought a new tie specifically for the occasion. A blue one. Goddamn nepotism.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
When You Talk to God, It's Prayer...When God Talks to You, It's A Job
It's Claire's freshman year of college and she's discovered that not only is Library Science a difficult and time consuming major, but that it's also impossible to make friends when God decides to use you as Her own personal errand girl every spare moment you have. When she isn't studying, she's traveling from one church to another, fielding questions about the great beyond, and generally providing nonsense prophecies straight from God's mouth to the masses. On two separate occasions, she's been asked about the apocalypse - as if she knows anything about an apocalypse.
All in all, Claire's beginning to think the agnostics have it right.
"You're daydreaming again," Veronica, Claire's roommate, says with a nudge to her shoulder. "You've been staring off into space for the last ten minutes." They've been working on an astronomy project in the library because there isn't the distraction of a television in the library.*
Claire opens her mouth to say she's sorry, that she just has a lot on her mind and that yes, their astronomy project really is important and she'll start paying better attention, but all she manages is a hiccup before a stream of words spill out of her mouth.
And not just any words.
Words in Aramaic.
When she's finished reciting a long list of words in a dead language that existed back when Jesus was, quite literally, an enlisted man, Claire's faced with the fact that Veronica has witnessed it all and is currently staring at her as though her head has just spun around completely.
"I just recited a long list of words in Aramaic, didn't I?" Claire asks and Veronica, wide-eyed and sweating fear, nods quickly.
"Why were you speaking Aramaic?" she asks and Claire shrugs, flushes with embarassment.
"Would you believe it's because I'm a prophet of God and occasionally She drops things off in my brain?"
Veronica, to her credit, doesn't scream or run away. Instead, she stares at Claire for a few moments longer. Claire can see the wheels turning in her roommate's head and she starts thinking about where she can move.
"First of all," Veronica says when her voice returns, "what were you reciting?"
Claire racks her brain for the few words in Aramaic that she knows, thanks in part to Jesus and his need to show just how smart he is while ordering coffee at the cafe Upstairs, and comes to the realization that either God dialed the wrong number or She's playing a very horrible practical joke on Her so-called favorite prophet.
"I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."
Veronica's eyebrows jump up. "God has a grocery list?"
Claire manages a small smile. "She has a soft spot for chocolate and anything crunchy. Kettle chips in particular. Chocolate covered kettle chips are even better."
"That sounds disgusting," Veronica says.
"Actually," Claire says thoughtfully, "they're not that bad."
"Noted."
The two women stare at each other a few moments longer before turning back to their astronomy textbooks.
"I'll talk to the Dean tomorrow about moving to a different room," Claire says quietly, still focused on the page in front of her, which, ironically, explains the creation of black holes. Claire thinks she'd give her right arm for a black hole to open up and swallow her whole right now.
"Why would you do that?" Veronica asks, equally quiet.
Claire looks at her roommate out of the corner of her eye. "Um...because I'm crazy and recite grocery lists in Aramaic?"
Veronica never takes her eyes off the page in front of her, but she does smile.
"Claire, I was raised by Baptist parents in a Catholic state, surrounded by Muslims and Jews. I don't think you're crazy." Her smile widens. "And I always suspected God was a woman."
"You really don't think I'm crazy?" Claire asks, finally looking up.
"I really don't think you're crazy. Now help me figure out these damn equations." Veronica frowns at the textbook. "If I wanted to do math, I wouldn't have declared an English major."
* * *
It's her weekly dinner with Michael and they're sitting at a booth in the only Applebee's in downtown Boston. Claire still can't figure out why Michael insists on always eating at chain restaurants, not when she lives in one of the best food cities in America, but she figures he endures many a meal created by Annapurna** where the curry could melt iron, so why not let him indulge in tasteless mortal cooking every once in awhile.
"So I ended up telling my roommate about my other life," Claire says and Michael chokes on his beer. She frowns at her guardian angel. "Don't get upset," she says. "I didn't have much of a choice."
"Of course you had a choice," he sputters. "There's always a choice."
"Can we please save the philosophical conversation about good and evil and choosing sides for another time, preferably when I'm the legal drinking age and can order something harder than lemonade?"
He sighs and motions for her to continue.
"Anyway, we were sitting in the library, working on our astronomy lab, when all of a sudden I burst out in Aramaic. It's not like I can play that off as a practical joke. It's a dead language!" She stabs the cherry tomato in her salad with more force than is necessary and watches as it sails off her plate and hits the guy sitting behind Michael in the back of the head.
"Was it a prophecy?" he asks, coughing in an attempt to hide laughter. Claire sees through it and frowns at him.
"No, and that's the worst part." She stabs a cucumber slice and points at him with it. "I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."
He gives up and laughs. Claire ignores the vibrations in the booth and the floor. The guy who got hit with the cherry tomato a moment or so earlier says something about earthquake tremors and the Richter scale.
"How did Veronica take it?" he asks, still laughing slightly. He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.
"Pretty well, all things considered." She contemplates the final cherry tomato on her plate, tries to decide the right angle of attack. "She didn't think I was crazy, which was refreshing."
"Let me guess, she was raised by Baptists."
Claire arches an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"
"My best friend is the Creator of the Known Universe," he says a little too smugly. "How do you think I know that?"
She doesn't mean for the cherry tomato to smack him in the forehead. Honest.
* Neither of them can figure out why, exactly, astronomy is a required class for either of their majors, but apparently black holes have a lot to do with library science and english. Claire thinks that black holes, in this case, are a metaphor for children.
** Annapurna is the Hindu goddess of food...and she likes curry. The hotter, the better. Claire once saw Michael eat an entire plate of Annapurna's curry chicken and rice - there was literally steam coming out of his ears the entire time. On the bright side, it got the wrinkles out of his wings.
All in all, Claire's beginning to think the agnostics have it right.
"You're daydreaming again," Veronica, Claire's roommate, says with a nudge to her shoulder. "You've been staring off into space for the last ten minutes." They've been working on an astronomy project in the library because there isn't the distraction of a television in the library.*
Claire opens her mouth to say she's sorry, that she just has a lot on her mind and that yes, their astronomy project really is important and she'll start paying better attention, but all she manages is a hiccup before a stream of words spill out of her mouth.
And not just any words.
Words in Aramaic.
When she's finished reciting a long list of words in a dead language that existed back when Jesus was, quite literally, an enlisted man, Claire's faced with the fact that Veronica has witnessed it all and is currently staring at her as though her head has just spun around completely.
"I just recited a long list of words in Aramaic, didn't I?" Claire asks and Veronica, wide-eyed and sweating fear, nods quickly.
"Why were you speaking Aramaic?" she asks and Claire shrugs, flushes with embarassment.
"Would you believe it's because I'm a prophet of God and occasionally She drops things off in my brain?"
Veronica, to her credit, doesn't scream or run away. Instead, she stares at Claire for a few moments longer. Claire can see the wheels turning in her roommate's head and she starts thinking about where she can move.
"First of all," Veronica says when her voice returns, "what were you reciting?"
Claire racks her brain for the few words in Aramaic that she knows, thanks in part to Jesus and his need to show just how smart he is while ordering coffee at the cafe Upstairs, and comes to the realization that either God dialed the wrong number or She's playing a very horrible practical joke on Her so-called favorite prophet.
"I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."
Veronica's eyebrows jump up. "God has a grocery list?"
Claire manages a small smile. "She has a soft spot for chocolate and anything crunchy. Kettle chips in particular. Chocolate covered kettle chips are even better."
"That sounds disgusting," Veronica says.
"Actually," Claire says thoughtfully, "they're not that bad."
"Noted."
The two women stare at each other a few moments longer before turning back to their astronomy textbooks.
"I'll talk to the Dean tomorrow about moving to a different room," Claire says quietly, still focused on the page in front of her, which, ironically, explains the creation of black holes. Claire thinks she'd give her right arm for a black hole to open up and swallow her whole right now.
"Why would you do that?" Veronica asks, equally quiet.
Claire looks at her roommate out of the corner of her eye. "Um...because I'm crazy and recite grocery lists in Aramaic?"
Veronica never takes her eyes off the page in front of her, but she does smile.
"Claire, I was raised by Baptist parents in a Catholic state, surrounded by Muslims and Jews. I don't think you're crazy." Her smile widens. "And I always suspected God was a woman."
"You really don't think I'm crazy?" Claire asks, finally looking up.
"I really don't think you're crazy. Now help me figure out these damn equations." Veronica frowns at the textbook. "If I wanted to do math, I wouldn't have declared an English major."
* * *
It's her weekly dinner with Michael and they're sitting at a booth in the only Applebee's in downtown Boston. Claire still can't figure out why Michael insists on always eating at chain restaurants, not when she lives in one of the best food cities in America, but she figures he endures many a meal created by Annapurna** where the curry could melt iron, so why not let him indulge in tasteless mortal cooking every once in awhile.
"So I ended up telling my roommate about my other life," Claire says and Michael chokes on his beer. She frowns at her guardian angel. "Don't get upset," she says. "I didn't have much of a choice."
"Of course you had a choice," he sputters. "There's always a choice."
"Can we please save the philosophical conversation about good and evil and choosing sides for another time, preferably when I'm the legal drinking age and can order something harder than lemonade?"
He sighs and motions for her to continue.
"Anyway, we were sitting in the library, working on our astronomy lab, when all of a sudden I burst out in Aramaic. It's not like I can play that off as a practical joke. It's a dead language!" She stabs the cherry tomato in her salad with more force than is necessary and watches as it sails off her plate and hits the guy sitting behind Michael in the back of the head.
"Was it a prophecy?" he asks, coughing in an attempt to hide laughter. Claire sees through it and frowns at him.
"No, and that's the worst part." She stabs a cucumber slice and points at him with it. "I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."
He gives up and laughs. Claire ignores the vibrations in the booth and the floor. The guy who got hit with the cherry tomato a moment or so earlier says something about earthquake tremors and the Richter scale.
"How did Veronica take it?" he asks, still laughing slightly. He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.
"Pretty well, all things considered." She contemplates the final cherry tomato on her plate, tries to decide the right angle of attack. "She didn't think I was crazy, which was refreshing."
"Let me guess, she was raised by Baptists."
Claire arches an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"
"My best friend is the Creator of the Known Universe," he says a little too smugly. "How do you think I know that?"
She doesn't mean for the cherry tomato to smack him in the forehead. Honest.
* Neither of them can figure out why, exactly, astronomy is a required class for either of their majors, but apparently black holes have a lot to do with library science and english. Claire thinks that black holes, in this case, are a metaphor for children.
** Annapurna is the Hindu goddess of food...and she likes curry. The hotter, the better. Claire once saw Michael eat an entire plate of Annapurna's curry chicken and rice - there was literally steam coming out of his ears the entire time. On the bright side, it got the wrinkles out of his wings.
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