Chapter 25
953 Words
Chapter 25
Michelle rubbed her sandpapery eyes. Just because the vintage had been brewed in the Elysian Fields didn’t make it one bit less lethal. Jesus and Mary were still crashed out, and St. Peter might well be comatose the entire day.
Regrettably, now she was too wide awake to pass out again. Though it certainly felt as if specific parts of her body, say, a frontal lobe, had checked out for a while.
She clawed her way into Peter’s study. And discovered a nasty secret there. Peter had a collection of category romance paperback novels which overflowed from the bookshelves. The splashes of bright pinks, torn bodices, and overeager heroines covered every bit of space other than the computer terminal and a small window that let in barely enough light to see by.
If she were in less pain, she might have tactfully withdrawn and left Peter’s hidden vice intact, but this morning she was beyond caring. Anyway, if some snooping house guest ever saw her pulp science fiction collection, she’d never live that down either. The covers were just as lurid, even if the women were in torn, body-hugging spacesuits rather than torn Regency lace.
To kill time until the others woke up, she sat at his terminal and tapped a key to wake up the software.
WHAT!?! splashed up in brilliant apple green.
It was worse than a shout and shot through her optic nerves right into where the worst of last night’s mayhem had been wreaked.
“Could you keep your voice down?”
wicked hangover? The contrast was in a font barely bright enough to decipher the individual letters. She had to lean in close to read it, but it was less painful.
“That’s better. Yeah. A wicked one.”
GOOD!!**(#$()%)!_@_#!%&()@#
Then the software set the entire screen to blinking in alternating green paisley and green plaid that made her head spin like the chase lights on a movie theater sign.
She slapped the side of the screen. Hard.
The screen cleared and reset.
:)
Maybe she wasn’t up for this.
What did you want anyway? It’s early for you. Peter still crashed out?
“If his head feels anything like mine, I hope he stays that way for a long time.”
The software appeared to consider this for a while. So she asked her question before it could think up any more mischief.
“Can you tell me what Henrietta and Dana Murphy are up to?”
Oh, to be called on to perform such an arduous task is the first truly great honor of my existence. It’s what I live for. As if I had nothing better to do than track a few dozen billion souls, both living and deceased.
“Well, you don’t. Not to seem offensive, but that is your job.”
While the software chewed on that one, she scanned the crowded den. Behind the one comfortable armchair, where the more recent books had washed up against the leather in a low wave of paper, lurked a mini fridge. She poked around inside it until she unearthed a bottle of apple juice and returned to the screen. Coffee would have been good. But there wasn’t any in the fridge, not even an old half-empty cup tucked away on a back shelf. Apple juice would have to do until she dared to forge her way to the Heaven-bright kitchen.
Okay. I’ll give you that one. Dana Murphy spent a fair portion of yesterday evening with her back up against a tree and in a lip lock with a young lad of dubious background by the name of Samuel, an aerodynamics student.
It just kept getting worse. Not only was the Second Messiah a scientist, but apparently she was dating another scientist. At this rate, the world was never going to be saved.
And your pint-sized counterpart is currently typing up a letter of complaint to you regarding the repeated abuse of her halo by aforesaid lady of the questionable lip lock. Which progressed nicely toward a rather robust bit of heavy petting despite their location on a public running path along the wooded shores of Lake Washington.
She refused to ask. Being the Devil didn’t mean she was without scruples.
Henrietta’s work on her verbose memo would at least keep her out of Michelle’s hair for a while.
It’s fifteen thousand words and growing. Want to take a bet of novel versus novella-length?
“How do you do that?”
What?
“Answer a question I haven’t asked.”
Michelle, you poor girl. I’ve been working with you for fourteen billion years, give or take a few leap years. I’m used to how devious your mind may be. And I didn’t get a card, just thought I’d mention that.”
“I didn’t either.”
I don’t have a printer, and if I did, with my luck, it would probably just be dot matrix. Bor-ing!
She decided to just ignore all that. “No mind reading?”
No. Unless you want me to try?
“No!”
Michelle sipped at the apple juice. What if it succeeded? No way could she deal with that.
There’s one other thing.
No way. Enough was enough already. Scientists. Lip locks. Irate angels.
Don’t you want to know?
“No!” She hated that the software would know she was lying even without any mind reading.
“Okay, what?”
The software let her twiddle her thumbs for a bit before answering.
Virgil just stopped by your place looking for you.
“Did he leave a message?”
Nope.
Having that i***t poet kicking around was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. Not that he was particularly evil, he was simply surrounded by an energy field where everything went wrong in his presence.
Redemption was on the skids and getting beaten badly. The Second Messiah was a dozen weeks from remembering her God-given talents, and she was a scientist.
And now Virgil.
Michelle hated to admit it, but if you wanted something done, it was best to do it yourself.
But first she needed to find a cup of serious stimulant.
Coffee.
Very, very black coffee.
- Writer
