Emery stares at John for quite a long while, then says, “Matter versus…. Like in that Star Trek episode.”
“Lazarus.” John grins. “You watch Star Trek?”
“Well, duh.” Emery rolls his eyes. “I have the TOS season one remastered box set on DVD. I was hoping to get the other ones for Christmas this year, but….”
He waves over at Administrator Dagmar, still going at it with Emery’s mother. They seem to have moved on from almost coming to blows and into something that looks more like commiseration.
“I admit,” Administrator Dagmar says, “I never really thought of it in quite that way.”
“No one has. Because the world is run by men.” Emery’s mother shrugs, a hand on her hip as she gestures toward Lisa. “My daughter would actually make a better antichrist than my son would.”
Lisa jolts and takes a step back. “Hey, whoa, let’s not get—” She pauses with a tilt of her head. “Wait, would I get minions?”
“I’m not saying I’d let you either.”
“That’s not fair!” Lisa scowls and points at Emery. “How come he gets minions and I don’t? He doesn’t even want them!”
Emery’s mother stares blankly at her daughter for several long beats before she turns back to Administrator Dagmar. “You see? You have to admit, she’d be more suited to it than Emery ever would be, even without Emery’s mag—superpowers.”
“Gosh, thanks, Mom,” Emery mutters.
“I’m just saying. Why does the antichrist have to be a man?”
Administrator Dagmar looks thoughtful. “You do rather have a point.”
Lisa rolls her eyes, then turns to Emery. “I’m going to help Dad keep the demons under control before these two decide to make me a figurehead in their impending Women’s March on Heaven. But before I go, you”—she points at Emery—“have somehow managed to find a hot guy who’s as awkward and geeky as you are, so maybe try to get past the ‘accidentally keeps killing me’ thing. And you”—she points at John this time—“need to figure out what to do about all this.” She waves toward Administrator Dagmar and then at the front door, where Emery’s father is apparently holding down the fort. “Because it’s taken me years to break my brother in to where I actually like having him around, and if anything happens to him now, Mom and Dagmar won’t have to talk me into anything—I’ll plan the assault myself. And there’s apparently a little army on my front lawn who’d be more than willing to help.”
She keeps glaring at John until he gulps, steps back a little, and gives her a wordless nod.
“Aw, Lisa.” Emery’s grinning. “I kinda like having you around too.”
“Yeah, man, I’m like the Borg.” Lisa drops a wink and a smile. “Resistance is futile.” The smile turns to an evil grin as she says, “And it seems someone’s gone and left a perfectly good bunch of minions just lying around, waiting for an overlord,” and heads off to the still-open front door, muttering, “I’ll show you antichrist.”
John can hear Emery’s father talking loudly and steadily, and the fainter hum of demon voices droning in response. It ratchets up some when Lisa steps out and says, “All right, people, listen up,” but she shuts the door behind her, so John doesn’t hear any more.
Administrator Dagmar and Emery’s mother are still talking, calmer now, and more “I know, right?” than “Die, bitch!” so John turns all his attention on Emery.
“You think I’m hot.”
Emery gives him an annoyed look. “You know you are.”
John hadn’t, really. Hadn’t even really thought about it, but now that he does, he thinks he remembers a time—college, maybe, some past when and some far away where—when the only trouble he had getting dates was in determining who was gay and who would bash his head in for asking.
He frowns, because there’s something there, something… just out of reach, but right there. He holds out his hand and says, “Touch me.”
Emery takes a step back. “Are you crazy?” He looks… hurt. “It’ll kill me. Again. And then my mother will kill you. And you said you gave me a second look because… okay, you didn’t actually say it was because—”
“It was because you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
Emery’s mouth hangs open for a moment, his cheeks going pink, before he asks, “Are angels allowed to lie?”
“No idea. Never tried it.” John smiles and keeps his hand out. “But talking to you now, I think I’d quite like to get to know you better. Hopefully you’d like to get to know me better too.”
“Yeah, but….” Emery looks down at John’s hand, then back up to his eyes. “I mean, Lazarus and anti-Lazarus kind of ripped a hole in space-time, and there’s the little problem of me dying every time you touch me, so I don’t think—”
“That’s because your superpowers were reacting instinctively to my nature, and my nature is to repel the antichrist. You just sort of kept getting hit with the backfire. But we know what it is now, so we can keep those reactions under control. And every time you touch me, I remember more of what I was before.”
“And that’s important enough to you to risk killing me again?”
“No!” John shakes his head. “There is no risk, because I’m trusting you enough to throttle my nature. And….” John looks away for a second before he straightens his shoulders and peers at Emery as openly as he possibly can. “I’d like to get to know you. But I think I have to know me well enough first.”
Emery eyes John dubiously, then eyes John’s hand. He looks over at his mother, sitting now with Administrator Dagmar on the couch, leaning into each other and talking quietly like conspirators. He shakes his head and turns back to John.
“Okay. But if I die again, my mom will hurt you.”
John grins. “You won’t. But if you did, she’d have every right to.”
“That’s not nearly as comforting as I think you’re trying to make it.”
“You won’t die. I swear, on anything you’d like. On my wings!”
“Your… wings.” Emery glances behind John with a lift of an eyebrow.
John lets his wings expand. He preens a little. “I really like them.”
“Right,” says Emery and huffs a sigh that’s long and heavy, doubtful and disbelieving and not even a little bit trusting. “I don’t know why I’m even considering this, but—”
But he takes John’s hand.
WHITE LIGHT explodes around them, just like before, but unlike before, Emery doesn’t feel any kind of warning bells going off in his head, and he doesn’t feel any kick of power. He hasn’t even realized until just this moment that those things had happened before, not until he notes their absence now.
He hears his mother shout, “Emery Michael Sutton, what are you doing?” and he hears Administrator Dagmar say, “Good God, Junior Reaper, are you trying to vex me?”
And all Emery can think is that he’s never heard someone actually say “vex” in real life before, and that John’s eyes really are that green, refracting the light that swarms the room and gaining a depth Emery swears he could drown in. Also that John’s grinning, that he said he liked Emery, that Emery’s the most beautiful man he’s ever met, and not even Lisa cracking wise in Emery’s head—How many men have you met, like, three?—or the sheer stupidity of voluntarily doing what’s resulted in several very embarrassing deaths can make Emery regret this.
Because he can feel… something, something he thinks is just John, and it’s warm and it’s lovely and it’s so kind and well-intentioned, Emery wants to wrap it up and tuck it away in his pocket so it never has to be anything else. He thinks he’s almost kind of touching John’s soul, which means John’s probably in turn touching Emery’s. Emery just hopes his feels half as good and earnest as John’s does.
John grins, hand still lightly touching Emery’s, and says, “I knew my name wasn’t John.” He peers over at Administrator Dagmar. “This—knowing all this, knowing who I was, who I am….” He shakes his head, still with
that open grin and those kind eyes. “It would never stop me from doing my job. You don’t have to take it away.”
Administrator Dagmar opens her mouth, but Emery’s mother gives her a sharp look, and she closes it. Emery would snort, but he’s met his mom, so.
“My name is Sam.” John—Sam looks so pleased, so delightfully astonished. “I’m Samuel Alexander Williams, born in Philadelphia, September 22, 1965.”
“Hey!” Emery laughs. “That’s Frodo’s birthday!”
“And Bilbo’s.” Sam says it like it’s reflex, like he can’t help himself.
Emery thinks he’s in love. And then he realizes—“Wow, dude. You’re old.”
Sam frowns, offended. “I’m not! I’m—I was twenty when I… you know. Er. Died.”
“Huh.” Emery frowns too. He only just turned twenty himself a couple of months ago, and he now knows a little too well how unpleasant dying can be. “I’m really sorry,” he says, because it’s just what you’re supposed to say, right? But he can’t help asking, “Soooo, how did it happen?” even if he’s pretty sure it’s probably very rude.
Sam seems to ponder the question for a moment before Emery can actually see the lightbulb go off in his head. “Oh! I remember! I… crap.” Sam’s whole face twists into a grimace. “Um. Maybe it’s best I don’t….” He rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say I died young and stupid.”
Emery lifts an eyebrow. “It can’t be worse than bus-fire escape-chimney.”
“Fire escape?” says Emery’s mom. “No one told me about a fire escape!”
“Well,” Administrator Dagmar puts in, “that one was entirely his own fault.”
Sam ignores her. He gives Emery an embarrassed look, then mumbles something Emery doesn’t catch.
“Sorry, what?”
Sam shakes his head and looks away. “I really don’t think it’s necessary to—”
“He was running,” says Administrator Dagmar, “with scissors.”
Emery’s mother rolls her eyes and huffs. “Boys.”
“Oh my God!” says Emery. “You died in, like, 1985, then. You totally missed Firefly! Oh! Oh! And Eccleston’s Doctor! And all the new Star Wars movies, and—”
“There are new Star Wars movies?”
“Yes! And some of them are even good!” Emery’s all but flailing. “Oh my God, dude! The X-Files! You’re so gonna love Netflix. Wait until you—”
“Okay.” Emery’s dad has opened the front door again and is leaning in through it. “Whatever you guys are doing in here, it’s got the… demons”—he sighs up at the ceiling like he can’t believe he just said that out loud—“it’s got everybody out here bouncing like they’re at a rave. Can we wrap it up and get all the hellspawn out of my forsythia bushes?”
Lisa pops her head over their father’s shoulder. “Yeah, Em, you might want to get out here and control your minions. Apparently they’re not interchangeable ’cause they won’t listen to me. Your friend Helen is organizing battle plans, and some guy won’t shut up about a bonfire. I think they sent someone for marshmallows.”
Administrator Dagmar sputters, “Battle plans?” but Emery’s dad just says, “Bonfire? I don’t think so,” and pushes Lisa out of the way. “Hey!” he shouts as he stomps back out into the yard. “You! With the lighter fluid! Get that crap off my lawn!”
Sam gives Emery a soft look before he withdraws his hand. When the touch leaves, so does the soft white glow and the comforting warmth. Emery’s superpowers are still bubbling just beneath his skin, though, happy as a litter of puppies rolling in the grass on a sunny day. He’s flooded with good will and hope, and he can’t keep the smile off his face.
Until his mother says, “Emery, please do as your father told you and go tell those people you’re not allowed to be their antichrist.”
And then Emery thinks Oh yeah, right, all that actually did happen, just as something explodes in the front yard. There’s a flash of light and then a shriek. Emery runs for the door, heart pounding, because seriously, what now? When he gets out to the front step, he has to pause.
“Oh,” he says as his mother, Sam, and Administrator Dagmar pile up behind him. He peers up into the sky and blinks at the flash and multicolored glitter raining down into the fluff of the oaks along the side of the yard. “Where did they get fireworks this time of year?”
That question is answered when a middle-aged man lifts his arm high, and fat sparks fly from the tips of his fingers like bottle rockets. The flares go pop pop pop high above them and sparkle down to the oohs and ahhs of the…. God, there must be fifty people out there trampling the pansies.
“I don’t think my don’t notice me is going to cover this,” Sam says.
Emery squints across the yard. “Is that a keg?”
“You’re ruining my trumpet vine!” Emery’s father is ranting at a clump of people gathered around the little bird bath in front of the garden shed. “Do you know how many years it takes for these things to bloom?” He makes shooing gestures before he’s distracted by another group who appear to be pitching a tent over by the fence. “Hey! I just sodded over there!”
“It is a keg. And… wine boxes, and….” Emery rolls his eyes. “Lisa, I can see the cup behind your back, you’re not fooling anyone!”
Everything stops, like the sound of Emery’s voice has frozen them in their tracks. Well, everyone but Lisa, who seems to have commandeered a wine box all to herself and takes the opportunity to duck behind some biker-looking guy and down some of her ill-gotten gain from a red Solo cup.
Helen pushes through the abruptly stilled crowd and stops in front of Emery. She smirks, then turns to address the masses.
“All hail the Beast! All hail the Destroyer!”
Emery distinctly hears a snort from Lisa’s direction, but everyone else drops to one knee and bows their heads.
“All hail the Beast!” they echo. “All hail the Destroyer!”
Emery stares. And stares and stares.
Helen turns to him with a smug grin. “These are just the ones who could get out of work early. We’ve got more coming once rush hour dies down.”
“Oh, fantastic,” mutters Emery’s dad.
“And Jenny’s on her way with a goat to sacrifice.”
Emery’s mom blinks. “A what?”
Emery’s dad picks up a rake and holds it like a weapon. “Not on my lawn.”
Helen ignores them. “We figured we’d get all the old ritual stuff out of the way before we start working out the best way to go about conquering the world. You’ll have to decide where you want your throne. I mean, I guess technically it should be in Babylon, but you can pick if you want. Oh, and can you transform into a dragon? It’s not really necessary, but it’s what all the propaganda says, and a lot of these folks take all that stuff literally, you know?” She jerks her head at the crowd behind her and rolls her eyes. Like she’s the sane one, and she’s just humoring the rest of them.
Emery opens his mouth, but he can’t think of a single thing to say, so he closes it. Everyone’s staring at him, waiting for him to speak, and Emery just… can’t.
He really doesn’t want to be the antichrist, but he doesn’t think “No thank you, my mom won’t let me” will go over very well with these people. They’re demons. Emery has no idea if he can fight them all off if it turns out they’re not happy with their “beast,” and plus Helen said there are more coming.
He looks at Administrator Dagmar, who, despite her obvious affinity toward Emery’s mother, quite clearly still wants to take Emery out. It’s her job, Emery supposes from what he’s gathered, so he probably shouldn’t take it personally. Still. It’s not fair. He’s never had a satanic thought in his life. He’s certainly not a beast, no matter what Lisa says, and he’s never destroyed anything, unless one counts fictional villages in his old WoW guild, which Emery absolutely doesn’t. He takes the whole “with great power” thing more seriously than Spider-Man does. And if a really annoying preteen Lisa hadn’t managed to aggr
avate Emery into some kind of fire and brimstone mode back when his hormones were all over the place and angsty mood swings were just how life worked, well.
Emery turns to Sam. “I really don’t think I’m murdery enough to be an antichrist. What will happen if I say no?”
Sam frowns and turns to Administrator Dagmar.
Administrator Dagmar purses her lips. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. It’s not a thing you choose.”
“Yeah, except this is all some kind of bizarre mistake, and I do choose.” Emery keeps his voice down. No reason to piss off the pack of demons unless he has to. He looks at his mom. “You didn’t, like… um.” Nope, still can’t say it.
Emery’s mother huffs out an exasperated sigh. “I did not sleep with Satan.”
“Ewww,” Emery hears drift over from behind the keg.
He looks back at Administrator Dagmar. “And my dad clearly isn’t the Prince of Darkness.”
He gestures over his shoulder to where his dad is currently untangling the garden hose, yanking it out from under various kneeling minions, and muttering that there’d better not be any kinks next time he goes to use it.
“So someone’s got it wrong somewhere,” Emery goes on.
“There does seem to have been some sort of clerical error,” Administrator Dagmar says. She almost seems apologetic. “And I admit we weren’t expecting you quite so soon, but your magical signature is quite distinct.”
Emery growls a little under his breath. “They’re superpowers.”
“There’s no mistaking it. You are the antichrist.” Administrator Dagmar gives Emery’s mother a rueful look before that white glow blooms around her again and she turns back to Emery with a shrug. “You seem like a nice boy, Emery, but I’m afraid I have no choice.”
Every demon in the yard stands as one, watching Administrator Dagmar with clear intent.
“Well,” says Emery’s mother, “you have a choice between leaving my son alone or getting your skull caved in.” Ah, Emery had kind of wondered where the fireplace poker had gone. His mother is currently cocking it in both hands like a baseball bat. “You seem like a nice lady, Administrator Dagmar,” she echoes, “but I’m afraid I have no choice.”
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