I can wait. I wasn't sure why, but I felt the need to remain a bit cagey. I didn't want to tell Kantowicz that the Malachim's firepower was backing me up. Just be safe.

Danny gave me a message for you. Kantowicz grimaced and coughed, as though he found the role of errand boy distasteful. He said: "Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio."

My heart skipped a beat at the familiar, yet alien name: Michael Archangele. Unbidden, the memory of Michael's naked body flashed before my eyes.

Are you all right? Kantowicz peered at me over the rim of his glasses. The image of your avatar shimmered. I thought for a second you were going to yank me out with you.

Oh. I looked down at our hands, still joined together, symbolic of our systems' connection. I released him. You should probably go.

I'm sorry. I didn't know it would bother you so much. What's it mean?

I shook my head. I'm not sure exactly. Don't worry about me. I don't know why I reacted that way, I lied. It was thoughtful of Danny to pray for me, really. I didn't know he knew Latin. Tell him thanks.

Sure. Kantowicz looked doubtful. Daniel wants to meet at Yankee Stadium.

I smiled at that. How like Daniel.

Kantowicz gave me the time and other particulars. Then, with a nod good-bye, he jumped back toward the information stream. I watched until his avatar melted into the entertainment traffic of the LINK. Part of me knew I should be heading back, but I stood there thinking about Michael. Of course Daniel had given me a prayer about the Archangel Michael – after all, he was the patron saint of cops. But the mention of his name made me wonder where he was and what he thought of my sudden disappearance from Eion's church. Michael might even be looking for me. I should find a way to call him or drop him a message to tell him that I was all right, physically, at least.

Psychologically was another matter entirely. Rebeckah's steady faith and calm pragmatism kept me from dwelling on the rift in my sense of reality that Michael's presence had caused. Rebeckah's wisdom had reassured me that, on some day-to-day level, defining God didn't matter; I still had to face the unsteadying concept that Michael's presence meant there really was a God.

I shook off my growing terror. I had too much to do to waste time worrying about religion. Rebeckah and her team were waiting for me.

I jumped, but was rebuffed by something solid. My avatar landed, sprawling from the impact. I picked myself up and tried to examine what had happened. Reaching out with a tentative hand, I touched an invisible barrier. I frowned. In read-only mode I shouldn't be able to affect anything in the directory, nor should anything be able to touch me. I pushed against the barrier. It stood solid, like a pane of impenetrable glass. It must be a kind of directory guardian, I figured, though I was still at a loss as to why it could affect me.

I sent a message into the hub. Mouse, it's me. Deidre. Call off your guardian.

Mouse is unavailable at this time.

Page? Are you out there? Call off your guardian.

Mouse is unavailable at this time.

Great, I muttered. As I moved to try to feel my way around the mass, it began to shift under my fingers. Hard, but liquid, the guardian moved like muscle beneath my palms. I tried to keep ahold of it, but tiny electric shocks quickly discouraged me. Pulling my hands back, I watched an inky darkness coalesce in the fog-draped, gray expanse of mouse.net. Swirling, the blackness grew until it filled the space above me, obscuring my access to the LINK.

The guardian bobbed overhead strangely, as though mimicking the movements of a blackbird caught in an updraft. Dread filled me. I'd seen a shadow of this creature before.

Phanuel.

The LINK-angel's glossy black feathers materialized in full detail. Black, like raven's wings, they swallowed the light rather than reflecting it. In the center of the dark plumage floated the hooded figure of a man. The tattered cloak hugged his bony frame. I could see the sharp points of his hipbones standing out against a shrunken stomach.

Something moved beneath the robe at his abdomen, and I gritted my teeth at the thought of maggots devouring his exposed entrails. He lifted his head, and I stepped back, unwilling to look into the face of the Angel of Death. Despite my best efforts, I caught sight of thin lips pulled back in a skeletal grin. A spider crawled out of his nose, and I watched in horror as the arachnid scuttled across his cheekbone to disappear into the folds of the hood. After that I kept my eyes focused downward.

A pale, bone-thin hand pointed at my avatar. You do not belong here.

I would have pulled the wire from my receiver in a New York minute if I hadn't thought the shock of resurfacing from outside the LINK would kill me instantly. Despite my fear, I frowned: that was another inconsistency. Mouse.net was outside of the LINK. No LINK-angel should be here, much less acting as a directory guardian.

Dark wings fluttered loudly as Phanuel moved closer. I could smell the odor of funeral incense and freshly upturned earth. Involuntarily, I looked up into his eyes, mere inches from my own. The sockets were bruised and sunken, and I could see something white squirming in their depths. I gasped and stumbled backwards. Cobwebs licked at me, and I swam frantically through their gossamer threads.

Phanuel did not follow.

When his shadow no longer blocked me and the shine of the LINK appeared overhead, I realized I'd escaped. I'd fallen into another directory, one that, apparently, Phanuel didn't guard. Quickly, before some other apparition could appear, I leapt out of Mouse-space onto the LINK.

Something tingled in my stomach, like nerves. I shivered, and tried to relax, but I felt the eyes of Phanuel on my back. There was another presence here, something alive. Perhaps it was Page coming back or even Mouse logging on, no doubt alerted by whatever breach in security had triggered Phanuel. I was curious, but I resisted the urge to look back, afraid I'd see the apparition on my heels.

As the babble of commerce surrounded me, I let out a relieved breath. I was safe in the crowd. The pulse of buying and selling that flitted through the virtual air energized me. Real time was a window to the right. Before I succumbed to the temptation of a new car, I dived through the gateway and off-lined.

The sun had set completely. Despite being encased in the uniform, I swore I could feel the coolness of the evening kiss my shoulders. As a full moon shone through a hazy sky, the truck rumbled through the glass streets on its reinforced tires. No sound echoed above the explosive engine. There was something peaceful about the night – I could almost imagine the call of a bird or buzz of a cicada. A pleasant thought, but I knew the city was dead. The Medusa-glass shimmered in the moonlight as a deadly reminder.

After my adventures on the LINK, my head thudded dully. I breathed in deeply, savoring the exhausted feeling that cramped my limbs. The armor felt heavy, and the LINK connection buzzed with spent energy, like muscles twitching after a long walk.

I rolled my head to one side, to work out the kinks in my neck, and felt the give of something soft and yielding. I was cradled in someone's lap.

"She's awake, Commander," an unfamiliar, masculine voice said through the helmet's intercom. "Or, at least she's moving."

I sat up, pushing blindly against the soldier for purchase. Having been without electricity since the war, the Bronx was preternaturally dark. Here and there a light twinkled and refracted prismlike from a Gorgon's flashlight or campfire. Even through the uniform's filters I could smell an odor of urine and rot that signaled a nearby Gorgon encampment. Down an alley, I glimpsed the retreating silver of Gorgons scattering at the sound of the truck's explosive engine.