"No, but Rebeckah's people do."

"Yes, and Rebeckah has no trouble reconciling it."

"What are you saying?" I asked, even though I knew. Rebeckah was a lesbian. I'd suspected for a long time. She was discreet; I never saw a lover. Since she had never confirmed or denied it, I'd figured it was none of my business. Mostly, I tried not to think about her sexual preference, because politically it was a liability, and a doozie at that.

"You're the detective, Deidre. Have you missed all the clues, or just ignored them?"

"Rebeckah is smarter than to be obvious."

"So then, you knew," Michael said. "Why do you do it? What's the point of denying the truth about people?"

"To protect myself from entanglements ... and pain."

"More like just delay it." Michael grimaced.

"What would you know about it? Your life is pretty simple, Michael."

"Not anymore," Michael snarled.

It was true, so I held my tongue. Michael started strolling down the hallway, toward where a crowd was gathering. I followed to what looked like the main entrance. I could see the box office jutting out of the center of the wall, framed on either side by two double doors. Cracked projection squares, filled with holographic stills of actors in costume, spotted the walls.

The crowd of mourners snuffled quietly, waiting for the doors to open. Though a couple of people waved at Michael in greeting, he made no move to join them. We stayed in the back near a wall of holo-photos. In the dim light, the holographs flickered solemnly. Shielding my eyes from the pulsing light, I turned to face Michael.

More people had gathered, and the sound of soft sobs drifted through the hallway. "What's death like?"

He shrugged. "I wish I knew. I don't know what happens to you. I was born of pure spirit; you were forged between, a mingling of heaven and Earth. You are something less than me, yet something far greater. You are who They made in Their image. That's something I'll never comprehend, as my existence is a shadow of your own, a half of the whole."

Though his body seemed like a shell to me, it meant more to him. His body was his connection to godhood. I could see the desire in his eyes. "That's what you don't want to give up."

Michael nodded, but said nothing.

I stared out at the crowd. People held each other and wept openly. Daniel was dead. I tried to feel angry or sad, but nothing came. I had reconciled myself to his loss a year ago, when we were separated by his prison sentence. This was different, more permanent, but I couldn't dredge up any feeling. That scared me.

"Was it all an accident?" I wondered aloud. Hugging myself, my eyes stayed riveted to the grieving Malachim. "Or destiny?"

Michael was quiet for a moment. Then, looking up from his brooding, he said, "Her thoughts translate into my action. But, I'm like an arrow shot into water. She can see Her target through the ripples, but the water is deep and the current strong. The arrow doesn't always stay true to its course."

I shivered. Michael didn't usually talk like that. His eyes seemed unfocused, far away. To break the spell, I forced out a chuckle.

"Yeah, right. What is this, 'Zen and the Art of Mastering Freewill'?" More seriously, I added, "But since we're on philosophy, riddle me this, Michael: what's with the He, She, They business?"

Michael shrugged. "God is difficult to describe in human terms. I use what feels appropriate, whatever fits the situation."

I grimaced at Michael's inability to give a straight answer. "But which is correct?"

"All of them. None. How should I know?"

I let out an exasperated snort. "But, you've met God."

"Not the way you're thinking." Michael smiled sadly. "I am God taken form, but then, so are you."

"You seem different, Michael. Are you okay?"

"I've been thinking about the end. I don't think I'm really ready. I ..." His gaze flicked over to me, then out to the crowd. "After you left the church, I spent a lot time waiting for you to come back. It was the first extended period of time I spent here alone, just thinking – testing out my own feelings, my own motivations."

Before he could continue, Rebeckah entered the hall. The mood of the crowd shifted with her presence, like light coming into focus through a lens. Things began to happen. People wept more openly. As Rebeckah moved toward the doors, people touched her and held on to each other. They pressed closer, and Michael and I were swept into the center of bodies. I floated in a sea of embroidered yarmulkes and covered heads. I felt exposed and disrespectful.

Seeing us, someone handed Michael a skullcap and a scarf for me. He put the cap on deftly, as though he had done it many times before. I had expected him to look silly – the formality of the yarmulke clashing with the leather jacket and jearis – but he didn't. It transformed him into something even more beautiful than the Italian cop who disrupted my Saturday, what seemed so long ago. Before my eyes, Michael became a kind of Jewish prince. He was one of them, and I was suddenly the only outsider.

"Michael," I whispered, as we moved through the doors, "I'd like Daniel's Bible."

"Of course," he said. Reaching in his pocket, he handed it to me. "I'd forgotten all about it."

I nodded. The weight of the Bible in my hands wasn't nearly as substantial as I'd hoped. Prison issue, the book was small enough to fit in the back pocket of Michael's jeans. A greenish brown recycled plastic cover bent easily in my grip, and I tugged at its edges as we made our way into the theater proper with the others.

The Malachim had draped the room from floor to ceiling with protective material. A musty smell hung in the air, like the dust of an old library. Some raw glass was still visible, but the protection would be sufficient for a short ceremony. My fingers brushed along the fabric as we walked down the aisle. Soft, it felt almost like satin – smooth and cool.

Michael and I stood where directed. Even the seats had been draped with the armored material. I looked up at the stage, which had been left untouched and glittering. Its brightness was strangely compelling, perhaps because the dark cloth made the place seem smaller. The theater held us closely, like the walls of a womb.

Rebeckah came in carrying Torah scrolls. At least, I assumed it was Rebeckah by the way she walked. In full uniform, including the helmet, her features were obscured. I assumed she wore the helmet in order to keep her head covered; the uniform and a scarf would probably look odd.

All eyes followed her as she climbed the half-finished set to the second tier. There, she sat on a frozen chair in full view of the auditorium. She cradled the scrolls in her arms lovingly, her head bowed. A rabbi came in next. Suddenly people were sitting down; a beat behind, I joined them.

"Yisgadal vyiskadash shemey rabo," The Hebrew sounded like nonsense to my ears. Next to me, Michael followed along flawlessly. "Be'olmo di'vero chir'usey ..."

I let the sounds wash over me. I looked down at Daniel's Bible in my lap. My hands, in their usual way, smoothed and tugged at the book, as if of their own accord. The plastic frustrated me. Encasing a sacred text in the waste from a thoughtless generation offended my sensibilities. It was too close for comfort, reminding me of my own false faith.

I'd asked for the Bible with the hope of feeling less like a stranger, to find some comfort in what was supposed to be the center of my spiritual life. Looking at the book now, I knew I'd feel even less at ease in Eion's church ... my church. That an angel of God sat next to me did little to bolster my faith.

Michael's existence should be proof positive that God watched over us and that what many believed about the universe was true. It was not enough for me. I felt as though there was something missing, something deep inside me that remained empty.