On High (I started singing “Angels We Have Heard On High” in my head for the hundredth time). I told him I was flat out of “sort-of energy” and told him I had cereal. He scowled at me as I placed a bowl of Lucky Charms in front of him, poking at it with a finger until I told him to stop it and use a damn spoon. I thought he was going to chuck the silverware at my head or shoot me with some kind of angel laser death beam. He did neither, instead gripping the spoon tightly, scooping up a green clover, and touching it with his tongue tentatively. He licked it a few times before he finally put it in his mouth. The look on his face and the sounds that followed suggested he had either never tasted anything so wonderful, or he was literally having an orgasm in my kitchen. This unfortunately led to a billion more questions in my head, wondering if angels could have orgasms, and if it would be like some kind of celestial goo. Then I realized what I was thinking about and immediately put a stop to it.
“God,” he moans now, milk dribbling down his lips to his beard. “This sure is good. I think I would like some more, please. Can you just give me the green ones this time? I think I’d like a bowl of just those. The other ones are getting in the way of the green ones on my tongue.”
“I don’t think they make Lucky Charms that way,” I say, somewhat disgusted by the way he’s eating, but still unable to turn away. It’s a sugar disaster in the making.
“They should,” he says seriously, grabbing the box from my hand and then peering inside. He reaches in and snags a handful and proceeds to pick out the green clovers. One sticks to his lip as he chews and the look he gives me is one of such pleasure that I can’t help but chuckle at him. He flicks his tongue out to snag it and I stop chuckling.
No . No fucking way that’s going to happen. I’m not even going to— He stills, then jerks his head to the left. His jaw twitches. His eyes are wide as he stares out the kitchen window to the front of Little House. “Pattern,” he whispers. “Shapes. Design.”
I’m alarmed. “Cal, what is it?” I look out the window but can’t see anything, not that I should be expecting to. Even with my doubt, for a moment I think maybe I’ll see threads falling from the sky, woven intricately with a shining material that causes the heart to ache. But there’s nothing. “What’s going on?”
“He’s coming here,” Cal growls. “He’s coming here and he should stay away.”
“Who? Who’s coming here?”
He glances over at me, eyes hard. “You let me handle this,” he says suddenly.
I snort nervously. “Like hell. I don’t think you’re quite ready for visitors just yet.”
“I’m your guar—”
“I was just fine before you got here,” I remind him, even though we both know it’s a lie. “I don’t need you speaking for me. Not when I can speak for myself. Who’s coming?”
He doesn’t need to answer—I can hear a car now coming up the drive. It passes by Big House. It stops next to the Ford near the porch, the sun reflecting red and blue off the lights on the top. Sheriff Griggs opens the car door. Cal stands quickly, tipping over his chair.
“Shit,” I groan. “What the hell is this, now?”
“George Griggs,” Calliel spits out through gritted teeth. “Fifty years of age. Bastard. Born May 4, 1961 under an emerald moon at 7:45 at night. I must not be blasphemous. Parents are Brian and Jennifer Griggs. I must not decide the definition of sin. Grandparents are Gerald and Molly Jackson. I am a guardian. I am a servant. I am not the judge. I am not the jury. I am not the executioner. I do not decide fate.” He’s snarling by the end.
And little blue flashes are starting to appear around him, growing in brightness, here on a spring afternoon in Little House.
Sheriff Griggs pulls himself out of the car, looking back toward the main house.
I stumble over to Cal, nearly tripping on his overturned chair. I stand in front of him, pulling the curtains shut over the kitchen window while the sheriff’s back is turned. I reach up and cup Cal’s face in my hands, like