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He did know one thing. He was tired. Tired of being in Los Angeles. Tired of solving cases no one seemed to care about. Tired of the whispers, the looks, the laughs. Tired of being different. Tired of being alone.
A shoe squeaked behind him. Before he could turn, a man walked through him, striding down the sidewalk, briefcase swinging.
Finn made it a dozen steps before a voice called, "And where do you think you're going?"
Finn turned. To his left was an abstract sculpture. A woman in jeans, boots and a T-shirt sat on it, reclining against a curved piece of steel, her face in shadow.
"I'm talking to you, Detective," she said.
She stretched and stood and, for a moment, Finn saw the girl from the photograph in Sean Nast's office. Nast's little sister. But this woman was older - at least Finn's age, with dark eyes, not bright blue. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
"I asked where you think you're going." The woman walked toward him, her foot passing through a discarded soda bottle. A ghost.
"It's okay," he said, because it was all he could think of. A polite nod, then he turned to head on his way.
"Actually, it's not okay." The woman walked in front of him and turned around. "You can't leave Damon in your body. An insanely noble gesture, Detective Findlay, but you can't. The Fates let you pull off the body switch, but it's temporary. I'm here to make sure of that. And neither of us, I'm afraid, has any say in the matter."
Finn stepped to the side. The woman put out her hands and murmured something. The air between her hands glittered, then shimmered, a sword taking form. A huge one, with glowing symbols etched into the metal.
"Pretty, huh? Being a necro, you know what this is, right?"
Finn shook his head.
The woman sighed. "It's the outfit, isn't it? I know, they keep trying to make me wear the uniform, but those wings are just so damned uncomfortable. Have you ever tried sitting with wings stuck to your shoulders? And the halo? Does nothing for me."
"An... angel?"
"Don't sound so skeptical. You'll hurt my feelings." She lifted the sword. "Point is, this baby has a point. A very sharp one. And you do not want to feel it. So we're doing this the easy way. We let Damon and Robyn have their reunion, and you go back into your body, and nobody gets hurt. Got it?"
Finn said nothing.
"Damn, you're stubborn, aren't you?" She stepped closer. With the boots, she was almost as tall as Finn. "You're going back, Detective. That's not an option. If you get away from me, I hunt you down and introduce you to the sword. And don't ask me to look the other way and let you go, because it won't help. In minutes, they'll have another angel here to dump you back into your body before Damon's allotted hour is up, and I'll get my ass kicked for screwing up. No one will thank you for that, least of all me. So you are going back."
"Can I - ?"
"No. Whatever the question is, the answer is no. Your life isn't over, you have to finish it. That's not up for negotiation. The most I can do is extend Damon's visit a little. Take you for a walk, get caught up in the chitchat, give him a couple of hours..."
Finn could tell arguing would do no good. He did hesitate, though, enough to make the angel sigh and lean on her sword, toe tapping. Then he nodded.
"Good man. We'll go this way. I thought I saw a park. If we catch a mugging in progress, I might be able to use my sword. Not a full-fledged soul-chopping, mind you. But a little nick that'll sting like a son of a bitch. Always fun."
They turned onto the sidewalk.
"I hear you met Sean the other day."
Finn glanced at her.
"Sean Nast."
"Right..."
"Did he seem okay to you? His dad has been worried. Well, we both have actually. Sean's a good kid, but he really doesn't belong in the Cabal and Kris hates seeing..."
* * *
ROBYN
Robyn was burning her scrapbook. It was a grand symbolic gesture that should, she admitted, have an equally grand setting - curled up by a massive fireplace, feeding pages into the blaze. In an apartment, it wasn't nearly so grand... or so simple. She had a metal garbage can by the open patio doors, a fan blowing the smoke out and wet towels draped over the smoke detectors. And she had to remove the newspaper clippings from the plastic pages before lighting them. But she did have a glass of wine beside her, which helped the atmosphere.
