She raised her head, and her dark eyes held glints of silver. "Roger has the Sickness. I found him. I didn't know." She began to rock, to get excited. "I found him. In his bathtub. His face." She began to bounce a little. "His skin. I didn't see it at first, Trey. I swear to God, I didn't see it at first so I tried to help him out because I thought he'd fallen or was drunk, but he wasn't drunk, he was sick, and oh God, Trey, I touched him. I reached out, and I touched him."

He didn't hesitate. He pushed forward onto his knees, reached out and grabbed for her arms. She cried out and pulled away, slapping at his hands, his arms, his legs. "Don't touch me, you'll die, don't touch me, I'm dying." He batted away the slaps, his head back so she wouldn't accidentally punch him, and this time grabbed her shoulders and yanked her toward him, gathered her to his chest, and held her tightly while she struggled and cried and pleaded with him to let her go because she didn't want him to die, didn't he understand, she didn't want him to die.

One arm around her back, his right hand cupping her head firmly, he waited until whatever terrified her drained her and she couldn't struggle anymore. Weeping instead, and he could feel the tears seep through his shirt, warm on his chest.

He held her.

He rocked her.

When even the tears were too much and she could do nothing but moan softly, he said, "Jude, I'm not going to die."

"Yes," she said.

"No."

"I touched him. You can get it by touching."

"I know." He stroked her hair. "I know you can." He stroked her back. "But I'm not going to die. And you're not going to either."

For five minutes, ten, he rocked and he whispered and when she finally lifted her face, her veil pushed down over her ravaged nose, he looked down at her and said, "I ain't lying, Jude. You're all right now. I ain't lying."

In the dark he could almost imagine that her face was whole.

When she realized the veil was nearly off, she gasped, but he wouldn't let her free to set it back in place.

"Jude."

She rested her forehead against his chest. "I don't want to die. The girls. . . I don't want to die."

"You won't."

She shook her head. "How do you know?"

"Funny you should ask." He looked to the door and suspected the girls were on the other side, trying to eavesdrop, too scared to barge in. "If you got a minute, I got a hell of a story to tell you."

2.

There was no light in the desert, but she didn't need any. She rode the pinto in a large circle well away from Emerald City, humming to herself, nodding every once in a while, touching the horse's neck whenever it shied from a shadow.

She had sent the others home after telling them when she expected them back, and not five minutes after the last one had left, she had known.

She had known.

Rage had clenched her fists so tightly blood dripped from her palms; fury had made her storm through the house, swinging at anything that got in her way, each punch spilling more blood as a door was slammed off one hinge, as a mirror was shattered into black shards that rippled into shadows that slid into the walls, as the walls trembled and the ceilings bulged and dust fell like fine rain. She rode to find calm.

She rode to remind herself that those who had gone before her had been stymied as well, that none of it really mattered because she was who she was and it wouldn't happen to her.

Because she knew.

She knew that nothing the old man and that foolish stupid woman told the gambler would do him any good, knew that their time was short and she was going to make it shorter, knew that she had an army and all he had was children and cripples, and old men and stupid women who didn't know enough to know how hard they would die.

The pinto snorted, steam roiling from its nostrils.

"Hush, now," she whispered, caressing its neck and mane. "Hush, now."

It was time to get back.

Time to get ready.

When she reached the boulder that marked the edge of the gambler's world, she read the words he'd scratched into it, and she lifted her face to the stars and she laughed.

3.

In the mountains, coyotes howled.

On Lake Mead there were whitecaps.

In the desert, the wind blew, and dust and sand lifted from the ground and formed a cloud.

That waited.

4.

When he dreamed before, when he imagined himself a great sports star whose prowess and fine looks were known throughout the world, it was, before, soccer of which he was king.

In soccer hands were a liability unless you were a keeper.

In soccer you were penalized if you used your hands to touch the ball.

Now, drifting through a light sleep in which dreams were a wafer's width beyond his control, he was a gridiron star, a basketball hero, an unbloodied two-fisted heavyweight champion of the world.

Top of the world, Ma; top of the world.

A moan and a grin as he rolled onto his side.

Top of the goddamn world, and all he had to do to stay there was rip a gambler apart.

Lying on top of the sheets, hands folded on her stomach, too astonished, too bewildered, too excited to sleep, Stephanie Olin stared at the darkness with a grin so wide she thought the corners of her mouth would split and tear her cheeks. Cable lay with his back to her, every so often punching his pillow to reform it, drawing his legs up, straightening them out, sighing quietly, grunting as if he found it difficult to breathe.

She touched his bare hip, stroked it, squeezed it lightly, an often-used trick to settle him down when his dreams got the best of him.

This time, however, he wasn't sleeping.

"Honey?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the matter?"

He stirred under her hand, pulling away, and she frowned.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, almost growling. "I don't think I can, Steph. This whole thing ... I don't think I can do it."

That didn't surprise her. Once he'd stopped examining himself in the mirror just in case it was a trick and he hadn't changed a bit, he had become quiet, almost sullen, and didn't even take the hint when she'd stood at the foot of the bed and gave him a slow strip.

She kept her voice even. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean."

She sat up, suddenly punched his shoulder so hard he flipped onto his back with a curse, automatically reaching for her arm. She hit him again, on the chest, as hard as she could.

"Jesus, Steph!"

"No," she said, leaning over him, grabbing his chin, squeezing his cheeks. "You will not screw this up for me, Cable, you hear me? You screw this up, you bastard, Trey isn't the only one seeing angels in the morning."

He didn't try to break free, didn't try to hit back. "Steph, for God's sake, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she said, barely recognizing her own voice. "Nothing. Not anymore."

She released him with a snap of her wrist, fell back onto her pillow, and wondered why she had put up with him all these years, all his harsh words, the once-in-a-while slap, the snarls and the animal sex. Maybe it had been love once; it wasn't love anymore.

Shape up or ship out, she thought to him angrily; you blow this one, brother, you're on your own, I'm not dragging you to the top with me.

Satisfied, ultimatum given, she smiled and dozed and dreamt of being a star.

"You ever coming to bed?" Muriel called. Not that she cared. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

"No," Lillian called back, laughing. "I'm practicing, okay?"

"You can walk, what's to practice?"

"The feel of it, you old cow. The feel of it."

Not so old, Muriel thought, for the hundredth time running her hands along the new flat of her stomach, over the new firmness of her breasts, along the new curve of her hips; not so old that I have to put with your shit anymore.

"For God's sake, Lil," she yelled, "we gotta be up in a couple of hours!"

"I'm already ready," Lil called back, still laughing, still wandering the living room, the kitchen, the narrow hall. "You have no idea how ready I am."

Muriel sighed, but she smiled. "So what're you gonna use? The gun? I got dibs on the gun."

"Shit no, Mother, I'm gonna ride that son of a bitch down."

Muriel laughed.

Her daughter laughed with her.

"Jesus God Almighty!" Lillian shouted. "Praise Jesus God Almighty!"

"Watch your language," Muriel snapped. "It's Sunday, remember?" A moment later she yelled, "And save your damn strength, you stupid child. You're gonna need it."

The angel, Roger guessed it might have been Jude, left him in the bathtub, and it had taken him over an hour of patient waiting before he could crawl out. God knows how long after that before he could haul himself up to the sink and. turn on the water. He figured he drank a gallon, but it didn't do any good. His skin felt fiery and tight, and he could feel the pustules splitting, could feel the liquid burning down his cheeks, his chest, running down his sides from under his arms. He didn't think about what Eula had done to him. He didn't think about how long he had to live. All he wanted to do was stop the fire inside and out; all he wanted to do was do something right for a change before it was too late. Calling the cops wasn't an option. What would he tell them? That an old black bitch had cast a spell or something on him? That the world-famous gospel singer and lovable old woman was really some kind of witch or demon? Even if he held a Bible in both hands they wouldn't believe him. Not after what he'd done today. Hell, once they got a look at him they'd figure he was raving because of the fever, because of the Sickness, because he was dying.

He staggered, stumbled, fell into the living room and crawled toward the open cardboard box he kept handy beside the couch. If he got there soon enough, if he could open one of the bottles inside, he might be able to drink the pain away, or at least keep it at arm's length. Either way, it would be enough. Either way, he'd find the strength to make it outside. And once there, he'd make his way down to Jude's and show her what happened to angels who left the sick and lame behind.

3.