Michael woke in space or a lava lamp, he wasn’t sure which. Either way, it was the most beautiful sight he could ever have imagined, a pulsating nebula of color, texture, and depth.
Was this Heaven? If so, there was enough artistic inspiration to last an eternity—or would be if he had any paint. He grunted. More like an artist’s Hell.
There had been some kind of explosion, so he must be dead. But since he felt no pain, he sat up and focused on the tunnel of light up ahead.
Maybe he was in Heaven after all.
In the distance, stood a lone figure with a friar’s tonsure, trimmed with hair the same dull color as his robe. His feet were bare and his countenance humble. Sparrows fluttered around his head. He reached his hand down the tunnel of light. The instant Michael extended his own, he was transported through the tunnel and onto a cloud in the heavens.
“Welcome.”
The words rumbled from every direction, making the friar’s body seem unsubstantial and his voice all-knowing. And yet, familiar. A voice from the past, from the banyan tree where Michael used to play as a child, from his place of safety and comfort.
He peered more closely. “Grandfather?”
The friar smiled. “I’ve never had that pleasure, but I’ve always liked that you thought of me so.” He opened his arms. “It’s good to have you back.”
Michael took in the friar’s tonsure, robe, and the chirping birds that fluttered around him. Was the spirit guardian of his youth really who he appeared to be? “Saint Francis?”
The friar shrugged. “Call me Francesco. It is a name for which I have great fondness, as it was given to me by my father in a moment of playful affection. Or you can call me The Grandfather, as you did when you were a boy. All that matters is that you have returned.”
“But you’re the one who left—after Mom made me recite that prayer.”
“Ah, yes…the exorcism.”
“She thought you and The Lady were demons.”
“So did you.”
“I was angry.”
“You were scared. But we understood.”
“Then why did you leave?”
Francesco smiled. “Who do you think shoved you out of your daze when you set fire to your artwork and nearly burned down your first Venice Beach apartment?”
“That was you?”
He nodded.
“But you said you couldn’t interfere. That’s what you told me when I was a kid after I stuck my hand in the fireplace and burned my arm. You made it seem like I had done it on purpose. Like part of me had some secret agenda.”
“I also told you that you would always have a choice.”
“Really? Because it didn’t feel like it then. Or now.” He looked down the tunnel of light into the darkness from where he had come.
Inside the darkness was a bedroom. In the bedroom, was a wooden canopy bed where Adriana waited, alone and scared. In front of her, beyond the ring of fire, Jian Carlo and Serafina were frozen—one shocked, the other satisfied—staring at Michael’s body, crumpled against the wall.
“Am I dead?”
“You’ll survive. It’s Adriana who needs our help.”
“Our?”
“You cannot pass through the barrier alone, and I cannot carry her out.”
Michael shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s happening to her?”
“The sorceress has trapped Adriana in her fears, twisting every noble and courageous virtue into self-serving cowardice and corruption. Serafina is breaking her granddaughter of everything she is in order to transform her into what Serafina perceives her to be.”
“It won’t happen. Adriana’s stronger than that.”
“Is she? Is anyone?” Francesco grew thoughtful, as though reflecting on his own past frailties. “Few things in human life are as dangerous as doubt or the loss of faith. And then, there is the trickster to consider.”
“Who?”
“Exú. But he’s had many names through the eons. I think you know him as Julius Amodei.”
Michael grunted out a harsh laugh. “I can’t get rid of him, can I?”
“Unfortunately, no. He’s been waiting for centuries for you, Serafina, and Adriana to be born again in the same lifetime. The boy, the priest, and the witch—together again to right a terrible wrong.”
Michael gazed off into the nebula as the mysteries of his life came together like swirling stardust. The sketch. The vision. The fire. His obsession with Adriana.
“I’m Philippe? No wonder I keep trying to burn myself. Colette’s death was my fault.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Why does Exú care? It was one death, four hundred years ago. Why isn’t he tormenting warlords or serial killers? He must have bigger offenders to punish than me.”
“Exú doesn’t punish; he manipulates. And for some reason, he believes that bringing the three of you together will generate enough power to throw the world into chaos.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Only because you don’t understand what he has enabled Serafina to do. And why we have to get Adriana out of there before it’s too late.”
Michael looked down at Adriana, caught in a prison he couldn’t see and didn’t understand. “You’re telling me that whatever is going on with Adriana, her grandmother, and me can affect the whole world?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just don’t buy it. I’m not that important. None of us are.”
“The monk in me would like to disagree and tell you that all of God’s children are precious and important in his eyes. However, you are right. Separately, and perhaps even together, none of you has the power to create world chaos.”
“But it’s not just us, is it?”
“No. The Lord of Chaos plays a subtle game, one that crosses eons and serves a purpose known only by him and, I assume, God.”
“What can I do?”
Francesco looked down at Adriana. “Save her.”
“Then let’s go. You said it takes both of us, right? What are we waiting for?”
When Francesco didn’t answer, a worrisome thought wiggled into Michael’s mind. All his life, he feared one thing even more than fire. He had avoided it with his mother, women, art critics, fans…basically everyone he had ever met. Ever since a spirit had taken over his body and forced him to stick his hand in the fire, he had fought to keep everyone and every thing out of his head.
“I need an invitation.”
“No.”
“It’s the only way.”
“No. Why can’t you understand? You were there. You saw what I went through—the skin grafts, the isolation, the exorcisms. You knew a spirit had taken possession of me and you did nothing to stop it. And now you want to do it yourself? No one controls me but me.”
Francesco waited for Michael to cool off then glanced down at Adriana.
Michael cringed.
It’s not fair.
“I know it’s not,” Francesco said, reading Michael’s mind. “But it’s only for a moment. I don’t want to take over your life. I want to give it back to you. You just need to have a little faith.”
That’s what The Lady had said or Panchali or whoever that was back in his loft. She had told him to make friends with the Devil. That last bit of advice had saved his life when Exú, in the guise of that enormous woman in the red devil dress, had broken Serafina’s curse. Would faith help him now?
“You can help me reach Adriana?”
“I can.”
“And you’ll leave when I tell you to?”
Francesco nodded. “Free will, Michael. Everyone has a choice.”