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REVELATION 20:6

. . . On such the second death hath no power.

~ * ~

Another few minutes and it would truly be a glorious morning, Jo thought. The air remained night-chilly, but the sky was beginning to lighten as she walked; above the tops of the skyscrapers surrounding her, the sky was still a dark, navy blue, the color of the uniform her adopted father had worn years ago as he dressed to go to his job as a policeman. To her right she could see five or six blocks east, past the elevated tracks where the sun was painting the dawn pink and pale blue above the lake.

The wind increased and she reached to pull the band from her hair. An instant later the tight mass atop her head came free, falling to her hips in a straight silvery mass. She fingered a strand curiously for a moment, then dropped it; two years ago her hair had been light brown. The color had changed seemingly overnight—no, that wasn't true. A chunk of her memories was gone, cut from her mind like a wedge of pie; the resulting gap bled a fiery faith into her soul that she could not ignore.

The wind—God's breath—caressed her face and raised goose bumps on the skin beneath the high collar and long sleeves of her white dress. She cut diagonally across the intersection of Clark and Washington and headed east again, facing the hard lake breeze. Her hair floated behind her and she raised her eyes to the pinkening sky, knowing that the sun—another of the Lord's wondrous creations—would rise above the buildings within minutes. She let her sixth sense lead her, following like a blind person at the mercy of a guide. Her eyes scanned the windows of the buildings, but the plaza was wide and empty; here and there pieces of paper fluttered in the growing breeze. She wondered idly how the trash had gotten there—it might be new, she thought hopefully, brought outside by human hands. Then again . . .

Jo was no longer alone, she could feel it. No eyes had watched earlier when she'd stopped on LaSalle and brushed her fingers against the engraved brass eagle plaque on the American National Bank Building. Eagles, huge creatures of the air flying without mechanical parts or fuel, had always fascinated her. Now she paused opposite City Hall and looked across Daley Plaza to the Picasso statue that resembled a metal horse dying a slow, rusting death. Something whispered from within the subway and she moved toward the shadowed steps of the Dearborn underground as if in a trance, unbuttoning her collar invitingly. Beneath the translucent skin of her throat her pulse increased, visibly throbbing as it gave out the warm scent of lifeblood.

Four feet from the stairs, her face turned toward the dirty creature as it leapt. Clawed fingers wrapped around her wrist, freezing through the thin cotton material as it yanked on her; still, she followed without resisting. At the top of the steps she met its surprised eyes without flinching and opened her arms, stepping forward and exposing her throat. Fangs gleamed like pearly scissors in the dark pit of its mouth; the beast's arm slipped around her waist and pulled her down the steps almost tenderly. Held against its icy, half-starved body, her warmth was like a furnace, and she knew it would not be able to resist a quick taste before sunup. Her pulse thundered in her head as the fangs closed on her neck; she welcomed them.

Bright, white light and pain, like being washed in the lake of God's holy sun.

~ * ~

Another dress in charred tatters, and her last one, too. Jo sighed and walked up LaSalle toward the river; her unmarked throat ached nastily and she was a little lightheaded, but the crisp air would clear that away soon. Right now she needed more clothes and she skipped childlike across the bridge at LaSalle and Wacker and pushed through the unlocked revolving doors into the Merchandise Mart. Her stomach growled and she glanced at the cigar stand in the lobby and the twisted metal gates that had once closed off the Walgreens Drug Store. There was still food here, old candy bars and snacks, but there were also others who needed the nourishment—such as it was—more than she. The knowledge brought a flaring of despair to her head, and her mind turned quickly away from the black thoughts.

On the sixth floor Jo wandered into a women's wholesale store and shook out an armful of white dresses in a size five without regard for style. Beneath a counter supporting an open cash register with a drawer still full of dusty bills, Jo found a shopping bag and put the dresses inside, then touched the money thoughtfully, trying to feel the old vibrations of the people who'd once held it. When nothing happened, she picked up the bag and made her way back to the first floor.

Passing an empty cookie stand in the massive lobby, Jo stopped and held her breath for a moment, listening. This building, she knew, was never silent; the space left by the sound of her breath was filled instantly with the faint moans and crying of the Damned imprisoned two floors above, growing louder now as they sensed her presence. Tears filled her eyes and she hung the shopping bag over one thin arm and clapped her hands over her ears.

Not enough . . .

She fled into the blessed warmth of the spring sun.

~ * ~

Jo left the ruined dress on the sidewalk under the Lake Street elevated tracks, unconsciously shedding it like an old and ill-used skin. Soon the sunlight would warm the day, but the morning air was still chilly on her naked shoulders and she turned into the black building on the corner of Lake and LaSalle. In her pile of garments she found a dress cut from a heavier material and slipped it on. There was a Greek restaurant off the lobby, door still unlocked from her last visit; inside the restaurant's shadowed pantry was a plastic jar of her favorite tangy black olives—a strange breakfast, but she liked the garlicky flavor and was sure this was one of the foods eaten in ancient, Biblical times. The supply was almost gone; soon she would have to look elsewhere for her treat.

Outside again, she stopped at a corner bench and sat, eating the rich olives and spitting the pits into her palm. Before returning to St. Peter's, she would detour and drop them in the small patches of soil surrounding the trees along the river's edge; even if they didn't grow, maybe the squirrels or birds would want them for food. Her thoughts returned to the Merchandise Mart. The need to free those within was strong, but the means still eluded her. It would come—but when? Sometimes frustration filled her so intensely she would drop to her knees and beg God for His answer, right now!

But He was always silent, and she knew He would wait as long as He wished.

A bird, a tiny sparrow, landed on the sidewalk at her feet and gave a cheerful peep. "Psalm Thirty-seven," she whispered; the bird cocked its head as if in understanding and hopped closer. She nodded. "Verse seven."

Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him.

She closed her eyes and napped for a time; while she slept, the sparrow flitted to her knee and preened itself calmly.