“Hello, Judas,” said Michael. The Archangel Michael – he of the big, flaming sword and the snow-white wings of steel – was leaning against the base of a telecommunications mast with his arms folded across his chest. Unfortunately for Judas, he was also smiling, and that meant that there was trouble headed his way. Michael was either wearing his holiday clothes or trying to look inconspicuous; Judas hadn’t the heart to tell him that he had failed to pull off either look very well.
The Archangel’s long white hair flowed down over his shoulders. Its condition would have made any shampoo manufacturer go weak at the knees. It was the cool, urban, hipster-angel look.
“Hello, Michael. If you’d wanted to see me you could have just called; I just scuffed one of my monk-straps on the last rung. My
