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else hurtin’.”
    Of late my celestial senses had returned. I could see the honesty and pain in Tempest. The State of New York had pushed this natural survivor to the edge of his ability.
    I wanted to find some logic that would prove that he should stay in prison; some reason that would keep him from running in the night. But there was none. He was a fugitive from Hades already, why not run from prison too?
    “My duty is your destruction and damnation,” I said simply.
    “I know that. I know that.”
    “But I have learned on earth that there are times when people give up their autonomy to another—times when we allow ourselves to be led.”
    “What you talkin’ ’bout, Angel?”
    “If you will go back tonight and let them return you to prison, then I will do as Branwyn bids and bring all my ability to bear to get you out of this situation.”
    “I thought you spent all your money on that last lawyer—that Myron Ball?”
    “I’ll have to get more money and work harder.”
    “Won’t that get your bosses mad? I mean the ones upstairs—not the accountants.”
    “Maybe,” I said to a spot on the floor.
    For a span of time we were both quiet, lost in quandaries both alien and fused. For me it was one more step away from divinity and for Tempest, I believe, it was, once again, that razor’s edge he’d walked upon from the day he’d been born.
    “You’d defy heaven?” he asked after what seemed like a very long time.
    “No. But I will not let you suffer over a whim, clerical oversight, or ill will.”
    “What if you can’t get me out?”
    “I will.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “Because it is right.”
    “Angel, ain’t you learned nuthin’ from me? Ain’t you read the papers and walked the streets? Don’t you know that right is just one card in the deck?”
    “I will use every ounce of my ability to make you a free man.”
    Tempest was about to say something. Whatever it was he did not say it. Instead he grinned and shook his head.
    “Damn, man, after all this time you finally succeeded.”
    “In what?” I asked.
    “Convincin’ me to willingly go to hell.”

The Dream
    When next I saw Tempest Landry he was in bad shape. Bearded with his hair grown long and partly matted, he stared at the space around my visitor’s chair with vacant eyes that had bags under them.
    I felt guilty over his broken-down state. After all, I had promised to bring all my earthly and heavenly power to bear in order to obtain his freedom. And though I spent the early mornings and late nights of every day working toward that goal—I had failed, utterly. He’d had an extra eighteen months tacked on to his twelve-year sentence for returning after curfew to the work release barracks the night before that program was shut down for good.
    A trick in the reflection of the bulletproof glass that separated us made it seem as if a shard of light had cloven him in two.
    “Prison is as bad as you thought,” I said. It was not a question.
    “Prison?” He seemed honestly surprised. “Naw, man. Prison’s a walk in the park compared to these here dreams.”
    “Dreams?”
    “Every time I close my eyes it’s like nine baseball pinch hitters come in the cell an’ beat me wit’ their bats. I wake up short’a breath an’ cryin’ half a dozen times before they finally get us up to go out in the yard. You know I get happy when somebody wanna mess wit’ me. I kicked this one dude’s ass so bad that I felt sorry for ’im—after. But you know beatin’ on him felt good while I was doin’ it—too good.”
    “What is it like?” I asked, feeling a pain somewhere in the air just above my head.
    “Beatin’ on a brother?”
    “No…the dream.”
    “Oh,” Tempest said. He had not smiled once since we’d settled in our metal chairs, bolted to the floor, across from each other. Now there was fear where once there had been rebellious humor.
    “I don’t know if I can even talk about it, Angel. I mean these dreams