All this talk of ghosts has put the angel messenger on edge. It might just be Miss Mies' influence, but she's heard it said that the devil may take on any shape he wants. Or, more specifically, any shape she might want. And the messenger never wanted anything more than she wanted her god returned to her. Do it to tempt her, to damn her, and to make her a heathen for daring to believe the lie.

So when she gets another message, it makes her wonder. It says, 'Go and get Morgan in it before His Majesty gets Dani. I need her for the end.'

She's going, already, she's on her way, but she messages back, 'Are you real? Sorry.'

'Are you questioning me?'

'Sorry.'

'Do you need to stick your hand in the wound?'

'Really sorry.'

'Aren't you my angel?'

Her heart is beating out of her chest, and not with the effort, not with the breakneck pace. No apology is going to be enough. She stops trying. Cries quietly to herself along the road, choking on it. Thinks of the orders of monks that whip themselves and how she always thought it was stupid, but she understands. When you truly love and adore something and you do it wrong, you feel that way. She scratches fiercely, right thumb nail tearing at the heel of her left hand, just inside, just above the wrist. It's not enough, but it's something. She wants to tear all the skin she's ever had away and leave every nerve exposed because He hates her.

'Aren't you my angel?' comes again.

'Best always angel. Forgive me.'

'Go and get Morgan.'

Yes. Absolutely. Without question and with her whole brutal heart. She can be perfect. There's no devil on the far end of her phone, there never has been. The only devil is Holmes. Holmes made her question. If her God wants Miss Mies free and clear, that's exactly what He'll have. Her own fears and hatreds aside, the messenger will provide her.

She dries her eyes at the door of the dark, narrow whiskey bar Morgan hides himself in. It couldn't be long after opening, but these places don't change. Closing time is just a clearing out and opening time is just a sweeping in of all the same faces and needs. She charges inside, despite the protests of the barman and the patrons. They are uniformly male and middle-aged and depressed, and she is none of these things. A little girl to them, she's enraged, and her eyes light on Angus Morgan.

The giant is huddled in a corner, and looking incredibly small. He has buried all his confusion and disbelief in malt and turned it maudlin.

The first barfly who tries to put a guiding hand on her, she scratches. The second she bites. Then crosses the room, grabs Uncle Angus by the upper ear and hauls him up. Held this way, to follow her, he's bent double and can't look up. It's only slowly that he recognizes her. "Aw, Jesus, not you. Not you… I don't want to. I've changed my mind."

She's dragged him outside by now. When he decides to stand up, she has to let go of his ear or be lifted right up off her feet. Instead she braces one foot against the wall and hops up to slap him. The sting itself doesn't even register; they say Morgan hasn't a nerve left in his skin that hasn't been cut and burned and overloaded out of all use. It hurts her more than him. But he knows she did it and stares down at her.

The messenger isn't intimidated. She fears no evil, for the very worst of it is wrapped around her as armour.

"You used to be loyal," she says, and spits at his feet. "And what else has He ever asked of you?" Her leg snaps out, delivering a vicious little kick to his shin. This is her self-hate, this is her flagellation. This is everything she was made to feel as she steps in and beats at his chest. Both fists look small as apples battering him, but she means it, and Morgan stands stunned. "And you're going to stand there and tell me you've changed your mind?" she screams.

Morgan, it would seem, has had enough. He's too drunk and she's too strange, too much like something that could have crawled up out of his personal sickness. He takes her by the wrists, puts her to one side and begins to shamble away. He rolls from foot to foot like a man at sea. From practice, he knows it's the best way to stay on his feet. Given his size, a fall can be a catastrophe.

The messenger watches him go, just a few steps.

All her rage, at herself, at Holmes, at Miss Mies and the indifference of her most beloved god for whom she would do anything, boils up terrible. There at the top, there's sudden clarity. All the things she knows about Morgan arrange themselves so that she can see them properly and select one. Calvinist, isn't he? Justified sinner? A man without the hope of redemption grained onto his soul, not like her God's lapsed Catholicism. No vindication, like Milverton, with his adoration of his riches. No wild, atavistic abandon like Miss Mies, whore of Babylon, animal queen.

No, Morgan's different. Morgan's a drifting soul. She looks down at the damage she's done to her wrist and hand, the blood beading up against the new rawness and she knows what he needs. Knowing what he needs, she knows what to give him to make him work for it.

She's not screaming anymore. She slips up behind Morgan, keeping time with his sailor's walk, content to follow. She circles and darts around his feet to make him stumble and reel. Not screaming anymore. Hissing, like a voice from down inside him, "You're pathetic. I think you can see that, can't you? I think you're a little bit lost, Angus Morgan. But don't worry. Don't worry, we'll get you sorted. Give a little whistle, Angus." And she does, just to show him, just to teach. "Give a little whistle and we'll get you back on your feet again. Don't worry."

He's shaking his head, just barely believing in her, never mind that more important other.

"You have to let me help you, Angus. I know where you're meant to be. You do have a purpose; you've just lost sight of it. You're still in His plan. He knows you're scared, but you're still loyal. Anyway, it's a nice job. You'll like it."

She slides beneath his arm. On the way she takes hold of his hand. It takes both of hers to even lift it up. Leans back on it and lets her wheels bear her backward. She knows where she's going, and to hell with anyone else who can't get out of her way. She sways like a charmed snake, singing softly, "Take the straight and narrow path, and if you start to slide, give a little whistle… give a little whistle… And always let your conscience be your guide."

Incredibly delicate. Not berating him anymore. In his soused mind this is enough of a reprieve already.

For a great huge brute, Morgan's weak. He disgusts her, just a little. Not in the fearful way Miss Mies does, either. She would never take Miss Mies by the hand, for instance. No, her disgust with Morgan isn't physical. She just doesn't like him. Doesn't like his attitude, how much encouragement he needs. Even Charlie Milverton was already working when she got there. He might not have accepted the truth yet, but he was ready to act anyway. Morgan's too dependent, too willing to be led. Maybe she should try reporting that, next time her God is in touch. But then, He would know all this already.

He sends things like Morgan to try her. And she's done well. Morgan's starting to follow her swaying. Drunkenly, breathily whistling. And where she pulls him, he's going.

It's not very far. Just enough or the cool air to sober him a little. Just enough that, when they get there, she can haul herself up, using his shoulders like a ledge, and whisper his orders in his ear. Hanging on his left, her right hand tiptoes up along the bizarre, shatter-glass scars that crisscross his head, fingers curling the gingery tufts of hair. And he's willing now. He's accepted her. Letting her conscience be his guide, he listens intently to the simplest sort of contract.

"Destroy it," she tells him. "And the woman too. Your God watches over you."

"Does He?"

"Don't doubt Him. He looks upon your great works and smiles. Do what thou wilt."

Morgan's conscience falls down off his left shoulder and gives him a last gentle shove in the direction of the door. The door is dark and discreet. The windows are screened with wire mesh. In gold, painted on the glass, it says, 'Abraham Slope and Sons, Quality Pawnbrokers, Est. 1952'