"Josephine. My office. As soon as possible."

The code name was hers, but the voice wasn't Michael's. It was Madeline's.

* * * * *

"You wanted to see me?"

"Please sit down, Nikita." Madeline gestured to the wing-backed chairs in the corner, sitting in one herself and loosely clasping her hands in her lap. As usual, she was impeccable in voice and manner. She reminded Nikita of the "Southern Lady" in an old poem she had read -- a woman the poet had compared to "velvet sheathing the steel demurely, in that trained, light grip which holds so surely."

(Is he all right?) Of course, she couldn't ask that question aloud. So, she sat silent, watching Madeline intently for any clue to the answer.

"We need your help, Nikita. There's been an accident. One which could have severe repercussions here in Section. Elena is dead. And Adam will die shortly."

Nikita's vision blurred and she felt her stomach clench with a sharp stab of grief at those words. A gentle mother, an innocent child - Michael's legacy - gone now as if they had only been a dream. For a little while she had shared that dream with them, before the nightmare had taken over.

"How?" (Did Section cancel them?)

"A drunk driver. Our agents were several cars back. They saw it happen. He ran a stop sign at high speed and crashed into Elena's side of the car. She died instantly. Unfortunately, Adam was in the back seat on the same side of her car. He suffered crushing skull injuries. We've brought them both here to MedLab, but there's really nothing we can do for him. We have not placed him on life support, and our surgeons predict his death within the next few hours. There is really no brain activity. Eventually, his heart will stop."

"Have you told Michael?"

"No, not yet. That's why you're here. We know the effect this news will have on him, and we want you here when we tell him. I have run a profile which indicates there will be a period of greatest risk - to Operations, to myself, and to Michael as he attempts to process this information and deal with it. Your presence may well be the deciding factor in our survival."

"Why not just have Michael contained before you tell him? That would seem to eliminate all risk."

"Yes, but only in the short term. The only way we could then be certain of our future safety would be to cancel him, and we are reluctant to do that. Section has a great deal of time and resources invested in Michael. He has great potential. We want to protect our investment if at all possible. By allowing Michael to confront this issue with a certain degree of choice, we resolve it once and for all."

"How do you know my presence will make any difference?"

Madeline smiled ruefully. "It always has."

Finally, it had been said. She had won the battle for Michael's soul. Even the enemy was being forced to admit her victory over Section.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just be here. Operations has called Michael in."

The door to Madeline's office opened and Operations entered. He walked over to Madeline and Nikita.

"He should be here within the next 10 minutes."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A soft knock penetrated the silence.

"Come in, Michael," responded Madeline.

Stepping over the threshold, he came to a halt as he saw the look on Nikita's face. His expression gave nothing away, but Nikita noticed a dilation of his pupils as his eyes bore into hers. Madeline and Operations seemed not to exist for him in this moment.

"Michael." Operations' voice captured his attention and he turned, facing them both -- waiting. Nikita moved to stand beside him, her hand on his arm. Operations told him the news then -- tersely, dispassionately. Nikita would swear later that she felt no warning -- no sudden tensing of muscle, no movement. One moment, he was standing quietly beside her, and the next he had Operations' jacket in a death grip while holding a gun to his throat.

In a trembling monotone, he whispered in Operations' ear, "Combien de mes fils croyais-tu que j'offrirais sur l'autel du Section? -- How many of my sons did you believe I would offer on Section's altar?"

Operations responded, "As many as necessary, Michael. But Section didn't demand this sacrifice. If you want to blame someone, blame God, or Fate."

"I do. But there's enough blame to go around. I once told Nikita, if they died, you die. Prepare yourself." And his finger tightened on the trigger.

"If you kill him now, you won't live long enough to say goodbye to Adam. Unless your revenge is more important to you than your son." As always, Madeline's was the calm voice of reason. And, as usual, it was a scalpel, slicing swift and sure.

Michael sucked in one harsh breath, released the hammer, and lowered his hand, the gun dropping to the carpet with a soft thunk. Nikita took his hand in hers - it was ice cold. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "Michael, please listen. I believe them. It was a tragic accident. Section had nothing to do with it. If I didn't believe that, I would help you kill him."

He stared back at her blindly. She didn't know if he had even heard her. But Madeline and Operations surely had.

There was a sudden buzzing of Madeline's com unit, followed by Birkoff's voice announcing, "Incoming - casualities." Elena and Adam had arrived. Nikita looked to Operations and Madeline, who nodded their approval, then said, "Let's go, Michael. Adam's waiting for you." And she led him out the door and down the corridors of Section to Medlab. Operatives instinctively stood aside as they passed. Word had spread quickly.

They stopped at the windows to Medlab's ER. Elena's body lay covered - only her long dark hair half-visible from beneath the white sheet. Adam was surrounded by Medlab staff. A red turban covered his head. Nikita realized it had once been white bandages, saturated now with blood and brain matter. Michael pressed the intercom and breathed one word. "Prognosis?" Without turning around, one staff member replied, "He's a gork all right. Get the shoebox ready and dig a hole in the backyard for this one."

Nikita gaped, speechless, as Michael slammed open the door to Medlab, grabbed the man and spun him around. He hissed, "That "gork" is my son. His name is Adam. He's four years old. He can count to 100. He knows his letters. He can write his name. He likes to play soccer, and to ride his bike. He loves music, and he won't go to sleep without his stuffed bear, and without hearing me play the cello. Now get out of here and leave me and my son and his mother alone, unless you wish to die now."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later, Nikita sat outside Medlab, still waiting for Michael to come out. Following the hasty retreat of medical staff, she too had left him alone with Elena and Adam - instinct guiding her to give him the privacy he needed to say goodbye. At one point, she had peeked in the door to find him sitting in a chair, rocking Adam in his arms, humming that same lullaby she had heard him play over and over on the cello in the days following his initial separation from his family.

After several more hours, she became concerned enough to risk his anger at her intrusion and reentered the ER. He was still in the same place, still hugging Adam tightly, still swaying slightly and humming - his voice now a hoarse whisper.

She bent down and touched Adam's cheek. It was cold.

"Michael, it's time to let Adam go. His mother is waiting for him."

He looked up at her, expressionless, and replied, "Of course." But when she reached to take Adam, he tightened his hold on his son's body. She tried several times. The response was always the same.

Finally, she left him alone and went in search of Walter. He was the only one in Section besides herself whom Michael trusted - as much as he allowed himself to trust anyone at all. It was possible that the two of them could convince him to give up Adam willingly.

* * * * *

"Hey kid. Mind if I sit down here with you?" Walter pulled up a chair and sat next to Michael, who ignored his presence.

"I know you're real tired, Michael. He must be getting heavy. Why don't you let me take him for a while?"

"Of course."

"Michael, I promise I'll take real good care of Adam. You can trust me. Look, Nikita's here with us. She and I just want to help you, son. We're here with you and Elena and Adam. It's time to let us take over now. You need some rest." Walter's soothing voice finally seemed to penetrate Michael's consciousness, and he turned to face the older man.

"I won't let Section take him. He isn't some piece of material to be disposed of. He's my little boy, and I'll bury him with his mother in consecrated ground."

"I know you will, kid. Just let us help you with the arrangements. Section be damned! We'll do it up right, won't we Nikita?"

"Yes, we will, Michael. I promise you."

And with their reassurance, Michael finally relinquished his hold and allowed Walter to take Adam. Walter lay the boy on the table beside Elena's body and gently covered him. Turning to Nikita, he said, "Why don't you take Michael home, and I'll handle things here."

Nikita bent to help Michael to his feet - he was unsteady and stumbled slightly on rising. She held him close, willing him to accept her strength, yet surprised that he leaned against her without resistance. She gently guided him out of Medlab.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was bitter cold as they exited Section. Overhead, stars glittered in a winter sky, and Nikita could smell snow in the air. She bundled Michael into her car and slowly pulled away from headquarters, heading for her apartment rather than his. As she drove, she glanced over to find him trembling violently, his teeth chattering. She turned the heat as high as it would go, realizing he was in shock and needed to be warmed quickly. Suddenly he hissed, "Pull over." She stomped on the brake, and before the car had stopped completely he had jerked open the door and was vomiting into the gutter. He continued to retch even though there was nothing left to bring up. Nikita got out of her seat and circled around to his side of the car. She held his forehead in one hand and pressed her other hand to his mid-section, rubbing slowly in a circular motion. She could feel his stomach clenching beneath her hand, as if trying desperately to expel the rage and grief he was feeling.

Eventually, her massage began to take effect, and the spasms stopped. Nikita took a handkerchief from her pocket, dampened it with water from the plastic bottle she always carried in the car, and wiped the cold sweat from his face. She then gave him a sip of the bottled water to rinse out his mouth, and wiped it as well. Michael slumped back against the headrest, exhausted.

"It's okay, Michael. We'll be home soon. Just hang on." She put the car in gear and headed home as quickly as she could. Fifteen minutes later they were standing inside her door. She led him over to the sofa and plopped him down onto it. He lay back, his closed eyes charcoal circles in a white face. She removed his shoes and covered him with a fleece blanket. Going over to the fireplace, she lit the fire she always kept ready. As the flames rose and the room began to warm, she went into the kitchen, intending to brew tea. Remembering how partial he was to milk, however, she decided on hot chocolate instead. Besides, the warm milky mixture might be more calming to his stomach. While the chocolate warmed, she took a minute to run upstairs and change into an old flannel nightgown. Looking down on the living area, she saw him stir restlessly, and returned to sit beside the sofa, rubbing his stomach again gently, stroking his cheek with her other hand. He quieted.

* * * * *

On the low table in front of the fire, the chocolate steamed in two mugs. Nikita blew the froth off hers, then took a sip. She glanced over at Michael. His eyes were open, green pools of unshed tears. She placed her hand on his cheek and turned him to face her. The movement caused the tears to overflow and run down his cheek. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. He stared at her unblinkingly as more filled his eyes. (I could drown in his gaze.)

"Michael, drink this," she commanded. She put one hand behind his neck, lifting his head a bit, and held the mug of chocolate to his lips. He swallowed several times, then pushed her hand away. There was a froth mustache on his upper lip. Unable to resist the impulse, she licked it away with one swirl of her tongue. She then pressed gentle kisses on his mouth. His eyes closed, and she kissed the lids, smoothing the hair back from his damp forehead. His breathing deepened - slowed - and she realized he had drifted off, taking refuge from pain in sleep.

Sensing that this respite would be short-lived, she remained by his side, sinking down onto the carpet beside the sofa, staring into the flames. She didn't remember falling asleep but was awakened abruptly by the sound of hoarse cries - Michael was dreaming again. Over the past few months, as their intimacy had increased, she had become somewhat inured to such outbursts in his sleep. She had developed the habit of stroking his arm or his cheek gently until he subsided, often without ever waking. This time, however, was different. His cries began to take on an even more frantic tone - higher in pitch, more of a wail than a shout. At this point she felt compelled to wake him, and grabbing his face in both hands, she called loudly, "Michael! Wake up! It's Nikita! Wake up now!"

* * * * * * * * * * * *

His eyes opened, wide as saucers, but blind to her presence - so deep into the dream that he could only see it as reality. He continued to scream. Nikita knew he would awaken to a tragedy even more real than the nightmare. But, she had no choice, and she slapped him hard, twice, whipping his head back and forth against the sofa cushion. He intercepted the third slap with his hand, gripping her wrist so hard she knew she would find the imprints of his fingers outlined in black and blue bruises tomorrow. She could tell the moment he remembered what had happened. His cries stopped abruptly, but the resulting silence was almost as devastating. His mouth remained open - at first a perfect "O" which, as she watched, began to tremble and dissolve, becoming only one facet of the overall mask of grief contorting his features. He wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing her tightly, as if he were trying to crawl inside her. He took one long, gasping breath, and released it in sob after sob, his entire body convulsing as she held his head tightly to her breast, rocking them both gently back and forth, whispering her love for him. Eventually, the storm passed, leaving them exhausted. Sobs became occasional hiccups - small aftershocks spasming the muscles in his diaphragm. Nikita continued her rocking, rubbing his back all the while.

"Michael?"

Silence. But she sensed a certain tension in him, as if he were listening.

"Michael. Look at me."

His hold on her loosened and he lifted his head, staring at her with naked need. All shields were down, and she was frightened by the intensity of his gaze. (Be careful what you wish for - you might get it,) she thought.

He lifted one hand and stroked away the tears from her own cheeks, but made no further move. As always, he awaited her pleasure. And for the first time, she was fully aware of how much the wait had cost him. Suddenly, all she wanted was to give him pleasure here and now - not to worry about the future or the past - just NOW. She pushed him back against the sofa cushion. As she lay on top of him she could feel his erection hot and hard beneath her. She rubbed him vigorously, and he moaned softly as he swelled rapidly beneath her hand, pressing against the tight confines of the mission pants he was still wearing. Frantically, she unzipped them and released him into her waiting grasp. He sighed with relief, but his sigh turned into a longer, deeper groan as she began to milk him rhythmically, stroking his engorged penis with one hand while circling the tip with her damp thumb.

"Please," he whispered, "may I come in?" and she allowed him to hike up her gown and pull down her panties, which were already wet with her own arousal. As she pulled him to her, he arched his hips and entered her fully in one swift stroke, crying "Aahh! Ni-ki-ta!" as he felt her inner muscles grip him. The sensation was incredible - pleasure and pain so blended that he wasn't sure he could survive the onslaught. Having breached his emotional armor, Nikita held sway over his physical control as well, and almost before he was aware of it, he had thrust violently into her only twice before ejaculating on the downstroke, half in - half out of her, like a horny teenager. To his chagrin, the burning, pulsing stream of white fluid smeared her thighs and his.

"I'm sor . . ." he hissed, but his words of apology were cut short by her hand pressing lightly against his lips, as she smiled sweetly and shook her head.

"Don't. For once, you don't have anything to be sorry for," she said. "Michael, I love you like this -- don't you realize that your lack of control is the best gift you've ever given me?" Then, dipping her fingers into the moisture on his thigh, she stared intently at him as she slowly and deliberately sucked each one clean, finally running her tongue over her lips in appreciation. "Yum, you taste wonderful."

With each sucking motion, he had hardened more and more violently, until, at her final comment, his erection lurched upward, the veined underside presenting itself in a position of utmost arousal - as the slitted entrance to his urethra contracted and expanded, oozing preejaculate onto his belly button.

He looked down at himself in surprise, groaning in reaction to the extreme pressure of his blood-filled penis as Nikita began to lick its underside from base to tip, swirling her tongue over the knob, then pressing and pulling his cock downward, only to release it suddenly just for the thrill of watching his erection spring back to its original stand. Each time she pressed it back down, and each time his cock rebounded, he thought he would come apart at the seams. Electric shocks jolted him, and he gripped the sofa cushions tightly in both fists, huffing and grunting as he desperately tried to delay the coming explosion. Nikita could tell the end was imminent, for she could feel his buttocks tighten and see his scrotum drawing up. Just as he was about to erupt, she broke all contact, leaving him on the edge of the precipice. His eyes widened as he realized the choice she was giving him - plead for her help or suffer the agony alone. Always before, he had done what had to be done alone - and that included affording himself the necessary sexual relief. Now, he was unwilling to consider that option, although the urge to touch himself was almost overpowering. She observed the struggle, as his hands clenched and unclenched, then as he stretched one trembling hand toward his groin, only to pull back and groan, "Please Nikita, I'm begging you, help me!" She watched him intently, noting the sweat on his forehead, his rapid gasps for air, and his tongue licking parched lips. He arched his neck and strained upward toward her, desperate for her touch. How could she resist! But, in order to allow him entry, she had to straddle him backward, due to the acute angle of his erection. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him - then withdrew until he almost popped out again. He felt the warm wet glove envelope his hypersensitive tip, her own internal contractions milking him deliciously. As she rocked back and forth on top of him, the pressure shifted as well, rubbing first the tip then the back side of his penis. The change in rhythm brought him to an even greater level of excitement - one which he had not believed possible. He tightened one buttock, then the other, desperate for completion, and finally grabbed her tightly around the hips, pulling himself into a half-sitting position, which only tightened the pressure on his cock as it inflated within her. Hunched forward against her buttocks, he wailed out his release as he emptied himself into her. On and on it shot out of him - just when he thought he could have no more to spend, another spasm would overtake him and another jet of sperm would force its way from his body into hers - in a blind race for the grand prize- life calling to itself on the most elemental level.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Finally, it was over. All he felt now was an overwhelming lassitude. Nikita felt him soften inside her, and she heard his deep sigh of contentment as he released her waist and fell back onto the sofa. She gently disengaged and turned to find him already asleep, eyelids fluttering in time to the aftershocks in his penis as his overburdened system tried to regulate itself. She was tired and sore herself, and the thought of a hot bath was very tempting.

***********

She now sat on the side of the claw-footed tub in the bathroom, running her hand under the tap, then stirring the musk-scented bubbles on the surface of the water. The room was softly lit by five or six thick candles, and she loved the flicker of their light in the mirror and the shadows they cast onto the tiles on the walls. She had pinned her hair up and was just about to step into the tub when she had a second thought. Perhaps Michael would like to join her. Naked, she stepped back into the living room and gazed down at him. She considered letting him sleep, but then she reasoned, (He can sleep later. The more relaxed he is, the better. The more contact we have now, the better.) She was reminded of a method of gentling horses she had recently read about. When a foal is born, the handler maintains contact as much as possible for the first few days, getting the baby used to human touch. Forever after, horses gentled in that manner are calmer and more accepting of the unknown - making them much easier to train. Until now, Michael had been like a wild stallion who had been mistreated - as violent men and women tried continuously to break his spirit. Although seemingly calm and in control as a means of self-preservation, he suffered from the traumatic stress inflicted on his body, mind and spirit by Section. Adam and Elena's deaths had been the final blow - one she did not believe he would recover from without a "sea change." That change had begun, and she was determined to follow it through. There was no going back now - for either of them. She knew deep in her being that he was finished with Section. Whether or not Section was finished with him remained to be seen. It was to life or to death for both of them now, and she fully intended to prevail.

Bending down, she touched his arm and whispered, "Michael, wake up."

At first, he tried to brush her off, but when she pressed her lips to his, he responded, opening his mouth like a baby bird begging for food. She nibbled on his lower lip, then flittered her tongue into his mouth, tempting him into awareness. His eyes opened, and he groaned as he tried to sit up and pull her into his arms. He felt every muscle in his body! Who had tortured him? Then he remembered, both the tragedy and the loving, and he stilled. Nikita recognized that look, but rather than mention Adam, she just said, "I've got a bubble bath ready for us. Can you get up by yourself, or would you rather I help you?"

He came back to her from the memory he had been trapped in and smiled slightly, "I think I can walk, but maybe you'd better stay close by just in case."

She circled the sofa and extended her hands to help him up. As he stood, he wavered on his feet slightly, as if disoriented, and she quickly stepped closer to put an arm around his waist. As he tried to take a step, they both realized that his pants were pooled around his ankles! In their urgent need, they had both forgotten that little item. Laughing, she squatted down and lifted first one foot, then the other, pulling the pants off completely and throwing them on the chair in the corner. Then she led him into the bathroom.

* * * * *

A half hour later, they lay in the still-warm water, she with her back against the tub, he nestled against her breasts, as she held him to her with her legs crossed at the ankles across his waist. She was washing his hair, massaging his scalp with rhythmic strokes, easing tension in his temples and at the base of his skull with her thumbs firmly circling acupressure points. His head was bent forward on his chest, and his breathing was deep and peaceful. She hummed softly to herself and to him as the water sloshed gently in time to her strokes. She filled a plastic cup with warm water and poured it slowly over the soapsuds in his hair, painting auburn curlicues on the nape of his neck as the soap dissolved. "Um- m," he moaned, as she continued to press her fingers deep into the knots in his neck and shoulderblades, easing the final bits of tension from his body. Finally, she just leaned back and pulled him against her, rocking them both lightly in the waves.

"Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking . . . ." he whispered, giving voice to the sensation of that moment. They slept.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Nikita awoke first, aware suddenly of the now-chilly bath water and the guttering candlelight. Michael was crying in his sleep, his body shaken by deep sobs overlaying the fine tremor caused by the cold water. Nikita chafed his arms and whispered, "Michael, sit up. We need to get out of this water." He jerked awake and leaned forward, allowing her to slip out of the tub from behind him. She grabbed a towel and dried herself quickly, then pulled the stopper from the tub. He sat there as if hypnotized, watching the water swirl down the drain. She lifted her heavy terrycloth robe from the hook on the closet door.

"Michael, stand up."

He lifted his head, saw her holding the robe open for him, and stood up in the tub. She draped it around him and held him close. He seemed unwilling to initiate any action but obeyed her instructions without protest. She dried him thoroughly, then led him up the stairs and to her bed. She turned down the coverlet, removed the damp robe, and pushed him down onto the mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed until she gently shoved him back onto the pillow, lifting his legs and covering him. She went around to the other side and got into bed. As soon as she settled, he turned toward her spoon-fashion, twining his legs in hers, his arms around her waist. She put her hands over his and nestled back against him, feeling his breath soft against her neck. Fits of trembling still shook them both, but these became less frequent as they warmed together under the covers. He had still not said a word, but she could tell he was wide awake. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table -- 2:00 am. It had already been a long night and there were hours yet to endure before daybreak. She tried to turn over to face him, but he only gripped her tighter. Rather than resist, she relaxed and twined her fingers softly into his locked hands. Eventually, his grip loosened and he began to respond to the hypnotic "hand dance" they both loved. She could now feel his growing erection pressing against her bottom and hear his breathing quicken. Following these cues, she pressed more firmly against him and tilted her bottom upward, allowing him to slip into her from behind. He moaned softly and cupped her breast, then her mound, tracing a bolt of heat lightning from one to the other, as he began to circle the fleshy bud between her legs with his thumb. She hunched around his hand, rocking back and forth against the wonderful pressure, as her bottom bumped rhythmically against his own pelvic thrusts. Higher and higher they climbed, until all at once he stiffened against her. Reaching around behind her, she pressed her fingers into his buttocks, forcing him deeper. He gave one guttural cry and came deep inside her, his cheeks clenching with each spurt. The feel of those powerful muscles spasming under her hands drove her over the edge, as she rushed toward her own completion -- her grip on him tightening and loosening as she rode the crest of the wave. In this way she milked him, but even after all was spent, he continued to pound into her, unwilling to cry "enough". Because it was never enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

They had fallen asleep joined, as two interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The next time Nikita woke it was to the buzzing of her cell phone. The clock said 7:30 am. As she reached for the phone, she broke the seal that bound them and slipped silently from the bed, taking the phone downstairs with her. It was Walter.

"Hey, Sugar. How is he?"

At the silence on her end, he continued, "How are YOU?"

"I'm okay, Walter. And he will be too. Just not yet."

"I hear you, kiddo. Well, I've made the arrangements. I spoke to the priest at a little village church about an hour from here - St. Jeanne D'Arc. The priest is Father Philippe. The service is all set for 3:00 pm this afternoon. He wants to see Michael at 2:00. I told him I would try my best but that I couldn't make any promises."

"We'll be there at 2:00, Walter. Would you come with us?"

"You couldn't keep me away, Sugar. How about if I pick you two up at 1:00?"

"We'll be ready."

After hanging up the phone, she tiptoed back up the stairs to check on Michael. He was still asleep. (Thank you, God, for small favors.) He lay in the same position - on his side, knees slightly drawn up. But, in her absence, he cradled her pillow. She looked down at him - at the dark shadows under his eyes, joined now by the two-day stubble shadowing his jawline and mouth. As if sensing her presence, his eyelids began to flutter, and then his eyes flickered open. His hand searched for her body in the bed beside him. Her absence registered, and he bolted upright, coming face to face with her as she sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed the hair back behind his ears. The relief on his face touched her -- his practiced mask of indifference had been well-shattered, and he had not yet figured out how to mend it. (If only he could remain this open without having to suffer so much for it.)

"I'll make some coffee while you get dressed."

He nodded slowly, then shoved back the covers. She went to her closet and handed him one of her pullovers and a pair of sweatpants. He looked down at her offering -- they were so close in size that her clothes fit him almost as well as his own.

"You're lucky I washed yesterday," she quipped. "Otherwise you'd be wearing my purple tube top and leather tights." (Come to think of it, he'd probably look hot in the tights.) She eyed him carefully for his reaction and was rewarded with a faint quirk of one corner of his mouth. She leaned forward and pressed a feathery kiss on his cheek. Even at this innocent touch he flushed and he felt himself harden. He had already been half-erect from the usual morning "wake up call" from Mother Nature, and this only added to his discomfort.

She looked down and grinned. "Maybe you'd better pay tribute to the Goddess of Porcelain before getting dressed."

Then she headed down to the kitchen. His smile flickered again briefly, and he followed her down the stairs.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

While he was in the bathroom, she started the coffee -- the strong dark French roast she knew he preferred -- and toasted frozen croissants. She briefly considered making an omelet, but she was afraid he wouldn't eat at all if she offered him too much. So, a basket of croissants with strawberry preserves and butter were all she set on the table. By the time the coffee was ready she began to wonder what he was doing in the bathroom. It had been quite a while since he went in there, and she had heard no sound for the last 15 minutes or so. She tapped on the door.

"Michael, are you okay?" No answer. "Michael, I'm coming in." She tried the door, but it was locked. She had a sudden chilling thought. (What if he's done something to hurt himself?) She called frantically, "Michael let me in right now or I'll break down this door!"

Just as she was backing away to kick in the door, she heard the bolt snick and saw the door open. He was standing at the sink, staring at her through the mirror. His eyes and nose were red and swollen. She noticed he had found the antique straight razor she sometimes used to "distress" her clothes.

She stepped up behind him and put her arms around him.

"Were you planning to shave?"

He continued to stare at her intently, then his hand opened and the razor dropped into the sink.

"Sit down, Michael."

She pushed him down onto the closed toilet seat lid. Wetting a cloth in cold water, she wiped his face, then pressed it over his eyes, resting his head back against her other hand. After several applications of the cold cloth, he looked like he was feeling better. She picked up her hairbrush from the vanity and brushed his hair, teasing him gently about the numerous curls and "cowlicks" she was trying to tame.

"Michael, this is the worst case of 'bed head' I've ever seen." (Please join in the banter, Michael,) she prayed silently. To her relief, he peered up at her and said, "Perhaps we should head back to bed, then."

For his valiant attempt at humor she rewarded him with a resounding kiss on the lips, pulled him to his feet, and guided him over to the breakfast table. She considered telling him about Walter's call and the funeral arrangements, but she decided against it for the moment. Let him wake up properly and get some food down.

"Sit down and eat first. You're going to need all your strength."

"Yes."

She suddenly realized the double meaning of her words. (Think before you speak, Nikita,) she chided herself. Silently she handed him a cup of coffee. He held it in both hands as if warming them against a sudden chill, then drank deeply.

"Thank you."

When he made no move to eat anything, she spread preserves on a croissant and held it to his lips, prompting, "Here - take a bite. For me."

He put his hand over hers and solemnly bit into the offered pastry, chewing it slowly. He swallowed convulsively, and she was aware of the effort it took for him not to lose it entirely all over the table. She said nothing - only broke off another small piece and held it out to him. This time it went down easier. It took nearly 30 minutes for him to finish two croissants and a second cup of coffee, but at the end of that time he definitely looked better. His face had a bit of color back in it, and he seemed more at ease.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he questioned.

"Yes, now that you mention it, I am," she replied, and she proceeded to wolf down three croissants, a banana, an orange, and a cup of yogurt. The whole time he watched her, envious of her appetite -- not only for food but for life. Her presence infused him with the strength to go on, and without her he knew he would have ended it all with Adam's death.

(He's remembering again. This is as good a time as any to tell him.)

"Michael, Walter called this morning. He's made the necessary arrangements."

After giving him the details as to place and time, she continued.

"You have an appointment with Fr. Philippe at 2:00 this afternoon."

At her words, a storm of different emotions swept through him -- a swirling mass of grief, guilt, fear of something he couldn't quite identify. His stomach knotted, and he hunched forward in both physical and emotional agony, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. As the wave of pain receded, Nikita wiped his face with a napkin.

"It's like the ocean, Michael. The waves ebb and flow. The tide rises, the tide falls. This is one thing you can't fight. Just ride it out like a surfer catching the crest of the next wave." (I won't let you drown.)

"You sound like Elena's Lamaze coach talking about labor. When Elena was pregnant with Adam, we used to practice her breathing using that same method."

"I had a high school teacher who once told us that life itself is a lot like labor -- it's just fine between the contractions. She should have known -- she had five kids!"

He snorted bitterly.

"The only difference is that at the end of labor there's a baby to hold. What do I have to hold?"

"Me. And we too will be delivered some day."

"Perhaps sooner than you think," he replied, rising swiftly from the chair.

He went over to his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. Nikita watched curiously as he dialed, then spoke.

"Ici Jacques. C'est fini. Non, je suis resolu. Je vous telephonerai quand toutes est pretes."

Although her French had improved, his words were still a puzzle to her.

He turned back to her and said, "Please get dressed. We're going back to Section."

She shook her head. "Why, Michael? Was that Operations you spoke to? Are you sure we have to go in now?"

"Please get dressed," he repeated.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Thirty minutes later they entered Section. Michael led her straight to the "ballroom," from which they could look directly upward into Operations' aerie. His eyes locked on those of Operations and Madeline, both of whom had evidently been informed of his return. To the casual observer, his stride appeared natural, leisurely even. But to Nikita, following close behind, he was a stalking panther. He closed the distance to the aerie in only a few seconds. And all the way there his eyes remained locked on the two who awaited him.

Nikita half-expected Michael to barge into the aerie without knocking, but even now he remained observant of the formalities. He rapped twice on the door, then awaited Madeline's invitation to enter.

"Come in, Michael." She smiled politely. Then, turning to Nikita, she said, "I believe it would be best if you returned to Comm. There is a profile for you to study."

Nikita turned to go, but Michael spoke.

"Madeleine."

He pronounced her name in the French way, with the accent on the last syllable.

"Yes, MICHAEL?"

Her emphasis on the English pronunciation of his own name was intended to serve as a reminder of his Section identity. "Michel Samuelle" was dead. As she expected, he showed no response to her jibe. That was his habit. However, she was disconcerted by his next comment.

"Nikita is with me."

For once, the shoe was on the other foot. It was she who was forced to school her features, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of seeing the effect his statement had on her. She rose to the occasion, nodding graciously and replying, "Of course." (This is quite a role reversal,) she thought wryly, unable to prevent a slight smile at the irony of her using Michael's trademark response to any and all Section orders for the past ten years.

So it was as a couple that Nikita and Michael entered Operations' territory for the last time -- although Michael was the only one who knew it then. It was as a couple that they faced the man who had attempted to control them for so long -- who did not yet realize that he had lost that control. But Madeline knew it now, watching Michael. She had sensed the change in him as she watched him coming up the stairs, and his response to her probe in their brief exchange had confirmed her hypothesis.

"Paul," she said quietly. "I believe Michael has something to tell us."

"Do you, Michael?" Operations glared at him, still oblivious to the coming whirlwind.

"No. But, if I may . . . ?" And he slowly removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Operations nodded once.

"Ici moi. Dites-lui." And Michael silently handed the phone to Operations.

Just as silently, Operations listened to the voice on the other end. He had never been as adept at hiding his feelings as either Madeline or Michael, and as Nikita observed, his expression changed from one of hauteur to outrage to a deadly calm. His voice, however, betrayed none of these feelings. His only reply to what he heard was "Of course."

(I can't believe Michael's the only one of them who hasn't used that phrase in here today!)

But before Nikita could speculate any further, Operations wordlessly handed the phone back to Michael. He then turned to Madeline.

"Michael and Nikita are free to leave Section. No contact with either of them is ever to be initiated. Section's continued existence depends on it."

Madeline stared admiringly at Michael, a slight smile curving her lips.

"Congratulations. The pupil has indeed surpassed the teachers."

His timing was impeccable. "Of course," he replied, to Nikita's everlasting delight.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Operations could contain himself no longer.

"Get out of my office."

Michael replied, "d'accord" and guided Nikita toward the door. As they reached it, he turned one last time to face them.

"Walter will need 24 hours down time, beginning at 1200 hours today. I am burying my son and his mother, and he will be attending the service."

Operations took one threatening step toward them, but Madeline grabbed his arm and shook her head.

"Let it be, Paul."

"As you wish, Michael. Good bye."

He nodded once in acknowledgement of her final salute, then led Nikita from the room.

As they slowly descended the open stairway to the "ballroom," Nikita was aware of the surreptitious glances directed at them by those operatives on station. She suspected that Operations and Madeline were also watching their departure, but she wasn't about to turn around to look.

For his part, Michael seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He had turned inward again, and although she could hardly contain her questions, she knew he wouldn't answer them now. It occurred to her that Operations had not even tried to divest either of them of the Section weapons and other equipment they were carrying. That alone gave her some clue to the degree of power Michael wielded. His comments over the phone began to make more sense to her. In his first call, from her apartment, she remembered him saying something like "It's finished. No, I am resolved. I'll call you when everything is ready." And then, in Operations' aerie, he had not even identified himself by codename -- he had only said, "It's me. Tell him." Not a request but a command. These thoughts and others flashed through her mind as she felt his hand on her back, guiding her out and away from the walls which had confined them for years, in soul if not always in body.

* * * * *

They drove first to his loft. He packed a few clothes in a travel-all, then took only his cello and the video of Adam. He left the key in the door.

It was on the way to Nikita's apartment that her curiosity finally got the better of her, and she asked, "Michael, who was on the phone?"

He pulled the car over to the side of the road, killed the motor, and looked at her.

"Does it really matter?"

She pondered his response, saw the silent plea in his eyes, and spoke the absolute truth when she answered, "No. You're all that matters."

At her reply, he wrapped her in his arms and whispered slowly in a combination of French and English.

"Thank you. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. I will love you always. Je t'aimerai toujours. Ma foi, tu es si belle, mon ange. Truly, you are so beautiful, my angel. Tu m'as sauve. You have rescued me. Tu gardes mon ame. You are the keeper of my soul."

They were flooded with an overwhelming sense of peace, and they continued to embrace silently for several moments. At last, Michael spoke.

"We don't have much time. Walter will be at your apartment in an hour. We have to go."

She looked at him, her soul in her eyes. One hour. Joined now in spirit, she longed to join in body as well. As far as she was concerned, they had just spoken their vows. She was his wife and he was her husband, to death and beyond.

"Hurry, Michael," was all she said, as she placed her hand on his cheek.

He saw the hunger in her eyes and shifted the car into a higher gear.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

They barely made it inside her door. With one hand she turned the inner latch while with the other she unzipped his jeans and grabbed hold of his rock-hard erection. He backed her against the foyer wall, pulled her pants down in one violent motion and entered her immediately. She wrapped her legs around his waist and shoved her heels into his buttocks, forcing him deep into her aching warmth. He strained into her, his arms braced against the wall for purchase, and groaned out his release, unable even to take a breath until his force was completely spent. She gasped out his name with every spasm of his body, every lurch of his penis against the tip of her womb, every jet of semen as he ejaculated deep within her. Afterward, they remained in a clinch, panting, foreheads touching, their bodies still trembling. Michael traced Nikita's eyebrow with his thumb, and she caressed his stubbled cheek with her palm. When he disengaged, she whimpered at the loss of contact, then forced herself back into some semblance of control. For they could no longer delay the inevitable. Walter was due to arrive in less than half an hour, and Nikita still had to pack.

She rushed around the apartment, hastily filling her travel bag with clothes, makeup, her favorite pairs of sunglasses, and as many CDs as she could fit it. Michael took a quick shower, shaved, and changed into a black suit. In twenty minutes they were ready. Nikita poured wine into two glasses, handed one to Michael, and raised her own in a toast.

"To life," she said.

"A la vie," he echoed, clinking his glass against hers.

The doorbell rang a minute later. When Nikita opened the door, she was surprised to see not only Walter, but Birkoff.

"I hope he won't mind," Walter whispered to her, "but Birkoff here threatened to cancel me himself if I didn't let him come along."

Nikita looked at Birkoff. He had tears in his eyes.

"I know what's going on," he said. "You don't have to let me come to the funeral, but I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye. You and Michael are all the family I have in Section, besides Walter."

Nikita grabbed him and hugged him tightly.

"Birkoff, I'm so sorry."

She turned to Michael, a silent plea in her eyes. He approached Birkoff and reached out to put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Thank you for your concern," he said softly. "I would be grateful for your presence this afternoon."

Birkoff's eyes widened, then he replied, "You can trust me, Michael."

A pregnant pause followed his remark, as both he and Michael remembered the last time he had told Michael he could trust him. At that time, Michael had threatened to kill him if he betrayed him, and Birkoff had answered, "That's why you can trust me." This time, Michael only smiled slightly and said, "I know."

Relieved, Walter and Birkoff led the way to the car downstairs Walter insisted on driving, and he directed Nikita and Michael into the back seat. They left Paris and headed toward the little village of Bienville, where the priest awaited them. Nikita took Michael's hand, which she noticed was cold and trembling slightly. She chafed it between her own hands, and lifting it to her lips, blew warm breath into his palm. He did not look at her but squeezed her hand gratefully. She moved closer, putting one arm behind him to hold him more tightly against her. He relaxed slightly as he felt her subtle embrace.

Walter glanced back through the rear view mirror at the two of them, and tears momentarily blurred his vision. Michael looked so fragile -- despite his habitually blank expression. It was obvious that he was holding himself together only by desperate effort and with Nikita's support. Walter wasn't too sure if he believed in God, but he did know he believed in Nikita. (Thank you, Sugar.)

Birkoff sat silently beside Walter, staring out at the countryside. He didn't want to look behind him. There was a palpable sadness emanating from the couple in the back seat. He had had so little experience with such intense feelings - especially from Michael - and they made him very uncomfortable.

Other than Nikita asking once, "How much farther, Walter?" no one spoke for the entire trip. Finally, they arrived in Bienville, and Birkoff could see a tiny stone church, gothic in style, at one end of the square. Behind it was the graveyard which overlooked a field of wildflowers and pine-forested hills in the distance. Walter stopped the car at the front entrance to the church. Michael took several deep breaths, eyes closed, then gently detached himself from Nikita's embrace. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out sunglasses and put them on. (He's still trying to hide,) thought Nikita, but she refrained from comment. As he opened the door and stood up, she started to Follow, but he pushed her back into the car.

"Please stay here with Walter and Birkoff," he said. "This is something I have to do alone."

Her every instinct was to go with him, but she nodded and settled back to wait with the others.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Father Philippe had seen the black sedan arrive, but he had waited in the nave of the church, watching the man get out of the car. He had wondered about this man ever since the one named Walter had come to see him the day before, bringing with him the bodies of the woman and child. He had been curious as well as uneasy about the speed and secrecy with which the funeral arrangements were being made. All of his questions had been skillfully deflected. He had had to insist on this meeting, and even then had he had been given no assurance that it would take place. He did not even know this man's name -- only that the deceased were his wife and son. The man came toward the church, his face a cipher, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. But there was something --

The man entered the church, allowing the door to swing gently shut behind him. He dipped his hand in the holy water font and made the sign of the cross. He came toward the priest, his footsteps ringing on the stone floor. There was a terrible beauty in his stride - a relentless power. Father Philippe stood transfixed. A frisson of fear swept over him.

(This is surely the Angel of Death! Dear Lord, have mercy upon me!)

As if in answer to his silent prayer, the man halted a little distance from the priest. For a moment he just stood there, the sunglasses reflecting the light from the rows of votive candles. Then he slowly lifted his hand and removed the glasses. Face to face they stood, eyes locked in absolute silence for perhaps a minute. In that gaze Father Philippe saw a vision of the hell in which this man lived, and his heart went out to him. No longer afraid, he closed the distance between them. As he approached, the man sank slowly to his knees, bowed his head, and whispered, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

Weak with relief, the priest placed his hand on the man's shoulder and said, "Get up, my son. Come with me. Know that whatever you confess will go with me to my grave."

Rising, the man replied, "I only hope that what I confess won't be the cause for your going untimely to your grave, Father."

"If so, then that is God's will."

"Vous etes un homme de grand courage, mon pere."

"Ce n'est pas le mien. Pas du tout. C'est le courage du bon Dieu. -- It isn't my courage, not at all. It is the courage of God."

They exited the church through a side door and entered a walled garden. At the far end of the garden, blue French doors opened directly into Father Philippe's office. He walked over to his favorite easy chair -- one of a pair facing the fireplace, and gestured toward the other.

"Please, sit down and made yourself comfortable, my son."

His visitor had stopped in the open doorway, his eyes methodically sweeping the room -- missing no detail. Father Philippe doubted he was even aware of doing so. This was evidently a habit of such long standing that it had become second nature. Having satisfied himself that they were indeed "a deux", or private, he walked slowly over and sat down, staring into the flames. He removed the black leather gloves he was wearing, but kept them in his hands, rubbing them distractedly with his thumb. At first, the priest had been determined not to initiate the conversation, but as the silence dragged on, he realized this man was a master of reticence. So, he reached for the decanter of cognac he kept on the small table beside his chair. He poured it into two small snifters and held one out to his guest in invitation.

The man accepted the snifter, swirled the cognac gently to release the aroma, then drank it in one swallow.

"Merci, mon pere," was his only comment.

"Pas de quoi, mon fils - it is nothing, my son," he responded.

The priest observed his guest's demeanor carefully, waiting. He had offered this particular cognac to many, and in his experience it had no equal when it came to loosening tongues. He wondered if this time would be the exception. But, only a few moments passed before the man sat back, shut his eyes, and sighed deeply as he felt the warmth of the potent liqueur spread through his system.

Father Philippe waited a few minutes more, then ventured his first question. Not "What is your name?" but "Will you tell me your name?" The phrasing itself reflected his instinctive caution in dealing with his visitor

"You can call me Michael," the man replied.

"Ah, Michel," said Father Philippe, automatically translating the name into his native language. To his consternation, this elicited an angry response.

"Non!" he hissed, shaking his head in abrupt denial. "Michel est mort. Il y a longtemps que je l'ai tue -- Michel is dead. I killed him a long time ago."

And he told the story of his life -- omitting nothing.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Until now, Father Philippe thought he had heard the worst that human beings could do to one another. (How naive I have been!) This man's life had been one long pattern of violence of every kind -- physical, mental, emotional -- not only against others but against himself. He had been as much a victim as anyone. He had prostituted himself in the name of the "greater good."

(I have never seen a more vivid reminder that the end cannot justify the means!)

And yet, this man was living proof of God's ability to salvage good from evil. He told of the recruit named Nikita -- how he had been ordered to break this young woman, to shape her into yet another whore for this entity called "Section." He told also of how her light had prevailed against the darkness in which his soul resided. She had reached out to him with love, and he had grasped hold of that lifeline with all the ferocity in him. And so had begun his resurrection. But he paid and continued to pay a terrible price. The wife and son now lying dead had originally been pawns he played in the chess game of his life in Section. A "blood cover," he had called his family.

(Blood cover! What a perfectly appropriate phrase for such an abomination!) exclaimed the priest to himself.

For a time, before Nikita, he had been able to maintain the charade. To all appearances he was a loving husband and father. But he remained emotionally untouched. Love, however, cannot be contained. It feeds upon itself and escapes the bounds we try to set for it. Ironically, it was his love for Nikita which had enabled him to love his son, and, in some sense, his wife. But once the emotional firewall he had erected was breached, he had no defense against the agony of their loss. And that loss had always been inevitable, given the circumstances of his assignment. Nikita had walked with him through the firestorm. Her love had kept him alive. She had become his "raison d'etre" - his reason for being.

(This woman has been God's instrument,) thought Father Philippe. (This man's love for her is part and parcel of his love for God, whether he realizes it or not. I must honor that truth. And I must reveal to him a new path for his life so that he may live in honor.)

"My son, you have told me that Michel is dead. I do not believe that. I believe he is alive in you -- whatever you may choose to call yourself. I say to you, the Archangel is God's warrior, and his name is revered in any language."

At these words, Michael shook his head.

"I have been a warrior, Father, but certainly not for God. It is sacrilegious to even entertain such a thought!"

"I do not think so. Today you begin a new life. The skills you have practiced for so long in the name of Section may be of great use in the name of God.

Michael looked at Father Philippe with contempt. He rejoined, "And just how do you propose I use these skills, mon pere? Shall I prostitute myself for God as I have done for Section? Shall I torture and kill for God as I have done for Section? Sacrifice the good of the one for the 'greater good' of the many?"

The priest looked back at him steadily, unperturbed by the challenge.

"I think you already know the answer to that question, my son. To God the good of the one IS the good of the many. Holy Scripture reminds us of this again and again. Did not the widow search until she found the one lost coin? Did not the wealthy man trade all of his many riches for the one pearl of great price? Did not the shepherd leave the flock to go in search of the lost lamb? All these parables proclaim the same truth -- that each of us is God's 'favorite' son or daughter."

Grabbing Michael's arm in a viselike grip, he leaned forward, gazing intently into his eyes from inches away.

"Why do you think you cannot live without Nikita? Because, even in her fallibility, she allows God to work through her. She tries her best to act with justice AND compassion, even against seemingly impossible odds. She has not always been able to save the many, but you must admit she has saved the one - YOU."

"Has she, Father?"

In reply the priest asked him, "Tell me, my son, what are you feeling right now?"

Michael sat silent for some time, as if listening for a voice only he could hear. Finally, his eyes filled with unshed tears and a look of anguish spread over his features.

"Grief. Fear. Anger. Remorse."

The priest smiled, deeply satisfied. He lay both hands on Michael's head and said, "Michel, ego te absolvo in nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen"

The centuries-old ritual words of absolution echoed through the room. On hearing his name and the words of forgiveness, Michael gave one choked sob, which he tried to stifle with his hands. But Father Philippe cupped the back of his head and drew him closer. At first he resisted the more intimate gesture, but then he surrendered completely and, burying his face in the priest's cassock, cried like a child.

"Tres bon, Michel, tout va bien. Pleurez. Pleurez pour tous les temps que tu ne pouvais pas pleurer. Pleurez pour tous ceux qui tu ne pouvais pas sauver. Pleurez pour toi-meme aussi. Tes larmes sont le cadeau de Dieu.-- Very good, Michel, all goes well. Cry. Cry for all the times you could not cry. Cry for all those whom you could not save. Cry for yourself also. Your tears are God's gift."

Finally, Michael's tears subsided, and he pushed himself away from Father Philippe. The priest smiled down at him.

"Ca va mieux maintenant - better now?"

Michael nodded wearily and sat back, closing his eyes. "Ca va mieux," he whispered. And promptly fell asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Father Philippe poured himself another drink and sat down to wait. He too felt drained. As he sipped the cognac, he thanked God for his priesthood - for the sublime gift of forgiveness he was entrusted to impart. Now that the urgency of the moment had passed, he remembered the unhappy task he still had to perform. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Four-thirty! (Mon Dieu!) Well, the dead were in no hurry. He had done the right thing in ministering to the living first. Still, he knew that Michael had not come alone. He wondered where the others were. He rose quietly and left the room, glancing back to make certain Michael was still asleep.

As he walked into the church, he saw three people sitting in the last pew. They stood up as he approached. He recognized the one called Walter. Beside him was a young man - a boy, almost, who looked at Father Philippe with unconcealed curiosity -- almost as if he were a bug under a microscope. The priest couldn't help but feel sorry for the young man. He was reminded of a veal calf, raised in a dark crate, never allowed the freedom to grow to maturity -- slaughtered for its tender, pale flesh. (Another abomination,) he thought sadly. (Oh Man, what hast THOU wrought!)

Finally, he turned his attention to the woman. She was taller than either of the men. White-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, milky skin --(Mon Dieu, Elle est si belle!) He felt his loins tighten at the sight of her. He blushed furiously, relieved that he was wearing the skirted cassock rather than pants. He could tell that she knew what he was thinking, for she smiled and winked. Her easy acceptance of his natural human reaction somehow made it all right, and he grinned wryly back at her.

She spoke first. "Good evening, Father."

Gesturing toward the two men with her, she said, "You've already met Walter. This is Seymour Birkoff."

He acknowledged them, then turned to her.

"And you are Nikita."

She looked at him speculatively.

"Yes."

The one called Birkoff nudged Walter, who asked, "When will the service begin, Father? We have to be back in Paris by tomorrow morning."

"I understand, Messieurs. I apologize for the delay. Thank you for coming. I know your presence here is very important to Michel - to Michael," he corrected himself.

Their eyes widened at his easy use of Michael's given name. His reputation in Section did not encourage familiarity.

Nikita asked calmly, "Where is Michael now?"

"In my office."

He turned again to the two others.

"Gentlemen, I would appreciate your patience for a bit longer. I believe Mass will begin shortly, but I cannot be certain of the exact time. If you would care to walk about the village for a while, I will send one of the altar servers for you when we are ready to begin."

"That's okay with us, Father," replied Walter. "We'll be in the cafe I saw on the other side of the square when we arrived."

"Thank you, Messieurs."

"And Mademoiselle, would you please come with me?" He directed her into the garden.

"If you could spare me a few moments, Mademoiselle?"

"Please call me Nikita, Father,"she replied.

"Merci, Nikita."

They sat down on one of the stone benches lining the wall outside his office. Side by side they sat, facing the little fountain and the rose bushes surrounding it. He held out his hand, and she took it.

"You love him very much."

"Yes."

"That is as it should be."

"He's not easy to love, Father. He once told me that I shouldn't get too close to him, because everyone who does ends up dead or hurt."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him I choose my own path, as did all those who have loved him. He replied that his son Adam had made no such choice, and I didn't know how to answer that. He was right, Father. He excels in finding any flaw in logic."

The priest smiled.

"Yes, I imagine he does. But love is not logical. One loves - that is all. It is an "affaire de coeur." The heart knows what the mind does not. And your heart has called to his, has bound him to you despite himself. And now that you have him, may I ask what you intend to do with him? Because I am not at all certain he could survive without you."

I intend to love and keep him as long as we live, Father. I want his children. Children who will live to grow up. Children who will mourn us when we come to this village church for the last time. Until that time, I intend to safeguard his body, his mind and his soul as I do my own. I am strong, Father - strong enough for both of us."

He squeezed her hand and replied, "I believe you are, my child. But he will be strong too. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but sooner than you might expect."

"Father, may I ask . . . ?"

"You may ask him anything you like. I can answer nothing for him. I am bound by my oath as a priest. Now let us go to him."

***********

As they entered Father Philippe's office, Nikita could see Michael's head resting against the high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. She walked over and looked down at him. She had never seen him so deep asleep. She pulled up a footstool and sat down on it. As she watched, his mouth quirked up in a tiny smile, then pursed into a suckling motion. She stroked her fingers over his lips, and he latched on, suckling more strongly. As she pulled away he frowned and murmured "Maman." Tears sprang into her eyes. She reached out and lifted his hand to her cheek. His fingers fluttered against her skin, and the smile reemerged. "Nikita," he sighed. She looked up at Father Philippe.

"I've never seen him this much at peace, Father. I hate to wake him. He's so tired."

"I know, my child, but it will do him no good to delay the inevitable any longer. His wife and child, and the life he has led for so many years, are all dead. Their burial is long overdue. Wake him now."

She shook him gently, calling him by name, but his eyes remained closed. He seemed determined to remain oblivious. The only reaction she got from him was a grunt of annoyance as he batted away her hand. In the end, she had to resort to more forceful tactics, pinching him hard enough to leave bruises, she was sure. He awoke, moaning softly at the discomfort she had inflicted. He looked at her, then at Father Philippe, as awareness dawned.

"Quelle heure est-il?" he asked in a sleep-roughened voice. "What time is it?" he repeated in English for Nikita's benefit.

"A peu pres de cinq heures - nearly 5:00," responded Father Philippe.

On learning how late it was, he stood up abruptly. Dehydration from his violent illness the night before, cognac, and exhaustion warred with the surge of adrenaline now coursing through his body. His eyes rolled back in his head, and it took the combined efforts of Nikita and Father Philippe to prevent him from toppling flat onto the floor. They sat him back down in the chair. Nikita pushed his head down between his knees.

"Take deep breaths, Michael," she urged. "In and out, in and out. Slow-ly. That's right," she continued. She supported his forehead with one hand while massaging the back of his neck with the other.

"Father, would you please get him a glass of water?"

"Main, bien sur, - of course" he replied, and hurried to open the bottle of mineral water standing on the sideboard. He poured a glassful and handed it to her.

"Here," she encouraged Michael. "Drink." He lifted his head and took several deep swallows.

"More," she commanded. He obeyed.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Ready to try again?"

He nodded. With the two others supporting him, he stood up again. This time he stayed upright. He tested his reserves and found them inadequate, but they would have to suffice.

"Michael, you really need to eat something," Nikita urged.

"Not now. Maybe later."

She knew when to give up.

"All right. Later."

He turned to the priest.

"Father, we need to finish what we came here for. We'll meet you in the church."

He placed his hand on Nikita's back, as much to steady himself as to escort her, and together they made their way back to the church. Father Philippe headed directly to the vestry to prepare for Mass. As one altar server helped him with his vestments, he sent the other to find Walter and Birkoff at the cafe.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The funeral mass was over. Father Philippe had never had such an unusual congregation. He had gone out on a theological limb in allowing all present to partake of the consecrated bread and wine, although only Michael was Catholic. (The letter of the law must bow before the spirit,) he reminded himself. The risk these people had taken in attending this mass was sufficient proof for him to allow them to share fully in this communion. They were invited guests at the Lord's banquet, and he was not about to turn them away hungry. He had taken a few moments to explain the service to them before he began, and he was pleased by their close attention to his instructions. They had seemed eager to observe all the proprieties out of respect for Michael. Throughout the ritual, Michael had knelt statue-still, his gaze fixed on the closed coffins. As was customary at the consecration, the altar server had rung the bells to announce the act of transubstantiation - the changing of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. Michael had flinched at the sound and looked toward the altar for the first time since the mass had begun. His eyes had been wide, yet unfocused. Father Philippe had doubted he was fully aware of his surroundings. He had swayed a bit, and Nikita and Walter had steadied him from each side, gently forcing him to sit back in the pew. His eyes had closed briefly, then refocused on the coffins, remaining there until the priest came down from the altar to offer them communion. "Michel, le Corps du Christ - the Body of Christ," he had intoned, placing the host in Michael's hand. Michael had hesitated, staring down at the wafer as though he had never seen one before. "Prenez et mangez, mon fils," Father Philippe had urged, and Michael had obediently consumed the host. He had gagged on it, however, and the priest had hurriedly offered him a sip of the wine as well. "Le Sang du Christ - the Blood of Christ." As he took the cup, his hand had brushed against Father Philippe's, and the priest had been deeply concerned by that ice-cold touch. "Courage, mon ami," he had whispered, briefly covering Michael's hand with his own. He had moved on, then, offering the consecrated meal to Nikita, to Walter, and to Birkoff. Father Philippe had been gratified by the solemnity with which they had received and consumed the offering. To his astonishment, he had even thought he saw tears glistening in Walter's eyes. Now there was a man he would like to know better.

* * * * * *

They stood around the open graves. It was dusk, and an icy wind blew across the meadow. Father Philippe's vestments whipped around his ankles. The others huddled together, watching as the caskets were borne slowly toward them by the men of the parish who served as volunteer pallbearers when the need arose.

Although the sun had set, Michael was wearing dark glasses again. (Pauvre homme, let him hide behind them if it helps,) thought the priest. He wondered whether Michael was trying to hide from his own grief or hide his grief from the rest of them, but either way, it wouldn't work for long. His grief was too powerful, even for a man whose very survival had depended for years on his ability to deny all emotion. Father Philippe had already seen the evidence of that in his study.

Once the caskets were lowered into the ground, he stood for a moment, praying for the wisdom to know what to say to this man who must bear the unbearable. Then he spoke for them all.

"Almighty God, into Your hands we commend the soul of Elena -- most loving wife and mother. May she find everlasting peace and eternal joy in Your presence and that of Your own mother Mary. Father, You Who sacrificed your only Son for the salvation of mankind, only You can fully understand how Michel feels as he must now give his only son into Your loving care. Keep Adam close to You. Through You may he always feel Michel's love for him. Finally, we pray that You might comfort Michel in his desolation. We here with him today can only offer a poor imitation of Your boundless love, but what little we do have we share willingly. Have mercy on us all. Amen."

He bent over and picked up a handful of dirt from the fresh mound surrounding the graves. Sprinkling it over the caskets, he intoned the formal words of burial, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He signaled the others to do the same, but no one moved. They were waiting for Michael. He remained frozen in place.

"Michael," said Nikita softly.

Nothing.

She reached up and took off the glasses. He stared back at her, but she didn't think he really saw her. His fist was tightly clenched. She crouched and picked up another handful of soil. Taking his hand in hers, she turned it palm up and gently pried open his fingers, intertwining her own in them. He looked down as she dribbled the dirt into his cupped hand, then covered it once more with hers. Together they sprinkled the small clods over the coffins. At the sound of the earth striking the caskets, Michael gave a strangled sob and sank to his knees. As he had before, he tried to muffle the sound with his hands, but this time Nikita refused to allow it. She pulled his hands away from his mouth and kissed them, pleading, "Let it out, Michael." And he did. Nikita put her arms around him and pressed his face into her coat, offering him a bit of privacy. Walter and Birkoff looked away, unnerved by the sight of such naked emotion in a man who had shown them only iron will and absolute self-control in Section.

Nikita rescued them from the awkward silence that followed.

"Walter, why don't you and Birkoff bring the car around to the back of the church. We'll be there in a few minutes."

Walter shook his head. "Birkoff, you go get the car. I'll wait here with them." After Birkoff had left, Walter said to Nikita, "Let me help you, Sugar."

Then he stepped up behind Michael and gripped his shoulders tightly. He said hoarsely, "Come here kid. I may be old, but I'm still strong enough to hold on to you. Give it up now."

At Walter's touch, Michael had stiffened, but as the older man joined with Nikita to shelter him in their warm embrace, his grief overwhelmed him. His sobs shook them all in violent spasms, which finally began to subside as his last reserve of strength was exhausted. Nikita and Walter looked at one another silently. Both could sense that Michael now knelt completely limp between them. If either of them backed away he would collapse onto the ground.

Nikita turned to Father Philippe, tears coursing down her face,

"Father, can you help us? If you two can lift him up, I'll carry him to the car."