Hollow Years

Author's note:

Please see part 1 for blurb and content warnings. And, if you haven't read Part 1 yet, I strongly suggest you do so before proceeding.

All sensuality (on page or otherwise) takes place between characters who are eighteen or older.

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Sixteen

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

It took three tries for Paul's blindly fumbling hand to locate his watch and silence its infernal warbling. He groaned at the weariness that accompanied his awakening, but that sentiment vanished moments later as he recalled the most wonderful reason for his sleep deprivation. Memories of his evening of shared bliss with Mikaela led him to reach for her, but he only found a cold expanse of the lumpy hotel bed where she had fallen asleep curled up against him.

"Mikaela?" he called softly, although he knew in his heart that she was gone.

He bolted upright and jerked the chain to activate the dingy lamp on the bedside table so hard he nearly sent the well-used source of illumination tumbling to the floor. His eyes scanned around the room, taking in the decided lack of his erstwhile companion's belongings. He rose from the bed and crossed the room to confirm that she was, in fact, not in the bathroom.

"God dammit," he sighed as he moved to collect his cane and asked, "How long since she left?"

"A few hours ago," Daphne reported morosely.

"Was she just pretending to fall asleep then?"

"No. Her sleep was genuine."

"Well, I guess that's..." he began, somewhat reassured. His comfort was short-lived, however, as another far less pleasant thought occurred to him. "Wait, when did she leave? Exactly."

"Shortly after two in the morning."

"Meaning she climbed into a cab driven by a scumbag recidivist who did God knows what to her. Listen, Daphne. I don't care what rules you're bound by. I need you to tell me if she's ok."

"Paul..." she began.

"I don't want to hear anything from you except the answer to my question.Please, Daphne. I must know."

He could almost hear Daphne's internal struggle until he heard a sigh in his mind, followed by her whispering, "No harm befell her during her journey to her apartment. She is currently waiting for the bus."

"Thank you," he sighed. "Thank you very much. You don't know how much that means to me."

"I understand perfectly. That's why I bent the rules in this instance. Just don't expect it to become a regular thing."

"Understood," he concurred sincerely. He then leapt to his feet and declared, "There's not a moment to spare."

He laid Daphne reverently on the bed and hurried into the bathroom to make himself ready to depart. In less than ten minutes, he was pulling on his outerwear as he made a note to remember to seek out a laundromat when he was done at the shelter as he was currently wearing the last of his three changes of, as near as makes no difference, identical clothing.

Outside, he was greeted by the omnipresent (to say nothing of oppressive) grey dreck which he was beginning to doubt would ever relinquish its death grip on the Midwest. He could not spot evidence of recent snowfall, so there was nothing to shield his gaze from a landscape which looked indistinguishable from what he imagined no man's land in World War One had looked like (save for the obvious absence of an endless ocean of dead bodies). He made his way carefully over to his coupe and climbed into its frigid interior to begin the too-long process of heating up the engine before he could commence his journey to the shelter.

"Careful," Daphne grumbled moments later as he goosed the throttle a bit too much taking a turn and entered an impressive, if unintentional, four-wheel drift from which he only recovered when he ran over a bit of slush covered grass.

The rebuke came as a complete shock to Paul. Not because of her tone, and certainly not due to her critique of his driving abilities. What nearly caused him to again lose control of the vehicle was the simple fact that he had been in such a hurry that he had not taken the time to slot Daphne between his left thigh and the door, so they were not in physical contact.

"How did I just hear you?"

"I told you that your ability to hear me would increase the longer we were together."

"But I thought you said I'd have to work on it."

"Had you done as I suggested, you would have reached this juncture weeks ago. The only thing you've done correctly was to keep in contact with me so frequently."

"So, what's my range?"

"Impossible to predict, but until you devote some genuine effort to practicing, you should assume nothing."

"Fair enough," he conceded as he pulled into the parking lot for the women's shelter.

He peered inside and was heartened to see movement at Mikaela's normal desk, so he hastened to collect his effects and hurry for the door. As he entered the office, she glanced up at him for a brief moment before wordlessly returning her eyes to her work.

"Good morning?" he offered lamely.

"Morning," was her clipped reply.

"Is everything ok?"

"We had two new check-ins yesterday afternoon. One is single; in her late thirties and just trying to get back on her feet. The other is in really bad shape. She just got out of the hospital after herhusbandgave her a hell of a working over. She's got two kids with her: four and two. This is her third time coming here after her miserable prick of a spouse got hammered and decided to use her for sparring practice. Part of me is grateful she was willing to come to us. Again. But the other part can't help but feel like it's all for naught. You know? I just wish I knew the words to say to convince her that he's going to kill her if she doesn't leave him."

By the time she had finished speaking, Paul was almost overcome by the impulse to race into the shelter's dormitory to offer his unique brand of assistance. But that urge was extinguished almost before it began as he noticed the concern marring Mikaela's beautiful face.

She regarded him with suspicion and snapped, "What's your problem, Paul?"

He shook his head, as though to ward off an annoying insect, as he tried to balance his desire to intervene on behalf of the unknown woman against the very real anxiety he saw in his companion's features. For want of a better strategy, he went with the truth (or, at least, a portion of it). "It's just so hard to wrap your mind around the awful things people do, and the unconscious sense of helplessness which leads others to forgive them their horrendous acts."

"Indeed," Mikaela grunted before returning her attention to her paperwork.

Paul stared at her for a long moment, trying to keep his frustration at her brusque treatment of him (to say nothing of her apparent refusal to contend with the evening they had shared) at bay.

"Was there something else?" she asked without looking up.

"Is everything ok?"

"I just told you that we took in a woman last night..."

"I meant with you, honey," he interrupted.

She glared at him and snapped, "I'd thank you not to call me that when we're in a professional setting."

"I'm sorry, Mikaela. It's just..."

"If you'll be unable to prepare breakfast this morning, then I'll need to check with the other volunteers to see who can so that our guests don't go hungry."

"That won't be necessary," he replied, not quite managing to keep his irritation from his voice. "I'll get started right away."

Mikaela said nothing as she returned her attention to her work, leaving Paul with no alternative but to head for the kitchen.

As he attended to his labors, he was thankful for Mikaela's warning. It allowed him to steel his features when he encountered the woman who had been brutally beaten. Even forewarned, he found it almost impossible to avoid reacting to the sight of her bandaged and bruised face. He was somewhat saved from either trying to avert his eyes lest he embarrass her (or racing off into the early morning gloom to arrange for tragedy to befall her husband) when she nearly dropped the laden tray due to the cast she wore on her right arm.

Paul reached out to steady the tray and said, "Why don't I carry this to your table for you?"

"Oh," she exclaimed through bruised lips, as though she had only at that moment noticed his presence. "That won't be necessary. I can manage."

"I'm sure you can, ma'am. But it would be my pleasure to lend a hand."

She demurred at once, something which Paul found himself inwardly responding to with both gratitude and indignation: the former because she accepted his help, the latter because it laid bare just how thoroughly her spirit had been broken. After depositing the tray on the table, he took the extra step to distribute the plates while trying to hide the anguish he felt upon observing the tragic lack of child-like qualities her young children exhibited.

"Thank you for your help," she mumbled in what he suspected was a desperate hope that he would go away.

As he reached to collect the tray, however, his hand brushed against hers and he was assaulted with scenes from her memories far more devastating than even Mikaela's grim recital of her tragic past. He almost certainly would have fallen to his knees without Daphne's aid. Withdrawing his hand as though shocked, he stared at her with a mixture of horror and fear. It was fortunate that she had already dismissed him and was making it obvious that she wanted nothing more than for him to disappear. Otherwise, he had no doubt she would find his judgmental expression quite offensive.

"What the fuck?" he gasped after stumbling into the kitchen and leaning against the wall as he gulped in breaths of air.

Daphne said, "You have seen this level of depravity before Paul."

"But shehatesthose kids. She thinkstheyare the reason all this happened to her."

"Hardly surprising considering her husband's behavior."

"But she beats them as often as he beats her. Why in the fuck would I help her?"

"Are her children truly better off living the life that has been imposed upon them? What chance do they have of becoming anything other than either another sad statistic, or carrying on the cycle of abuse into the next generation? Even if all you can do is convince her to avoid having children, you'll have done the world a service."

"Maybe," Paul conceded. "But I'm going to need a minute before I talk to her, or I'll be as likely as not to do something which would convince Mikaela to permanently ban me. Assuming, that is, that she hasn't already decided to do so for whatever the hell it was I did to upset her."

Daphne remained silent, although he was unsure if that was because she agreed with him or because she had pertinent information she was unwilling to share. As Paul stood with his back to the kitchen's wall, he heard an unfamiliar voice (which he could only assume was the other woman who had arrived the day before) sharing her story of woe with a tablemate. He only had to listen for a few moments to determine that the woman held little interest for him. Her loud complaints centered around the fact that the man for whom she had left her husband of more than a decade had subsequently turned her in on a newer model mere weeks after her divorce was finalized.

Paul was in the midst of grinding his teeth in frustration over the woman's proclaimed victimhood when he heard a crash which sounded as if it came from the shelter's entrance. Without even pausing to remove his apron, he raced toward the entrance; each step bringing new and more awful imaginings of the horrors Mikaela could be confronting alone.

He burst into the office to find Mikaela desperately trying to blockade the door with her body, but before he could take another step she was flung beneath her desk as a great force shattered the deadbolt and hurled the door open.

"The Good Samaritan" the interloper snarled upon spotting Paul.

"Take it easy, Gerry," Paul replied upon recognizing Cynthia's abuser, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

"You framed me for murder, you piece of shit! I'm going to fucking kill you."

"I did no such thing. And besides, how did you get out of prison?"

"The cops fucked up the evidence," he replied with a wicked gleam in his eye. "They had to dismiss all charges."

"So, your first thought after having been the beneficiary of extreme good fortune, rather than spending the next twenty years in prison, is to commit another murder?"

"Who says they're gonna catch me?"

"I don't know... how about dozens of witnesses?"

Gerry looked over to where Mikaela crouched on the floor next to her desk, and he did not fail to notice that she held the phone's receiver to her ear. "It's early. And the cops are in the middle of shift change. It'll take them forever to get here. Way too long for either of yous."

Paul's attempt to frame a reply which would forestall a tragedy was cut off when Gerry whipped out a knife and charged him. His recently honed instincts to avoid striking out with Daphne kicked in, but the result was that he failed to effectively block the slash aimed at his chest. The knife bit deep into his forearm, earning a grunt of pain from Paul and a whoop of delight from Gerry.

Recognizing that he was now fighting with (as near as makes no difference) no arms, Paul dropped Daphne and tried to shove Gerry back. The move was only partially successful, and he collected another (albeit far less severe) wound for his troubles. Paul retreated as he considered his admittedly terrible options. Left with little alternative, he waited until Gerry lunged again. He blocked the knife slash without injury, but Gerry managed to knock him to the ground.

As Gerry stood over him with a triumphant sneer, Paul spotted movement behind his attacker. Upon recognizing Mikaela, he felt a jolt of fear when he realized she was approaching. This was replaced by something more akin to terror, however, when he watched her pick up Daphne and rear back to strike.

"Wait!" Paul yelped.

"It's too late," Gerry crowed as he raised the knife.

Paul shouted, "Mikaela! No!" but she was undeterred. She struck with all her might; and the moment Daphne struck Gerry's back, their world exploded.

Seventeen

"What the fuck just happened?" Mikaela growled from the passenger seat.

Paul tabled forming a response; focusing instead on keeping control over his coupe as they raced from the snow-covered parking lot of the women's shelter. He managed to find a freshly plowed strip of tarmac heading south and accelerated to nearly twice the posted speed limit.

"Paul," Mikaela warned when his silence entered its second minute.

"Just hang on a minute, dammit," he deflected.

"No, I will not wait a minute. Are you out of your God damn mind? What the fuck happened to that guy?"

"I... um..." he stammered as he tried, with very limited success, to split his attention between escaping without killing them and giving him companion the answers she deserved. His mission failed almost immediately, and it was only through desperate effort that he kept them from rear-ending a slow-moving bus.

"It should go without saying that you arenotto tell her about me," Daphne snarled in his head. "You're lucky you were not Judged instantaneously for losing control of a divine instrument."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell her then?" Paul snapped in his mind.

"You're the one who allowed this blasphemy to occur, you can figure out a way to fix it. I certainly have zero intention of giving you any assistance."

"How was she even able to wield you without being struck down by the Almighty? I thought that wasalsoagainst the rules."

Daphne did not deign to grant Paul's inquiry a reply. Before he could press the issue, his awareness was snapped back to the physical realm.

"Answer me!" Mikaela snarled after slapping his arm to reclaim his attention.

"What was the question?" Paul replied lamely.

"Let me out!" she snapped.

"Here?" he asked as he looked around the decidedly run-down area they were traversing.

"You bet your ass. You can let me out at that phone booth up there so I can call the cops."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Then I'm your prisoner?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous!" she shouted. "RIDICULOUS! Are you fucking kidding me! That guy looked like he got hit by a train, Paul. All I wanted to do was get him the hell out of the shelter, maybe keep him from stabbing you. Again. I certainly didn't intend to fuckingkillhim."

"I'm sorry," Paul sighed after casting about for an awkward number of seconds for a better response.

"You'resorry!You! AreSORRY! Why in the name of all that's sacred and holy areyousorry!"

"Because this is all my fault."

"How..." she began, but he held up a hand to interrupt her.

"He was there looking for me, Mikaela."

"What are you talking about?"

"A little over a month ago, I was staying at a hotel in a different part of the city. One night, I heard him arguing with his girlfriend in the office, so I went to check it out. Turned out, he was beating the shit out of her whenever the mood struck him. So, I helped her escape."

"He said you framed him for murder."

"Not well enough, it would seem," Paul muttered.

"What! What did you say!"

"Mikaela," he protested.

"No! You will pull the fuck over and explain this to me."

"Very well," he sighed.

It took several minutes to find a suitable place to stop, but he soon spotted an office building with a mostly empty parking lot. He pulled in and navigated around behind the building before parking. He left the engine running in deference to the cold, hoping that whatever black magic Daphne had suggested would make the coupe escape notice would also include the telltale emissions from the tailpipe.

After engaging the handbrake, he turned to Mikaela and said simply, "You smote him."

"Paul," Daphne warned at once with Mikaela huffing, "I, what!"

He reached back into the coupe's backseat, such that it was, and extracted Daphne. He twisted the cane betwixt his fingers a few times before saying, "As you may have guessed, this is no mere walking stick."

"Meaning, what? Exactly."

"It... she... is a divine instrument."

"That's no answer."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to prove your bona fides?" Paul thought at Daphne, but she again refused to respond. He lifted his gaze to meet Mikaela's gorgeous hazel eyes. "I swear I have never lied to you. And I never will. But," he added when she seemed poised to interject, "that doesn't mean I've told you the whole truth."

"Well?"

"I'm from the future."

"Oh, fuck you!"

"What?"

"I warned you," Daphne growled in his head.

"My wife did die. About two months ago by my reckoning. But that happened in 1994. Following my wife's death I was visited by an angel. An angel who gave me this," he indicated Daphne. "He told me, rather perplexingly, that I had in fact died, two of your months ago. In Seattle."

"I'm not sure anyone in the whole of human history has ever made less sense than you are making right now."

"But you saw what Daphne did, Mikaela. You can't possibly doubt thatsomethingsupernatural is happening. Right?"

"I don't know what to believe right now, Paul. At this point, I'm not even entirely certain what happened at the shelter."

"I suspect that is partially Daphne's doing. She said I was the beneficiary of a sort of supernatural shroud which makes me hard to notice and easy to forget. But trust me. It gives me no pleasure to say this, since it's entirely my fault, but you most certainly smote that piece of shit. I hope it gives you some measure of solace to know that he truly deserved it."