I was afraid of this. Right now when you say the word “miracle,” the first thing that comes up is the Warlock. Good or evil, he’s made himself the center of religious discussion. Each deception elevates him in people’s minds. He’s created something bigger than all the people watching Times Square.

“I doubt people see anything godly in what he did,” I reply.

“Maybe not. I think what he’s really trying to do is challenge God or at least our notion of him. And that might be enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“He wants followers. He’s waiting to make sure he’s proven himself. Then he’s going to give us his real message. Unless he’s already sent you something?”

I’m silent. There’s nothing I can say, but I don’t want anyone thinking that I’m feeding Damian information. I’m under enough scrutiny.

“I think he’ll do it in a public way. He doesn’t want you hiding the message. Unless he wants to give it to you first and then reveal the fact that you were trying to suppress it. That’s the first step to creating a religion—show the people that the authorities are trying to hide the truth. I think you’ve interfered with his plans, however. I suspect he’s going to step up the timetable a bit.”

“That’s obvious.”

“Of course. This is just a friendly reminder. Remember what I said before about him having his sights set on you? I think that’s still true. But now there’s another problem. He may not have to do anything to hinder you. The kind of fervor that sends people to midnight mass is also the kind of thing to inspire the more unstable parts of our society. Proud as I was to see your face in the paper, I think you may have more admirers than you can handle.”

This is a repercussion I do not want to think about. It’s one thing to deal with Damian and the Warlock leaving vague threats in hotel rooms. It’s another to have to worry about every psycho out there waiting for a sign who might see my face in the news and get an idea.

“Don’t worry, Jessica. I’m sure after you catch him, this will die down and then I can go back to being your number one fan.”

That’s unsettling. “You may be the worst of them.”

“You know that’s not true. Anyhow, how’s the next clue going? I have to assume he’s been leaving calling cards.”

We haven’t found one yet. As I went to sleep forensics was still going over the body. But Damian’s voice sounds like it’s a certainty.

“What clue?” I ask.

“Really?” Damian sounds genuinely surprised. “I mean, it seemed obvious to me. Of course I don’t have the whole picture. Just the direction, so to speak.”

He’s being cryptic. “What do you know?”

“Fine. Make me explain everything. First off, the media has it wrong. Typically, of course. She’s not an angel.”

“We know this, Damian,” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, remembering that others may be listening.