Hamish sat in trained stillness to hide his shock. This night was proving almost too much for the normally stoic Scotsman. The effort of controlling all of the pent up emotions screaming for release, the nerves of meeting the lady Isolde, learning her history, and now this. If Hamish made the connections correctly, this man was claiming to be the archangel Michael and that Hamish was some kind of science project.<br/><br/>Hamish was many things but a man of deep faith was not one of them. He did not know if there was a God or a Satan and quite frankly, did not care. He had never really thought much of the subject and doubted he ever would. Nor was he an overly intelligent man in his estimation. Yes, he could work complicated math algorithms to readjust on a target from 1200 yards out in his head but that was a skill he learned. A skill taught to him by…<br/><br/>Hamish could not remember that.<br/><br/>But it was skill much like his shooting which he had learned from…<br/><br/>Hamish could not remember that either.<br/><br/>As the newcomer Michael continued his recollection of the officer he had held, the name sounded right at least, Hamish found he could not recall where he had learned to blend into the shadows. Nor could he recall where he had learned to split his mind so he could listen to the conversation as well as focus on the intel.  He had wispy thoughts as ephemeral as smoke  of a monastery where he was dressed in flimsy garments and learning to use a sword in a thousand different ways but no real recollection of where it was located or who his teachers were.<br/><br/>Voices, faces, places, and bits of data streamed through him by the revelation that Hamish was only just beginning to understand but none of it would fully connect. It was as if the data were incomplete, missing important but minute things like the mixed pages of several novels with no page numbers or chapters to put them together.<br/><br/>Balance.<br/><br/>Perfection.<br/><br/>Hamish was losing both rapidly. The night was putting a massive strain on an already fragile and young spirit. He must regain control or he would be lost in the swirling foggy depths of a tattered mind. Better to eat a bullet than have one of his talents losing his mental facilities.<br/><br/>Hamish seemed to snap back into the present with the realization that Isolde was speaking to him, offering him a choice in his participation. If the situation were as they said, he no longer had a choice. If they had found him so easily, a demon would as well. He had put Josef, Myra, and Chaya in the midst of something far more deadly than even he felt certain he could protect them from.<br/>He looked between his two guests he had only just met who seemed to know more about him than he knew of himself. He was in a house that was not his, sitting a table that was not his, using utensils and glasses that were not his. Even the wine was from the cellar and Hamish had left the choosing to Josef as he knew nothing of the stuff.<br/><br/>His life was a lie!<br/><br/>There was a silence now in the room, growing heavier by his nonresponse. Hamish slowly rose from the table, his own food and drink remained untouched. It would taste like ash anyway. All food did and always had to him.<br/><br/>“You have given me much to think on this night,” he said to them slowly. “I thank you both for your visits and your trust. I do not feel I have much choice in this matter though. Darcy must die. Whether by my hand or yours, it matters little, the contract must be completed.”<br/><br/>Hamish went silent briefly before nodding, as if he had made some internal decision. “Madamoiselle Devereaux,” he spoke in perfect fluent French, another skill he had no recollection of learning but flowed easily over his tongue as if he were a native, “my house is yours. There are plenty of bedrooms on the upper two floors and Myra can show you to one if you wish.”<br/><br/>Hamish eyed the gentleman Michael with trepidation. He knew much, perhaps too much, and part of Hamish felt he should simply end the threat. But confusion and the fight for balance stayed his hand. He had too many other muddy memories to sift through for this to be an issue.<br/><br/>“Monsieur Bonnet, it has been a busy night of unexpected realities for me. I cannot say what I know is truth from everything I have heard. But I do know that if you fight against Darcy, and the fight is as world changing as you both say, then I will do what I can to aid you. I am not certain what aid that may be. I am no angel or demon or witch, I am but a man. But what I can do, you have but to ask. I will put all of my skills, limited as they might be, at your disposal.”<br/><br/>Hamish turned to Myra and nodded. She reached into her deep pockets and produced several gold tapered candles. She placed the bundle in front of Isolde with a small smile, tears behind her normal laughing eyes. She placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder before retreating back into her place by the kitchen door.<br/><br/>“If you have need of me, burn this candle in any window facing the street,” Hamish instructed. “If it is an emergency, burn two in the same window and I will hasten my approach.”<br/><br/>Hamish seemed to be moving as if in a dream. The shadows beckoned him. The night awaited his embrace.<br/><br/>“My apologies friends,” he said with a cold smile, “I must take my leave now. There is work for me to attend to this night.”<br/><br/>Hamish slipped out of the room with no more noise than a whispering breeze and the shadows seemed too darken in rejoice of his return.