“I can’t. No, I can’t, I’m sorry—” Michael, shivering, drew away at Lucifer’s touch, as if it were burning him. “I don’t want to. I’m sorry. Father—” Lucifer told him not to say that word again. “I’m sorry—” Those apologies were not for Lucifer. “I’m sorry.” “Let me.” ‘Pray to this body, mold you into holy communion, cry your name like psalm.’ “Let me worship you.” Michael was quiet — the sounds of water, moving — before he said, “Get out, Lucifer.”
