“You are the most stubborn, frustrating, self-absorbed man I have ever met,” the thing on the fence said in a voice that, despite the distortions of demon-throat and -mouth, was unmistakably Caz’s. “And remember, I’ve spent centuries in Hell, so I’ve met some pretty irritating men. And did I mention your insanely swollen idea of your own capabilities?”
“I’ll take this,” I told Halyna. “It’s for me. Long-distance.”
interlude:
via snotgoblin
YOU ARE the most stubborn, frustrating, self-absorbed man I have ever met. And remember, I’ve spent centuries in Hell, so I’ve met some pretty irritating men. And did I mention your insanely swollen idea of your own capabilities?
For one thing, you are very, very hard on nizzics. The one you re-programmed, to use your modern word, is ruined. It sits on top of the candle flame all day, shivering and moaning. If you feel the need to reply, and I’m sure you will—because when have you ever kept your mouth shut, even when you needed to?—you can just burn a little white camphor under this one’s nose, and it will be ready for a new message. Please don’t do what you did to the last one. You have no idea how hard it is for me to get hold of these and get them to you.
Now here’s the important part: You CAN’T get me out of here, Bobby. Don’t even think about it. You had every piece of luck imaginable last time, but you still barely made it back to the world. Eligor wanted something out of you, so you survived. That won’t happen twice. I’m serious. Don’t do anything. Let it go. We would never work out, anyway. In real life, you’d leave me, or I’d throw you out before a year had passed. We’re too different, and I’m not just talking about the Heaven and Hell difference.
Take care of yourself, you stubborn, terrible, wonderful man.
• • •
Later, sent back in reply:
• • •
<Are you even paying attention, you squishy little crooked-wing bastard? Then sit up straight, sniff your camphor, and look like you’re listening or you’ll get the box like the last guy did.>
• • •
Okay, it’s about two hours since I got your message, Caz. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find white camphor after midnight, even in Jude? I finally found an Indian grocery store that’s open twenty-four hours.
What do you mean, we couldn’t be together? Do you think I really like being who I am and living the way I live? I went to Hell for you, don’t you think I could learn to wash dishes and keep my mouth shut while you watched stupid reality television shows that you liked and I hated? I don’t claim to be perfect. There’s probably a sliver of room for improvement.
In fact, my number one goal these days is to try living like any old suburban working stiff. I’m not joking, Caz, I’m really not. I’d give my wings and halo—okay, I don’t have either of those, but you know what I mean—to be able to lie in bed with you all day, to make love and read the Sunday papers (if people still print actual newspapers). My bosses could tell me, “Thousands of souls aren’t going to get to Heaven if you leave your job,” and I’d say, “Yeah, sorry to hear it. Just send my severance package to my home address. I’ll be in bed for at least the next month.”
Seriously, don’t you think you’d be willing to give that a try? You and me, a boring ordinary couple? Walk into a party together and not worry some ancient Old World demon is going to jump out of the guacamole and try to kill us? Go on vacation without worrying that the apocalypse will start as soon as we’re away from our desks? I could happily spend years kissing up one side of your body and down the other. I’m not exaggerating. I dream of you all the time. I would love to lick, bite, and suck on every inch of your chilly skin. You are like a giant coconut Popsicle, pale and cold and sweet. Oh, but warm inside. So warm.
Don’t you dare give up on me, woman. Don’t you dare give up on us.
twenty-four:
werepig worries
I DON’T WANT to seem like the kind of guy who’s always complaining (even though I am) but when I first started out in the angel business I really thought there would be more harping, clouds, and streets paved with gold, rather than Dear John messages from my girlfriend in Hell and six a.m. calls from worried werepigs.
Actually, it was more like five-twenty when my phone rang, and I could ratchet my eyes open just wide enough to recognize the number for Fatback Central.
“George,” I said, “welcome back.” I think I made those sounds, anyway. I’m not a morning person even on my good days.
“Bobby, I’ve been hacked. I mean robbed. I think someone was in my house.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We just got back yesterday. Javier’s grandson was in charge while we were gone, but he went out one night even though we told him not to. Somebody’s been into all my stuff.”
“Slow down. What stuff?”
“My computers, my voice mail—all that stuff from you, Bobby.”
“Shit, you’re kidding. All our communications, emails, everything?” This was disaster on a huge scale. I’d been doing business with George for years, and only about half of it was legitimate, by Heaven’s standards. Also, most of the illegitimate stuff had happened in the last year.
“No, no, not everything. It’s okay—I’m not an idiot, Bobby. I took my drives with me. But everything that came in while I was out of town, because all the emails were copied to my home system. All your voice messages, too. It was meant to make sure I wouldn’t lose anything. I’m sorry.” He went quiet for a moment. “I think I’ve checked it all. I can’t be positive, but I don’t think they got anything that would let them hack into my main records.”
Even if it was only the last couple of weeks’ worth of stuff taken, it was still fairly catastrophic, because Donya Sepanta’s name and a ton of research about her had all been there, not to mention research into the Black Sun Faction and some other things. Was Anaita behind this burglary? I almost hoped she was, because there was no way she could use it against me, not without opening herself to some very painful questions from the other ephors and heavenly authorities in general. It was more likely, though, that the neo-Nazi boys were trying to find out what I knew about the horn. “What happened?”
He told me Javier had already located tire tracks, probably from a Jeep or Land Rover, which led right onto the property from a disused fire road. It sounded like the bad guys had pretty much waited until the coast was clear—in this case, until grandson Steven snuck off with some friends to go see some 90s hip-hop group at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz, leaving the house and barn unguarded. Then the bad guys had swept down for their little smash-and-grab, or in this case, smash-and-hack. “Did they take anything else? Money or valuables, or anything unusual?”
“Nothing. Just information, and most of it from you.”
“Did you call the police?”
He laughed in a not-happy way. “When should I have them drop by? When I’m a giant pig? Or during regular working hours, when I have a human body and the brain of a giant pig? My family doesn’t call the police for anything.”
George was beginning to feel the approach of the dawn, so I told him I’d get up to see him when I could—not that I thought there was anything I’d find there, but just because I felt bad about it. It wasn’t George’s fault he’d been haunted and now home-invaded, it was mine. He was kind enough not to point that out, but I felt I owed him a visit.
“I don’t have a car right now, though, so it might take me a few days.”
“What happened to your ride, Bobby?”
Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would make him feel any better to know that the same people who’d been in his house had slipped a giant murder-slug into my car, so I just told him it was in the shop.
One thing I never figured on in this angel business was how much I’d have to lie. It’s a very lucky thing I’m good at it.