Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(7)

I pointed. “That’s not on me. I’m not paying to have that cleaned.”

“What the hell?” he said.

So, not infected by the Thing.

“Oh, this? Yeah, your landlord isn’t trying to get you to break your lease.” I bent to grab my jacket and bag. “The place really was haunted, so to speak.” I waltzed past him before he became indignant. “It no longer is.” I poked my head back in and added, “And you’ll get my bill.”

*

I hit the head before starting back to my place of employment. Could I call it a place of employment if I owned it? I was so bad with business etiquette. Good thing I was taking a class.

My phone rang as I sat on the loo.

A female voice filtered through the airways and into my ear. It was like magic. Or science. Mostly science. “Charley, what have you done now?”

God only knew. It was a friend of mine who took the concept of habit to a whole new—or really old—level. As in, she wore one. And they were not the least bit flattering.

Sister Mary Elizabeth was also clairvoyant, though she hated using that word. But what else was I supposed to call someone who could eavesdrop on the conversations of angels?

“Hey, sis. How’s it hanging?”

“Heaven is in an uproar, that’s how.”

“Isn’t it usually?”

“No, Charley, it’s not. I check out for a few days, and when I check back in, all hell has broken loose. And guess what the topic of conversation is?”

I tried to tidy up while holding the phone to my ear. The toilet paper was not cooperating. “Angels are such gossips. Don’t they have anything better to do?”

“Did you actually threaten our Lord and Savior?”

I snorted. “No. I threatened our Lord and Savior’s Father. You know, the Big Guy.”

“You … you…”

“Use your words,” I said, finally managing to make myself presentable. I stepped out of the stall and around a departed homeless woman who was busy trying to get a paper towel out of the dispenser. Her hand kept slipping through. That had to be frustrating.

“Charley, you can’t just threaten the Heavenly Father.”

“Can, too.” Yes. I was seven.

“Charley,” she said, appalled.

When she didn’t follow up, I said, “I know. I get it. But I was just really mad at the time.”

“At the Almighty?”

“At the almighty jerk who stole my memories and tried to put my husband in a hell dimension for all eternity.”

I was pretty sure she didn’t hear a thing I’d said. The moment the word jerk left my mouth, she gasped. Loud and long. For, like, sixty seconds. Girl had a set of lungs.

“I’m sorry.” I looked up and said it again. “I’m sorry. I get it. Threatening the Big Kahuna is a bad idea, but He started it.”

“This isn’t the third grade, Charley. And even if it were, you don’t pick a fight with the principal.”

“No, but I did pick a fight with my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Hickman. That woman was bat shit.”

We hung up a couple of minutes later, once I convinced her that even if I did threaten Him, what could I do? For reals?

After drying my own hands, I took a paper towel and handed it to the homeless woman. It slipped through her fingers to the floor, but it seemed to satisfy her nonetheless.

Homeless departed, by and large, rarely wanted to cross. And when they did, it was disorienting, their mental illness often putting the whammy on me for days. So I didn’t offer, though she could have crossed at any time. I had little say in the matter.

She noticed me at last. Flashed a gap-filled grimace. Leaned closer. “The Jell-O didn’t set. It’ll never work now.”

I looked up to where heaven supposedly resided. “Don’t I know it.”

*

I called Cookie, my “best friend slash receptionist slash research assistant slash shoulder on which to cry,” on the way to the parking lot, ignoring the angel perched atop a minivan, watching me with hawklike eyes.

Angels had a way of setting me on edge. They were all business. And terribly perceptive when it came to said business. They had a mission, and they would not be swayed. I’d tried. A couple of days ago, I’d offered one a C-note to scram. He didn’t bite. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at the hundred I’d waved at him. Steel resolve if I ever saw one.

And angels were unreadable when they wanted to be. They had the best poker faces this side of Vegas, and their emotions were impenetrable unless I was really close. And close was not a place I wanted to be. Their power felt like an electrical current rushing over my skin. It was unsettling and breathtaking at once.

As far as looks, they hardly resembled the pictures in the Bible. No curly hair or golden crowns or togas. Nope. This was one area where Hollywood nailed it. Angels wore long dark jackets that flared out at the shoulders, like the riding coats of yore, or perhaps dusters. Their wings arched behind them and folded in at their backs and down their legs, reaching to the bends at the knees. The vision was one of such majesty, such splendor, it was hard to see them as my adversaries. But adversaries they were. At least for the time being.

The angel staring me down from above had short black hair, eyes just as dark, and mocha-colored skin. And he was stunning. Like all angels, I’d come to realize. They were nothing if not heartbreakingly beautiful.