Otherworld Chills

OFF-DUTY ANGEL

Getting an audience with the Fates is like getting an invitation to tea with the Queen. Most people in the afterlife never receive one. To actually wrangle one yourself? Damn near impossible. Unless you’re me: Eve Levine—dark witch, half-demon, part-time ghost, part-time angel. I’m in their throne room so often, they might as well install a revolving door. Most times, I’m getting hauled in and chewed out—a fake chewing-out, as the Fates pretend to upbraid me for breaking some rule or other on a mission, while they’re really just relieved that someone got the job done.

Today, though, I’d requested the audience. So they were making me wait in their reception room, watching the mosaics subtly changing as the story of life and death played out on the walls. Finally, the floor turned and deposited me in the throne room, at the foot of the Fates’ dais.

“I have a deal for you,” I said to the oldest Fate, as she snipped a length of life-yarn.

“We’re honored,” she said, peering down with a withering look. “The answer is no. We’ve had quite enough of your deals, Eve.”

“Really? Huh. Then how about you undo the one that makes me a halo-slave for six months a year? If you’re regretting that, we can renegotiate. Or just forget the whole thing.”

She morphed into her sister, a middle-aged woman with long, graying blond hair. “You wouldn’t want that, Eve. No more than we would. While I’m quite certain any offer of yours is not to our advantage, we’ll hear you out.”

“Good.” I reached back to pull off my Sword of Judgment, so I could lean on it, as I usually did in the throne room—if only to make the eldest Fate sputter. But I didn’t have it. I was off duty. Which was the problem. “I’d like to offer you seven extra days of my time. I’ll voluntarily go back into the angel corps for the next week. In return, you give me a week off during my regular shift. You can schedule my downtime whenever you want it. Anytime things get slow, you give me shore leave. Totally at your convenience.”

“Kristof’s still in court, I presume?” The middle Fate had returned.

“Sure, but that’s not why—”

“It is exactly why.” The oldest Fate now. “Your lover is busy. You are bored. You want us to entertain you. Absolutely—”

“Not so hasty, sister.” The middle one came back. “I believe her angel partner would be very happy for her assistance right now.”

I perked up. “Trsiel’s hunting? Who? Or what?”

“It’s a what. He’s hunting for answers, deep in the bowels of the Great Library. We’ve asked him to research the political ramifications of a proposed treaty between two djinn factions. We expected it to take a few weeks, but with your help …”

“Right. Um, now that you mention it …”

“You’ve suddenly remembered another pressing obligation?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Thanks for your time. And if anything—”

“—more exciting comes up?” The Fate smiled. “We’ll call you.”

I flopped onto the front-porch swing of my Southern manor. The Fates were right, of course. Kris had been tied up in afterlife court for the past week, and it didn’t look as if the trial would end anytime soon. I should point out he was the defense attorney, not the defendant. Kristof Nast would never be found in a defendant’s seat. He always bribed, threatened, or manipulated his way out of trouble long before it reached that point.

So he was busy and I was bored. That sounds bad, as if I rely on him so much that I don’t know what to do with myself when he’s gone. But I’d spent most of my mortal life by myself—or with our daughter, Savannah. Even now that Kris and I had been reunited after death, we were often apart, for my angel gig and his job. We’ve even kept our own afterlife homes—my manor and his houseboat—though if we’re in the same plane, we rarely sleep in separate beds.

I was bored because I was nearing the end of my latest shore leave. Whenever I first returned from angel duty, I had a long list of things to do. Check on my mortal guide, Jaime Vegas. Check on Savannah. Check on Kris’s boys, Sean and Bryce. Check on my afterlife contacts, see if they had anything interesting for me. Call in some chits. Chase down new contacts. Explain to them why it’s really a good idea to have Eve Levine in their Rolodex. Just maintaining my contact network is a job in itself.

But that work was long done. This was the time when I truly would be enjoying a little R&R with Kris. Even after nine years here, there are endless nooks and crannies and planes and dimensions we haven’t explored. I suppose I could go on my own, but it really wasn’t the same.

A figure turned onto my block. A man. A couple of inches taller than my six feet. Late forties. Thinning blond hair. Broad shoulders. Carrying some extra weight, but his big frame hid it, as did his expertly tailored suit.

I flew off the swing, sending it rocking as I raced down the steps. Along the front path, through the gate, down the road, like a war bride spotting her discharged husband.

Kris caught me up in a hug and kiss.

“I thought you didn’t get a break until tonight,” I said.

“I wrangled a recess,” he said. “It’s a brief one, but I wanted to come by. I may have a job for you.”

“Seriously?” I paused. “It’s not research, is it?”

He laughed. “Never. It’s a real celestial-bounty-hunter-worthy mission.”

I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love you.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned back. “Did I just get a bigger kiss for giving you a job than I did for the surprise visit?”

“Maybe. So what’s the mission?”

“I need you to follow someone. I don’t know the what, the where, the how, or even the why. Just the who.”

“Intriguing. Is it connected to your court case?”

“I don’t know. Someone came in to speak to the prosecutor during the trial. It was important enough to earn her a five-minute recess. As I was using the opportunity to stretch my legs, I caught a name and enough of the context to know that the owner of that name is very important to the prosecution. Even if it isn’t my case, finding out more could be useful.”

“A mystery,” I said. “Exactly what I’m in the mood for. And—if you’re in the mood and have time—I’d be happy to make up for that kiss.” I waved at my house.

That was one offer Kris never refused.

Even if Lewis Stranz wasn’t up to something, he was certainly keeping me on my toes, which was a pleasant surprise. Tailing people usually involves long periods of sitting in one place, trying not to let my attention wander.

Stranz didn’t seem to be doing anything of import. He was just very, very busy. Going here, going there, meeting this person, meeting that one. With every encounter, I had to get close to figure out what was going on. Easy enough for a witch who’s also an Aspicio half-demon.

My father is Lord Demon Balaam, which makes life as an angel just a little more interesting. It does help in stalking, though, because the power he confers on his offspring is vision enhancement. If I can get on the other side of a wall, I can clear a “peephole.” If I can’t, then that’s when my witch powers come in handy, with blur spells for getting close and cover spells for staying there.

After all that work, I’d discovered that Stranz was simply socializing. Getting together with friends for a walk, a chat, a drink. While we may not need sustenance, we still partake in the rituals of human social life.

As for Stranz himself, my research hadn’t given me any hints to explain the prosecution’s interest. He was a shaman, which meant in the mortal world he’d had a spirit guide, could astral-project, and had healing abilities. Stranz still had his ayami—his spirit guide—except now the guide inhabited the same plane and had truly become his life partner, as often happens. As for healing and spirit travel, those are absolutely useless in the afterlife. As if to compensate for this loss of powers, ghost shamans get special access to the teleport system, and what Stranz seemed to do with that access was make himself a wide and varied circle of friends. Which was a fun challenge for me, chasing him across the globe. But it wasn’t all that interesting. Until he went to London.

Stranz’s first stop in London was the British Museum, which operates a little differently in the afterlife. In the mortal realm, if you visit a museum exhibit on, say, cave paintings, you’ll get photos of faint-colored lines on dimly lit cave walls, with artist reconstructions of what they might have looked like and theoretical crap about the artist, the purpose, blah, blah, blah. But in the afterlife, if you’re interested in cave paintings, you get yourself over to our version of France and hike out to the caves at Lascaux, and there they are, the colors just as vivid—and the animals just as misshapen—as they were when first painted. If you want to know how or why they were done, you ask one of the painters himself, who lives there, happily telling visitors about his life’s work.

Same goes for pretty much everything you’d find in the British Museum. If you want to explore the past, you just travel. So what is in the afterlife British Museum? Artifacts, pretty much as you’d find in the mortal-world version, complete with temporary exhibits. But each artifact is actually a touch portal, which can take you to its natural environment. Access is available to any afterlife resident who hasn’t had his basic teleportation privileges revoked.

Stranz’s access was fine. From my background check, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d even need to worry about revocation. A real straight arrow. Born during the Depression, died in the eighties, worked as a family doctor, never had more than a parking ticket in his life. In other words, the sort of person I usually had zero contact with, which made the prosecution’s interest all the more intriguing.

My guess? Stranz was an unwilling—and probably unwitting—pawn in some scheme. A patsy. His squeaky-clean background made him perfect for it, as did his vast number of acquaintances. It was a good bet that one of those “friends” had set Stranz up, either to unknowingly transport goods or to take the fall for something.

Which meant, if I was right, that I’d not only be helping Kris, but I’d be helping an innocent guy. That would win me brownie points with the Fates. They get excited when I do good deeds off duty, as if the whole angel gig is finally rubbing off. I might be able to parlay this one into an extra vacation week.

As Stranz climbed the museum’s massive front steps, I lurked in a crowd of the recently dead. You can tell by the dresses and suits—they hadn’t yet learned how to change out of their grave clothes. I skirted them and hurried on, earning catcalls and whistles from a group of toga-clad young guys lounging on the stairs. I told them where they could shove it—in ancient Latin. That stopped them. One of the gifts that comes with ascended angelhood is a permanent universal translator in my brain. The Fates can’t rescind that when I’m off duty. They’ve warned me that I should avoid using it for frivolous reasons. My definition of frivolous just doesn’t always match theirs.

I spotted Stranz as soon as I entered the museum. He took a left at the Rosetta stone—which, by the way, I can fully translate—then headed through the wing to the room containing pieces of the Greek Parthenon. From there, he teleported to the Acropolis itself. I waited behind Assyrians sighing over friezes as they lamented the late great sport of lion hunting. Then I cast a blur spell, hurried to the next room, and crossed over into ancient Athens.

Like every other place that has passed its heyday, Athens is stuck in its glory years—the good old days of Ancient Greece, before the Romans took over and renamed all their gods. And long before the Ottomans used the Parthenon as an ammo dump and a stray flame reduced it to pretty chunks of marble. Because irreplaceable historic buildings make great places to store gunpowder.

In the afterlife, the Parthenon still stands, its marble buildings shimmering blindingly white under the midday sun. The grounds were covered with picnickers in garb from across the globe and the centuries. Tourists wound their way through the Acropolis. There were a few guards, but only to make sure no one tried to set up residence.

Most tourists flocked to the Parthenon—the most famous temple on the Acropolis, the one with the forty-foot-tall ivory and gold statue of Athene. When Stranz exited the portal, he headed down the sloping road to the Erechtheion on the Acropolis’s north side. It’s a smaller temple, dedicated to yet another aspect of Athene. Don’t ask me what aspect. I’ve been here; I’ve explored; I’ve never taken the tour.

Stranz headed straight into the temple, meaning he wasn’t touring, either. He was meeting someone. Sure enough, as he made his way through the Erechtheion, a woman broke from the gaggle of gawking ghosts and slid after him. I could see they were both heading to the south porch, and I was about to go around outside to eavesdrop when the woman … pulsed.

One second she was a solid, fully materialized form, then she faded a little, becoming slightly translucent, before “firming up” again. No one else noticed. I only did because the ability to spot glamours is yet another part of my angel package.

I concentrated on the woman, trying to see what lay beneath her glamour. For a moment, she was just a woman. Late twenties, dark hair, pale skin. Then her skin went as white as the surrounding marble. Her dark hair began to writhe, snakes slithering through it. Two more snakes encircled her arms and a third acted as a belt. Her short skirt and boots stayed the same, but she accessorized with wings. Put the wings together with the snakes and the huntress costume and there was no doubt what I was seeing. An Erinys. Better known as a Fury.

I zipped out of the temple and around to the south, where I cloaked myself in a cover spell and hid under the row of Caryatids—the marble maidens that stand watch over the porch. I could hear three people above speaking in ancient Sumerian, which sounded like they were waxing poetic on the beauty and majesty of their surroundings … until I realized they were just trying to figure out where to grab lunch. I presumed Stranz and the Erinys were up there, waiting for the others to move on.

Erinyes are, technically, demi-demons. But that’s a catch-all term that basically means “not a ghost or celestial spirit.” Within it, the actual degree of demonic varies wildly. You have creatures like Nix, whose sole purpose is to convince mortals to act on their darkest desires. Clearly demonic. Then you get entities like djinn, who take advantage of human greed and offer a deal that usually won’t go in your favor. More mischievous than evil.

Further along are the Erinyes, who were known by the Greeks as goddesses of vengeance. You call on them to avenge yourself on someone who has wronged you, and by “wronged” I don’t mean “cut off in traffic.” It has to be a serious offense, like murdering a loved one. Erinyes have ethics. Strict ones. However, they aren’t going to talk you into turning the other cheek. That’s why they’re classified as demons. They may intend to mete out justice, but they can wreak serious havoc doing it.

Finally, the Sumerians moved on. And the Erinys moved in.

“Do you have what I need?” she whispered to Stranz.

His voice quavered as he said he did. He passed her what sounded like a piece of paper. I managed to clear a peephole through the porch, but there was no way in hell I could see what was written on the paper the Erinys was now reading.

When she finished, she crushed the paper. Light flashed. She opened her hand, and fine ash drifted to the floor. Great.

“That’s what you needed, isn’t it?” Stranz asked.

“It is. I will do as we discussed.”

Which is …? Come on, guys. Give me something.

Light footsteps crossed the porch, heading back inside. One set of footprints, as the Erinys walked away.

Shit!

I hurried around the building under the cover of a blur spell. I reached the entrance just in time to see the Erinys striding across the main room. She passed behind the three Sumerians, still discussing lunch. I saw her walk behind them … and I didn’t see her come out again. She’d crossed over to another dimension. Which one? I had no idea.

I followed Stranz instead, though I didn’t know what good that would do. Clearly the Erinys was the one to stalk. Her mission of revenge was almost certainly what Kristof was looking for.

As Stranz crossed back into the museum, I tailed him on autopilot as I flipped through my mental Rolodex. There were two Erinyes I could speak to—one was a contact, one owed me a favor. Neither would inform on her sister, but I might be able to get some information about this particular Erinys. I could also dig deeper into Stranz’s afterlife and figure out why he’d need one of the Furies.

Yet in the afterlife, it’s hard to wrong someone so grievously that they could invoke an Erinys. Murder is out of the question, obviously. Possessions are easy enough to come by, and Erinyes don’t avenge mere theft. And what punishment could the demi-demon inflict on a ghost anyway?

Damn. It had to be a wrong committed in the mortal realm. But I couldn’t imagine Stranz had waited thirty years to take revenge for something from his lifetime. Maybe he’d just discovered that someone he cared about had been hurt or killed. But why would that interest an afterlife prosecutor?

My brain was still spinning when I realized that Stranz wasn’t heading for the exit. I probably should have figured that out as soon as I found myself climbing stairs to the second floor, but I’m so accustomed to following people that I don’t need to engage much of my brain to do it. Once up there, Stranz didn’t seem to be sightseeing or heading to a specific destination. He was just wandering—quickly.

Had he spotted me? I saw no evidence of that. He didn’t glance back or duck down rear hallways or try to lose himself in a crowd. He just kept walking. Through Egypt, then over to Iran and Mesopotamia and across Europe.

Between Europe and Ancient Greece, there was a space for temporary exhibits. Today, it was empty. Well, empty of exhibits. Filled with people. A massive tour group milled about like a herd of lost sheep. Stranz could have gone through them or turned back. Instead, he veered into a back hall, moving faster now. He turned, then turned again, getting deeper into the warren of halls. Another turn and …

Silence. One second his shoes had been tap-tapping along. Then nothing. I cast a quick cover spell.

Shoes squeaked on linoleum. Stranz stumbled around the corner, as if he’d been shoved out. He glanced back, face tight with annoyance, and muttered something under his breath as he resumed walking.

I let him round the next corner and then hurried to where he’d been. It was a short hall, maybe ten feet long, ending at a door marked Private, and Please Use Other Entrance.

I tried the door. It was locked, and an unlock spell didn’t fix that. When I cleared a peephole, I saw a dark storage room with a massive box blocking the door.

What had Stranz wanted in that room?

I’d come back later. For now, I needed to catch up with—

The hall vanished. There was a moment of darkness, no longer than an eye blink, then I was staring at a wall. I turned slowly.

I was in a small, empty room.

The Fates have been known to reach out and grab me. Very inconvenient. But this wasn’t their waiting room, and I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Another flicker of darkness, and I landed back in the museum hall.

Huh. Apparently I’d walked into a dimensional slip—just as Stranz must have. Step on the right spot and in you go. Like a magical version of those bookcases that spin into a secret room.

I put my hands out, ready to start looking for that doorway again. Then I stopped. Stranz. He was on the move. This dimensional pocket wasn’t going anywhere. I hurried off to find my target.

I caught up with Stranz on the far side of the second floor, where he met his former ayami—now his wife. A blur spell got me close enough to hear him apologizing for being late.

“So what do you want to see?” he asked her.

“Vikings.” She smiled up at him. “I want to see Vikings.”

“Then you shall.” He looped his arm through hers. “When do we need to meet Ted and Anna?”

“In two hours, at Seven Dials. There’s a lovely little pastry shop near there …”

They wandered off. Two hours of Vikings followed by a visit with friends just a few blocks away. Time to check out that dimensional pocket.

I found the spot I needed to step on to activate the dimensional slip. It teleported me to the pocket, which was still an empty room.

I walked over each inch of floor and peered through the walls, but it was like looking out into a black hole. Same with the floor. Yet whenever I passed one section of wall, I felt a buzz like a low-grade shock. A magical, Hey, there’s something here.

It took some work, but I found the source. A hand-sized section of wall just above the floor. I put my hand against it and—voilà!—a dimensional door popped me into … another empty room.

At first, I thought it was the same one, but when I paced it off, I realized this one was a couple of feet smaller. Some searching located the door back to where I’d come in. I also found a door into yet another, slightly smaller room.

“Seriously?” I muttered as I paced the new one, bending slightly to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling. “What is this? The Russian nesting doll of dimensional pockets?”

I found another door, into a smaller room, then another, this last one taking me into a long crawl space, so narrow my claustrophobia kicked in. I crept along on all fours, ignoring the jabs of panic, reminding myself that I knew the way out. Then the crawl space ended. I crouched there, hitting the walls and …

The floor gave way, and I tumbled down into darkness.

As soon as my feet hit the floor, I leapt up and cast a light-ball spell.

“What is it?” a voice whispered in the darkness.

“A shade,” another hissed. “A mortal shade.”

“No, it is more. Much more.”

I conjured my sword then. Yes, technically against the rules when I’m not on angel duty, but those whispers weren’t in any human language. They were demonic.

A four-foot glowing blue blade materialized in my hand. I swung it up, and all around me tiny forms skittered back, hissing and growling. I strode to the nearest one and impaled it on the end of my sword as the others shrieked curses. They didn’t interfere, though—they were just happy I’d skewered someone else.

I lifted the squirming demon. It was an imp—a type known as an oni. Ugly little beggar. In Japanese folklore, oni are big, hulking, ogre-like beasts. Personally, I think they just got themselves some good PR. They’re actually about two feet tall, humanoid, with blue skin, red hair, three eyes, and long claws on their feet and hands, which I could hear as they scurried about, gibbering among themselves.

Oni are usually thought of as a form of ghost, because the name is derived from the Japanese word for “hidden” or “conceal.” Another misunderstanding. They don’t hide themselves—they hide things. Items of value. Usually behind a secret demon gate, which they guard.

I lifted the oni on my sword and peered at it, and when I did, it let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“Balaam!” it cried. “Lord Balaam!”

The imp tried to prostrate itself, which is really hard to do while dangling from a blade. Around it, the others began to whisper, their voices swirling through the darkness.

“Yes, yes! So I said. More than a shade. Much more!”

“Balaam’s daughter.”

“The angel.”

“Yet not an angel …”

They moved forward now, sniffing and peering at me. I held my ground and listened.

“Not an angel now. Balaam’s now.”

“She comes on his behalf. Her lord father’s.”

“It is said that she works for him.”

“Balaam is clever. Balaam is wise.”

Actually, Balaam is neither. He’s a conniving bully who threatens and schemes and fights to get what he wants. Which explains a few things about his daughter, I guess.

I stay as far from Balaam as I can, but I do understand him. I also understand that a whole lot of demons—and angels—think I’m a double agent for him. Pisses me off—I’m many things, but I’m not a traitor. Still, the rumor can be useful.

So I just kept listening as they chattered.

“He wants the book.”

“Yes, he does. He’s heard of it. Someone has spoken.”

“Someone will pay for his betrayal.”

“But Balaam …”

“Yes, Balaam …”

Their voices came faster now, panicking and thinking as fast as their little brains could think, struggling for a way to get out of this encounter without offending a very powerful demon.

“Yes,” I said finally. “I’ve come for the book. It’s a very important one, because it has been …” I took a guess. “Hidden for so long.”

“Yes, yes. Hidden. Lost. But we found it. Yes, we did.”

“Of course you did. The oni themselves are very wise, very clever. I’m not surprised they found this lost book of …”

“Moses,” one helpfully supplied.

“Right. The lost Book of Moses.” Seriously? Moses? What the hell?

Yet it did twinge some buried memory. One about spells, which made absolutely no sense in the context of the dude who led the Israelites out of Egypt. I suppose I should know more about that—with a last name like Levine, I probably had ancestors making that trek with old Mo. But I hadn’t been raised in the faith. Or any faith, really.

Still, if my brain wasn’t misfiring …

A long-lost spell book? Hell and damn, now those were words to get my dead heart pumping.

I tossed the oni off my sword tip and swung the blade, blue light crackling through the dark.

“I want that book.”

Silence. Then manic gibbering. Finally, one voice, as the others fell still.

“We respect Lord Balaam. We respect the daughter of Lord Balaam. But the book is ours.”

I skewered the speaker and tossed him up, and he shrieked as the others scampered back again.

“Mmm, try again,” I said.

“We—we are willing to speak to Balaam on this matter.” The oni struggled to keep his shrill voice calm. “Negotiate. Yes, yes. We know Balaam is fair. Balaam is powerful but fair. We will negotiate and let him see the book.”

I considered. I could push the matter, but there were a lot of oni here, and mass slaughter didn’t seem to be the way to handle this. At least, not until I knew more.

“I’ll be back,” I said. “Have the book ready.”

Human lore tells us that hell is guarded by a three-headed dog. Not true. It’s three giant dogs—the Cerberi. But they do guard hell. Or my own personal version of it: the Great Library.

The Great Library exists only in the afterlife dimensions, the real one having been set aflame when Caesar torched the Egyptian fleets. Yes, further proof that war and historic buildings are not compatible.

I said hello to the girls—Cerberus One, Two, and Three. Boring names. Also insulting, I think. I call them Polly, Molly, and Rue. I think they like it. They also appreciate that I stop to pet them, where most hurry past, spurred on by the sight of those foot-long fangs. But the girls really are very sweet and they’re good to me, letting me by even when I’m not on angel duty. As the presence of massive guard dogs may suggest, the Great Library isn’t open to the afterlife public.

I passed the dogs and headed in to find Trsiel. I joke about the Great Library being my version of hell. It’s more of a love/ hate relationship. If I’m looking for lost spells or rituals, it’s like a giant candy store where everything is free. If I’ve been sent here to do research, it really is a living nightmare. Chasing people with answers is more my kind of research.

I wandered through the collections. I could say I was looking for Trsiel, but really I was just waiting. Sure enough, it took about ten minutes before a gray-haired scholar spotted me and raced off to find my far more angelic partner before I got myself into trouble.

I slouched into a chair and waited. Two minutes later, a figure rounded the shelves. He looked as much like an angel as I did—just a regular guy, about thirty, dark-haired and olive-skinned, dressed in jeans and a pullover. Trsiel is the real deal, though. A full-blood. Or close enough. There are rumors of full-bloods with a shot of human DNA, to help them better understand the people they’re sworn to help. Other full-bloods say that explains Trsiel’s “lowbrow” tastes. I say they can go to hell. Maybe he has human blood or maybe his more human tastes started the rumors. Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it does make him a better angel than most of the ineffective snobs who populate the angel dimensions.

Despite his very human appearance, there’s a faint glow to Trsiel’s skin that gives him away to those who know angels. And for those who don’t, his cover is blown once he opens his mouth—his voice is so richly compelling that every shade in hearing distance will stop to listen.

“Eve,” he said, striding to meet me. “What do you need?”

“Good to see you, too. Been a few months. How are things?”

He fixed me with a look. He knew I’d come for something, and he knew I wouldn’t want to endure twenty minutes of chitchat to get to it. We’d been partners for six years. I spent about as much time with him as I did with Kristof, and we knew each other as well as most couples. It was good to see him after almost three months apart. I wouldn’t say that, but he knew it.

“Lost Book of Moses,” I said.

“Hmmm.” He turned and peered down the hall. “Room twelve, shelf three, right beside—”

“Unless you’re going to tell me the actual book is there, you can save the directions.”

“If the book was there, it wouldn’t be lost.”

I snorted. “I bet half the lost books of the world are in here somewhere. Just mis-shelved.”

“Probably. So if you start looking for that one now—”

“I’d rather fight through a legion of oni. Tell me about the book.” I paused. “Please.”

He waved me into an alcove with more comfortable chairs. Also, soundproof walls.

“You’re talking about the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. Purportedly a lost text following the Five Books of Moses, also known as the Pentateuch—the first five books in the Hebrew bible. As often happens with sacred texts, a rumor started that parts were removed because they contained so-called dangerous knowledge.”

“Like spells.”

He nodded. “The Sixth and Seventh Books are believed to be a grimoire, containing incantations to replicate the miracles in the bible.”

“Seriously?”

He made a face. “Depends on your definition of serious. Yes, the book is supposed to exist. Yes, it contains spells that roughly duplicate some of the miracles. Was it actually part of the Books of Moses? Probably not. It just makes a good story, one that has influenced several religious movements. Spiritualism, hoodooism, Rastafarianism …”

“Influenced by a lost book? How does that work?”

“The original text is lost, but there have been copies for several centuries. Of course, the problem with reproduced grimoires …”

“Is that someone always screws up—a typo, a bad translation—and the spells don’t work.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I may have found the originals. Through a secret passage in the British Museum, guarded by oni.”

A Huh? passed over his face, then a blink of comprehension, quickly doused, as he got comfortable again, saying as casually as he could manage, “And what led you there?”

“A job for Kristof. I was tracking a shaman who is apparently up to no good. Something to do with a Fury and these texts. I have no idea how the two connect, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“It is.”

A flicker of a smile. “Good.”

I pulled my legs up, pretending to get comfortable myself as I studied his face.

What are you up to, Trsiel?

My angelic partner is not well versed in the art of deception. It might seem that’s just part of the angel package, but I’ve met full-bloods who rival arch-demons for duplicity. Trsiel is just good by nature. That’s why the Fates paired him with me, hoping he’d rub off. Any transfer, much to their chagrin, has gone in the other direction.

Trsiel is genuinely good, not sanctimoniously or self-righteously good. That means he’s willing to accept the need to get his hands dirty in the pursuit of justice. Under my tutelage, he’s become an adequate liar, but he’ll never be good enough to fool me. Even when he’s merely “up to something,” he tips his hand. Today he was waving it wildly.

“So,” I said. “Should I bother trying to trick these oni into giving me the book? Or should I just tell them the game’s up and Kristof wants it back?”

“Wh-what?”

“Oh, wait. No. If this is a setup, there is no book.” I sighed. “Damn. It would have been better with a book.” A pause, during which Trsiel couldn’t seem to get a word out. I looked at him. “Or did Kris actually find the book? Because that would be kind of awesome.”

Trsiel’s mouth worked. He leaned forward. “I don’t know what …” One look in my eyes and he slumped. “Shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not his fault. It was my idea.”

“Right.”

“No, it was. I went to see him a few days ago. I needed advice on a complex demon contract, and he’s the expert. We were talking about you—his case running into overtime, you getting bored—and I suggested he give you a mission. A mystery to solve.”

I stared at him. “You suggested he send me on a wild-goose chase? Lie about a mission?”

“It’s not a wild-goose chase. It’s practice. A challenge, like you said. He balked at first, but I said it was like other guys giving their wives a weekend in a spa. You’re just a little different from most wives. But it was my idea, so if you’re angry, blame me.”

Was I angry? I felt as if I should be, but Trsiel was right. I’d had fun. I’d been challenged. For me, this was the equivalent of a weekend at the spa. A break from the everyday to calm my restlessness. A mental puzzle with a physical chase. And it was, admittedly, a good puzzle.

“So there is no book?” I said.

“I don’t know. Being Kristof …” He shrugged. “I suspect there is a prize at the end. He wouldn’t get your hopes up like that. It might be a spell or a magical whatnot. I’m just trying to figure out how he got the oni involved.”

“He helped some of them out of a bad contract last year. They owe him.” I got to my feet. “So, presuming the oni really do have a prize for me, let’s go get it.”

“Me? No, I’m supposed to be doing research—”

“Which you hate almost as much as I do. You just don’t complain. But I’ve gotten myself into a potentially dangerous situation, trying to rescue potentially sacred texts from oni. You’re honor bound to help me. So come on.”

Before we left, Trsiel had to go put away his books. God forbid he should leave a mess. Then I took him back to the museum. It wasn’t hard for him to mingle among mortal shades. He just needs to employ a bit of voice modulation, so he only sounds like a guy who should be doing radio. As for the faint glow, ghosts don’t notice that. Even in the supernatural realms, angels are such mysterious entities that most people expect them to come with halos and harps.

I took Trsiel through the first two dimensional pockets, then I went ahead through the smaller ones. This time, I avoided the fall into the final room, dropping instead. When I hit the ground, I conjured my sword as the oni skittered and whispered all around me.

“I’ve come for the book,” I said.

“No, no,” one said. “You must bring Balaam.”

“Balaam would not come,” another replied. “He is a lord.”

“Yes, his daughter comes in Balaam’s stead. She bears his words. She—”

“Enough,” I said. “The gig is up, guys, but it’s not your fault. I’ll tell Kristof you did great. Slate wiped clean. Now hand over—”

One of the oni screamed. Another joined in and they began scrabbling about like kernels in a defective hot-air popper.

“Sorry I’m late,” Trsiel said behind me.

I turned. “You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you?” I whistled, trying to be heard over the shrieking. Forget the popcorn analogy. It was more like a tenth-grade booze-fest when the cops show up.

I whistled again. “Hey! Knock it off! He’s with me!”

“You have tricked us,” one oni hissed as the noise level dropped. “Yes, tricked us. You brought an angel. A true angel.”

“Yeah, yeah. Did I mention the game’s over? I caught on. Now, just give me—”

“We give you nothing.”

“Fine,” I said. “How did Kristof want this to play out? Was I supposed to sneak back here? Trick you? Fight you?”

“We do not know this Kristof.” An oni walked out. He was taller than his brethren, with wild orange hair. “You will leave now, witch. Take your angel and leave. Out of respect for your sire, we will allow you to leave—”

“Allow?” I waved my sword. “I’ll leave when I want to. And I’m not leaving without the damned—”

Trsiel nudged me to silence and stepped forward, his own sword conjured but lowered. Respectful. When he spoke, it was with the full-on vocal treatment. “You say you do not know Kristof Nast?”

“Nast?” The oni’s ugly face crinkled. “I know that name. It is a Cabal. But this Kristof …?”

“He is hers.” Another oni pointed a bony finger at me. “I have heard of him. He helped oni.”

“But the oni he helped weren’t you,” Trsiel said. “He didn’t ask you to play a game with Eve, did he?”

More face scrunching from the leader. “The oni do not play games.”

“Sure they do,” I said. “Hide-and-seek. And now you’re hiding—”

Another wave from Trsiel. He continued questioning them, and it didn’t take long to realize that they weren’t just trying to prolong the game. A full-blood angel’s voice truly is compelling—it makes you want to listen and to obey. For demons, it’s like a truth serum. These oni weren’t part of Kristof’s scheme. Stranz really had just stumbled into the dimensional pocket by accident, probably as he’d been heading for that Private door, adding a little spice to the chase.

But if Kristof didn’t set this up, then the oni really were guarding the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses.

“Fine,” I said when Trsiel stopped. “It’s a misunderstanding. But we are going to need that book. So just hand it over and we’ll go. We won’t tell anyone you took it.”

The oni laughed now, cackling and yipping.

“We took nothing,” the leader said. “We found it.” He pulled himself up tall. “And so we keep it.”

“I’m afraid not,” Trsiel said. “The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses are believed to be lost scriptures. As such, they would belong to the Almighty. As an agent of the Almighty, I need to ask you to relinquish them.”

Trsiel had said he didn’t believe they were real sacred texts, so he worded it carefully, to avoid lying. The oni didn’t care. They began gnashing their teeth and moving closer, claws raised, fangs bared. Trsiel subtly motioned behind them—into the dark recesses of whatever dimensional pocket we were in. Presumably the book lay on the other side.

We could hack our way through the oni, but that wouldn’t be fair. They had every right to guard what they’d found, and wholesale slaughter would land us in deep shit with the Fates. Contrary to popular belief, the war between the celestial and the demonic isn’t an endless bloody battle. It’s more like a cold war. Has been for eons. An uneasy stalemate, reinforced by endless treaties, including the kind that say two angels can’t massacre oni to get a book, even a sacred one.

We waited, swords drawn, until they charged. Then we sliced through the first couple—self-defense—and barreled into the darkness. Realizing our goal, the oni leapt in from all sides. I swung behind Trsiel, covering his back as he pushed through the seething mass of imps. Tiny teeth dug into my arms and legs, and hands pummeled me. I shoved them off when I could and cut a swath with the glowing blue blade when I had to. The blade worked better. They saw it and dove out of the way.

We kept going, the blackness so complete now that our swords didn’t do more than illuminate their own metal, blue light sabers cutting through blackness. Then …

“Shit!” Trsiel said. “Watch …!”

His voice trailed off. Falling. I hit the edge of the floor and teetered for a second. Then two oni jumped me and over I went.

It wasn’t a long drop. It helped that I landed on Trsiel. Above, we could hear the oni chittering and giggling.

“Trapped!” one chortled. “Yes, the angels are trapped.”

“Oni didn’t do it,” another said. “They trapped themselves.”

“Yes, trapped themselves.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, pushing off Trsiel. I lit a light ball and waved it around.

“Huh, not much of a trap,” I said.

We were at one end of a tunnel that—like the room above—stretched into darkness. A long black tunnel, presumably with the book at the end.

“Find the book and teleport out,” I murmured. I turned to Trsiel. “It’s not an empty dimension, is it?”

We can’t teleport out of empty dimensions. They’re off the grid. I had to ask the question again, though. He was looking around, hand tight on his sword.

“No,” he said finally. “It’s not empty.”

I didn’t like his tone. “Is something here?”

“I’m … not sure.”

“Well, hopefully it won’t mind us taking the book.”

I swung the light ball in front of us, to illuminate the way, then I started down the corridor. Trsiel followed, walking backward, covering me now. I didn’t see the need for it. We were in a narrow corridor with nothing in sight. Just—

A growl reverberated through the hall. Trsiel swung in beside me, sword raised.

“It didn’t come from down there,” I said. “Or behind us. It seemed to come from …” I turned to the wall. Then I leaned over and cleared a peephole. “Nothing. Black—”

The wall crumbled. Just crumbled. So did the ceiling. And the wall behind us. We were left standing in darkness. Endless black on every side. I threw my light ball, but all I could see was the glowing sphere itself, going and going and going until it disappeared.

The growl came again. Then the flapping of wings. Leathery, bat-like wings, beating currents of hot air all around us.

“That sounds like …”

“Yes. That’s what it sounds like.”

“But it can’t be. Hell-beasts are only found in—”

An ear-shattering shriek as the creature dove at my head. I ducked and swung my sword. It made contact, fluorescent green blood spraying my face. The blood burned as it struck my skin, and I let out a yelp, so shocked at the sensation. Ghosts don’t feel pain. Angels don’t, either. Not unless they’re in …

“Hell dimension!” I shouted.

“Which explains the hell-beast.” Trsiel grabbed my arm and yanked me as he stumbled backward over the uneven ground. “Hide your sword.”

I unconjured it and cast a privacy spell so we could speak without our voices being heard. “It can’t be a hell dimension. We didn’t step through a hell-gate.”

“No, we fell through one. I thought I felt it, but it happened too fast.”

“Shit!”

“Exactly,” he muttered.

We’d been in hell dimensions before. Very, very rarely, and only when we absolutely couldn’t avoid it. We got in and we got out fast, before anything found us.

“Hold on,” I said. “I’ll cast … Shit!”

Hell dimensions also negated teleport spells. Meaning we were trapped here, in the dark, with a hell-beast. A very pissed-off, injured hell-beast.

“Just stay still,” Trsiel murmured.

Right. Like sharks, hell-beasts sensed movement, in this case in air rather than water. We stayed still and listened to the flap of its wings as it circled the cavern. Trsiel had found us a spot behind what felt like stalagmites, cold and wet stones soaring up all around us.

The hell-beast swung past a couple of times. I tried to gauge its size, but all I had to go on was the sound of those wings, which really didn’t help at all.

“The exit,” Trsiel whispered. “We need to find the exit.”

I paused. “Right.”

“We can’t look for that book, Eve. Not here. Not now.”

“I know.”

“We’ll get to the exit, climb out, and teleport from the top, before the oni attack.”

“Good plan.”

It was good. I just would have preferred if it had included finding the book. But Trsiel was right—we couldn’t see anything, meaning there was no way to find the book, not while that hell-beast guarded it.

“Maybe if we kill it …” I began.

As if in answer, we heard claws scrabbling to our left. Then more to our right.

“Oni?” I whispered.

“I don’t think so.”

“Damn.” Oni were a threat I could handle.

The claws clicked closer on both sides.

“Any idea where we’d find the exit?” I whispered.

Trsiel paused. Presumably it was back the way we’d come. Since there was no longer a corridor, though … Also, the exit was a hole in the ceiling, which wouldn’t make things easy.

“I can guess the general direction,” he said.

Something leapt at me, something small and furry, teeth digging into my arm. Pain ripped through it. I conjured my sword and caught a glimpse of a mole-like snout as I threw the beast off and brandished my sword, Trsiel doing the same.

We’d been down here long enough for our eyes to adjust, and I could make out a little beyond the glow of our swords. We were surrounded by what looked like a dozen moles, each the size of a fox, blind things, with no obvious eyes but lots of sharp teeth and equally sharp claws. I had no idea what they were—there was no afterlife Darwin willing to brave the hell dimensions and name all the inhabitants.

They were dangerous. They were guarding the book. They’d shred us with those teeth if they got the chance. That was all we needed to know.

Another one leapt at me. Before I could swing my blade, Trsiel had sliced the creature in two, both halves falling, twitching, to the rocky floor. Two more shrieked as if in shared pain. They jumped. I skewered one. Trsiel lopped the head off the other. Then we heard the beating of massive wings as hot air swirled around us.

“Incoming!” I yelled.

“Run!”

“Where?”

Trsiel gave me a shove. Another mole-fox sprang. I swung, but it was too close to hit. Its teeth sank into my arm. Trsiel yanked it off and threw it aside.

As we started to run, I heard the beat of the hell-beast’s wings. Then silence. I knew what that silence meant, and wheeled just in time to see a massive scaled creature diving at Trsiel. I yelled. He dove to the side, but the beast only changed course, talons outstretched. I ran, swinging my sword at those huge talons. The beast yanked them up just in time, and I staggered, spinning with the force of my empty swing.

Trsiel shouted. Something grabbed my sword arm, wrapping around it. Talons caught my shoulder, digging in like daggers, making me gasp, pain blinding me. The ground disappeared under my feet. I looked up to see scales and feathers.

I cast a binding spell, but the beast just kept winging its way up. Then it stopped, and I thought it was just a delayed reaction to the spell—was shocked that it had actually worked. Then the hell-beast screamed. I let out a yelp, too, as acid blood rained down. I heard Trsiel shout something from below, but I didn’t catch it, just focused on launching a fireball. As I threw it up against the hell-beast’s underbelly, I saw Trsiel’s sword there, embedded nearly to the hilt. Then the sword vanished as he unconjured it. I threw a fireball straight at the gaping wound. The beast let out an unearthly howl and dropped me.

I hit the hard ground. Which hurt. Trsiel yanked me to my feet as the hell-beast swooped. I saw its head this time—a massive furred skull with giant fangs. Trsiel yanked his sword arm back and I was going to tell him it wouldn’t do any good—the beast was still too high to reach. But he didn’t swing the blade. He threw it, like a javelin, straight up at the beast’s throat. It pierced it, and I covered my head as acid blood spattered us.

“Nice trick,” I said. “You’ve got to teach me that one.”

A growl came from deep in the cavern, like the one we’d heard before. Not the hell-beast, then, and too loud to be the mole-foxes.

Above our heads, the hell-beast let out a gurgling shriek. It wasn’t dead, obviously. Maybe not even mortally wounded.

“Let’s go!” Trsiel said, hand on my elbow.

We ran. We could hear the hell-beast’s wings flapping as it retreated. Surrendering? Or simply pulling back for another attack?

We continued through the darkness, our swords and a light ball illuminating the way. Then I saw a faint glow across the cavern. I blinked, kicking in my extra vision. It helped just enough for me to see what looked like a box, with a glow shimmering through the cracks.

“The book,” I whispered as I skidded to a stop.

“No,” Trsiel said. “We can’t—”

The hell-beast shrieked deep in the cavern, followed by a growl to our left. Something was stalking us, not willing to attack unless we tried for the prize it was guarding.

I tried to judge the creature’s size from its growl. I also tried to judge how injured the hell-beast was. The book was only a couple of hundred feet away. If I could just—

If I went after it, Trsiel would follow. I could tell him to continue on, find the exit, forget about me, and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d actually do it, no more than I would if the situation were reversed. We were partners. If I took a risk, I took it for both of us.

I yanked my gaze away from the box. “Okay,” I said, and let him continue leading me.

As we jogged, there were a couple of times when I swore I heard something moving in the cavern. I tried not to dwell on it—there were probably lots of things in this cavern, all of them ready to make a meal of us. By the time we reached the wall, I could hear only the growling creature, but it stayed too far away to be seen.

We felt along the walls for an exit. I cast my light ball up, searching the ceiling, but even if I found a hole, we’d never get to it. The growling came closer now, and I could make out a huge dark form slinking toward us. Then I caught the scrabble of claws on rock. Lots of claws. The mole-foxes, with reinforcements.

We frantically searched for an exit, casting teleport spells with every step, praying for a weak spot. A snarl sounded behind us, and I turned to see white fangs, as big as my forearm, flashing in the darkness.

“Here!” a voice called. “Over here!”

A light ball sparked thirty feet away, illuminating Kristof’s face. He gestured wildly, and we ran toward him. As we drew close, the wall shimmered. The exit—not a hole but a portal. He pushed us through. We tumbled again, falling into a heap in the darkness.

“They return,” a voice hissed.

“How do they return?”

“They have. No!”

The oni started to shriek. Claws scraped at me. Then Kristof murmured, “Hold on,” and he teleported us out.

We landed on our asses in the middle of a jungle, surrounded by ferns the size of trees. Overhead, a tiny prehistoric primate peered down at us, then raced off, chattering.

Kristof looked around, frowning. “Not quite what I was aiming for.”

I laughed and threw my hands around his neck. “It never is.”

As I hugged him, I felt something like a breastplate under his suit jacket. When I backed up to take a look, he flipped open a button and pulled out a faintly glowing book.

“I believe you wanted this,” he said.

I stared down at it. “How …?”

He pushed the book into my hands. “Consider it my apology, for a somewhat misguided attempt to cure your boredom.”

“Oh, you cured it all right.”

I took the book and flipped through it. It was indeed a grimoire, filled with spells I’d never seen before. I turned to Trsiel.

“Is this …?”

“Seems to be.” He looked at Kristof. “Thank you for the rescue.”

“But how?” I said, waving the book.

“Trsiel came to warn me that you’d uncovered my plot and might be annoyed with me.”

“When?” I answered my own question. “Ah, while you were ‘cleaning up’ your books.”

Trsiel nodded.

Kristof continued. “I was in session, so he left a message. When I got it, I realized that, in following my fake adventure, you’d stumbled into a real one. So I went after you.”

I didn’t ask how he’d found us. Ask Kris to teleport us to the beach and we’d invariably end up in the desert. His sense of direction is hopeless … with one exception. Ask him to find me, and he can do it with the precision of a bloodhound.

“I arrived as you were fighting the hell-beast. You conquered it before I could be of any assistance, so while every creature in that place was tracking you two, I found the book.”

“And they didn’t notice you stealing it?”

A lift of his brows. “Of course not. I was careful. And I replaced it with a spell that emitted a similar light long enough for us to escape.” He paused. “So, am I forgiven?”

“You brought me a secret spell book,” I said. “You are absolutely forgiven.”

Trsiel cleared his throat. “That grimoire …”

I sighed. “It may be a sacred text, which you must return to the Fates.”

“No, I think you can,” he said. “I have research to do. Just make sure you return it in a reasonably timely fashion.”

I grinned. “Thank you.”

We said our goodbyes, and Trsiel teleported back to the Great Library. I looked around. In the distance, something roared. Something very large.

“Where are we, anyway?” I asked.

“I have no idea. But it does seem interesting.”

He pulled back a frond. The little simian from earlier was there, spying on us. Seeing Kristof, it raced off again.

“While I’m very tempted to explore,” he said, “you do have that book on a limited loan.”

“Mmm …” I looked around. “I think we can do both. A little exploring. A little spell-casting.” I paused. “Unless you need to get back to court.”

“I wrangled a twenty-four-hour recess to pursue something very important.” He gestured to the jungle and then at the book. “Those look important.” He leaned over to kiss me. “That could be important, too.”

“All right, then. Twenty-four hours alone together, in a prehistoric jungle, with a secret spell book. I do believe my boredom has officially been cured.”

“Good. So where shall we begin?”

The creature roared again.

“I want to know what that is,” I said.

He smiled. “Of course,” he said, and off we went.