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soul. And the sight of that sly smile made her positively violent.
    The demon’s voice got lower, so low it seemed to warp. “That’s right, Sissy. You got it right, everything you’re thinking, the hatred that you feel. Go with it. Be with it. . . . Jim was calling my name all night long, Devina, Deeeevina . . . and that pisses you off. I can give him things you can’t, and that eats you alive. Go with the anger, little girl . . . don’t be a pussy like you were in life. In death”—the demon leaned forward again—“be strong.”
    At that point, Sissy’s hearing conked out, and yet even though her ears stopped working, somehow she was still able to hear what the demon was saying as images of bloodshed flickered through her mind—
    For a third time, something intruded upon her consciousness. A rhythmic sound, repeating over and over, getting louder.
    The demon’s head snapped around. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
    Sissy glanced over and did a double take. It was Jim’s dog, and the scruffy, limping mutt was coming across the grass at a clip, ears pricked, short snout angled up like he was giving a lecture.
    The demon took a step back. “Listen to me, girl. Jim is not for you.” That smile came back. “I can feel your anger from over here, and it’s a beautiful thing. Better than a man you can’t have, that’s for sure. Breathe in and embrace it—let it take you. Be strong. Let it take you, girl . . . be strong and fight back.”
    Just like that the demon was gone, no poof of smoke lingering where she’d been, no spark of light extinguishing or anything—there was simply air left in her wake, as if she had never been.
    But that wasn’t true, was it. Deep in the recesses of Sissy’s brain, those words were repeating, the demon’s voice like a seed planted in earth that was fertile.
Let it take you, girl . . . be strong.
    Where was the dog? Sissy wondered, looking around.
    It was only her, however. Her and her grave site. And that anger.
    Jim Heron was sleeping with the enemy. And not as in the old Julia Roberts movie.
    That bastard.

    â€œI’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”
    As Adrian’s forkful of eggs went back down to his plate and the other angel did some more swearing, Jim lit up a Marlboro and took a nice long drag. “Quitting.”
    â€œLemme get this straight. Devina comes to you and says, ‘How ’bout we hang it up.’” Ad jacked forward over the table. “And you fricking took her seriously. Was that before or after she won this round?”
    â€œI’m just telling you what she said.”
    â€œSo what, the two of you just
no más
it and then what? You think the Creator’s not going to have an opinion?”
    â€œRelax. I’m not saying I buy it.”
    â€œGood. Because then you’d be a fool as well as an asshole.”
    â€œI’ll take that as a compliment.” Jim exhaled a steady stream of smoke. “And she had another happy little update. She says now that Nigel’s gone, I’m due for a promotion.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThat’s all I know.” Jim leaned back and looked at the ceiling, which had had all kinds of flaking paint about a week ago. Now? It was like it had been sanded, sealed, and rolled out with a fresh coat. “Is it me or is this house, like . . . rejuvenating itself?”
    At first he’d assumed things were looking better because they had a woman around and Sissy was cleaning. But in the last two days, the changes that had emerged were structural, not anything explained by one hell of a Swiffer job.
    â€œWait, wait, promotion like what?”
    Jim shrugged. “With Nigel gone, I’m supposed to take his place up there.”
    He pictured the archangel with his three dandy backups, having a proper English