My internal calendar dingswith a reminder that it’s my usual time to wallow in self-pity, and I can’t possibly miss that. Routine is important, after all. A loud puff of air hisses as I bellyflop onto my bed, my wings stretching wide.
Opalescent pastel pink canopies over my body, hiding me from this nightmare. As a child, I’d often disappear into my feathery cocoon when life got too overwhelming.
Why did I fill that form out?
What made me believe thatI, Azrael Veyron, the clumsiest Cherub in the history of Heavenkind, could doanythingother than mess this up?
Pitchers of Angel Ale washed away our apprehension that night, bolstering our confidence to dangerous levels as we scrawled our names for the lottery. Everyone else laughed and giggled at the idea of being in charge, but me?
In the back of my mind, I thought…
What if?
What if I could actually be good at something?
I smiled and whooped with the rest of them, desperate to fit in when I’ve always been an outsider. Desperate to be seen as someone other than klutzy Az, with his two left feet and wheezing lungs.
A quiet spark of ambition inside me wanted more. To prove to everyone that Icoulddo this.
But you can’t,a little voice in my brain says, and I fight with the lump in my throat as my wings curl tighter to my body. “I’ll talk to Micah,” I say out loud, “and explain I can’t do this. The magic will just have to find a different way. Someone else will have to be The Cupid, because…”
Another summons silences my words, and I groan, thumping my fists into the mattress in a child’s tantrum before I take a deep breath and pull myself together.
One more.
I can do one more.
Sunlight heats my face as my wings lift, returning me to the real world. The magic sings to me, tugging at my middle as I close my eyes and smooth out my shirt. Allowing it to guide me, I poof out of existence.
Humid, suffocating heat hits in a wave, sweat beading on every inch of my skin and clinging to me like a clammy film.
Oh, no.
Dear God, I’ve been summoned to Hell… what the fuck am I going to…
“Y’all got any of that new alcoholic Mountain Dew ‘round here?”
Ohthankfuck.Only East Tennessee.
“Which one?” It’s a man’s voice this time, accent just as thick as the woman who asked the question. “They’s seven or eight diff’ernt flavors now.”
“Lord, I don’t know,” she responds, “but I sure like that Baja Blast they sell at the Taco Bell.” She pronounces the J in Baja, and I finally catch sight of my intended targets.
“Huh,” I say out loud, trying to decipher the complicated souls in front of me.
Frankieis written in sharpie on his weathered name tag, withAsst. Managerscribbled underneath. He’s average in every way—mousy brown hair, a bushy mustache under his crooked nose, and a faint impression of sunglasses on his sunburned skin.
Unremarkable, except for the dark soul that simmers beneath his surface. He’s not into serial killer territory—not yet, in any case—but his moral compass is definitely skewed. To him, things like cheating and lying are just what people do sometimes. Bar brawls are typical Saturday night entertainment.
Compared to my previous pairings, who were on the light end of the spectrum, his is intriguing. Barely contained shadowsswirl inside him, and I forget discretion as I stare longer than I should.
“Why dontcha take a picture?” The woman’s drawl ignores the C completely, so it comes out as ‘pitcher,’and my eyes swing in her direction. “It’ll last longer.”
If I thought his soul was tainted, hers is worse. Murder might not be in her history, but it’s certainly not off the table for her future—sooner than later, even. She sneers at me. “Well? You onnathemmuteboys?”
“I heard about that,” Frankie adds with an intellectual nod. “It’s because of them Yankees flooding in from New York and Warshington D.C.”
She nods in agreement. “And Cally-fornia. That’s what they’re sayin’ on the news.”
