Still, her mother’s guardian angel was radiant. And powerful. And devoted. And obsessed. Then again, she’d never personally seen him and had never tried to tune into him, if that was even possible.

  That is, until now.

  It was him. She was sure of it.

  How could something so beautiful and epic and old and powerful be so hung up on her mom?

  Her regular old mom?

  Tammy didn’t know. She also knew that guys were weirdos. Like, big weirdos. Even supernatural guys. Probably even angels, too. She had seen the things guys lusted for, hungered for, and were willing to hurt and to kill for. Most of it centered around women. Or weird sex. Somehow, her mother had gotten under the angel’s skin—if they had skin—and he’d been willing to give up his place in heaven for her. As in, his stature as her guardian angel. What he was now, Tammy didn’t know. But hadn’t she also just felt his darkness, too? His strange obsession? Yes, she had. It was there, brewing, and it didn’t feel very different than the kind of darkness she felt from ordinary men she came across every day.

  Tammy spent some time clearing her head. As she did so, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her mother, too. Boy, what a hornet’s nest her mother had walked into—or jogged into—all those years ago. One night of jogging—and a vicious attack later—had opened up worlds not just to her mother...

  But to all of them.

  Some good had come from it. But also a lot of strange crap, too. Tammy, admittedly, liked some of the strange crap. No, she liked all of it. Well, maybe not the parts where people got hurt or killed. But she liked the mystery of it all. The excitement of it all. The potential of it all.

  She reminded herself to focus again. And again.

  Finally, she got her head back to the subject of the bird. A bird that had been replaced by another bird or two, during all that thinking. The bird, she knew, had to be there, in her thoughts. Logic suggested it would be. All she had to do was find a way in. Or, more accurately, to understand how to get in. And once she was in, she suspected, she could get in over and over and over again.

  As far as she knew, no one, but no one, could do what she could do, although Tammy always suspected the Librarian might have similar gifts. Gifts that rivaled hers, or exceeded them.

  Focus, Tammy!

  More static. Now a break in the static. Now more static. Ugh, this wasn’t going according to plan. The static looked like snow. The same kind of snow she would sometimes see on the TV when there was a bad connection. Maybe she was wrong, maybe she wasn’t able to slip into the mind of a bird...

  The static wavered, then disappeared—and was replaced with something peaceful, calm, excited, eager, hungry, curious, adventurous, hungry, hungry, hungry...

  There. A small movement in the grass.

  Movement, movement, movement.

  Hunger, excitement, eagerness, patience.

  Patience, patience.

  Now! Now! Now!

  Flight, soaring, attack, pounce, snip, scoop, swallow.

  Triumph, eagerness, and now flight. Beautiful, easy, effortless flight.

  Tammy opened her eyes, blinked hard. Her last image was of telephone wires, and then endless sky, and the Earth far below...

  She grinned, then gagged. After all, she’d experienced the sensation of finding a roly-poly bug, snipping it in half, and then swallowing each half. And loving every minute of it.

  “So very gross,” she said, wiping her mouth.

  Of course, it was also incredibly, wonderfully, insanely awesome.

  She was just about to find another bird—she liked the way they thought, she liked how each movement was clean and calculated and pure and eager—when she caught wind of another thought.

  A thought that was pure evil.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We were on Main Street in Huntington Beach.

  One of my detective friends lived in an apartment above this very street. My detective friend probably enjoyed living above mere mortals, like a feudal lord. My detective friend tended to think highly of himself. My detective friend also had a heart of gold. My detective friend would probably agree with all of the above.

  “Say, doesn’t Knighthorse live around here?” asked Allison, who, I was certain, was crushing on the man. She tended to crush on all the men in my life.

  “Not true,” she snapped.

  “Not even a little?” I asked.

  “Okay, maybe a little.”

  My kids were at home, taking care of themselves, which is why I had my ringer on high and my phone in my hand. Three months ago, Allison had been the one to tell me that someone had abducted Anthony from middle school. No mother—supernatural or not—could deal with another call—or text—like that. Ever. Again.

  Which was why my ex-guardian angel, Ishmael, continued standing watch nearby. True, Tammy’s own guardian angel was on the job, but he seemed to have a far more hands-off approach than I was comfortable with. Anthony’s own guardian angel had long since abandoned his post—thanks to my son’s brief foray into immortality all those years ago, back in the hospital, back when I had temporarily turned him into a vampire to save his life. Now, with Ishmael standing guard over them, I could rest easy.

  Or try to. After all, not too long ago, Ishmael was ready to abandon Anthony, claiming my teenage son was now perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Um, ’scuse me? I’d reminded the fallen angel (or exiled angel, as he called himself) that the devil himself was sniffing around. Well, Ishmael had seen the logic of my argument and, thus far, had continued keeping watch.

  Of course, what the fallen angel was actually capable of doing, I wasn’t entirely sure. I suspected he possessed great strength. I also suspected he couldn’t be killed, like ever, in any way, shape or form, silver or no silver. Stake or no stake. Ishmael, after all, was a spiritual being who could summon a physical body. And from what I understood, spiritual beings couldn’t die.

  But some of us get reabsorbed, I thought, as we found an outdoor seat at Chi Chi, along the busy, busy sidewalk.

  “Reabsorbed sounds so... gross,” said Allison.

  “Well, that’s how I see it,” I said.

  “But that’s not how it was actually phrased,” she said, having earlier relived my experience again with God. “Return home, I believe, were the words used.”

  “Return home, reabsorbed, winking out of existence. It all feels the same. It all feels like crap.”

  The patio was jam-packed. Luckily, a hum of conversation in the air mostly drowned out our words. Our very strange words.

  “It’s not crap, Sam. It may not be heaven, but it’s also something else. I suspect it’s total and complete bliss, with access to all that is and ever will be. I suspect it’s peace and joy magnified thousands and thousands of times. Millions of times. Sam, you would be going home to God.”

  “Can we change the subject?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Besides, I don’t think you’re ever gonna die. You’re just too... nasty.”

  “Nasty?”

  “I mean that in a good way.”

  “There’s a good nasty?”

  “There’s feisty nasty. Street-smart nasty. There’s a nasty that doesn’t take shit from anyone, and always, always beats the bad guy in the end.”

  “Even if the bad guy is my ex-husband currently hiding out in my son?”

  “Maybe that’s just the thing, Sam. Maybe it’s time to forgive Danny and not think of him as the bad guy.”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  “He set you up.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  She thought about it. “Maybe not. Either way, we can agree he made poor choices in the past.”

  “The poorest of choices. And I thought he was long gone, and now he’s back, and he’s living in my son, and I have no way to remove him...”

  To remove him meant journeying into my son’s own mind, which I had no access to. Of course, there was also the small problem of my son wanting his father around. Liking his father around.

  I knew the devil could arrange for my son’s death, to get at Danny within, Danny, who had outsmarted the devil once, which was kind of funny if it wasn’t so terrible, especially since Danny wasn’t really all that smart, despite being an attorney.

  Allison and I knew the devil had another angle too. Yes, the devil wanted Danny, but he wanted my son, too. In particular, access to my son’s unusual gifts and strengths. What the devil wanted my son for, I hadn’t a clue. But I think he saw my son as a sort of future thug, a henchman of sorts, capable of doing the devil’s dirty business, which sounded about as terrible as it got.

  “Maybe we should change the subject again,” said Allison.

  Meanwhile, our Moscow Mules were being served in sub-Arctic copper mugs that somehow made the ginger beer and vodka even more delicious. Too bad I couldn’t get buzzed, or drunk, which, come to think of it, was probably a good thing. I’d read somewhere that drug addicts and alcoholics were susceptible to possession. Just as I thought that thought, a ripple of knowing rose up from the depths of my mind. Yes, Elizabeth was agreeing with me. And she should know. She and her misfit band of highly evolved dark masters had done a hell of a lot of possessing.

  What was the point of all of that possessing anyway? What was the point of mastering the dark arts? Of controlling people? Of all the battles and wars? Of selling of your soul?

  I directed all of the questions to Elizabeth herself, communicating directly with her for the first time in months. Of course, I knew she had done the opposite of selling her soul. She and those like her had bypassed the apparent natural order of things, to the unending irritation of the devil himself, who, apparently, could not lay a hand on them, much less find them.

  Allison used this moment to excuse herself to the bathroom, mentioning something or other about this very much not being a conversation she wanted to be a part of. Then again, I wasn’t really paying attention to her. When she left, I heard the words rise up from deep within me:

  Power is overrated, Sssamantha. Control is what we are after.

  Control of what?

  Of all that is.

  As I considered her words, a cold chill washed over me. God, I knew, was often referred to as all that is. Heck, Allison had just used the term.

  You want to defeat God? I asked.

  There is no God, Sam. There is only opportunity.

  Excuse me, but I very likely just had a conversation with God.

  Perhaps, Sam. But let me ask you this? Why does God seek to continuously expand? To continuously and forever more expand? What is it he seeks? Why does he use us so?

  I, admittedly, had never delved into that question. I suspected it was because God was bored. Or whatever the equivalent of boredom was to something so powerful that it could create whole multiverses.

  Never bored, Sam. God seeks to fill the Void.

  Void?

  That which isn’t known.

  Not following, sweet cheeks, I thought.

  God is forming as we speak, expanding as we speak, seeking as we speak.

  Forming into what? Expanding into what? Seeking what?

  We do not know, as of yet.

  Although I didn’t let the crazy bitch out much—or ever—I was still irrevocably connected to her. If I so chose, I could delve into her own mind. I never so chose. I was, quite frankly, frightened by what I might find. I really, really didn’t want to know what was banging around in there, unless I had to, and so far I hadn’t needed to. With that said, I caught her subtle impressions and sly nuances.

  But you aim to find out? I said.

  There is unlimited potential within that which you call God, Sssamantha. The source entity, as many call it, is so vast that even it does not know its boundaries.

  And you seek to find his boundaries?

  No, Sssamantha. I have no use for helping our source entity. No, I seek to lay claim to the unknown space, if you will.

  And then what? I asked. And here comes Allison, by the way. She really doesn’t like you, you know.

  Elizabeth ignored me, perhaps reveling in her first taste of freedom in some time. No, not reveling. Making the most of it.

  We can be gods, Sssamantha.

  Why not lay claim to the moon, or some forgotten planet? Why not rule Mars and get the fuck off our planet once and for all?

  We do not seek worlds, Sam. We seek to create them.

  If you desire to expand into unknown realms of the universe, then why do you seek to return to the Earth?

  Because we need a launching point. We need a home base. We need a gathering point. Where we are now we are without form and we are muted. We have been tamed.

  I’d had enough. I shook my head and concentrated—turned out I had to concentrate harder than I’d expected, as Elizabeth was a devout believer of taking a mile when given an inch. She had filled my mind and thoughts.

  Back you go, I thought. Back, back.

  She went, but not willingly, and I threw up a half dozen more walls around her, sealing her deep in my mind.

  “What was all that God business?” asked Allison, returning.

  “I’m not sure you want or need to know,” I said. “And no delving into my mind, either.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then can we get back to what we were talking about earlier? The part about Charlie being a creator? You sort of left me hanging there.”

  Our waitress came by and took our lunch orders.

  “It’s called a pregnant pause,” I said when our waitress was gone.

  “Why is it called that?” asked Allison. “Pregnant pause?”

  “The calm before the storm?” I suggested.

  “The storm being... a screaming baby?”

  “Or a screaming mother.”

  “Well, then that was a full pregnancy, complete with a 20-hour labor pause. Now tell me: what do you mean he can create whole worlds?”

  Chapter Twenty

  It came again, and now Tammy was sitting up.

  The thoughts—the very, very evil thoughts—were still a distance away. Maybe even as far away as the bum she could still hear at the Hungry Bear, the bum who was hoping not just for a little money but for some real food.

  In fact, the roiling, dark, hate-filled thoughts were seeping past the bum even now. Stopping in front of the bum. The homeless man quit thinking of food or money or anything. Tammy sensed his fear. Worse, she almost tasted his fear. That was happening to her more and more these days. Sometimes she could taste an emotion, and if it was anything but happiness, it didn’t taste good at all. Now she tasted sour, spoiled putrescence, as if she had bitten into a rotten hot dog filled with maggots. She nearly gagged. Where that maggot part came from, she didn’t know.

  Tammy had unknowingly brought her knees up and had wrapped her arms around them. She found herself rocking, rocking, rocking...

  She felt the homeless man cowering, ducking his head, closing his eyes, and praying with all his heart—and as he prayed, she felt something slither up next to the man and whisper, “Soon...”

  She felt the man lose control of his bladder, and now she was rocking even harder. Maybe moaning a little, too.

  The evil swept onward, slithering, gliding, catching a breeze here and there. Sometimes it paused to watch people in their cars or cross the streets, and Tammy sensed one and all swallow suddenly and feel an irrational fear—and now the darkness continued onward, upward, gliding and blowing and drifting toward her.

  Suddenly, she knew what was coming.

  The devil.

  ***

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I said. “Whole worlds.”

  Allison’s eyes searched my face, even as her mind searched my mind. I knew from experience that the more recent a conversation was, the sharper it was in one’s memory. This should be sharp enough for her to mostly follow it.

  “But I’m not following it, Sam,” she said. “There’s a lot of bouncing around going on in there. You sort of connected your conversation with Maximus to a lot of other things going on with your life right now. I’m untangling too many threads, threads that are leading to other threads, other conversations, other people. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

  “My client Charlie Reed, an engineer at Raytheon and our new favorite writer, is part of a rare breed of humans on this planet.”

  “Creators?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But don’t all novelists create worlds?”

  “They do,” I said. “But not all are on the same level as Charlie Reed. Not all create the way he creates. Remember the word he chose, rather carefully, back in his office.”

  “Love,” she said.

  “He infuses his story with love. And I mean real love,” I added. “Maximus thinks someone like Charlie might have spent years loving each and every character, years and years, before bringing them to the page.”

  “And so when he does finally write about them...”

  “They are practically real, at least in his own mind.”

  “But that’s just the thing, Sam. In his own mind. You just said it.”

  “According to Max, creation is a funny business. Manifestation is a funny business. We all have the ability to create and to manifest. Some of us just do it better than others. Some of us are more clear-minded and impassioned. And some of us inadvertently channel real life-force.”

  “Wait, Sam. Are you stating he’s creating real life?”