The dial tone droned in my ear and I pulled up Mrs. Henderson’s phone number. I was in mid-dial when Nina stalked in, slamming the door behind her. “So what did the big lizard have to say today? She need more money for crickets?”
I hung up the phone and rubbed my temples. “She’s a dragon, not a lizard, and she still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like her.”
Nina whipped out a nail file and gave her perfectly manicured nails the once-over. “Maybe she lit herself on fire.” She snorted, her smile lingering. “One can only hope. I want to go shopping. What do you think: boutique in the Haight or mainstream on Market?”
I frowned. “I’m kind of worried about Mrs. Henderson.”
“So send her an edible arrangement. Don’t they have one with staked mice or something? Anyway, boutique or mainstream?”
I pulled out my calendar and flipped back a few pages. “Last week I had two other missed appointments.”
Nina pouted. “Are you doubting your popularity at UDA now? You know everyone here adores you and we don’t even consider your ... issue.”
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
My “issue” was my breath. Not that it was bad (at least I don’t think it is); it is that I have some. The Underworld Detection Agency not only caters to the demon community—providing transfer papers, tracking paranormal activity in the city, detecting demon activity and protecting from demonic or human threats—it is also staffed by demons.
Except for me.
Which is why there is currently a bologna and cheese sandwich wedged between two blood bags in the office fridge and why there is a constant CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign in front of the hobgoblin receiving line (hobgoblins are constantly slobbering). The Detection Agency has a severe non-discrimination policy so every centaur, vampire, werewolf, zombie or other applies for the cush jobs at the Agency. We boast great healthcare, excellent dental (especially since Dixon Andrade and his vampire cronies took over), and four weeks paid vacation (because apparently, if you’re going to travel to Hell, you need to stay “at least three weeks” to make it worthwhile). So what’s a pretty little breather like me doing in a place like this?
Besides the overwhelming need for good dental and the fact that with my English degree the only companies interested in me were Starbucks (as a barista) and the Kitty Kat Klub (don’t even ask), a paper-pushing job at the UDA was a godsend—even if I did run into the occasional amorous troll or disembodied zombie finger dropped in my morning coffee. Aside from that, my humanity was a bit tainted.
My grandmother was a seer—of the crystal balls, crazy scarves and playing mah-jongg with a pixie in the living room kind. She raised me after my mother passed away—I was five, then—and although I hated being linked to her as a brooding teenager, she was the closest thing to a family I had ever known. She died just after I’d graduated college and just after she had talked the then-president, Pete Sampson, to get me a job at the UDA. After my grandmother died, the members of the UDA became like a second family. Like a second family with fangs, hooves, and the occasional stinking odor of bleu cheese.
Hey, I never said we were the Waltons.
I missed my grandmother terribly after her death and the fact that she’d occasionally pop into half a cantaloupe—yes, after death—to scold me didn’t really make it any easier. Anyway, my mother was a seer as well, and my father ... well, there’s a good chance he’s Satan.
And that’s a long story.
So, with a blood family tree that included a cantaloupe and the devil, you can see why I found comfort in a company that offered life insurance—insurance you collect should you come back to life.
But even with the strange fruit on the family tree, I am, pretty decidedly, normal. I’m five-foot-two if I stretch (and stand on a phone book) with a shock of hair so naturally red I could pass for Kathy Ireland (in her pre-Kmart days) or Carrot Top’s kid sister. I’d love to call my eyes emerald or smoky jade but they’re more accurately lime Jell-O green and if you ask me, a little bit too small. I can’t see the future—I’m lucky if I can set the DVR—or read minds. Though there is the very minor chance that I’ll inherit the powers of Hell from dear old dad, there really is nothing else remarkable about me.
Oh, except for the Vessel thing.
I recently found out not only that angora comes from bunnies (bunnies!) but that I am a supernatural vessel that holds the souls of the recently departed before they make their way to the angelic planes. Also, I think I’m lactose intolerant.
I know, no ice cream.