Under Attack

“What’s going on?” Alex asked me.

 

I popped out of my revelry and shrugged, feeling my bottom lip droop. “Nothing. Just a long day at the office.”

 

Alex sighed. “Me, too.”

 

Since fallen angel-ing didn’t come with a paycheck or a 401(k), Alex spent a good chunk of his mortal life working as an FBI field detective, generally stationed in a back office at the San Francisco Police Department. The vagueness of his actual job title or description allowed him to come and go as he pleased, attending to official police—or angel—business whenever necessary. And also, he really liked donuts.

 

“Want to grab a drink?” Alex asked.

 

“Herbal tea?”

 

Alex raised a questioning eyebrow and before he felt my forehead for a fever, I rolled my eyes and explained. “I’m on a cleanse.”

 

“A cleanse?”

 

I shrugged. “Yeah. After spending a year running from baddies I figured I should probably go on some sort of training regime. You know, cardio and ... stuff.”

 

Alex wasn’t convinced.

 

“Fine! I’m holding together my fat jeans with a rubber band, okay?”

 

“Enough said. How about Java Script?”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

Ten minutes later we were sitting at a slick, back table at the back of Java Script, the whirl of cappuccino frothers drowning out the canned jazz music. I was frowning into my bar-code mug when Alex said, “All right, out with it.”

 

“Out with what?”

 

“With whatever it is that’s making you look like someone kicked your puppy. You can’t hide it. I am an angel, you know.”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your only angelic powers wolfing down a pizza in one bite?”

 

“And the occasional mind reading.” Alex’s grin was sinful and I wanted to crawl under the table. He never said it outright but I had the overwhelming suspicion that Alex had done the occasional mind dip when my mind was ... indisposed. Generally indisposed with images of Alex Grace greased up with coconut oil and reclining on a beach.

 

Why couldn’t I fall in love with an inmate like a normal woman?

 

I worked to avoid the blush that I knew was creeping over my cheeks. And here’s the thing about blushing: on those chestnut brunettes a bashful crimson makes a pretty glow; ditto on those sun-kissed blondes. But when you’re red-headed and have the kind of skin that people politely refer to as “porcelain” (meaning glow-in-the-dark white), a “hint of blush” equates to looking exactly like an overcooked lobster in a Gap sweater.

 

I clapped my hands over my cheeks and balanced my chin in my palms. “I think there’s something going on in the Underworld.”

 

Alex broke a hunk off his mammoth chocolate chip cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “Something like a vampire with an overbite or something like Armageddon?”

 

I frowned and picked at my own cookie (I was having herbal tea with Splenda; which cancelled out the cookie). “Something in between.”

 

“Spill.”

 

“Okay, so, over the last two weeks, I’ve had three clients not show up for appointments.” I held up my palm, stop-sign style. “And before you make some comment like ‘it’s not them, it’s you’ or ‘maybe it’s just a coincidence, ’ one of those demons who didn’t show for an appointment was Mrs. Henderson.”

 

Alex chuckled. “Not them, it’s you. That’s good.”

 

I crossed my arms and pursed my lips. “I don’t even know why I bother talking to you.”

 

“Chiseled pecs, coconut oil ...”

 

“We’re done here.”

 

I stood up and Alex grabbed my wrist, sending a delicious shiver up my entire arm. “Hey, I’m just kidding. Tell me again why you’re concerned.”

 

“Demons don’t miss appointments. Well, zombies do, but everyone knows they are completely disorganized. It’s weird that our clients would suddenly stop appearing.”

 

Alex knitted his fingers across his abdomen and leaned his chair back. “How do you know she hasn’t gone on vacation?”

 

“The other two—a witch and a minotaur—sure. But Mrs. Henderson? She doesn’t do anything without a publicity statement and a check from her ex-husband.”

 

“Has anyone else had missed appointments?”

 

I shrugged. “I haven’t really checked.”

 

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe Mrs. Henderson met someone. Wasn’t she talking about going on Match-dot-com?”

 

I gave Alex a half nod and worked a chocolate chip free from my cookie.

 

“I think it’s too soon to consider anything sinister. Besides,” he added with a snide grin, “don’t you know that all that Underworld malarkey is made up?”